All Over You

He remained silent, although she could see a battle going on inside him. She wanted him to resist a little—enough for her to prove to him how pointless it was to deny the attraction between them. Flattening her hand, she slid her palm down along the hard bar of his erection, then curled her fingers around it through his jeans.

He shivered and she smiled a secretive, confident smile. Her hand slid back up, and she grasped the stud at the top of his fly. Still he didn’t say anything, and she popped the stud free with a deft twist of her hand. Her fingers found the tab of his zipper and she opened it with one smooth move. Then she stepped close and pressed a kiss to his hard, hot chest even as she slid a hand inside his boxers and grabbed a handful of rock-hard masculinity.

“Grace,” he groaned. Then his hands were all over her, smoothing down her back, cupping her butt, sliding up and around her rib cage to massage her breasts. She panted and continued to work his hard shaft, unable to let go, as he pushed her top down over her breasts and sucked a nipple into his mouth. Her knees went weak as he tongued each hardened tip in turn, his mouth rough, his hands gentle, the combination sending her spiraling toward her climax.

As though he sensed how close she was, Mac pushed her back against the wall. A hand shoved her skirt up and she moaned low in her throat as his fingers slid between her thighs. He murmured his approval as he discovered her panty-less state, his knowing hands dipping between her folds to find her slick and ready for him. Whispering words of praise and promise in her ear, he slid a finger inside her. She clenched around him, so close, so close—but she wanted more, she wanted it all, and she pushed his hands away and worked feverishly on his jeans.

He knew exactly what she needed. Lifting one of her legs up and hooking it around his hip, he slid his hands up the backs of her thighs until he cupped her backside. Then he hoisted her up and slid inside her with one powerful stroke.

She came instantly, her head falling back, her cries echoing in the room. Sensation rippled through her body, a tsunami of pleasure that swamped her entire being.

For a long beat, she simply existed as she floated on the afterglow of her orgasm.

Then, as always, she forced herself back to reality. She was in her apartment, alone, the TV screen frozen on an image of Mac Harrison, bare-chested and gorgeous.

With a press of her finger, the screen went to black and the DVD player shut down. It was time to go to bed. She made her way to the bathroom, frowning as she squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush. She couldn’t help wondering how Sadie and Claudia would react if she confessed her little secret to them: that ever since Mac Harrison had returned to reprise his role on Ocean Boulevard after a six-year absence, she’d had a lust crush on him a mile wide.

Claudia would fall about laughing. Probably Sadie would, as well. Not at her, but at the irony of the situation—Grace Wellington, founding member of the Nothing But Contempt For Men Club, had a soft spot for the show’s biggest horn-dog.

It was too, too ironic. And faintly embarrassing, really. She should know better, she really should. The man was a known womanizer, he was paid to play make-believe and he lived a frivolous, pointless life. In short, he represented about a million of the things she liked least in men. There really wasn’t anything admirable about him at all, in fact, apart from his superb body and gorgeous face. Her crush was absolutely a manifestation of lust. But, somehow, some way, no matter how many times she chastised herself for her bad taste in virtual lovers, he kept on sliding into her fantasy bed and taking her in his arms. Which was why she’d never confided in her friends. And, after all, it wasn’t as though she knew everything about Sadie and Claudia’s sex lives, right? It was nobody’s business but her own. It was utterly harmless, a private indulgence that affected no one save herself.

It helped that she’d never met the man. Sure, she’d passed him in the corridors when she’d been across town at the studios for meetings, but she’d never exchanged actual words with him. There was an unspoken divide between the writing team and the cast and crew—it wasn’t just about being in different locations, it had been the same on every show Grace had worked on—so it wasn’t particularly notable that they’d never been introduced. But she didn’t need to meet him to know what he was like—she knew his type.

Yep, Sadie and Claudia would definitely lose a lung laughing if they knew.

Sliding between the sheets, Grace set the alarm and switched the light off. Her body was humming with satisfaction. As usual, virtual Mac had been the perfect lover: flawless technique, intuitive, voracious. Best of all, he came with absolutely no strings attached and she didn’t have to wonder when he’d call again or listen to his lame-ass excuses for why he couldn’t stay the night.

And he would never, ever cheat on her.

The perfect man, indeed.

Smiling smugly, she fell asleep.

MAC HARRISON GRUNTED with disgust as he threw the script he’d been reading across the room.

Drivel, absolute drivel. How anyone expected him to say those lines of dialogue with any sincerity was beyond him. Reaching for his beer bottle, he realized it was empty. He was about to push himself off the couch to grab another brewski from the fridge when he registered that there were another three empty bottles lined up on his coffee table. Four beers. And he was alone. And it was midnight on a Sunday evening. Not quite time to check into the Betty Ford center, but still… Perhaps it was time to switch to soda water.

He sank back onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair. He felt like crap. He’d been sleeping way too much lately and spending too much time on his own—probably because his libido was nonexistent. Depression tended to do that to a guy. His gym routine was about the only thing keeping him sane at the moment.

He stared at the discarded script where it lay crumpled on the ground a few feet away. He had five scenes he needed to memorize for tomorrow’s shoot, but he couldn’t make himself pick it up again.

Jesus, he needed another beer. Which was a pretty good reason not to have one. Mac had seen his fair share of actors succumb to drug and alcohol addictions over the years. He didn’t plan on becoming one of them. But he also knew he had to do something because he couldn’t continue living his life the way he was.

It had been a mistake coming back to Ocean Boulevard. The moment he’d gotten over his relief at having a regular paycheck again he’d known it. He’d been greeted like a returning king by the producers when he walked back on set twelve months ago and the show’s loyal fan base had gone wild. The soap magazines had splashed him across covers and he’d smiled, answered all their questions and basically acted his butt off to look as though he was exactly where he wanted to be.

But he so wasn’t.

He’d come to Hollywood from Seattle as a determined eighteen-year-old and hadn’t been able to believe his luck when he’d scored a role on a new soap. He’d only intended to stay with the show a year, two max. But each year his paycheck got fatter as the show’s ratings rose and his character became more and more popular. At the same time, the older actors on the show were constantly telling him how good he had it, how lean it was Out There, how he’d never have it better. By the time he’d been with the show for eight years, he’d crossed the line from complacency to boredom and frustration. Finally, he made the leap.

And failed spectacularly.

Hollywood had swallowed him in one easy gulp, with barely a ripple to mark his passing. He’d been on the soap for too long, his agent had told him, he was tainted by the association.

On a good day, he didn’t hate Boulevard. It had bought his house, his car, fed him, clothed him, got him laid for many of the past fifteen years. It was a fun, entertaining, sometimes even moving show. It just didn’t feed his soul. And how pretentious was that, anyway, wanting a career that made you proud, made you want to jump out of bed in the morning? Most people settled for three square meals and a roof over their heads, smiles on their kids’ faces and backyard barbecues. He was a spoiled bastard. He knew it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling as though a giant hand was slowly grinding him into the ground.

The reality was, he should have had the courage to walk away altogether, to pursue something completely outside of the industry. Instead, he’d succumbed to the lure of money and security. And it was slowly killing him.

“Boo-goddamn-hoo,” he sneered at himself, launching himself to his feet.

The only thing worse than a worn-out has-been was a self- pitying worn-out has-been. Prowling around the house, he picked up books and put them down again, shuffled through his CD collection looking for something—anything—he could bear to listen to, and generally behaved like a lost soul.

Inevitably, he wound up in his study, staring at the calendar on his wall. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red, and he shook his head as he acknowledged his own desperation. Tomorrow he found out if the Boulevard’s new producer was willing to continue what her predecessor had started and hand over a block of the show for him to direct.

Originally, he’d floated the idea of directing some blocks of the show to his agent half as a joke—he’d figured the producers would say no, or that if they said yes it would be an entertaining diversion from the usual. To his surprise, they’d given him the nod. Twice now he’d been allowed to step behind the camera and direct the show. It had been challenging work both times, but it had also been the most alive he’d felt in a long time.

Then there had been a regime change, a fairly regular occurrence in television. Heads had rolled and new heads had taken their places. He’d been waiting for nearly two months since then to find out if the new producer, Claudia Dostis, was willing to continue what her predecessor had started. There was a high chance she wouldn’t—many producers would have said no simply because he’d been a pet project of the guy whose seat they were now warming. But tomorrow was the day of truth, the day she was handing out the newdirectors’ roster.

And he wanted his name to be on it, bad. He needed his name to be on it, if he was being honest with himself.

There had to be something more out there. Didn’t there?

IT WAS MID-MORNING when Claudia called Grace into her office the next day.

“I wanted to talk to you about Mac Harrison,” Claudia said by way of kicking off the conversation.

Grace started in her seat and tried to will away the blush that she could feel rising into her cheeks. There was no way that Claudia was about to tell her to stop using him as her convenient virtual stud. No one could know what she’d been doing in the privacy of her apartment last night. No one.

It didn’t stop her from blushing, however. Ducking her head, she pretended to have an itchy nose.

“Right, Mac Harrison. The actor who plays Kirk on the show,” she said, fumbling for time.

Claudia gave her an odd look and Grace winced mentally. Probably pretending to not be familiar with one of the show’s biggest stars was not the smartest way to appear natural.

“Yes. That Mac Harrison,” Claudia said dryly. “What did you think of the blocks he directed recently?”

Grace blinked a few times, trying to work out where this conversation was going. Mac had directed two five-episode blocks since he’d put up his hand to step behind the camera. Both had been good—inventive, interesting, tight.

“Does he want to do more?” she hedged.

“His agent has approached me. You still haven’t answered my question.”

Grace fiddled with the hem of her 1950s-era sundress. “They were good, strong. He brought a lot of energy to it,” she said honestly.

Claudia smiled. “I’m glad you liked his work. He’s a big fan of your scripts, too. It’ll make the whole process much smoother.”

Grace frowned, feeling as though she’d just missed something very important.

“Um, what process?” she asked hesitantly.