“Alisha, my love, let’s make a baby.”

The baby they will never see. Alisha, of course, doesn’t know this yet, and the thought of the tragedy that awaits her brings tears to my eyes. They mingle with the stinging needles of water, cascading over us while my character’s cherished husband and lover grinds harder and faster with urgency and zeal, rubbing against my aching clit. It’s all pretend, yet it feels so real. I can feel his swelling erection, straining against his soaked jeans and pulsating against me. It’s so hard, so hot, so ready to come. Clutching his shoulders, I fight the urge to slide a hand down to his fly and touch his extraordinary length. A bizarre thought crosses my mind—dry humping someone has never been this wet. I’m soaked through and through, so close to the edge. There’s a hot ball of fire between my legs the water can’t quench, and on his next thrust, I combust with a deafening scream of his name. I’m so enraptured, I don’t know if I’ve shouted out Kurt or Brandon, but who cares when his face contorts with pure ecstasy and he roars out, “Oh, baby.”

Fade to black. I free myself from him and lean against the all-glass shower. Barely able to stand on my trembling legs, I collapse into a squat. My pussy’s throbbing, my mind’s murky, and my heart’s working hard. Brandon joins me and wraps his arm around my shoulders. Like mine, his breathing is shallow. He looks as shell-shocked as I feel. In a cloud of steam, we sit silently side by side, our bent legs touching, until our breaths and heartbeats calm down. The shower’s still on, the forceful spray still grazing us. The sound of the pounding water replaces the drum of my pulse in my ears. Brandon finally breaks our long, stunned silence.

“Wow. You’re a really good actress.”

“Thanks.” I don’t tell him I’ve had to be.

“Did you ever consider becoming one?”

I tell him I did and even took a few acting lessons. “But the truth is, there aren’t enough parts around for a girl like me so I decided to become a full-time masseuse.” I also don’t tell him that I took his assistant position with the remote hope of breaking into the biz.

Twisting, he sweeps away a tangle of hair that’s dangling in my eyes. “Well, I think you missed your calling.”

“Thanks.” My voice is a soft whisper.

“No, thank you. You really helped me. I’ve got the scene down now.”

“No prob. That’s part of my job.” I pause. “You were amazing.” Oh was he! My head is already set on instant replay.

He smiles. “I may need your help again. It’s been rough getting back into the swing of things.”

“Sure. Anytime.” I’m in love with Kurt Kussler, but I’m not supposed to fall for Brandon Taylor. That wasn’t in my job description. And besides, he can never be mine. He was just acting. Nothing was real. My heart grows heavy, soaked with reality.

Brandon

“Take that, you asshole!”

POW!

“I’m not done with you!” I grunt.

POW! POW! POW! POW!

Sweat pours from every crevice of my bare-chested body. Breathing heavily, I give the punching bag another hard punch, and then I prepare to give it a roundhouse kick. Distracted, I miss and I end up on my ass.

Cursing under my breath, I punch the gleaming hardwood floor of my fully equipped, spacious home gym. So hard, it hurts. Damn that girl! And this isn’t the first time I’ve messed up. On account of my debilitating coma, I’m physically not in as good shape as I should be and mentally, I’m even worse off. I can’t focus.

All afternoon, I’ve been working on the other scene I’m shooting tomorrow. An action-packed one in which I’ve got to battle one of The Locust’s henchmen. Hand to hand combat. I read online that I choreograph and do all my own stunts so I thought putting on some sweats and working out with a punching bag in my gym would be the most effective way to go. And to be honest, I thought a hard workout would get my mind off Zoey and release some of my pent-up energy. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that shower. I’ve been reliving it in my head like I’m the one with an eidetic memory, my throbbing cock a relentless reminder. I let myself get carried away, and I’m not sure if I was acting or not. That inexplicable attraction I have to my curvy assistant drove the emotion of every line and took me way beyond my scripted physical moves. I kissed her like I meant it, and for the first time since my accident, I had a mind-blowing orgasm. I swear she knocked me into outer space. Sent my head spinning, no pun intended. My cock gave me a standing ovation for my performance and it still hasn’t calmed down. It’s like it’s begging for an encore, but all it’s getting is a replay. Brain to cock: Listen, buddy, I’m engaged. In fact, Katrina and I have a dinner date to finish the discussion we started this morning about our wedding. I’m meeting her in an hour.

Daylight morphs into dusk. Evening still comes early in mid-January. Picking myself up from the floor, I grab a towel and my cell phone that I left close by on a barbell bench. Throwing the towel around my neck, I slog over to the floor-to-ceiling window. My muscles ache almost as much as my cock. With a groan, I gaze out the glass pane, taking in the gray-pink sky and the glimmering lights of Los Angeles that dance in its midst. In the near distance, I glimpse Zoey’s guest cottage. The lights are burning bright. I haven’t seen her for hours. Mostly, she was out and about running errands for me. I did call her a couple times to check on her whereabouts and gave her a few dumb things to do like having my freshly laundered jeans pressed just so I could hear her voice. I acted like her boss when I wanted to act like her lover. And she fell for it.

Then, she took me up on my offer and gave me a rude reminder. Texting me from the dry cleaner, she told me he couldn’t get her outfit done in time for her “hot” date. The skirt might even be ruined for good. My father was a man of honor and always told me never to break my word. So, I told her to go shopping and buy something new. Stupid me! I should have gone with her to monitor her selection to make sure it had a turtleneck and was two sizes too big.

My skin prickles with sweat. Clenching my cell phone, I text her.

I want to see what u bought.

That’s right. My money. My eyes first. I swear if her new outfit’s too sexy, I’m going to make her take it off. Even if I’m the one who has to do it.

Awaiting her reply, the rumble of a sports car in my driveway resounds in my ears.

Ping. Her response.

Too late. I’m out the gate. Off on my date. :)

The nerve of her to add a happy face! Get your ass back here is what I want to write back. The words are burning on my fingertips. Instead, I squeeze my phone like I want to strangle it. My blood is curdling with helpless rage. And it’s turning green with uncontrollable jealousy. An emotion I know I’ve never experienced even with my amnesia. Seething, I pivot toward the punching bag. I need to punch it again. This time pretending it’s that fucking boyfriend. And giving it to him until he cries.

Halfway there, my cell phone vibrates in my hand. Loosening my grip, I glance down at the caller ID screen. The face of a beautiful blonde meets my eyes. Dammit. Katrina.

Reluctantly, I answer.

“Darling, I just wanted to make sure you’re getting ready. Our reservation is at seven.”

It’s been almost two weeks since I came out of my coma. I still feel nothing toward her except growing dislike.

My reservation has nothing to do with time.