Page 46 of P.S. I Miss You

I was all wrong about her.

Her tongue swirls the tip of my cock and before I realize it, I’m too close to the edge. Releasing inside her mouth, she takes it all, every last drop, and when she stands, she dabs the corners of her mouth and gives me a wink as she subtly swallows.

Pulling her into my lap, I say, “I’d kiss you, but … you know.”

She laughs, one of those laughs that end with a gentle sigh, and she won’t stop looking at me.

I didn’t meant to cum. I was going to ride it out and wait until I could bury my cock deep inside her tightness. Guess she’s just that good.

Her indigo gaze drifts down and away before returning, and I can’t quite get a read on her expression, but there’s something different about it.

Something’s shifting, and it’s shifting faster than I know how to process it.

I need to tell her, and I need to tell her soon.

Before it’s too late.

Before I lose her.

I DROP MY PHONE on the middle of my bed, shrieking at the top of my lungs. The room spins and I can’t breathe … and I’ve never been so on top of the world in my life.

My bedroom door springs open and Sutter stands, his eyes wild and his face confused.

“Why were you screaming?” he asks, frozen in my doorway.

I run to him.

I throw my arms around his strong shoulders, all but climbing his chiseled physique, and I kiss him.

I don’t even care.

I kiss him. And I kiss him again.

“What’s going on?” he asks, peeling me off him a minute later.

“I got the part!” My cheeks hurt from smiling so wide.

“What part is that?”

“It’s a lead in a feature film!” Saying it out loud doesn’t do anything to keep it from feeling less like a dream. I need a good, hard pinch.

“No way. Damn. Congratulations.” He doesn’t look or seem as enthused as one might expect, but he’s not in this industry. He doesn’t know how rare this opportunity is, especially for someone like me, someone still trying to break out of the nameless slush pile. This role could define my career. This is a launch pad for me. It could make or break my future success.

“I guess they’re replacing one of the leads in this Guillermo del Toro movie that starts shooting in two weeks in the bayou. Original actress had to be “hospitalized for exhaustion” … which is usually code for rehab. Still, I don’t care if I was their second choice. The fact that they wanted me at all is like … you don’t even understand.”

Sutter must think I’m rambling, and I probably look like I have actual stars in my eyes. He, on the other hand, hasn’t moved out of my doorway since he busted in here like some prince about to rescue a damsel in distress.

“We have to celebrate tonight,” I say, returning to my bed to retrieve my phone. I begin to compose a group text, adding anyone and everyone I can think of because that’s what you do when you get your “big break.” I stop texting for a second and glance up at him. “You’re coming with.”

It’s a Tuesday, so we should have a good turnout. If anyone says they have bigger plans on a Tuesday night, they’re lying.

I finish my group text and hit send before returning my attention to my strapping roommate.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask. “Go change. We’re leaving in an hour.”

My phone rings before Sutter has a chance to respond.

Nick.

“Nicky, hey!” I’m beaming ear to ear, pacing my room.

“Oh my god, Mel, congrats! This is major.”

“It’s unreal is what it is,” I say, glancing up in time to see Sutter turn and leave. I assume he’s coming. At least, he didn’t say “no.” Rifling through my closet, I pull out a strapless floral romper.

“I’m so damn proud of you,” Nick says. “Wish I could be there tonight. Take you out. Celebrate.”

There’s a wistful quality in his voice, but I’m too distracted to even begin to read into it.

“It’s all right. I’ve got Sutter. He’s your stand-in.” I chuckle as I shut my door and peel out of my clothes.

“You’re joking, right? Sutter’s my stand-in?”

He almost sounds … jealous? Almost.

“Yeah, well, Mick Jagger was busy and the lead singer of Kings of Leon won’t return my calls, so …”

“Smart ass.”

“Hey, I have to get ready.” I rifle through my dresser for a strapless bra. “Thanks for calling, Nicky. Means a lot.”

I end the call after he says goodbye, but it’s the strangest thing: my stomach didn’t flutter once that entire time.

THE BUNGALOW IN SANTA MONICA is unusually busy for a weeknight. Someone mentioned there was some indie premiere going on not far from here, which explains the influx of hipsters, pop princess-looking types, and Europeans in head-to-toe designer monograms mixed in with a few bookish, film nerd types.

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