The Redhead Plays Her Hand

Grace has landed the lead in a new TV series—but when the director asks her to lose fifteen pounds, she goes public with her weight struggles and suddenly develops a huge fan club who support her right to have curves. But between that and the public’s continuing fascination with her “are they or aren’t they” relationship with Jack, Grace begins to wonder if anyone’s really interested in her because of her upcoming TV series, or if it’s all speculation about the size of her ass and her bedroom partner.

Meanwhile, Jack is voted the Sexiest Man Alive and becomes a little too enamored with the party-hard lifestyle. Grace vows to give him the space he needs to find himself, but then he begins to spiral down from lovable Brit to Hollywood brat. People are talking, but are Jack and Grace? Her career is on the rise, and his continues into the stratosphere, but will she be able to catch him if he falls? Will they ever be able to just be a couple who can hold hands when they walk down the street?

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Enjoy an Excerpt:

I went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of red, and headed out to the patio to wait for Jack. Curling up on the love seat, I let myself relax into the night. I had barely started to worry again about what was taking him so long when I heard a car pull into the driveway. Moments later I saw him walking through the house via the big windows that lined the living room. He made a weavy sort of path toward the patio. He knew where I’d be.

“How’d everything go?” I asked as he stepped out onto the flagstone. His eyes were bloodshot, his feet heavy as he went to the chair opposite mine. He sat down heavily, slipping off his jacket and turning to me.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice quiet but his eyes beginning to darken.

“So . . . I take it everything went okay?” I pulled the towel off my head and shook my hair out a bit. “I was getting a bit worried, but I figured Bryan had you stay for bit so you could—”

“Grace?” he interrupted.

“Yeah?”

“C’mere,” he repeated, beckoning me forward with two fingers. I let myself be beckoned. As soon as I was close enough, he pulled me down onto his lap, pressing the entire length of his body to mine. Whiskey heat poured from his skin, dark and the tiniest bit dangerous.

“I don’t want to talk about tonight,” he whispered into my skin, his jaw sandpapering my neck in a very good way.

“Don’t you think we should? I mean, what happens if—”

“No more talking tonight,” he muttered, his mouth crashing down onto mine.

His lips were sure and insistent, his tongue exploring my mouth with a need that was answered quickly by my own.

His hands pushed up my shift, searching, needing, finding my skin. I shivered at his touch, not just from the chill of the night but because his hands on me always caused the same effect. I needed him, always.

“I need . . . Christ, I just need,” he stammered between rough kisses on my lips, my cheeks, just under my ear.

“What, love, what do you need?” I asked, arching into him, holding him to me.

“Fuck, Grace, I need this.” He groaned, his hands strong and not at all gentle. I didn’t always need gentle. And he needed me.

Deft hands made short work of my nightie, and he bent his head to my breasts, dragging his warm tongue across me, making me pant, making me need him even more. I straddled him, legs parting on either side of his. He brought me closer, pressing my heat against his as he rocked upward, nudging me farther apart as I groaned shamelessly. His eyes were wild as he gazed up at me, biting down on that lower lip in a way designed to make every thought I ever had about sexing it up outside melt away. Neighbors? Who cared, this was the canyon. Canyon sex was the best.