He slips a hand behind my neck and pulls me down, claiming my lips. After a few minutes he rolls us over, so he’s on top.

“What are you doing?” It feels a lot like he’s getting hard again.

He rolls his hips. “Exactly what I said I was going to.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve already fucked you, so now it’s time to love you, isn’t it?”

And he does. All night. With actions and dirty words I can’t get enough of.

Chapter 23: Break a Leg

RUBY

“You need to call your father.”

The water is running in the sink, so I pretend not to hear Bancroft, making loud splashing noises while I drop pots into the water. Dishwashing is one of my preproduction stress relievers. I didn’t realize it was my thing until this past week.

His arm slips around my waist, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Are you ignoring me?”

I tilt my head to the side, encouraging him to put his lips there as well. He nips a slow path from my ear to my shoulder and then back up again.

“Opening night is a week away, you need to call him.”

“He’s not going to drop everything and fly down to see me play pretend on stage,” I reply, distracted by his mouth and his hands.

Gently, Bancroft forces the pot I’m scrubbing out of my hands and turns me around. He’s smart enough to pin me to the counter with his hips and barricade me in with his hands.

“First of all, do not belittle yourself like that. You are an incredible talent and calling it anything other than performing or acting is unacceptable. Secondly, you need to at least give him the opportunity, Ruby. This is a huge accomplishment and he should learn to appreciate how hard you’ve worked to get here.” I hate how soft and logical he’s being. And sweet. It makes it difficult to argue.

Two weeks ago I finally caved, at Bancroft’s insistence—he enticed me with orgasms and Italian takeout, in that order—and called my father to inform him of my role in an Off-Broadway play.

His response: So I still wasn’t done playing pretend yet.

It was painfully deflating. I had to beg Bancroft not to call him back and give him a piece of his mind. I didn’t want their first introduction to consist of Bancroft calling my father names, such as insensitive, dream-crushing dick. However, I do appreciate how willing Bancroft is to come to my defense. It’s rather sexy.

“I’ll call later today. After rehearsal.”

Bancroft sighs. “Call now so you’re not thinking about it all day.”

Getting it over with is a double-edged sword. “If he says he doesn’t have time it’s going to ruin my day, and I need to be on point. Dress rehearsal is later this week and I don’t want anything compromising my performance today.”

Bancroft sighs and strokes my cheek with a fingertip. “So tonight you’ll call?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.

“Is there anything I can do to make today easier for you?”

I finger the buttons on his dress shirt. I’m wearing yellow rubber gloves, they’re still sudsy, so I’m making a mess of his outfit. “You could love me–fuck me,” I say softly.

“You want me to love you first?” He peels the soapy gloves off my hands.

“Please.”

He takes my face in his palms and kisses me. It doesn’t seem to matter that we’ve been dating now officially for a month—every kiss still makes my toes curl.

“I always love you, don’t I?” he whispers against my lips.

“You do. And I love it when you do it slow and soft or hard and dirty.”

Bancroft shoves my shorts down my legs and lifts me onto the counter. He drops to his knees and loves me with his mouth first, then with his fingers and his cock, still fully dressed.

It’s an excellent distraction from the nerves. I also never get tired of being loved by him.

* * *

Later that evening I’m sitting in my lounger—my old, ugly one that still takes up space in Bancroft’s condo—reviewing the script for the four-hundred-millionth time while he watches a DVR’d rugby match. I’d sit next to him, but then he’ll want to touch me, and I won’t be able to focus.

I know my lines. I can see the stage, my placement, the position of the male lead—I have to kiss him, which makes me a little nervous since Bancroft is going to see that happen. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. He’s said he’s fine, and he knows it’s acting, but I’m not so sure he’ll be as okay with it as he says he’s going to be once he actually sees it.

“Did you call?”

I look up and pretend I didn’t hear the question. “Hmm?”

“Your father, did you call?”

“He was in a meeting. I left a message with his secretary and provided the necessary details.”

“Has he called you back?”

“Not yet. He will. When he’s not busy with work.” Which could mean a few days from now, or even next week, which would be perfectly fine, because that’s after opening night.

Bancroft sighs, but says nothing. He keeps pushing this, and I understand why. This truly is a huge accomplishment. I have a lead role in one of the best Off-Broadway productions in the city. And I managed to do it all on my own, without anyone making phone calls to get me an audition. My new agent, who I secured a week ago, was highly impressed.

I’ve managed to pay off my overdue rent, and my credit cards are no longer maxed out. It’s still going to take time to get them all down to zero, but I feel like I have control of my life and that’s the important part.

When I move into Bancroft’s condo, which is an eventuality if things keep going the way they are, I want to come in as a positive contributor—maybe not with a huge bankroll, but at least I’ll be stable and not a burden.

“Does he realize how important this is to you?”

It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you just want to help, but you have to understand, my father’s first priority has always been himself.” It’s why my mother is all the way in Alaska—she desperately wanted to make opening night, but she’s in the middle of the ocean taking pictures of whales or something. It was a challenge to hear her over the crashing waves.

She’s coming later this month and she’s promised to stay a week or so. I can’t wait for her to meet Bancroft. She’s going to love him.