Reel (Hollywood Renaissance #1) Read Online Kennedy Ryan

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Hollywood Renaissance Series by Kennedy Ryan
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Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
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“We’ll make a plan,” Neevah says, smiling. “Maybe you can convince your grandmother to fly out to Cali again.”

“You spoiled Mama, Canon.” Terry laughs. “You’ll have to charter her another private plane for that.”

“I’ll see what we can do,” I tell her.

“Quianna, come on,” Terry says. “Wrap it up. You gonna be late for dance.”

“I’ll talk to you later, Aunt Neevah,” Quianna says, “and we’ll make plans.”

“Definitely.” Neevah waves. “Love you guys. Bye.”

Once they sign off, Neevah flips onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. “Never could have seen that conversation happening a few months ago.”

I lie down beside her on my back. “I think recovering from the surgery in North Carolina was smart.”

“I mean, at the time I didn’t have any choice.”

“You could have come back to Cali after the first week or so, once they cleared you to fly, but you stayed there to heal. Not just your body, but your relationship with them.” I link our fingers between us on the bed. “I love that you did that. It’s paid off.”

“Seems to have.” She turns onto her side, looking at my profile. “I have some good news, by the way.”

I turn my head to look at her and have to smile. The malar, or butterfly rash, that splayed its wings across her nose and cheeks has faded now that we’ve got that flare under control. With a functioning kidney, the healthy tone of her coppery skin has been restored and most of the lesions and rashes on her arms and legs have faded. She lost so much hair, she decided to cut it off, leaving a short cap of natural curls. There are still a few spots growing back in, but her scalp seems to be recovering along with the rest of her.

“Sooooooo,” she says, sitting up on one elbow to peer down at me. “I had an appointment with Dr. Okafor today.”

“Good. I bet she’s tired of you by now.”

“Not as tired as I am of her. We’ve seen each other, like, every week for the last two months.”

I tense, but keep my expression unchanged. I haven’t wanted to pressure Neevah at all about finishing the last scenes of Dessi Blue. The flare was so bad and so obviously triggered by the stress of filming. Dr. Okafor wouldn’t even entertain Neevah going back until we saw clear signs things were turning around for the better, in addition to making sure her body didn’t reject the kidney and that she was recovering from the surgery well. I completely agreed and have been the loudest voice making sure Neevah follows every one of the doctor’s instructions.

My tension comes from my own fear that something will go unexpectedly wrong. I’ll never forget carrying Neevah off the set, terrified about what would happen to her. I’ve actually been talking through my fears with my therapist, especially since I’ve lived through chronic and, in Mama’s case, terminal illness with a loved one before.

And Neevah is so loved.

“So what did the good doctor say?”

“I asked if I can go back to work.” Neevah glances up at me through long lashes.

“And?”

“And yes!”

“I need to talk to her for myself.”

“Canon! You don’t trust me?”

“I do, but I want to hear any parameters or restrictions from the doctor with my own ears. I’m responsible for the actors in my movies. I’d want something clearly stated in writing with anyone, not just you.”

“And would you ask the doctor if any of your other actors were cleared for sexual activity?”

“I’m sure I—”

I stare up at her, taking in the mischievous gleam in her eyes and the siren’s smile.

“Don’t play with me, Neevah.”

“I’m not.” She leans down, aligning our faces, looking deeply into my eyes. “I’m all cleared for takeoff.”

“Oh yeah?” I don’t want to pounce on her, which is what my dick tells me to do, that hard slab of steel in my pants.

“Yes.” She traces the bow of my mouth. “I love your lips.”

“Hmmm.” I settle for a grunt because anything else that comes out of my mouth would be the nastiest shit ever. I’m trying not to be that dude, whose girlfriend recently had surgery, but who might break her the first time we have sex if not very careful.

“Let’s make love,” she whispers, her breath misting my lips, her eyes boring into mine with an intensity that goes straight for my cock.

“Are you sure?” I ask hoarsely. “Did Dr. Okafor—”

I choke on the question when she grabs me through my jeans.

“What you’re not gonna do,” Neevah says, squeezing, pulling, “is fuck me like I might break.”

For the last few months, it has felt as if she could break, and I don’t trust my hands on her. I lay back, letting her strip me, touch me, explore the muscles of my chest, my abs, trace my cheekbones and lips, but I don’t move to reciprocate. She leans down, sealing her lips over mine, slipping her tongue inside and going deep with sweeping licks, searching for and finding my reciprocal hunger. She frames my face in her hands and pulls my lip between her teeth. Bites hard. She’s provoking me. I know it, but my hands knot into fists at my sides.


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