“Because a sex scene is never about sex,” he says.

  This is what I want with TJ. Closeness, connection, a window into his world. “What are they about to you?”

  He brushes a firm kiss onto my lips. “Exploration.” Another kiss on my ear. “Intimacy.” Then, a bite of the lobe. “Trust. Every scene is about something else. You just get into the head of the character and what they’re feeling, what they want.”

  I’m even more turned on now. Incredibly curious too. “What am I feeling right now? What do I want?” I ask, breathless for the answer.

  He points to the doorway to the bedroom. “I’ll show you what you want. Now.” He’s all rough and commanding.

  Yes, sir.

  I leap off the couch. Champagne glasses in hand, he follows me to the bedroom.

  “On your stomach, baby,” he tells me.

  I obey. Anticipation curls tight in my body as he jerks my briefs down my legs then sheds his shorts. TJ climbs over me, straddling me. His hard cock presses against my lower back and the weight of it makes me groan.

  “Close your eyes,” he says.

  I comply.

  Then, I sense the flute tip above my back before feeling it. The pour of the liquid onto my skin. I squirm when the first few drops of champagne hit my spine. The second his lips touch my back, I moan.

  His tongue coasts down me, following the path of the drink. I wriggle on the bed.

  He drizzles a little more champagne at the top of my ass, then laps up the drink right before the liquid slides between my cheeks. I feel decadent, then hot and bothered when he moves up me and drops his face to my neck.

  “When he kisses my neck, I shudder,” TJ begins, voice low and smoky as he presses his lips to me, telling me a bedtime story. “His tongue grazes my shoulder, and I melt into the bed.”

  A few seconds pass as the erotic awareness fully registers.

  He’s narrating me.

  He’s writing what I’m feeling right now. What I want, word by word. Holy fucking hell. It’s so sexy to have someone read you so well.

  “Write me more,” I urge.

  “His mouth travels down my back,” he murmurs as he kisses his way along my spine. “He’s so close to where I want him. My dick thumps against the mattress and I’m aching for him to spread me apart. Does he know how much I want him to rim me?”

  More. Than. Anything. “So much,” I rasp. “I want your mouth so fucking much.”

  I can feel TJ’s dirty smile as he kisses the top of my ass. Then a hot gust of air from his lips as he spreads my cheeks apart.

  “Yessss,” I moan. I’ve been craving his mouth on me for days. I rut against the bed, seeking relief for my hard-on.

  TJ flicks his tongue down my ass, whispering as he goes. “His mouth is so close to me right now. I’m a ticking time bomb,” he says, and he’s dead-on as he writes me out loud. “I’m going to detonate when he fucks me with his tongue.”

  I am humping the bed, and he hasn’t even—

  “Oh fuck,” I shout as he presses a hungry kiss to my hole. “Yes, fucking yes.”

  A dark, delicious pleasure pierces me. TJ groans savagely then raises his face. “I’m done writing you. My mouth is about to become really fucking occupied. So know this . . . I’ve been dying to taste you.”

  I grab the sheets, clutching at them. “Fuck, TJ. Do it. Just do it, please.”

  An appreciative rumble tears from his throat. Then, he flicks his tongue along my rim. A blinding wave of lust crashes over me. I shove my hand down my body, grab my dick, stroke it. He pushes my hand away.

  “Wait,” he says.

  The fucker. He won’t let me jerk. He wants to edge me. I’m not sure I can withstand edging. But when he buries his face in my ass, his beard scraping deliciously over my flesh, I can’t think. My brain flatlines as he fucks me with his tongue. I go boneless. I lose track of time. Of reality.

  After a few heady minutes of mind-bending pleasure, he flips me over and licks a possessive stripe down my shaft. I shudder. Then, he sucks on my balls, and I claw at the sheets again. I’m this close. But he’s not done with the carnal deluge.

  He pushes my thighs apart and fucks me with his tongue one more time.

  I’m babbling. Words are too hard. Everything’s too hard.

  And I have to come.

  I grab my dick, but he swats my hand away this time too. “Please,” I beg.

  He rises, devours my cock with his mouth, and I am done. My back arches, and my balls constrict. I shout a warning before my orgasm overwhelms all my senses.

  It’s so good. It feels like it’ll never stop.

  But eventually, the shockwaves subside as he lets me fall from his mouth.

  TJ heads to the bathroom, turns on the tap. I’m still a panting, shuddering mess when he returns to the bed, staring at me like a predator. He covers me with his body. His breath is minty, and we kiss slow and deep for a long time.

  Eventually, we separate.

  “I was going to edge you, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted your come in my throat,” he tells me.

  “Thank you for your lip service. I really needed to come,” I say, then I kiss him again, holding his face in my hands and keeping him close.

  We make out for a while, each slow kiss melting into the next one, then the next.

  But I have plans for him. I push up on my elbows. “Get on your back.”

  His smile is a Vegas billboard. He shifts to his back, his cock a flagpole. I grab the lube and drizzle it on my fingers. Then I grip his cock with one hand and slide a finger down to his ass.

  TJ takes a deep, steadying breath, then lets his legs fall open wide.

  It’s a move so trusting my heart thumps. Damn him for making me fall harder.

  Everything, every single thing, makes me want to throw this final week out the window and shout you are mine.

  But I can’t. Not just yet. There’s too much at stake.

  I swallow the declaration, I bury the wild storm of feelings, and I focus on this moment only. On the orgasm, I plan to wring from my man. I press the pad of a finger against his ass, push it in slightly.

  Sucking in a breath, he grabs at the covers, clutching the sheets.

  “Good?”

  “Almost,” he whispers.

  “Breathe, sweetheart,” I tell him gently.

  TJ exhales slow and steady.

  I ease out my finger, pour on more lube, then return to my mission.

  As I crook my finger, I record his reactions. The set of his jaw, the pace of his breath, the way he squeezes his eyes shut.

  Soon, his exhale turns into a plea. “More.”

  “I’ll give it to you.” I want more of his pleasure. I need all of his ecstasy. After I lube up again, I work two fingers in while still stroking his shaft.

  His whole body trembles.

  “Don’t stop,” he mutters, and that command scorches me from head to toe.

  “I won’t.”

  As I open him, the tightness on his face drains away. His lips curve up.

  I feel like a prince. “Can you take another?”

  He nods, a little sex drunk now. “Yeah, gimme more,” he says as if he’s floating.

  Once I fill him with three fingers, he finds his rhythm. The moans that fall from his lips are filthy. When he opens his eyes, they scan my body, settling on my cock. “Can you come again?”

  “Maybe?” I don’t know. But I’m willing to try.

  “Get on me,” he says.

  I ease out my fingers, coat my palm one more time, then I cover him, getting a hand between us.

  “Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans.

  Our cocks slide together. I curl my hand loosely around them, give a few slow, tempting strokes.

  Wrapping an arm around my back, he jerks my chest closer to his. Our skin is slick and hot. Our breath comes fast. Then, he unleashes a feral moan, a sign he’s on the edge. I tighten the grip and jack us with purpose. In no time, TJ shouts, “Yes, coming now.”

  When he shoots in my hand, my dick jumps, getting in on it too, as another orgasm racks my body.

  Holy fuck. I haven’t come twice in an hour since—

  —since I don’t even know.

  Guess I did get lucky in Vegas.

  TJ’s breathing like he’s run a race, grinning like he won first place in it.

  I feel dizzy and a little lost in all these sensations. But I’m found too, as new wants and wishes demand attention.

  How to hold on to those desires is the question.

  For now, though, I’m still floating somewhere above the city, and I don’t want to come down.

  24

  Return to Sender

  TJ

  * * *

  My stomach growls as Jude and I wait in line to order at a hip breakfast eatery in the hotel.

  “Must. Eat. Soon,” I moan as I stare at the counter and the food, so close, yet so far away.

  Jude pats my arm. “There, there.”

  We’ve been waiting twenty minutes already, and I hate lines on principle. I don’t do them. But when I asked Nolan for Vegas food recs, he said Egg-asmic was a must. “Nolan better not be lying. He told me the egg sandwiches live up to the shop’s name,” I say to Jude, showing him the message from my college buddy.

  Fair warning: you might come as you eat, so, ya know, get extra napkins.

  Jude raises an eyebrow. “That’s a helpful warning. Does it apply to the Egg Solo too? Since I’ll be getting that—no bread and all.”

  “I guess you’ll have to find out,” I say.

  “Adventures in orgasmic dining.”

  The couple in front of us moves up in line. We’re that much closer to ordering. And I’m this much closer to telling Nolan about Jude for real. But it feels weird just to start dropping notes to my buds. Hey, there. That guy I’m seeing in the media? Wanted you to know it’s a fake romance only it’s not really and now you know.

  There has to be another way.

  And I’ll have to figure it out soon. Nolan’s not the only one I need to come out to about Jude. My brother texted this morning. I click on that note again, my stomach dropping as I show it to Jude. “Chance sent me this today.”

  The blond Brit peers at the screen, reading my brother’s words. Oh hey, I’m doing great too, thanks for asking, so cool to learn about your NEW MAN FROM MY WIFE. WHO READ IT IN A BLOG. SENT TO HER BY A FRIEND. Big Bro, Whaddup?

  Jude gives me an ouch that stings smile. “So . . . um . . . whaddup?”

  I snort. The list of people I need to come clean to is way too long.

  Tomorrow night, I’ll introduce Jude to Jason. But what the hell do I say to my brother? Let alone Nolan, Jo, Easton, my parents, and on and on.

  I need a plan, but I’m too hungry to think straight. “That is an excellent question, and I’m working on it,” I say.

  “Good to know,” Jude says, and I’m glad he’s letting me figure out this friend thing in my own time. Jude’s always been more open about us; he’s giving me the space to catch up, and I appreciate it. “I texted William like we talked about last night.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he had—his words—really good fucking totally brilliant bonkers news. And he’d get back to me soon to share the news in all its glory,” Jude says, with an I don’t know what to make of it shrug. “It could be a good sign, or it could be more of the same.”

  “You want me to check in with him too? See how he’s doing?”

  Jude gives a soft smile. “I would like that. I think he would too.”

  Easy enough. As we move up in the line, I send William a text.

  Hey, there, wand steamer. Jude and I were thinking of you, and I just wanted to say I hope you’re doing well. Next time you’re in New York, we should all hang sometime soon.

  Five seconds later, he replies.

  New York or anywhere! I’m in. And it’s really great to hear from you. P.S.—I finished Top-Notch Boyfriend. Can I just say I’m so stinking glad you didn’t write that thriller whodunit what have you with the rubbish title.

  Laughing, I show the note to Jude. “He sounds . . . really good,” I say, encouraged.

  “Yeah, he actually does.”

  Jude doesn’t say anything about William reading my book. That’s progress too. Letting go of the thing that came between us.

  Thirty minutes later, an egg sandwich and an Ethiopian coffee have restored my brainpower. Jude’s polished off just eggs, and they made him moan in pleasure. “I need a thousand napkins for that,” he says. “Which means, I didn’t even miss the bread.”

  “My bud did not lie,” I say, then wince. But I’m lying to Nolan by omission.

  Man, having a conscience sucks sometimes. On the flip side, being with Jude does not suck whatsoever.

  After we bus our table, I gesture to the café’s sign. “Does that count as another secret real date?”

  Jude wraps an arm around me, smiling as we leave. “Yes. So we need another picture.”

  “Aww. Are we making a Shutterfly album?”

  “For all our besties,” he says, then smacks a kiss onto my cheek.

  Teasing Jude is way more fun than blasting my is-it-fake-or-is-it-real-news to friends and family. After all that honesty yesterday, I might burst if I scoop out another serving of my soul. I’ll deal with my brother later. Same for Nolan.

  Now is my time, so in the concourse of the Vegas hotel, against the backdrop of Egg-asmic, I haul Jude close. Then I take out my phone, drape an arm around him, and snap the pic.

  When I show it to Jude, he hums as he studies it, then points to my face on the screen. “Look at you. You’re all Mister Casual.”

  I tense. “Is that bad?”

  “No. It’s good. I get to see more sides of you on our secret dates. I like it,” he says.

  Yeah, I just want a slice of nice and easy today. No secrets served up, no insides excavated. “Glad you approve of the sides of me, and the photo, sweetheart,” I say, tossing his pet name back at him.

  “You don’t like my pet name, baby?”

  If he only knew how much I love all his shows of affection. I plant a loud kiss on his cheek. “It’s all right,” I say drily.

  Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. A short, pale blonde stands in front of a map shop just past the café, lowering her cell phone as she looks our way. She wears a pink blouse, a messenger bag slung across her chest, and a satisfied smile as she turns and walks away.

  Feels like more than a random fan snapping a pic. “Do you know who that was?” I ask cautiously. “She felt . . . familiar.”

  Jude shakes his head, frowning like he also thinks she’s familiar but can’t place her. “No. Sorry.”

  We walk the other way, toward the casino. My neck grows hotter as if I’m being watched. I feel more off-kilter than I have with all the posed pics. “I should be used to it by now, this whole thing. You and me and the photogs,” I say, puzzling out the feeling.

  But I’m not sure if my issue is the picture or that someone captured a private moment back there, a record of our secret date.

  “TJ,” Jude says, carefully, taking his time. “It would be like this. I don’t want to sound like a conceited ass, but it would be like this. You know . . .”

  If we keep doing this.

  He doesn’t add those words, but that’s what he means.

  It’s a warning. Be careful what you sign up for.

  But I already gave up some privacy when my books started selling, and I lost a whole lot more of it when Flynn’s breakup video went viral. True, being with an Oscar-nominated actor is next level, but I’m not sure privacy is the big issue.

  The issue is . . . me.

  Are our secret dates just another version of my lie of omission?

  “I know,” I say, but I won't elaborate since I don’t know the answer to this new quandary. Besides, when we reach the casino, my phone buzzes and his beeps.

  We groan in tandem, Pavlovian dogs who know what’s coming.

  “Daddy,” I mutter.

  I grab my phone and click on Slade’s instructions. As I read, my stomach twists. It turns. I feel like my breakfast might come back up.

  Grabbing Jude’s hand, I pull him next to a sleek, silver slot machine. He looks as awful as I feel. “This is a breakup script,” he chokes out.

  “It is,” I echo, then scratch my arm. My skin crawls. These banal words are bugs creeping over my flesh.

  The letter echoes in my head.

  After this final week, you’ll lie low for a bit. TJ will be busy writing. Jude will be busy in rehearsals. Then it’s Oscars, baby, Oscars! That’ll be your last hurrah together and after it you’ll be free. A few weeks later, you’ll each post a breakup letter to your socials. It’ll say—Hi Everyone. We wanted to let you know that we recently decided to part ways. We respect and admire each other and remain friends. Thank you for honoring our privacy. Jude and TJ.”

  It’s awful.

  In its starkness. In its blandness. In its mere existence.

  I shake my head as if I can erase this message—return to sender. “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” I say.

  “Me neither.”

  I need something to wash the taste of this letter out of my mouth. A poker game. A roller coaster. An arcade. Vegas is the land of distractions. This ought to be easy. I scan the hotel, looking for an escape from reality. But when I see Malcolm Mann saunter past the nearby roulette game, laughing as he talks on his phone and giving us a wave, this hotel is the last place I want to be.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

  His eyes say hell yes.

  We fly out the door.

  25

  Second Chance Shopping

  TJ

  * * *

  We map out thrift stores on our phones, and it feels like old times as we shop. Jude’s dead set on unearthing a trendy, button-down shirt with illustrations of foxes. When I told him on the Lyft ride over that I donated one a few weeks ago, he went apoplectic and insisted I get a new one stat.