Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Groaning, my head arches back. Because Ian just buried. Buried. His fucking mouth. Between my thighs. And oh! Does he know how to work it. Twirl his tongue. Use it to suck. Lick. Taste. Fuck. My sex in ways I’ve never been fucked before.
I start to swivel my hips, back and forth. I’ve always loved when guys went down on me, but some seem to prefer to only fuck. I suppose they want their dick getting all the action. But this man? Oh my goodness. He tastes me as if he’s been waiting to taste me for a lifetime. As if I’m his favorite flavor. His favorite texture. His favorite scent. His favorite pleasure.
* * *
“If I don’t get this interview, it’s your fault for loosening me up too much,” I tell him as he drives me to 43rd and 8th for my audition.
“Sex is good for the nerves.”
“Sex is good before a nap, Ian. Not before an audition.”
“Are you forgetting who did all the work?”
“It’s hard work trying not to come too quickly when you’re going down on me.” I flush, and he stares darkly at me. Hungry.
I purse my lips and try to shake off the tugs in my stomach.
“Here, yummy motherfucker.” I pull him across the car to kiss him and thank him for bringing me. “Have fun filming garbage.”
“I will. I get off on it.”
I cackle and step out of the car, walking away, swishing my hips because I want to give him a little wood to remember me by.
A woman who was entering the building pauses and looks directly at me before shifting her gaze to the car, where Ian sits staring back at us.
“Do you know Ian?”
I hear her voice but I’m distracted. It’s a part I’m excited about, a story of a girl finding herself. And there are three leads, which means better odds of landing a part. “Yes,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts and focusing on the woman in front of me.
“Interesting.”
“How do you know him?” I ask her.
“We’ve crossed paths. What is he to you?”
I feel possessive. I bristle. “My boyfriend.” I walk past her and open the door, thinking I’ve had the last word when I hear, “Really?”
“He seems to think so.” I turn back, give her a smile, and walk forward to get ready.
“Cordelia,” someone calls her. “A call for you. It’s your husband.”
“Oh really. He doesn’t have time to answer my calls? Well, now I don’t have time to answer his.”
* * *
The thing about auditions is you’re just not competing with others. You’re competing with yourself. It doesn’t matter what you have for breakfast and if it bloated you, or that you may be catching a bug. You need to be the best version of yourself because these people don’t want to settle, and they see a lot. They know when you’re settling and giving them a half-assed performance. I don’t want to be half-assed or perform scared as if I’m going to break my ankle again. I plan to do it all the way. As if the guy watching me is my Dirty Workaholic and my life depends on him choosing me.
Hmm. Why does that thought make my stomach flip?
Anyway. Back to business. There are forty-eight of us.
And we’re all bloodthirsty for the part.
Dancers can smell fear from a mile away, and so can the directors.
“From the top,” one of the casting directors says.
I took gymnastics when I was a girl. It helped my dancing in numerous ways, but it especially gave me the strength to backflip and do acrobatics that you’d never get from a normal dance class.
It turns out to be an advantage for this casting, which requires some knowledge of gymnastics.
After the auditions, the blonde I met by the door halts me with a curt “You.” She comes over, her regard making me tip my chin up a little higher. I’ve never been stared at by someone who is so blatantly angry during a casting before. “Your name?” She raises one brow.
“Sara.”
“Sara what?” she barks.
“Sara Davies.”
She purses her lips and heads back to converse with the directors.
They seem to be discussing their decisions intensely for ten minutes.
“We’re calling out the list of our final ten,” the blonde, Cordelia, says. The guy next to her begins reading names, and my stomach sinks when we get to number ten. And there’s no Sara Davies on the list.
Crushed, I am about to force myself to move my ass and get off the stage when the guy hesitates. “Eleven,” he says, looking me straight in the eye. “Sara Davies.”
What?
My eyes widen. I made the finalists?
“From the top,” he calls with a clap.
I’m exhausted by the time I’m done; even my bones feel sore. This was an emotional challenge, but I head out and take off my dance shoes and toss them into my dance bag, feeling good about an audition for the first time since I broke my ankle.