Page 69 of Falling Like Stars

“Yes,” I say softly. “This is a moment.”

Zach’s smile is equal parts happy and heated with desire, the exact opposite of the expression he wore in that magazine three years ago.

He hauls himself out of the pool in a cascade of water, then helps pull me out. A member of the household staff is waiting to hand us two fluffy towels. Zach wraps mine around me, and I make a hood out of it. In a sea of luminaries, I’m a nobody; the chances of being recognized are zero, and I want to keep it that way.

We move through the house to the drive. The walk is a blur; my hand is in Zach’s as he leads us out, and my heart is crashing in my chest. I wait for the panic attack of guilt to swamp me, but there’s none.

Because I’m better. Zachary makes me better.

His car service is waiting—a huge, black Escalade.

“Chateau Marmont,” Zach tells the driver.

“Yes, sir.”

The driver opens the back door. I climb in, and Zach follows. A twinge of unease tries to make its way through the haze of dizzying want that enshrouds us both. I should ask him why he’s still at the hotel, but no sooner is the door shut than we’re reaching for each other. In the few seconds of dark, before the driver opens his door, Zach’s mouth finds mine and I can’t keep a moan from escaping.

His lips are warm and wet with chlorinated water, with his own clean taste beneath. He takes my mouth in deep sweeps of his tongue while my hands rake his hair that is thick and damp but so soft. His arms go around me, pulling me into him, pressing my small body to his tall one so that all I know or feel is him.

He’s all I want…

The car’s backseat is partitioned off from the driver but doesn’t allow for everything that I want. It’s too cramped and confined. As the Escalade takes us to the hotel, Zach pulls me onto his lap so that I straddle him. His hands are on my thighs, sliding up the curves of my ass, then higher to my back, over the damp material of my dress. Higher still while we kiss, his thumbs brushing the sides of my breasts.

I’m holding his face in both hands, his strong jaw in my palms, my fingers in his hair, kissing him with a reverence I haven’t felt in so long. Me for him and him for me. A kiss that is wild with pent-up energy but considerate too. It’s beautiful, this kiss, while below, I’m grinding myself against him, wanting his skin and the hard length of him that I can feel pressing against his pants.

When we come up for air, we’re at the Chateau. The driver opens the door, and we make our way down the path to the bungalow. Zach fumbles with the old-fashioned lock and key. It feels like an eternity before we’re inside, away from the prying eyes of the world, alone. Then he kisses me against the door, hands roaming. I shiver pleasantly at his touch, but he misinterprets it.

“You’re cold,” he says, and the memories of another night with another boy try to find me. I kiss Zach so there’re no more words to summon memories that will undo this happiness. I never want to stop kissing him.

We pull back after a minute, both of us breathing hard.

“This place is archaic,” he says. “The shower isn’t big enough for two.”

“You go first,” I say.

He starts to protest, but I don’t let him. “Zach. Hurry.”

He nods, his glance taking me in a final time before he disappears into the bathroom and takes the shortest shower known to man. When he comes out, he’s wearing flannel sleep pants and nothing else. His body is lean, sculpted masculine perfection, and a thrill dances along my skin at what that body is about to do to me.

“You don’t make it easy on a girl,” I say.

After extricating myself from a round of his kisses, I strip off my sodden dress and take my turn in the shower. His Oscar is on the back of the toilet, and I have another pang that he’s not supposed to be here, holed up. That’s what people like me do.

Zach’s left me a pair of pants and a T-shirt on the counter. The gesture swells my heart, though it’s cute he thinks I’m going to wear clothing tonight.

I take a shower, then wrap myself in a towel. Zach is in the living room, sitting on the couch.

“I think that shower could hold us both if we got creative.”

He doesn’t respond; his gaze roams over me and the cloth that is all that stands between him and what he wants.

“Come here,” he says, his voice rough and raw.

I obey and straddle him again, kiss him while he slowly tugs the towel off, savoring me as if I’m agift he’s unwrapping.He tosses it aside, his eyes drinking me in. Insecurities rise in me—my small breasts, pale skin—then evaporate under his worshipful gaze.

“Jesus,” he whispers. Because every emotion is reflected on his face, I see how badly he wants me. In his eyes, I’m beautiful.

I hold his jaw again. I can’t help it. I want him to feel cherished. To touch him softly, always with care, never violence. Never with anything but the respect and consideration he deserves.

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