Read Online Wild Honey by Suzanne Forster - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzanne Forster
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those long, long legs?
The last image cut into him like a knife. The sharp sensation in his gut left him short of breath and taut as a cocked gun. He stood there a moment, feeling it, fighting it, bringing himself under control, willing himself sane.
Moments later he was sane. Sheer force of will, the survival mechanism he’d honed and perfected in the blackest moments of his past, had cut out the impulse with a scalpel’s precision. Only a faint tripping of his pulse remained.
Moving into the shadows, he observed silently, letting Sasha run through the entire scene with Carlos. He wanted to see what she could do without interference. He had her pegged as too inflexible for any real acting range, but for the sake of the picture, he half hoped she would pull a rabbit out of the hat and prove him wrong. Surprise me , he thought as she hesitated at the door of the cabin, caught in the conflict of Lisa’s agonizing decision.
Halfway into it, Marc knew she was giving it her best despite the nerves, that she could never give anything less, and the grudging respect of one strong competitor for another built inside him. She was proud. She was beautiful. She was spectacular, but, dammit, she was one lousy actress. Her facial expression was wooden, her movements stiff and hopelessly self-conscious.
“Hold it!” he called out. “Sasha, come here.” He waved her over. “Take five,” he told the cast and crew.
He took her by the arm and drew her aside, aware of the resistance in her body—and the quickening energy in his own. “The first thing I want you to do is relax,” he told her, careful to keep his voice low, his own responses in check. “You’re making it happen. Do you know what I mean by that, Sasha? I want you to let it happen. Don’t perform, give yourself over to the role. Don’t do Lisa, be Lisa.”
“I’m trying,” she insisted softly.
“I know.” Her warm, firm flesh gave under the slight pressure of his fingers. “Too hard, Sasha. You’re trying too hard. Let it happen.”
She quieted, met his gaze, and her expression softened. He could feel her opening up, surrendering a little. He smiled at her faintly, and something happened through their eyes, some transference of mental energy, some fusion of understanding. For an instant Marc’s breath got trapped somewhere in his chest. He felt connected, linked to her by a grounding current of electricity. This was more than a director advising his star, it was male and female, an instinctive communication between the sexes. The cords of his neck contracted, and the effect rippled down his muscles like a wave. What arrested him most was the wonderment in her expression, the whiskey hues in her eyes. She was wildly, incredibly beautiful.
“Let it happen?” She glanced down at his hand, a hushed, sensual tremor in her voice.
An impulse flashed through Marc, primal, straight out of the evolutionary past—the biological urge to take, to conquer and possess. He wanted her now, on the floor, beneath him. He wanted to bury himself inside her, this golden woman he’d done nothing more to than touch—
He stifled the urge as quickly as it hit him, but she must have seen it in his eyes, felt it in his grip on her arm. She drew back, blinking at him with that startled look he’d seen before. It occurred to him that he hadn’t released her yet, that he had to let go of her. When he did, the current of electricity arced up his arm.
He heard the normal buzz of activity behind him on the set, but he was totally disconnected from it. Lord, what had just happened, he wondered. This time his willpower hadn’t cut off the response. This time it was taking him more than a moment to recover. His heart pounding hard, he stared at her until finally the director in him overrode the man. “All right—” he called out to the milling crew, “let’s try it again.”
Riptides of tension permeated the set from that point on. Even the crew talked in hushed tones,
The last image cut into him like a knife. The sharp sensation in his gut left him short of breath and taut as a cocked gun. He stood there a moment, feeling it, fighting it, bringing himself under control, willing himself sane.
Moments later he was sane. Sheer force of will, the survival mechanism he’d honed and perfected in the blackest moments of his past, had cut out the impulse with a scalpel’s precision. Only a faint tripping of his pulse remained.
Moving into the shadows, he observed silently, letting Sasha run through the entire scene with Carlos. He wanted to see what she could do without interference. He had her pegged as too inflexible for any real acting range, but for the sake of the picture, he half hoped she would pull a rabbit out of the hat and prove him wrong. Surprise me , he thought as she hesitated at the door of the cabin, caught in the conflict of Lisa’s agonizing decision.
Halfway into it, Marc knew she was giving it her best despite the nerves, that she could never give anything less, and the grudging respect of one strong competitor for another built inside him. She was proud. She was beautiful. She was spectacular, but, dammit, she was one lousy actress. Her facial expression was wooden, her movements stiff and hopelessly self-conscious.
“Hold it!” he called out. “Sasha, come here.” He waved her over. “Take five,” he told the cast and crew.
He took her by the arm and drew her aside, aware of the resistance in her body—and the quickening energy in his own. “The first thing I want you to do is relax,” he told her, careful to keep his voice low, his own responses in check. “You’re making it happen. Do you know what I mean by that, Sasha? I want you to let it happen. Don’t perform, give yourself over to the role. Don’t do Lisa, be Lisa.”
“I’m trying,” she insisted softly.
“I know.” Her warm, firm flesh gave under the slight pressure of his fingers. “Too hard, Sasha. You’re trying too hard. Let it happen.”
She quieted, met his gaze, and her expression softened. He could feel her opening up, surrendering a little. He smiled at her faintly, and something happened through their eyes, some transference of mental energy, some fusion of understanding. For an instant Marc’s breath got trapped somewhere in his chest. He felt connected, linked to her by a grounding current of electricity. This was more than a director advising his star, it was male and female, an instinctive communication between the sexes. The cords of his neck contracted, and the effect rippled down his muscles like a wave. What arrested him most was the wonderment in her expression, the whiskey hues in her eyes. She was wildly, incredibly beautiful.
“Let it happen?” She glanced down at his hand, a hushed, sensual tremor in her voice.
An impulse flashed through Marc, primal, straight out of the evolutionary past—the biological urge to take, to conquer and possess. He wanted her now, on the floor, beneath him. He wanted to bury himself inside her, this golden woman he’d done nothing more to than touch—
He stifled the urge as quickly as it hit him, but she must have seen it in his eyes, felt it in his grip on her arm. She drew back, blinking at him with that startled look he’d seen before. It occurred to him that he hadn’t released her yet, that he had to let go of her. When he did, the current of electricity arced up his arm.
He heard the normal buzz of activity behind him on the set, but he was totally disconnected from it. Lord, what had just happened, he wondered. This time his willpower hadn’t cut off the response. This time it was taking him more than a moment to recover. His heart pounding hard, he stared at her until finally the director in him overrode the man. “All right—” he called out to the milling crew, “let’s try it again.”
Riptides of tension permeated the set from that point on. Even the crew talked in hushed tones,
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