Read Online Pretending He's Mine by Lauren Blakely - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Blakely
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Faulkner,” he said, rattling off names. He slowed and held up his finger. “Faulkner—definitely not a fan of.”
“Why not?” Sutton asked as she peered down a long row of books on—as promised—Renaissance Astrology. The wooden shelves were high and no one was in the aisle. She tipped her forehead and he followed.
“He made no sense. You ever try to read him?”
Sutton nodded. “All I remember is it felt like Yoda talking. Every sentence was written backwards, it seemed.”
Reeve laughed, and Sutton found she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked too that she was back in charge.
“But I’m definitely a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Right. Of course. I remember you said Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Great Gatsby were your toss-ups for your favorite book ever.”
Reeve flashed a small smile at her, as they reached the end of the aisle. Sutton looked around. They were in a section of the library full of books on the most prominent constellations in the 1600s and what they portended.
In a sultry voice, he said: “I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.”
She cocked her head and looked at him curiously. “What is that?”
“Some dude says it in The Great Gatsby when Nick finds him in the library.”
“Oh. How appropos,” Sutton said, but there was something that felt like a double-entendre in the line. Drunk. Libraries. The scene they were scouting for. Or maybe her mind naturally went to double-entendres around Reeve. She felt that dryness in her throat again and she swallowed.
“So I suppose you’re a big fan of Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan then?”
Reeve shook his head and leaned against the wooden panel of the shelves. “No. I think they’re selfish pricks.”
“Really?”
“All they care about is themselves. They’re held up as this great ideal of a doomed love affair, but they’re totally self-centered. Daisy especially. She pretty much ignores her kid all the time.”
“Why do you like the book then?”
“I like the writing. Lines like ‘I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.’”
Quoting sumptuous passages from literature in that sexy, smooth voice of his was not going to help her stay in control. Her knees felt wobbly. She pressed a hand against her forehead as if she might faint.
“You okay?” he asked in a soft voice, and then reached for her, brushing loose strands of hair across her forehead.
She nodded. She was afraid to speak. She didn’t know what to do around him. No other actor had ever affected her like this. She’d never even been remotely interested in an actor. They were work to her. They were a job. A job she loved, but that was it, that was all. Call them in, try them out, pick the best.
The problem was Reeve was far too skilled at this role for her own good. He made her suspend disbelief too easily. He looped his hands around her neck, drawing her nearer to him.
“I like the last line of the book too. ‘Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”
She inhaled sharply and damn near collapsed. This was too much. She was silly puddy with him, she was a teenager touched for the very first time. There were sparks inside all the private places in her body, and her breasts felt heavier because she so wanted them to be touched. She inched closer, and he drew his arms tighter around her.
“I see great writing turns you on, Sutton,” he whispered, then left a soft kiss on her neck.
“You too,” she said, and pressed against his jeans. He was rock hard, and knowing that she affected him made her suddenly turn the tables. She felt so out of control with him most of the time, so much like an open book that she needed
“Why not?” Sutton asked as she peered down a long row of books on—as promised—Renaissance Astrology. The wooden shelves were high and no one was in the aisle. She tipped her forehead and he followed.
“He made no sense. You ever try to read him?”
Sutton nodded. “All I remember is it felt like Yoda talking. Every sentence was written backwards, it seemed.”
Reeve laughed, and Sutton found she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked too that she was back in charge.
“But I’m definitely a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Right. Of course. I remember you said Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Great Gatsby were your toss-ups for your favorite book ever.”
Reeve flashed a small smile at her, as they reached the end of the aisle. Sutton looked around. They were in a section of the library full of books on the most prominent constellations in the 1600s and what they portended.
In a sultry voice, he said: “I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.”
She cocked her head and looked at him curiously. “What is that?”
“Some dude says it in The Great Gatsby when Nick finds him in the library.”
“Oh. How appropos,” Sutton said, but there was something that felt like a double-entendre in the line. Drunk. Libraries. The scene they were scouting for. Or maybe her mind naturally went to double-entendres around Reeve. She felt that dryness in her throat again and she swallowed.
“So I suppose you’re a big fan of Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan then?”
Reeve shook his head and leaned against the wooden panel of the shelves. “No. I think they’re selfish pricks.”
“Really?”
“All they care about is themselves. They’re held up as this great ideal of a doomed love affair, but they’re totally self-centered. Daisy especially. She pretty much ignores her kid all the time.”
“Why do you like the book then?”
“I like the writing. Lines like ‘I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.’”
Quoting sumptuous passages from literature in that sexy, smooth voice of his was not going to help her stay in control. Her knees felt wobbly. She pressed a hand against her forehead as if she might faint.
“You okay?” he asked in a soft voice, and then reached for her, brushing loose strands of hair across her forehead.
She nodded. She was afraid to speak. She didn’t know what to do around him. No other actor had ever affected her like this. She’d never even been remotely interested in an actor. They were work to her. They were a job. A job she loved, but that was it, that was all. Call them in, try them out, pick the best.
The problem was Reeve was far too skilled at this role for her own good. He made her suspend disbelief too easily. He looped his hands around her neck, drawing her nearer to him.
“I like the last line of the book too. ‘Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”
She inhaled sharply and damn near collapsed. This was too much. She was silly puddy with him, she was a teenager touched for the very first time. There were sparks inside all the private places in her body, and her breasts felt heavier because she so wanted them to be touched. She inched closer, and he drew his arms tighter around her.
“I see great writing turns you on, Sutton,” he whispered, then left a soft kiss on her neck.
“You too,” she said, and pressed against his jeans. He was rock hard, and knowing that she affected him made her suddenly turn the tables. She felt so out of control with him most of the time, so much like an open book that she needed
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