Page 38 of Director's Cut

“John Henry.”

Jesus, she saw that one? It was from my really early, Oscar-buzz days. Before I was out, he was one of the most aggressive interviewers asking about my dating life and the mystery surrounding it. She seems to read my mind.

“Yeah, it was one of the ones I watched to try to figure out what your favorite food was.” She pauses, chewing on her cheek. “It was painful.”

I look back to the paused frame of Rocketman. “That scene has always spoken to me. Being trapped in a world of pain people refuse to see because your purpose has become making others happy. The anger that comes with that. The vicious desire for everyone to see what pain they’ve caused you.”

She slips her hand in mine. The butterflies flap inside me.

“You don’t have to talk about that scene if it hurts too much,” she says. “But your analysis is wonderful.”

I break out in a tiny smile. “It’s okay. It’s just my first time seeing it in a while. It hits differently.”

She looks back to the laptop. “So what’s your favorite song in the movie?”

I shrug. “I really like the mix on ‘Crocodile Rock.’ ”

“ ‘Crocodile Rock,’ ” she says, her mouth wrapping around every syllable. My throat tightens watching her.

She pulls up ‘Crocodile Rock’ and places the laptop on one side of her desk.

“Why’d you move the laptop?” I ask.

She smiles. “Let’s just enjoy it for a moment.” She puts the song on, a smile forming on her beautiful lips when the first line hits. “I love this song!”

She giggles as the next couple of lines play.

Then she starts singing. As the piano picks up, she sings along, that dopey grin still on her face. And her voice is beautiful. Beautiful and lively and—fuck—I could listen to it all night. She beckons me up off the couch with one tug. And before I know it, I’m joining her, our hands clasped as we move to the upbeat tempo. I know this song and these lyrics so well, but it feels like I’m hearing them for the first time. Our hands are growing slick, yet they anchor us together as our bodies move to the music.

I grin as I execute Elton’s signature foot-on-the-piano move by slamming the toe of my shoe onto Maeve’s (mercifully low) desk like a fucking showgirl. Maeve squeals, laughing as she says, “My god, you’re flexible!”

Flexible, sure, but not coordinated. I lose my footing as I yank my shoe off her desk and drop back to the coach. But because we’re still holding hands, Maeve goes down with me.

I’ll admit that the initial impact of her full body weight knocks the wind out of me. It leaves my head a little fuzzy when we finally make eye contact.

We’re close. We’re so close, close enough that I can see her individual eyelashes and the lick of lipstick still stuck to her lips. She breathes on me, her chest and stomach rising and falling on mine. Heat. She’s so warm. So warm and so close and on the screen “Crocodile Rock” is in the time-stopping sequence, the crescendo of “la, la-la-la-la.” We look right at each other, already mixing breath.

So I kiss her.

I kiss her forcefully yet as tender as I can manage. She kisses me back so fast I’m practically woozy. She pushes her lips to mine, dropping her body weight onto me as if she forgot about everything but our mouths connecting. We hold our breath as we hold each other, starving the rest of our senses. I’m dizzy. Yes, kissing her is dizzying.

I pull away, and Maeve drops to her knees in front of me.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies before climbing into my lap, kicking off her shoes.

Her hands go straight for my jaw, dig into my hair. And god, she holds me tight. Maeve, who I thought was so delicate and gentle, is pressing her fingers into my bones, pulling my hair by the roots. I’m sighing into her mouth before I’ve even settled my hands on her lower back. My own grip on her grows as urgent as hers is on me when my fingers trail under her blazer and blouse to finally feel that hot, soft skin. Her quickening breath digs into my insides.

We kiss like we’re trying to devour each other. The way you’d hold on to someone you were determined to keep. It’s a hunger with a beating heart that says I’m only this ravenous for you. Then thoughts start to poke through the veil as oxygen reenters my brain. Maeve could be kissing any woman like this if she just missed a woman’s touch. But she’s kissing me like this. She’s kissing me like she’s waited half her life to have my lips on hers. And even though as I can’t fully admit it to myself, I feel the same way.

My brain’s swimming, but clarity shoots out like a rocket when she suddenly pulls away. “I want you on top,” she says, her words ragged.

And who am I to deny her?

I hold on to her as I climb into her lap. Lower myself until our hips align. But as I make adjustments, Maeve grabs for my blouse, swiftly pulling the buttons apart. The moment her finger pads leave my goose bump–covered flesh, her mouth is on my breasts. Kissing, licking, pushing my bra aside.

“Is this illegal?” I ask, barely keeping a moan at bay. I can’t believe Maeve Arko is touching me like this.

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