This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual situations and adult language. The writer is not responsible for any "discomfort" caused to the reader by this language and these situations.

©2001 by WILDBEARIES

Future Perfect - Section III

I walked outside and stood watching the wind shaking the bare branches of the silk oaks. I didn't want him to see me cry. And I had to think without the distraction of his nearness. But I couldn't. I leaned against the side of the house and sobbed. Alice came and leaned against my legs to offer comfort, whining softly. I stroked her silky ears and gradually stopped crying. Her pink tongue lolled in a doggy grin and I guess she thought she had solved whatever it was I was upset about. If only it was that easy.

I heard a thump, a tinny crash, and loud cursing from inside the kitchen, then Russ came out the back door. He halted when he saw me with the dog. I waited. If he was going to blame me like I blamed myself, I didn't think I could stand it. Instead, his visage lightened and he opened his arms, smiling gently. "C'mere, you silly girl, I need to hold you."

I was there before he even completed the sentence, wrapped tightly in that muscular embrace. The wind buffeted us and it started raining, but he didn't let go of me until we were both soaked. "I bounced the phone off the floor," he confessed, his rumbly voice vibrating against my ear, which was tight against his chest.

I giggled. "They'll find another way to get to us," he said. I knew he was right.

"Did you do for the phone, or is it reparable, d'you think?"

"In pieces," he confessed.

I sighed, looking up at him. "Well, leave it for now," I told him. "Let's have a little bit of time without them."

"Good idea," he patted my shoulder, looking surprised when his hand came away wet. "Christ almighty, it's raining out here, woman! Let's go inside, at least they can't say that Crowe bloke doesn't know enough to come in out of the rain."

Was it just coincidence? I seemed to always be getting rained on with this man. Maybe he was bad luck. I voiced that aloud and he just said, "Hah! Not this bloke!" I believed him. Still do.

We stripped off our wet clothes standing in the kitchen. There were pieces of his cell phone all over the floor, but he just kicked them aside so I wouldn't step on anything sharp and wrapped a big towel around my shivering body. He rubbed me down until I was warm, while I did the same for him, only a bit more awkwardly because he was black and blue all over his midsection and I didn't want to hurt him. The wall phone rang just as I was pulling his footy shirt over my head and falling in love with its soft folds again. I glanced at him, then realized it had to be Terry or someone he trusted, because nobody else had that number.

He answered it while I helped him into a clean, dry pair of sweat pants. He balanced with a hand on my shoulder while I guided his feet into the pant legs, one at a time. Bent down, I was eye to eye, so to speak, with his cock. He saw me looking and his grip tightened slightly just as his sex hardened and lifted. His fingers rubbed my shoulder sensuously and I knew what he wanted, but I couldn't do it while he was talking to his brother, so I just tucked him into his sweats and gave him my most helpful, innocent smile. He giggled and I heard Terry ask what was so bleedin' funny. "Nothing," he lied, "nothing you need to know about anyway. I'll talk to you later."

He hung the phone up and looked down at me where I knelt in front of him. "No go, eh?"

His most lascivious voice. I felt it in the base of my spine, but tried to ignore it. "Nope," I lied through my teeth, "I'm not in the mood." I saw the insistent bulge in the fabric of his sweats. "Impressive, and you with that shredded ass and all." I managed.

He was silent for a minute, but I heard the gears grinding. Meanwhile, Mr. Russell Cock twitched under the fleece fabric and when he whispered, "It's past noon," I was done for. If he wanted to chance it with his sore ribs and his skinned backside, who was I to disappoint him?

"Lock the door," I begged. He did, in record time. He also unplugged the wall phone. I had his pants down before he even let go of the phone cord. "Give me that!" I ordered, and took him greedily into my mouth. I wanted to devour him. He told me later it was the most incredible blow job of his life. That was probably because of all the conflicting emotions in both of us: frustration, anger, lust, and all those good Freudian things, but I wasn't thinking about anything but the big cock in my mouth and the big hands holding mine tightly as I sucked him.

When he came, he moaned raggedly and pumped his hips, fucking my mouth as he jetted into my throat. I took it all, licking and suckling, then I sat back and smiled, very pleased with myself. He leaned down and kissed me, plundering my mouth with his tongue, then he slid down beside me, ignoring his sore body, and kissed his way down my throat and neck, pushing clothing out of the way until he got to my belly. He pulled my legs apart and just looked, then, with great deliberation, glanc ing up at my face, he thrust his tongue inside me and returned the favor.

With tongue and mouth, fingers and hot breath, he brought me to the edge over and over, pausing each time, looking up at me, eyes locked to mine, until I stopped panting and moaning, then he lowered his face and started again. I was pushing my pussy into his face, ready to kill him if he didn't finish me, when he finally did. I screamed the roof down while he pumped his fingers in and out and sucked my clit, urging me on with his voice. "Mmmmm," he moaned appreciatively, and "Mmmm hmmm, mmmm hmmmm," as I convulsed, approving each quiver and yell, never stopping the action of his wicked tongue on my quivering flesh. He lifted his face, moving his palm in circles against my still tingling sex. "That's my girl," he murmured, "she needed that."

I think he could have coaxed a statue to climax at that moment. Instead, I quickened against his hand, and he wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously, sliding up my body until his cock - hard again - pushed into my slippery sheath. "Ahhhh," he encouraged me in a low, throaty voice, "she needs to be fucked."

"O God!"

"Yes, yes-s-s-s-s," he crooned, "I'll do it for you, don't worry love." He thrust deep, moving with an inexorable rhythm while I met his thrusts and urged him on. He paused, panting, and informed me, "Now I'm going to give this to you," and poured himself into me in a river of heat. "There," he grated, and, "There…just…yours!" One final shove, then he collapsed onto me, and we lay on the kitchen floor, gasping, all tangled together.

After a minute or two, he murmured, face between my breasts, "I hope my bleedin' brother doesn't come drivin' up this time."

I giggled breathlessly, too weak to move. After awhile, I had to get up, and climbed to my feet, stumbling when he grabbed my ankle as I started for the bathroom. "Quit, you'll make me fall!" I struggled to get loose.

He let go, promising to catch up with me later. I left him in a satisfied heap on the kitchen floor. "God, you've got a cute bottom," he called after me. "Bring me some of those pain tablets, willya, love?"

"Ah, so the man isn't Superman," I said to myself, trying to recall when, if ever in my life, I'd had sex so often in such a short period of time, and felt so good about it afterward. Never.

I grinned idiotically most of the time that day. Russell, all claims to superhuman powers, was in his bed in severe pain, pillows piled behind him to keep him off his raw hip and his sore side. I mothered him shamelessly, fetching pain pills, hot drinks, cold drinks, administering kisses, and finally lying down beside him so he wouldn't make a grab at my ass every time I got within reach. I turned out his lamp about 4 in the afternoon and dozed off. God knows, I needed it.

Russell was hatching some sort of plan to avoid any further inroads by snooping reporters and the like, waiting to see if any of the press releases by his own people had any effect on the media coverage. We sat in front of the television, taking it in turns, checking the channels for the tabloid shows in the early part of the evening. Nothing from the Aussie stations, but Tinsel Tonight, a U.S. syndicated program, repeated the same pictures as the day before, this time with the commentary, "Mr. Crowe, who could not be reached in person for comment, said through his spokesman that the photos in question were, in reality, shots from a film in progress at an unnamed location in Australia. Tinsel Tonight was unable to verify that any such film is in the works, so we'll leave speculation on that score to you, our loyal viewers."

Russell mocked the gushy brunette emcee, "The photo's in question were, in reality, shots from a film in progress - ah, fuck all!" He shut off the set and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

"It might work," I said hopefully, studying his face. "Sandy released a similar statement today, maybe combined together, it will be more believable?"

He shook his head, brows furrowed, patting his pockets in search of cigarettes. He caught himself. "I need to take up suckin' lollipops or something," he growled, shoving out of his seat to pace back and forth. "So, isn't any other fuckin' celebrity doing any fuckin' thing this week? Do they have to just zero in on me?"

I had no answer for him beyond the fact that his absence from the scene might have only added to his allure.

"Bloody fucking allure!" He snarled, eyes flashing blue sparks. I shrank into the sofa cushions. He limped blindly past, and both dogs climbed up to sit beside me with their heads on their paws, eyes following him back and forth. It was like watching a tennis match and Russell was the ball. He bumped into a lamp table, catching it just before disaster, but knocked over a stack of books. Alice barked at him.

"Belt up," he ordered the dog, who merely whined and got down, leaving the room hurriedly. Max followed her, both of them no doubt sensing it was best to be elsewhere with him in this mood. I wondered idly if there was room for three in their hidey-hole. I decided to stay put. I was, after all, more intelligent than the dogs, I should be able to handle their master in any mood.

As for that person, he stood staring out the front window, then abruptly went outside, slamming the heavy oak door with a crash that shook the entire house. "Right," I said to the empty air, "so pleased to help with the problem, Russell." I settled for emailing Sandy, telling her the latest developments from Oz.

After I finished, he stomped in through the kitchen where I was brewing tea. "All right?" I murmured, deciding I wasn't going to be a meek little mouse in the face of his anger.

"Giddy as a shot fox," he snarled, washing his hands. "Between my fuckin' rib, my skint bum and everything else, I could just laugh myself silly."

"Peachy," I smiled and stirred my tea. I needed to start keeping a list of strine terms. They were so colorful - and some so incomprehensible - they seemed to be something other than English.

He shot me a look, and I continued smiling. I wasn't sure how to counter his mood except by being totally opposite, so I was doing just that.

"Grinning like a bloody Cheshire Cat," he commented, but I noticed that he had lost some of his ferocity. "Is there any more of that tea?" he finally asked in a more polite tone.

"Sure," I got up and fixed him some. "Sit down like a human being and drink it." I indicated the chair next to mine at the table.

"Harrumph," he grumbled, but sat, drying his hands on his pants. He sat. Carefully, his right hip hanging mostly off the seat of the chair. I pretended he didn't look ridiculous.

We drank the tea in silence punctuated only by the ticking of the kitchen clock. Finally, unable to put up with it, I leaned towards him, and, in my sweetest voice, said, "Russell, if they want to plaster your picture all over the television, they'll find a way to do it. You're intelligent, you're a rebel, and you're an enigma - that makes you interesting. Accept that and get on with your life." I don't know where that came from. I trembled inwardly, but it had to be said. I was afraid I might throw up, and my hands were shaking, but I tried to look calm.

Blue-green gaze fastened on me, Russell merely stared, before grating, "Get on with it?"

I nodded, "Yes."

He rose without another word and went out the back door, shutting it with nary a sound.

"That went well," I said brightly. Max and Alice clicked their way over to me and I realized they'd been under the table the whole time. "Chickens," I labeled them both, but they just wagged their tails.

He didn't come back inside for a long time, battling his temper and his demons outside, so I made myself a big salad and sat in front of the television watching "Mystery, Alaska", enjoying watching Russell portray John Biebe, a family man who played hockey. He was a bit slimmer now than in that film, but basically his hair and beard were the same. He was adorable in the layers of insulated clothes and flannel shirts. I beamed at the TV screen, falling in love all over again. When his film persona threw his wife down in the snow bank and began kissing her, my toes curled. "Go, John!" I cheered him on.

"I nearly froze my dick off doing that scene," Russell said quietly from behind me. I jumped. I hadn't realized he was even indoors, much less right there. He took my hand and came around the sofa to sit by me. "She put snow down my pants every time we did another take," he explained. "She's got a wicked sense of humor, that one." He sighed and just stood for a moment, looking down at me. Lynnie," he began again, his eyes earnestly on my face, "I need to apologize, if you'll let me."

I paused the tape and gave him my full attention. He sat beside me, wincing.

"I've been acting like a cut snake and a bastard today, and I'm sorry." He studied my hand as though reading my palm in the light from the TV screen. On the monitor, a larger-than-life Russell stood gazing at his wife as she read an apology he made for her from a newspaper column. Life mirroring Art mirroring Life, I thought fleetingly.

"Yes, you have," I murmured, "and I'm sorry, too."

Continued study of my hand, then he looked up with a glint of humor in his eyes and a quirk in one corner of his mouth. "Taking the piss out, are you?" He saw my expression and translated, "Teasing me?"

"Me?" I said innocently, "Nope. It's the truth, you have been acting like a bastard today, and I accept your apology."

He drew in a breath and I wondered if it was going to be a yell or a laugh that came out. Instead he just shook his head and started the film playing again. He draped an arm over my shoulders and watched with me, finally commenting, "You didn't have to be so quick to agree on the 'bastard' part, y'know."

I patted his knee. "Yes, I did."

His head swiveled slowly in my direction, but he only leaned over and softly kissed my cheek.

"That will get you just about anything you want," I murmured, not looking away from the screen.

He took my chin in his hand and turned my face toward him. Thick lashes over blue-green eyes, soft -bearded jaw line, beautiful mouth. More than any mortal woman should have to contend with. "Good," he said softly, "because I want a lot."

I smiled and touched his face, then kissed him - upper lip, bottom lip, whole deal - my blood was humming along with my heart. "Good," I echoed him in a shaky voice, "because I want a lot, too."

"Oh, my God," he murmured into my hair, holding me tight. "What are you doin' to me?"

I didn't have to answer, and anyway he knew he had the same effect on me.

He woke me sneezing the next day. Perfect. I slid out of bed and escaped to the bathroom while he held his side and cussed between flurries of sneezes. I looked at my tangled hair, tired but clear brown eyes, and realized that I was over the cold and it had settled on its next victim. So, was that 'feed a cold, starve a fever' or 'starve a cold, feed a fever'? I never could get that straight.

Since he had taken such excellent care of me, I felt duty bound to do the same for him. I kept him either in his bed or lying on the couch in the living room with a comforter over him, for the better part of 3 days. I did this by means of bribes (food, kisses, oral sex), threats (no food, no kisses, no oral sex), downright meanness (no kisses, no oral sex, lots of that sock-eucalyptus cough syrup) and the promise that if he didn't rest I would see to it that Terry and all his cousins would be treated to a display of pictures of his skinned ass.

"You don't have any such pictures." He had scoffed, sounding like a fog horn.

"How do you know?" I had countered, "I could have taken them while you were sleeping. When I walked in earlier, you were flat on your stomach with your bare backside uncovered and in plain sight. And, I'm sorry to say this, Russell, it is not an object of beauty right now." It was bruised - the bruises by now an ugly greenish shading to purple in areas - and the abraded areas were scabbed over. I knew it had to hurt, and it definitely hurt to look at. One of the few times looking at his ass wasn't a pleasure.

"You don't have a Polaroid," he insisted.

"But you do," I countered, waving his small instant camera. I had found it on a shelf in the living room. It even had a film pack in it. I demonstrated that it was in working order by taking a picture of him. "There ya go, mate," I said after it developed, "The red nose is a nice touch, kinda goes with the puffy eyes."

He took the picture, examined his image, which was actually even worse than my description, then shook his head at me and promised to rest. The impatient patient personified. He would have tried the patience of Mother Teresa. Still, he was sick, and he was miserably uncomfortable, so I tried to be nice to him. I think he appreciated it, and he did behave pretty well, considering he was not one to be sick very often, and he was sick now mainly because an uninvited guest (me) had brought him such a strong cold germ.

When he felt better, and when his butt was healing and less tender, he drove me around in the Rover and showed me more of where he lived. We visited the little one-horse town nearby - post office, general store, two bars, clinic, and we drove over to Coff's Harbour another day. It was one of the nicer days, not raining though it was cool and blustery. He parked and we got out and strolled all around. Although he was recognized, people pretty much left him alone, although he got nods of recognition and a few "G'day, mate!" calls from people he knew. One or two tourists fluttered in his wake, but after he obligingly spoke to them and signed autographs, they also left him alone. I guess they were used to him being around, and they also knew he needed to be treated like an ordinary bloke. "Aussies," he explained to me with a grin, "they're not impressed."

I was, however, and thought it very dear that they treated him that way. I was also impressed by the seaside. The Tasman Sea was cold, wintry blue, and the wind was whipping the waves on the beaches into white-topped breakers. The gulls circled and called overhead, and a few boats braved the waves to head out on whatever errands they were about, and we stood taking it all in, breathing the crisp, salt-tinged air and leaning against one another like anyone else would do. I understood then why Russell felt so drawn to return to Australia, and why he had fled there to regain his equilibrium and mental peace.

Meantime, we were also working on what you would call pre-pre-production for his film. I liased with his Sydney agent, a sweet older woman who was very nice to me now that word had been given by Russell that I was "family". We set a lot of things in motion, and Russell was involved in all of it. He had been itching to get into something challenging, and "Botany Bay" was certainly going to be that. And he had an opinion on everything. Sometimes I wanted to conk him over his head to shut him up, but, as many a director had found in the past, the man was full of ideas, and most of them were constructive, he just annoyed the shit out of you getting his point across.

One afternoon when it wasn't raining, we rode horseback over a lot of the countryside. Russell, a superb rider, chose a sweet calm mare named Minnie for me to ride since it had been a long time since I last rode. I had never ridden using an Aussie style saddle, so that was decidedly odd at first, but I soon got used to the way it cradled me and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Russell led the way and pointed out the trees he had spent a small fortune planting several years earlier. They were well established now, the same types as the original rainforest species that used to cover the whole area, and he was justifiably proud of them. We dismounted and sat on a fallen log, just listening to the birds and the wind.

I leaned against his side with his arm around me. It was so peaceful there. I knew why he felt so renewed by it, even when he had only had time to spend a few days there each year. But, knowing him a bit better now, I also understood that he was growing restless, and it was time for him to return to work. This time he would do it on his own terms, however, and would be able to do so because he could afford to be choosy about what films he booked and with whom he worked. He kissed my temple, his breath tickling my hair. "Penny for 'em, luv."

I smiled, "Just thinking about how you love it here."

"It is nice, isn't it?" He gave me a squeeze. "I think you like it, too."

"Yes, I definitely do." It held everything I wanted. He was not an easy person sometimes, and I knew I had barely seen the raw side of his temperament. I hoped I would be brave enough and determined enough to stay the course. I sensed it would be worth the effort, though.

The time came when I had to go back to the States, both to set more things in motion on the film-to-be, and to begin the process of closing out my life there. Russell had asked me to stay on indefinitely with him, and that meant Australia, and that meant resigning my job to go on his payroll as a co-producer of "Botany Bay" in addition to our developing emotional bond. It scared the dickens out of me, all of it, but it was terrifically exciting too.

All in all, I spent a little over 7 weeks in Australia that trip, before going back to California - a wrenching parting that left me crying silently most of the way across the Pacific, and, judging from Russell's voice on the phone, he wasn't in much better shape. He rang my cell phone almost hourly the whole flight home. When I got there, I immediately began sorting through my belongings, throwing and giving things away preparatory to a major move. At work that first Monday, Sandy and I barricaded ourselves in my office for three hours going over everything - everything business - about my trip. We had lunch sent in when we couldn't concentrate because of growling stomachs.

While we ate Chinese vegetables and chicken, Sandy finally got down to the nitty gritty. "So, I know something big happened besides plans for a film, are you going to tell me, or do I have to have you hypnotized?" She passed me the fortune cookies and I made her wait while I opened mine.

"You are going on a long trip," mine read. I laughed and crumpled it up. "Well," I drew it out, torturing my long-time secretary and friend. She had come with me from New York from the literary agency, then when I moved to this job, she moved also, lured by an incredible salary and retirement benefits. She was only a few months away from retirement, so I had been facing the prospect of losing her. Now, she was going to lose me. I smiled and took her hand. "Sandy, I'm moving to Australia just as soon as I can get things in order here."

As jaw-drops go, hers was Academy Award caliber. She recovered quickly though, I have to give her that. "Not. . .him?" She had lowered her voice dramatically.

"Oh, yeah." I grinned. I couldn't quite believe it myself, even then. Russell would be calling soon, in fact, checking in during the wee hours in Australia. Just his voice on the phone whisked me back there and made my body ache for his touch.

Sandy recovered. "So, have you told them yet?" Meaning the higher-ups at the agency.

"No. I'm waiting for Russell to let me know whether he's coming here or I'm going there." He was thinking of coming to California to meet with Steven Spielberg about the film. He had already been teasing me about giving me my own key to whatever bungalow at the Bel Air Hotel he stayed in.

She studied me, looking a little worried, bless her practical heart. "Are you sure about this? I mean, he's…he's…"

"Difficult? Arrogant? Surly?" I teased.

"All of those. I mean, isn't he the horn-dog of the western world? What will you do when he has an affair with some actress off on location for a film?"

"He won't," I said with total confidence.

She pursed her lips at me and shook her head, "I don't know, Lynn, he doesn't have the best track record."

I cut her off, "Sandy, you haven't met the man, why don't you give him a chance? You liked him on the phone, remember? He's nothing like what you've read about him, and besides, I've gotten to know him pretty well. Why don't you trust my instincts?"

She gathered her empty containers from lunch and stuffed them into a brown bag. "Okay," she agreed, "I'll trust your instincts. But the first time he backslides, Lynn, I'm going to holler 'I told you so' at the top of my lungs." She carried her stacks of notes from the morning out to her desk, sticking her head back into my office to add, "And when he breaks your heart, you can depend on me to be there for you." She shut the door.

I marched over, opened the door, and snapped in my best imitation-Russell voice, "Dammit to hell, he's not going to break my heart!" Sandy gaped, along with anyone else within fifty yards. I glanced around, smiled really big, and went back inside, shutting my door very quietly behind me.

My phone rang and it was Russell. "You won't believe what's happened," I told him, "I've fucking become you!"

We laughed together. He understood exactly what I was saying. "That's my girl," he approved. Then he made my grin widen. "I'm flying over week after next on Thursday. Can I stay at your place?"

This was news. "At my place? Have you lost your mind?" I pictured my condominium surrounded by fans, press, photographers, cops, you-name-it. It was not a pretty sight.

"Yup, sure have," he confirmed, then explained, "I'm only coming for a quick in and out sort of a deal, a meeting with Steven, a quick roll in the sack with my sheila, then I'm off again."

I giggled. "Sure, you can stay with me, if you think you can get away with it."

"Trust me," he said, then added just before he rang off, "Oh, and if Ol' Ira knocks on your door after midnight on Thursday, let him in. That'll be me."

I was asleep on my couch, the living room already lined with boxes packed full of my books, a collection of teddy bears, a few pieces of carefully padded and wrapped china that had belonged to my grandmother, and assorted other things. I had already given a lot of things to the local charity group that supported a shelter for battered women, but there were still more cartons than I had planned on. However, all I had left to sort through were my clothes, so I wouldn't have that many more. I planned on sending half of it to storage anyway. Why ship it halfway around the world until and unless I was going to be there permanently?

I despised the caution that made me hedge my bet that way, but I told myself I needed to be a little bit practical. It was something, after all, that I heard from all sides every day. Once word got around the senior reps that I was resigning my job to move to Australia to be with Russell, everyone and anyone with an opinion had felt it their bounden duty to give me their perspective on what I should, could or might do. I listened politely, thanked them, and promptly forgot most of it. Still, I would be lying if I said it hadn't influenced me to some extent. Indeed, by the time Russell came for his lightning visit, as he called it, I had stopped sorting my things and was beginning to wonder if I should rethink everything.

Worn out by conflicting emotions, stress, and hours of work getting my clients into other hands at the agency, I didn't hear the buzzer at first. I finally registered that the racket was something I could stop if only I would wake up enough to do it, then staggered over to press the intercom button connecting me to the security desk downstairs. "Y'got a visitor, Miss Sykes, some guy named Ira Something. Ya want me to throw him out on his keester?" it was one of the doormen, sounding sleepy and bored.

"Who?" I blinked sleepily and heard a familiar raspy voice in the background claiming, "I was invited, mate, lemme talk to the sheila."

Oh God, Russell! I quickly told the doorman to let him in, and tried to wake up, at the same time trying to untangle my hair with my fingers. The elevator whined in the hall outside my door, then he rattled the knocker, whispering loudly, "Lynnie, it's me! Open up, ten dozen photogs and the National Enquisitor are hot on my trail!"

"Oh, shit!" I was totally awake all of a sudden, and opened the door to drag him inside. Instead, he came hurtling in, giggling like a fiend, and shut the door behind him, dropping his bag on the floor. I stared at him. He stared at me. Sure enough, he looked something like Ira Trenary, but I'd have known him anywhere now as the real deal. "Oh, shit," I whispered, in a totally different tone.

"C'mere," he said, holding his arms out. He looked tired and rumpled, but happy. I ignored my doubts and wrapped myself up in him. "God, I've missed you!" he kept repeating, hugging me so tightly I couldn't breathe.

Instead of answering him in kind, though, I burst into sobs, clinging to him like an idiot.

"Aw, now," he growled, and literally carried me to the sofa. He sat and held me on his lap, alternately kissing me and murmuring sweet things to me, until I finally quit crying and just lay against his welcome warmth. "Better?" he asked softly, when my breathing had finally returned to normal and I wasn't sniffling into his shirt anymore.

I sat back, and nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry. I was just - it's just that - I" I didn't know what it was 'just that', not for sure.

"Ahhh," he said, struggling to unfasten his denim jacket without letting go of me, "I see. They've been working on you, have they?"

"Y-yes," I admitted, wiping my face and blowing my nose. Good thing I had tissues in my pocket. I seemed to be sniffling every time I met the man. At least this time, I wasn't half dead with a head cold, it was all strain and emotion.

He leaned forward and I helped him get out of the jacket. "Thanks, that's better," he pulled me in close. "Now, let me give you a proper Aussie hello." Whereupon he planted one of his five-alarm stunner kisses on me, leaving me shaking all over, suddenly unable to get him out of his clothes fast enough. I ripped open buttons and snaps, pulled down his zipper, shoved his jeans down his hips, and the whole time he was doing much the same with me. We finally gave up, unable to wait, and fell to the carpet in a tangle of arms, legs and half-removed clothing. "God, Lynnie," he muttered, and came into me without any foreplay, instinctively knowing I was as ready as he was.

He shoved himself inside, lifting my hips and positioning my legs over his thighs, and took me like an invading army. He thrust and withdrew hard and fast, grunting each time he rammed himself home, and I lifted myself to meet each stroke, wrapping my arms and legs around him to get closer. I held him close, sliding my hands down onto his flexing buttocks to pull him deeper still. We panted and heaved and moaned and it was like riding a whirlwind of sensation. I dug my nails into his rump and he gasped out, "I. Can't. Stand. It." and came in a river, shuddering and groaning. I shook beneath him, my own orgasm rippling through me, unable to get enough of him. Finally, spent for the moment, he collapsed against me. He was heavy but I welcomed him and didn't try to move him. If I was going to be smothered to death, I couldn't think of a better way than lying under my lover's body after a fuck like that.

He rolled onto his side after a few minutes, taking me with him so I lay wrapped in his arms, my cheek against his chest. I kissed his damp skin and wondered where all my stress had gone. I giggled, and he joined me, and that's when I realized he must have been worried about me, knowing everyone had been doing exactly what they had been doing, and hoping the quality of his welcome would remove all doubts from both of us. I think we had succeeded on that score. I felt wonderful.

He yawned and I stirred guiltily. Here he was, just off a bone-wearying flight across the Pacific, and I had him on the floor instead of comfortably established in my bed. He cracked one sleepy eye open and mumbled something to the effect of "What you doin', girl?"

"Come on, let's go to bed," I answered, tugging him to his feet. He stumbled after me, kicking off his jeans and shedding his rumpled shirt. I led him to my bedroom, stopping for kisses several times, then we were in my bed with the world locked outside, and we got to know one another again. I didn't go to work the next day, and the day after was Saturday, so by Sunday I was thoroughly reacquainted with Russell and he with me.

During a foray to the kitchen for food Sunday afternoon, he commented on my half-empty kitchen cupboards and the cartons stacked up everywhere. "Y'been busy already, good on you!" He snooped amongst the boxes, reading my block-lettered labels. "Lessee what she has here, ooh, teddies!" He leered and I indignantly explained those were stuffed bears, not lingerie. His face fell comically, "Oh well, early days yet. What else does she have?"

He made his way around, reading box labels aloud, deliberately mangling what was in them, until we were both breathless with giggling. He got to one that had been taped shut, then re-opened and was now half empty. He tapped the box flap with a finger tip, "What's this then? Packer's remorse?"

"Well," I said, looking very guilty, "I, um, yes. I guess you could say that."

He took note of a whole group of similar cartons, and his smile faded. "Lynn - tell me you haven't changed your mind."

I couldn't lie, "I've changed my mind back and forth a dozen times. After all, we barely know each other."

"If you count it in time, I suppose you could say that," he said, all joking aside. "But, Lynn, I think I know myself well enough by now to know that what I feel for you isn't just something of the moment." He searched my face. "Unless you've decided you don't feel what you thought you did."

I stared at him. He was everything I wanted, and he wanted me, ordinary, unspectacular, decidedly un-willowy me. Was I nuts? "I haven't changed my mind," I choked out, "it's just self-doubt, I guess, and - and - " I stopped.

"And you doubt me," he added, face bleak. He took a deep breath. He looked very calm, but I noticed his hands were trembling. He saw me looking and hid them behind his back, then said, "Oh, fuck it!" and walked over to grasp my upper arms. He shook me gently, "Lynn, I'm going to say something and you can take it to the bank, love."

I swallowed, unable to look away from that earnest blue-green gaze. I nodded, "I'm listening."

He was as taut as a bowstring, I could feel nerves humming through him. I knew he was a person with strong feelings, but up to that moment, I don't think I had really accepted that those feelings might apply to me. I was about to find out.

"I've not hidden anything from you, Lynn. In every other relationship I've ever had - and that means 'every' - there has been a part of my self that I've held back. Whether it was through fear or selfishness or commitment to another goal - whatever! I never felt I should give my entire being over to my lover. So I guess you could say, even though I may have told someone I was in love with them, I've never really, truly loved someone."

My heart was in my throat and I was barely breathing for fear I'd miss what he was saying. I couldn't look away from his eyes. They burned into me with the intensity of his feelings. His pupils were dilated so his eyes appeared navy blue and I had the fleeting thought I could see into his soul through them. He pulled me closer and I could feel his breath ruffling my hair as he spoke.

"So - so, I guess what I'm sayin' is, I've been in love with plenty of women, and in lust with a whole lot more, and I've led a few of them on to get into their pants, but Lynnie, when I first saw you in the bar in Sydney, something just clicked over in my head, and it was like a voice said to me, 'don't let this one get away, you wanker', and even though it scared me pissless, I had to find out about you."

"And, did you?" I didn't recognize my voice.

He nodded, "Oh yes, I found out. I found out the voice was right, and now I'm in this for the long haul, Lynn, and I'm not going to give up on something I want so badly, not without a fight."

We were eye to eye, searching each other's faces for a long moment. I could hear cars out on the street, music off in the distance, but it was as if we were in a place totally separate from all that. There was just him and there was just me. The look in his eyes, the timbre of his voice - the gentleness of his grasp of my arms despite his obvious state of agitation - everything combined to tell me that he was speaking the truth.

I smiled. It was wobbly and teary, but it was a smile, and then I nodded, "Yes - you're right, don't give up, because now I know that I was right to trust you."

He pulled me closer still, so our bodies were just barely touching, his palms flat against my back holding me as if he was still afraid I was going to bolt. He whispered, "So, if I tell you that I'm in love with you, you will believe me?"

"Yes."

"And if I tell you that I also love you dearly, as a friend as well as the object of my passion, you will believe that as well?"

I reached up and cupped his face in my hands, "Yes, I believe you, and Russell? I feel the same for you."

His entire body was trembling against mine. It was like being next to a dynamo or a silent, very fine motor. He gave off incredible energy and power. It was exhilarating, like a breath of pure oxygen.

"So, say it," he urged me, "tell me." He bent down and kissed me once, twice, three times, then whispered again, "Say it! Say 'I love you madly, Russell' You're killing me here, y'know."

"I love you madly, Russell," I repeated, then I said it with even more feeling, "I love you madly."

He gave me a smile of such sweetness that my heart lurched, then he whispered in my ear, "I love you madly, too. Please say you won't doubt me again."

"I won't," I promised him, and I meant it.
 

We took a leisurely bath in my big sunken tub, lamenting that he didn't have such a luxurious bathroom in the small house in Australia, but he brightened when I remarked that he certainly could build a bigger bathroom, perhaps with a bigger tub yet. He was so pleased by the image of the two of us in such a tub, that he splashed me until I was thoroughly covered in soap bubbles. He then spent a quarter of an hour rinsing me off and another hour drying me, with pauses for other activities in between. I expected him to want to nap after this burst of athletics, but he bounded off my bed and announced that he wanted to go out.

"Out?" I repeated, "out where?"]

He grinned, hunting through his duffle bag for a clean pair of jeans and a shirt that wasn't a totally rumpled disaster. I nixed the plaid flannel shirt and the tee shirt with the cigarette advertising on it in favor of something I had bought for him a few days before. "Here," I said, handing him a bag from a shop I loved that specialized in one of a kind clothing for men and women. His face pink with pleasure about being surprised, he just looked from the package to me and back for a minute, then tore into the tissue that lined the bag.

"What is it, what is it?!" he enthused, pulling forth a blue-green short-sleeved shirt cut like a fifties sport shirt, although it was brand new. "Hey, not bad," he pronounced it, then unfolded it the rest of the way, finally seeing that it had the term "Fair Dinkum" appliquéd on the breast pocket, and on the back was a larger embroidered outline of Australia with the same words stitched inside it right over where Jocelynd Station was located. Over Sydney was the outline of a small heart, and I had the artist/designer stitch a rough map in thread showing the route from Sydney to Nana Glen. He gazed at it a long time, then hugged me tight for an even longer time. "It's the best shirt ever," he told me, "Thank you."

"Will you wear it tonight, if you're still wanting to go out?"

"Yes," he agreed, smiling happily, and proceeded to adorn himself in the new shirt. His grin widened when I handed him a new black tank undershirt to wear with it and, the final fillip, a pair of outrageously skimpy black bikini underpants. He held them between his thumb and forefinger, finally cleared his throat and said, "Ahh, Lynnie? These would maybe hold one ball, are you sure about this?"

"They're stretchy," I told him, giggling.

He raised one dagger straight eyebrow and shook his head, "Nothing is that stretchy. I'll just go without, if it's all the same to you."

"I'll have a terrible time concentrating," I told him truthfully, "knowing that right there beside me, is Russell Crowe, cockmaster of Australia, with nothing on under his jeans."

"That's cockmaster extraordinaire," he informed me loftily, "and don't you forget it."

"Not bloody likely," I shot back, and went to my closet to hunt up something to wear.

"Just a really short dress and no knickers is fine, Lynn," he called after me.

"Hah! In your dreams, mate!" I emerged from the closet wearing burgundy suede pants and a soft rose crocheted top, all lacey and see-through, although I wore a burgundy cami under it, not being daring enough to wear that kind of top right over bare skin, like some women would. It was early September, but already cool in the evenings, though not cool enough to need a jacket yet. I could tell from his expression that he liked my outfit.

He lifted his arms and pirouetted for me, "And me? Am I not beautiful?" he asked, vamping outrageously. He pointed at his shirt, "Ordered just for me by my honeybunch." Then he pointed to his faded denim jeans that fit him just right, "Made by Levi Strauss and Company, but fitted to my extraordinarily masculine form through years of wearing them in rain, mud and snow." Then he pointed to his crotch, "Nothing between me and my Calvins."

"I thought you said Levi's," I retorted, dabbing Jessica McClintock cologne on my wrists. A bit of blush, some gray eye shadow, some lip gloss in sheer burgundy, my hair for once behaving itself, and I was ready.

"Whatevers," he answered, "I don't really remember which they are, they're just comfortable." He looked at me appreciatively, then sniffed, beaming his approval at the light scent of jasmine and white roses. "Ahh, I definitely approve." He came and we stood side by side grinning at our reflections in the mirror. "We do clean up pretty nicely," he bragged.

"Yep," I agreed, elbowing him in the ribs, "you look real nice, for a short, stocky, stinky, surly guy."

"Short!?!" he echoed me, scowling in mock anger, "I am NOT short!"

"Right," I examined him from head to toe, head tilted to one side, "but you ain't no basketball player, neither, buster."

"And I am not stinky!" He sniffed his armpits, looking worried.

"Just picked up on that, did you?" I murmured, then sniffed in his general vicinity. "Nope, you're correct, you are not stinky, in fact, you smell very nice. What is that?"

"My pure Aussie maleness," he claimed, then, as we went out the door headed for who knows where, he added, "and a dollop of 'Quorum', you like?"

"I definitely like," I reassured him, then we emerged from the elevator and out the doors of my building, past a surprised security guard, into the warm evening.

"Shall we take a cab somewhere?" I asked, not sure where he wanted to go.

"No, let's walk," he said, looking around at the palms and the flowers. "Maybe nobody will recognize me."

"Hah!" I commented, but then he pulled a baseball cap out of his hip pocket, put it on with the bill pulled low over his eyes, and was transformed from reclusive movie star with features well known all over the civilized world, to guy in jeans and bowling shirt with cap on his head, walking with his girl on a late summer evening.

We walked hand in hand down my street in Santa Monica, eventually coming out by the Pier. The lights and the music of the carousel drew us. We walked out onto the Pier, rode the merry-go-round twice, shared some blue cotton candy (he gallantly kissed the sticky bits left behind off my lips), and finally walked back into Santa Monica proper to eat a quiet dinner in a rear booth at Hamburger Hamlet, which, it turned out, was one of his favorite places.

Since nobody had screamed out his name by then, he felt safe in taking off the cap once we were in our booth. When our waitress recognized him and dropped her order pad, he was the picture of politeness and charm, asking her to please not blow our cover. "I'll autograph anything you like, luv," he promised, "just don't do us in, okay?" Looking from him to me and back, she was drawn into our conspiracy, and, true to her promise, didn't run back to the kitchen screaming to anyone who was there that Russell Crowe was seated in booth nine. When I commented on his powers of persuasion later, he just made a fake-modest face and claimed it was all Aussie charm.

We ate and spent a long time alternately talking about plans for the film, plans for my going back to Australia, plans for anything and everything. We finally realized the restaurant was almost empty and our waitress was getting fidgety - no doubt it was the end of her shift - so Russell paid the bill, left her a very large tip for her excellent service and her discretion, and we left.

It was a slow meander back to my condo. We looked in shop windows, examined the stills and posters in the marquee of the old move theater that showed forties films, and generally just took our time. There were only a few other people about, mostly couples like ourselves, walking hand in hand and enjoying the balmy evening. As we came up to the Starbuck's where Russell had once been the subject of a series of very indiscreet photographs during an affair with a famous actress, a man stepped out of a shadowy doorway and flashbulbs went off in our faces.

"Fuck!" Russell growled, shoving me behind him. "Get out of my face, mate," he barked at the man.

"Not gonna happen, Rusty," the man taunted him, shooting more pictures until the lights almost blinded us. Russell, understandably furious, advanced on the man and grabbed hold of his camera, wrenching it from his grasp. The photographer started cussing him out, but Russell merely shrugged and opened the camera, exposing the film. He also removed the roll and stuck it in a pocket before giving the man back his camera.
 

Russell turned from the still-yelling photographer, to the gnome with the camcorder and very icily asked to be left alone.

"Can't do that, Russ," the man said, smiling nastily, and then he shoved the microphone at me, "How's about it, honey, you fucking this guy? How is he in the sack?"

I couldn't believe it. Not that I hadn't expected to be "outed" at some point, but for the first confrontation to be so ugly was a bit of a shocker. Plus, we were beginning to be the target of curious looks from both inside and outside of Starbucks, and from people walking past on the sidewalks.

Using his left arm, Russell kept me protectively pinned to his side, and, putting his very large right fist directly under the camera wielder's nose, snarled, "You ask her one more question, mate, and you will be looking for your teeth all over this fuckin' sidewalk." When the guy tried to interrupt him, Russell let go of me and took hold of the microphone, shoving it aside. "And get that bleedin' thing out of our faces!"

I stuck to his side like I was connected with Velcro, too frightened and chagrined to do more than look frantically around for assistance, which didn't seem to be forthcoming. Meanwhile, Russell was out of patience and had yanked the microphone cord clear out of the jack and thrown it into the gutter. The first photographer chose that moment to start snapping pictures again, having apparently reloaded his camera. Now I began to get angry instead of just scared.
 

"Yeah," the first guy snarled, "you are, lady. How long you been fuckin' him?"

Whereupon Russell's fist shot out and connected solidly with the man's jaw. He flew backward, dropping his camera, and the people around us, by now a fairly large crowd, applauded. When the photographer dragged himself to his feet and ran, everyone cheered. Meanwhile, Russell had taken the video camera away from the second man and was engaged in taping HIM. "So," Russell inquired in a voice uncannily like the second guy's, "how long you been such a jerk-off, Fred?"

Everyone around us laughed and I was calm enough by then to smile a little. It seemed we had a friendly group surrounding us, and that made me a lot less nervous.

The man stammered and stuttered, trying to grab his camera back from Russell, who kept him at arm's length, poking him in the breast bone with a large forefinger now and then for emphasis. Russell finally sighed, shut off the camera and removed the cassette before returning the camera to the guy. "Leave us alone, mate," he asked tiredly, "there's no news here, just a bloke and his sheila out for an evening walk."

I heard a feminine voice in the group standing near us go, "Awww," when she heard what he said and I looked over at her, exchanging smiles. She mouthed to me, "You go, girl!" and I laughed softly.

The camcorder man took his empty but undamaged camera and wisely quit the scene as everyone applauded and cheered. Russell watched him, hands on his hips, until the man drove off in a real hurry, shooting us a bird when he was safely down the block.

Russell hailed the first cab that came past and bundled me into it, turning to give a friendly wave to our cheering section on the sidewalk. Once the cab was underway, he spent the entire ride reassuring himself I was all right. I was, but I couldn't stop shaking. He held me close against him in the cab, then kissed me all the way up three flights in the slow-moving elevator. By the time we got to my door, I had almost forgotten why I was scared to start with.

I went to change clothes while he got out his day planner and cell phone and called some people. When I emerged, wearing leggings and a tee shirt, he was just finishing his phone calls. He grinned appreciatively at my shirt, which had kangaroos and koalas all over it. "Beauty!" he pronounced it.
 

"But, I don't want some watchdog following me everywhere I go," I pictured a Mafia type wearing a black shirt, white tie, sharkskin suit, standing outside my office door holding a machine gun. "No, no, no!"

"Will you relax? This will be a couple of guys who are completely trustworthy, Lynn, and they won't walk around with you like they're guarding the Godfather or something, they're very discreet."

"Ear phones and everything, " I muttered darkly, not liking it at all. I sank down on the floor in front of the couch, leaning against his legs.

"Yes, if need be." He lifted one eyebrow, looking very stern. "After all, I had six guys shadowing me at one time, plus four FBI types for a while, and when I was in the UK, I had some blokes from MI-5 up my ass every move I made. It was necessary. THIS is necessary. I just want you to have someone to call on for help if the situation arises and I'm not there."
 

I remembered the awards season of 2001, the kidnapping threat that everyone had thought was a publicity stunt, but which turned out to be very real. He hadn't been able to go the men's room at the SAG awards without the whole entourage going too, and 4 guys blocking anyone else from entering the restroom until he emerged.

He stroked my hair, smiling. "It wasn't easy, love. Couldn't even have a wee without some security bloke standin' next to me, offerin' to shake it when I was done."

"How did you do it?" I asked him.

"Unzipped, whipped it out, and had at it, no wuckin' furries."

"Oh, will you be serious for five seconds!" I pinched his thigh muscle.

"I was, love, but you were lookin' a bit grim there, I was kinda worried." He was patting his pockets, hunting cigarettes, a sure sign that he was telling the truth about his stress level. He caught himself, rolled his eyes, and added, "I'll probably do that the rest of my life, y'know."

"As long as you don't actually light anything you find in those pockets, that's okay."
 

We went to bed eventually, both of us had an early day on Monday. I had to go back to work, probably with a body guard to stand outside my door. I wondered what Sandy and everyone else would make of that, and wondered if I could get out of having him somehow or other. Russell had his meeting with Steven Spielberg in the morning, then was going to come into United Talent's offices to see me. I was more nervous about that than anything, but slept well, cuddled close to his warmth.

He woke me early with warm, deep kisses, slow strokes of his big hands on my body, low-voiced murmurs promising erotic delights. He pressed me down into the bed, holding my hands in his as he came into me slowly, claiming me yet again as his. "Mine," he rasped, staring into my eyes. I nodded assent, gasping as he filled me. He withdrew and thrust again, deeper. "Mine."

"Yes!" I moaned, panting.

He took possession of my mouth as well, plunging his tongue inside in time with his plunging cock. I wrapped my legs around his hips as he ground his pelvis into mine, and climaxed almost before I knew what was happening. He groaned as my inner muscles convulsed around him, then resumed his steady rhythm, finally letting go of my hands so I could hold onto his shoulders. He reared back, pulling me up so I was sitting on his pelvis. Then, lifting me with those arms that I loved, he whispered, "See, Lynnie? See where I come into you?"

I looked down to see his straining shaft, wet with my juices and his, watching as he lowered me slowly back down onto it until I only saw us as one being. "Yes," I managed, then convulsed against him as the first hot jet shot deep inside me. We were one shuddering, groaning, gasping entity, joined body and mind. When it was finally over, I opened my eyes into his intense green gaze, then we kissed until we were both breathless and flopped back onto the pillows.
 

"Good God," I managed hoarsely, lying with my cheek against his sweaty chest.

Russell cracked one eye open, smiling like a Cheshire cat. "Too right," he added. He pulled me up so our faces were next to each other and kissed me. "I think I almost came that time," he whispered.

We rocked with laughter, tickling and giggling and rolling around on the bed like two giddy fools. I was beginning to realize how happy I could be. I kissed him, then trailed my lips down onto his throat and chest, licking the salty sweat off him while he complained that I was keeping him from recuperating. "I'm not starting anything," I claimed, sitting up.

"Damn!" he complained in mock disappointment, stretching and yawning. He rested his hand on the small of my back, just smiling up at me. "You look very well-fucked, Lynnie."

"Oh, I am," and I was. My whole body was humming, high on endorphins and him.

"Me too," he agreed, yawning again, then I let him sleep, watching while his breathing slowed and deepened, his whole body relaxing. His hand slid off my back and I got up. I covered him with the sheet, kissed his forehead and went to shower.

We headed in different directions, him to his meeting with Steven Spielberg, me to the office. A car followed mine, driven by a very competent looking guy in a business suit who Russell had introduced to me as "Jake". Jake was to be my shadow during the day, repelling any intruders and following me to be sure I was safe. I felt totally ridiculous having him there, but Russell was adamant, so I allowed it.

At the office, I introduced him to Sandy, giving her the brief explanation that "Russell insisted," and what had happened the night before. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she shrugged, as though resigned to my newly crazed mental state. Jake sat in a chair, appearing to be a client waiting to see me, flashing me a half-smile when I frowned at him. I sighed and went inside my office to work.

After lunch, which Jake apparently didn't eat, a little flurry of noise outside my office brought me to my door in curiosity. I should have known. Russell had arrived, fresh from his meeting, and the flurry was the fluttering of various employees and staff as he made his way through the office to my door. I watched him come, walking that familiar, determined stride. When he saw me, he grinned, oblivious to the swooning females he left in his wake as he passed their desks. He was in black jeans and boots, white tee shirt tucked in, wearing a blue denim duster coat that I hadn't seen before. His gold cross glinted in the vee neck of the tee shirt. If I'm not mistaken, the sun shone out of his eyes in that particular few moments.
 

My knees went weak and my heart began pounding. I stood there like a sap, smiling back as he walked towards me, vaguely aware of Sandy giggling at the look on my face. He walked up to me, grabbed me in a clinch and planted one of his five-alarm kisses on me. I think the whole office sighed in unison, although that might have been my imagination. He stepped back, keeping hold of me, grinned and said, "G'day, Miss Lynn."

I swallowed, completely at a loss for words, and he knew it, the big goof. His grin widened and he winked at me. "Y'like my new coat?" He lifted one arm, showing me the fabric.

"Yes, very nice. You went shopping?"

"After my meeting, yeah. There was this nice place in Steven's building…" he paused and looked around, as if just noticing that we were the focus of a lot of interested stares, nodded to Sandy, and gently pushed me backwards into my office shutting the door behind us. "I got you something too, it's down in the limo."

My intellect, which had turned to pudding for a few minutes, came surging back and I was able to think again. "Oh, thank you. Will I like it?"

He nodded, taking off the coat and flinging it an arm of

the leather sofa. "Oh, yeah," was all he would say. When he was in that sort of mode, there was no use trying to pry anything out of him, so I didn't. He flopped down in one of the guest chairs, ran his hands through his longish locks and sighed. "We had a good meeting, Lynn. I think this thing is going to fly."

"Wonderful," I beamed at him. His effervescent mood was contagious.

He draped one leg over the arm of the chair, kicking his booted foot absently. "So, Lynnie, I've been thinkin'," he said, gazing out the window.

Uh-oh. "Yes?" I said, wondering what he had been "thinkin'" about. One never knew; his brain was like a video arcade - lights, bells, buzzers, sirens, whistles all going off at the same time. I put on my mental seat belt.

He giggled, reading my mind. "I can see her tensing up already," he commented to an invisible audience. "I've been thinking we ought to go out tonight. Stevie Nicks is singing tonight at the Viper Room, wanna go?"

Oh. Somehow it hadn't entered my mind he would want to go out, given the events of the evening before, but maybe with the presence of Jake and whomever else he had called on, he felt it would be workable. "I'd love to, you know I love her."

"Okay, then!" He rubbed his palms together enthusiastically, and quickly outlined the gist of his meeting with Steven Spielberg, finishing with, "So we scout locations in Oz beginning next month, then I'll come back here in October and stay on for some casting sessions, and we're thinkin' to start shooting some of the exteriors by the first of February."

"In the winter?" I asked, forgetting the upside down weather again. I caught myself this time, waving a hand at him when he was about to launch into his "February is summer" lecture. "Nah, save your breath, buster, I remembered."

He winked, continuing, "So we'll do all the exterior stuff in Oz, then some interiors here, and the rest in London at Pinewood because they have that big soundstage there." He grinned, "Ya want to go to London with me?"

I'd never been. I'd always wanted to go, but had always had something more pressing, like work. "You can't keep me from it," I assured him. "Can we go now?"

"No, not now, but it won't be long, you'll see." He got up and bent over the desk to place a kiss on my lips. "The car's waitin', I'm goin' to look at some guitars and I'll meet you at your place when you get home, okay?" He tickled my mouth with the tip of his tongue, his eyes promising mischief.

"Okay," I agreed, stealing one more kiss from him. I walked him to the elevators, which was fun because until he had kissed me a bit earlier, only Sandy of the rank and file staff had known that my involvement with Russell was anything other than actor and agent. However, with his arm around my shoulders holding me close, and with him turning to kiss me by the elevator doors, it was obvious to even the most obtuse observer that we were involved in more than just a business relationship. We exchanged little "bye-bye" waves, then the elevator doors closed on him and he was gone.

I went back to my office and somehow got some work done. When I left at five thirty, the place was empty of all save me and Jake, who quietly preceded me onto the elevator, punched the buttons for me, and rode down in silence. Unable to stand it any longer, I mumbled, "I hope you weren't bored sitting here all day, Jake."

He smiled, shook his head, and assured me that he wasn't. "It's my job, ma'am, I'm an observer of people, and there were sure some in that office today to observe!" We laughed together, and I realized he was a person, not just a body guard, all muscle and no brain. He followed me home, waved as I drove into the secure parking garage by my building, and drove off.

Russell was already waiting, pacing back and forth on the balcony as I came in the front door. He heard the door open and close, and came bounding in. "I had a great afternoon!" he enthused.

His grin was infectious, and as usual, I had no resistance to it, so I was soon happily engaged in looking at a big stack of books and CD's that he had bought. He had everything from a history of the Botany Bay colony to the latest John Grisham novel. In music, he had Loreena McKennit's new album, a collection of modern jazz guitar, the Beatles White Album ("Mine was worn out," was his explanation) and remastered tracks by Johnny Cash. Eclectic should have been his middle name. He opened his duffle bag after showing me his loot, and handed me a small gift bag made of gold embossed paper.

"What's this?" The bag alone was beautiful with its unusual texture and silk ribbon handles, but I could tell from the weight that there was something inside, so I peeked through layers of metallic gold tissue paper and spied a gold velvet box. It appeared to be jewelry.

"Oh God," I whispered, more to myself than for his ears, but the thought that went through my head was that I hoped it wasn't a ring because it was way too early in our relationship for a declaration of that depth. But I also knew I wanted that more than anything, and that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to refuse such a thing.

"Stop procrastinatin' and open the bloody thing, I brought it all the way from Sydney," Russell urged. "It's not ticking, so it won't explode in your face."

I agreed that it wasn't ticking and pulled the small velvet box out of the bag. I opened it, lifting the hinged lid carefully, then I gasped. Inside, gleaming up at me from its bed of cream satin, was a magnificent aquamarine pendant set in rose gold, hanging on a braided rose gold chain. The stone was unbelievably gorgeous, oval cut, and it was my birthstone. I couldn't speak, I just gazed at it, my throat closed with emotion. It was so beautiful, and so thoughtful of him to find me such a treasure.

"She hates it, I can tell," came the grumbling voice of my lover.

"Oh no she doesn't!" I breathed, and turned to hug him. "I love it!"

"Thank God!" he uttered, obviously in some relief. He helped me fasten it around my neck, where it hung just above my cleavage, or where I would show cleavage in a lower necked garment than the silk tee I had on with my gray twill skirt. "There," he said, looking over my shoulder into my dresser mirror. "That's nice, isn't it?"

I nodded, gazing at the beautiful thing. "More than nice, and I've never had rose gold before."

"Goes with your hair, love," he informed me, tweaking a few strands of it gently. His eyes were meltingly vulnerable. He really had worried that I wouldn't like his gift! We smiled at each other in the mirror, then he turned me to face him and kissed me, deeply and thoroughly. He paused for breath, rubbing his body against mine, cupped my face in his big hands and kissed me again, only this time it was a delicate, gentle kiss that ended when he took a deep, ragged breath and suddenly clasped me to him so tightly it took me by surprise.

I wrapped my arms around him and held on. He might be physically strong and sturdily built, but his emotions were, if anything, closer to the surface and more tender than any man I had ever known. "Mine," he declared in his deep rumbly voice.

"Mine!" I gave him back, and arched against him so there would be no doubt that I claimed him as much as he claimed me.

He groaned raggedly, and ran his hand up under my skirt, busy fingers pausing when he realized I was wearing lace top stockings. His palm skimmed the bare skin of my inner thigh and he paused to look. "No panties!" he exclaimed in delight. I took advantage of his surprise and unbuckled his belt, roughly dragging down his zipper. "God, you're worse than I am!" he grated, then I freed his springing erection and squeezed it. "God, Lynn. . .!" He rucked up my skirt, backed me against my dresser, and sat me on the edge of it, scattering jewelry box, books and whatever other hapless objects were in our way. He reached down and removed my hand from his cock, then, shooting me a hot-eyed look, he knelt on the floor in front of me and put his mouth and tongue to work on me.

He thrust his tongue into me, then licked my clit, sliding two fingers inside me. He lapped and suckled and stroked until I started to climax. Then he rose to his feet and shoved his cock inside me.

"God, so hot!" he moaned, and fucked me so hard the dresser banged against the wall and everything went bouncing and rolling off it. I held onto his waist, feeling the power as he thrust, muscles clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing, and I wanted it to never stop. I gasped, feeling another orgasm starting deep in my belly, "Don't! Ever! Stop!" Then I screamed as wave after wave of intense pleasure shook me. Russell groaned harshly as his heat gushed into me. He thrust deep, held still, withdrew and thrust deeper still, pulling me to him with a hand on either side of my bottom. He shuddered and moaned and poured himself into me, the head of his cock touching my womb.

He panted and dragged in a ragged breath. "I won't, Lynn. I won't stop," he promised. He held himself deep within me until his body relaxed and he pulled out. I felt wanton and decadent as he bent and tongued me where his seed and my juices trickled out of me. "Sweet as sugar," he pronounced it, then lifted me off the dresser, carrying me to the bed, where we lay until our breathing returned to normal. His jeans were on the floor, his tee shirt bunched up from my hands dragging it up to reach his chest and his nipples. He still had on his black western boots, and he was quite a picture lying facing me on his side, with his big cock draped over his thigh, his hair every which-away, and a ridiculously self-satisfied grin on his face.

"I'm beginning to like this," I teased him, kissing the big knuckles of his left hand. Then I licked between each finger with the tip of my tongue, knowing it drove him wild.

"You are going to kill me, y'know," he complained, rolling onto his back.

I laughed, liking to look at him. "Oh, you seem pretty vigorous to me."
 

"You shoulda seen me at twenty," he bragged, "a real rooter. Fucked everything in knickers and a lot without."

I could well imagine. Or could I? His sexual energy now was at a level that I found astonishing given that he was forty. "I've seen your early films," I confessed. He rolled his eyes. I smacked his hip lightly, "They're not that bad, and you were very pretty. Especially in "Hammers over the Anvil." Nude, bathing in the river with his horses. Oo-la-la!

He flung his arm over his face, giggling. "God, not the nudity thing. That's all everyone remembers about that film."

I pulled his arm down and looked into his eyes. "Not just that, there was the duster coat."

"Mmm."

"And the tight pants."

"Figures." He shook his head at me mournfully. "Tight enough to see my religion."

I smacked my lips lasciviously. "Indeed. And then there was the fancy outfit you wore to the dance, that was nice, and your acting was very good."

"Finally, she mentions my other 'talent'. Don't forget how I good I was at being out of my head after getting' dragged by the horse."

"Too good," I announced. "Don't ever demonstrate that little trick for me, okay?"

"I promise," he swore faithfully. "I really did get dragged, y'know."

"Really?"

"About ten feet. That was enough. I grabbed hold of a tree, thinkin' that would stop the damn horse, but he kept going. I didn't let go right off, but I had to, I felt like the wishbone from the Christmas turkey."

I laughed with him, imagining the younger, definitely slimmer Russell, arms and legs flailing, no doubt cussing a blue streak. He sat up and showed me a small scar on his thigh.

"That's from a rock, happened that day."

I kissed it.

"Mmmm," he purred approvingly. He indicated two small scars on his shoulder. "That's from my biceps tendon operation." I kissed them also, nipping his shoulder. "Oooh, and, errr…that mark there is from when my horse slid backwards down a hill in the forest during 'Gladiator'." He pointed to his right cheekbone. I licked it and kissed it too.

"I'm liking this!" He pointed to his right hip, "Cracked a bone in there during 'Gladiator'." I kissed there.

"And my left foot, I broke the metatarsal bone when we were in Morocco."

I kissed there. "You have the biggest feet, sweetheart."

"Goes with my big hands and my big dick," he bragged, grinning wickedly. "Poems have been written to them, y'know."

"I know," I said dryly. I had seen some of them on the Internet sites dedicated to him. Meanwhile, I sensed his mind clicking over, trying to remember every wound, scar and boo-boo since birth. He pointed to his right side. "Appendicitis," he explained. I licked the whole scar, which was rather nasty in comparison to my very tiny appendix scar. He giggled. "Tickles."

I sat up, laughing. "Don't tell me about any more, my lips are puckered out."

He laughed louder and we ended up rolling off the bed onto the floor for a tickling session, which ended in the usual way. Satiated, for the time being, we showered, dressed and went for a quiet dinner at a Chinese restaurant I knew of that was good and had the virtue of being small and dark inside. Nobody bothered us. We finished with hot tea and fortune cookies, laughing over his which read, "Help, I'm being held prisoner in a Chinese Fortune Cookie factory!"

We walked for a bit, shadowed by the limo, which was really a black SUV. Jake was riding shotgun and he waved when I recognized him. "Stop flirtin' with the bloke, he's a married man."

I elbowed Russell, "He's a nice man, we made friends today."

"He is that," Russell agreed, "and he's an ex-Navy SEAL."

"Jake!? Whoa, never would have thought that." I looked over to the car, where the person in question was watching us at the same time he watched ahead and behind us. "What happened to the rest of your cavalry?" He used to have a whole platoon, from what I remembered.

"Most of them are working for other folks now. One or two retired. Mark still works for me, and a couple of others, but not full time. I haven't needed a traveling squad the past couple of years."

"Yes, you've been a regular stay-at-home." We walked over and climbed into the car and it sped off, headed for the Viper Room.

"I'm deadly dull," he claimed, holding my hand and laughing at himself. "Most folk wouldn't know me, nowadays." The driver and Jake laughed as well. "And mind you, Jake, no tellin' tales out of school to my sheila here."

"Me? Never," Jake claimed, shooting me a wink when Russell was busy looking out the window at a huge billboard promoting somebody's new film.

We circled the block past the Viper Room once, kind of reconnoitering. There was a small crowd out front, but nothing major, so Jake and Russell decided it was probably going to be okay to go in the front door, like real people. The SUV stopped, Jake opened the door, and we got out. Nobody screamed, no flashbulbs went off, and I let out a sigh of relief. Jake walked just behind us up to the doorman.

"Hello, Bobby," Russell said, smiling at the bald-headed black man who guarded the portals of the club from unworthy entrants.

The man grinned widely, "Hullo there, Russell, been a long time, man!" The cadences of New Orleans were rich in his voice, making me suddenly long for beignets and coffee in the Café duMonde.

Russell nodded, and before I could do more than smile at Bobby, we were inside, Jake right on our heels. I heard someone behind us in the group around the door say excitedly, "That was Russell Crowe!" Russell held my hand tightly as we were shown to a table down front. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I glanced around, trying not to look like a total rube. I enjoyed live music, but the Hollywood club scene was nothing I was familiar with.

Russell ordered a Margarita for me and a Shiner Bock for himself since they didn't have Victoria Bitter. Jake had mineral water. "He's on the job," Russell teased him. I noticed he was patting the pockets of his denim jacket and his jeans. "Dammit," he fumed, catching my eye when he realized what he was doing. "Old habits, Lynnie."

I squeezed his hand and he was soon busy greeting some old friends who had spotted him and walked over to the table. I was introduced to some musicians he knew, then Joaquin Phoenix appeared from out of nowhere and plopped down in the chair next to me. "Nice of you to drop in," he teased Russell, as if they had just seen each other the day before. They engaged in a long series of rude jokes at one another's expense that were hilariously funny. I just gazed from one to the other, catching a familiar name now and then. I actually was surprised Joaquin would be at the Viper, given that his older brother, River, had overdosed and died outside that very club, but he seemed oblivious to it. Or else, I decided later, he had come to terms with it and progressed past it.

Russell, noticing my somewhat glassy-eyed look, introduced me to the dark-haired actor as, "My sheila, man, meet Lynn. Lynn, Joaquin; Joaquin, hands off." They laughed some more, and I joined them this time, feeling a bit more comfortable. Joaquin sat for another ten minutes, then was off to flirt with a pretty blonde who had just come in and was obviously looking for him. "He's still single, I never would have thought it, he fell in love every other day when we were shooting." Russell murmured into my ear, then he turned to respond to a greeting from an older man who was introduced to me as a jazz guitarist from Sydney who worked in the States most of the time.

I noticed several people looking at me covertly, as if trying to figure out who the hell I was and why I was with Russell. Most of them were unfamiliar, but I did see a couple of famous faces, then I spotted one of my own clients, Chrissie Perrone, who starred in a popular television series. We exchanged waves and she mugged approval of my date. I beckoned her to come over and she did. It was my turn to introduce someone to Russell, and I felt much more comfortable since I knew someone that he didn't. Chrissie, a perky brunette about 25 years old, was very nice and pleased when Russell mentioned that he had seen her TV show in Australia. She leaned down before going back to her table and whispered in my ear, "Nice date, now I see why you're leaving." I squeezed her hand and she went back to her table. She was one I would miss, a genuine talent and a genuine person as well.

"Cute sheila," Russell commented, watching her pert backside as she moved across the room.

"Married," I answered dryly. Which she was, to a handsome devil who was a well-known make-up artist.

"Cross her off my list then," he teased me. The band filed onstage then and began tuning their instruments, drawing his full attention. He leaned forward slightly, listening, and I realized he really missed performing with his group.

The band launched into "White Winged Dove" and Stevie Nicks came onstage to loud applause. She looked frozen in time, absolutely ageless, porcelain skin and gorgeous blonde hair, flashing eyes and long-nailed, graceful hands. We were mesmerized by her voice and her songs. I had always loved her music, and she was better than ever.

She sang "Rhiannon", "Landslide", and "Silver Springs", then, as she walked back across the stage from singing a duet with her pianist, she spotted Russell, grinning up at her. She did a little double-take, grinned back, and finished that set. When she walked off stage, she came down to our table and sat with us for a few minutes.

Russell introduced us, and I couldn't help noticing that she looked just as ageless up close. Good genes or good surgery, I wasn't sure which, but whatever it was, we should all be so lucky. She was soft spoken, very friendly, and invited Russell up to sing with her. He begged off, but I could tell from the glint in her eye that she wasn't so easily put off.

When she left, I asked him why he had declined. "Shy," he whispered back.

"You?" I knew he was, but not about singing or acting, and this was a friendly group. Maybe that was it, he knew a lot of them and didn't want to embarrass himself if his voice wasn't just right. But he had sung to me that morning, and I thought he sounded just fine. Of course, Sydney pub songs and footy team fight songs were a bit different from a ballad or a rock number. He also excelled at dirty limericks set to music, but that wasn't helpful either.

"Never mind," I reassured him so he wouldn't think I was pressing him to do something when he didn't want to. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, much to the amusement of Joaquin who was two tables away, sitting with the pretty blonde. He stood up and made a "time out" signal with hands, then shook a finger at Russell.

"No contact sports in the club, man!" he called out.

Russell just grinned and kissed me again, and then the music began again and everyone stopped what they were doing to listen.

Stevie and her back-up singers sang some Celtic-inspired music a capella. It was moving and lovely, I am a die-hard romantic, so that music spoke to me. She did some new songs that were to be on her new album, and which were very well received. Then, looking very innocent, she spoke to the crowd, "I was supposed to have help for this next song from my old friend, Tom Petty, but he had to bow out at the last minute." She grinned wickedly down at Russell, who squirmed in his seat, realizing what was coming. "So, I was wondering, Russell, would you sing this with me?"

He shook his head, but everyone cheered him on, so he got up and went up onstage, taking a guitar when her guitarist offered him one. "At least it's tuned," he joked into the microphone, "mine never is." Everyone laughed. Stevie whispered in his ear for a moment with him nodding, then they launched into "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" with Russell doing the Tom Petty parts. He was incredibly good, though his voice was far different from the much more bluesy-voiced Petty.

When he looked her in the eye and sang, "I know you really want to kiss me good-bye, I know you want to be your own girl," she shook her head and said quickly, "I changed my mind!" Everyone laughed. They finished to raucous applause and shouts of "encore, encore!" that Russell ignored as he practically ran down the steps back to his seat.

When Stevie tried to get him back up later, Russell pointed at Joaquin and shouted, "Get him to sing, he sounds like a prince." Then he added, "A frog prince," and Joaquin put on a mock-hurt face and sat down, having been about to run up onstage and take Russell up on his offer.

It was a wonderful show, and afterwards I met the band members, and also some other people who were sitting in the back of the club, Danny DeVito, Christina Ricci, Johnny Depp and Sara MacLachlan among others. Everyone was very nice, and I realized this was one of their few chances to just be "ordinary" and enjoy some live music and not get harassed, even though there were fans present in the club. Russell shook his head when asked to come to a private party later. I was a little surprised, but I thought maybe he was tired. Then I noticed him staring intently off behind the group of laughing people he was talking with. I followed his eyes and saw her.

Standing alone in the back of the club, just where a tiny overhead light shone down, was the willowy blonde actress who had scandalized the world by leaving her husband for Russell. At least, that was what outsiders thought; the reality of the story was probably much different, but when had the truth ever been as interesting as fiction? Still, I knew he had been wild for her, and that she had broken off the relationship just when everyone had thought they would marry, leaving him hurt, angry and a target for ridicule.

I had wondered if he still harbored feelings for her, or she for him, given that she had never remarried after her divorce. Maybe I was about to find out. My vision narrowed until I was looking down a tunnel. I couldn't hear anything except my heart beating in my ears. He was still gazing at her, and she had definitely seen him. She had been coming out of the ladies room and had stopped dead in her tracks when she realized he was there, looking at her.

I looked from her to Russell, and he didn't look precisely as if he was still obsessed with her. He looked more resigned than anything else. I suppose he knew he would cross her path at some point, I just don't think he thought it would be so soon. I wanted to walk up and break the spell he seemed to be under, but my feet wouldn't move. I wanted to pull her hair and slap her face for hurting him, but still, my feet wouldn't move. I stood in frustrated paralysis, unable to do more than watch. Chrissie Perrone came up beside me and clasped my frozen fingers, murmuring something about going outside, but I stayed there, unable to look away. I wanted to see what happened.

Finally, after what seemed to me to be an eternity but which really couldn't have been more than a few moments, Russell moved. He turned and looked for me, realizing I wasn't beside him. And when he saw me, his frozen expression changed to a smile of heart-stopping sweetness. He held out his hand to me, and murmured, "Lynnie? Let's go home now."

Chrissie gasped and said, "Oh, my God, Lynn. . .hold onto that man!" and gave me a little shove in his direction. I took a step, stumbled a little in the dark, and then another, more sure step, until Russell had hold of my hand and wrapped his arm around me. And I was positive everyone must be able to hear how hard my heart was pounding.

Behind him, the woman from his past, once "America's Sweetheart", stood for a moment, then turned and disappeared out a side exit. So I didn't slap her or pull her hair. I guess Russell's turning away from her so pointedly to look for me had gotten his point across more clearly than any violence or harsh words would have done.

We emerged into the night, only to find it was raining. "God, just like home!" Russell exclaimed, and we ran for the car. Jake held the rear door open and we dove inside just as the skies opened up in earnest and rain came down in sheets. We brushed off the rain drops and dried our faces with tissues, laughing about how often in the short time since we'd met that we'd been half-drowned by rain. "I think we must create some kind of weather front all our own," I told him.

I was still shaken from what had just happened, but determined not to bring it up or speak of it unless he did. I hadn't discussed her with him, or what had really happened, and he had only mentioned it in the most vague of terms. But, seeing her had shaken me. I was trembling all over.

"Cold?" He wrapped his arms around me and cuddled me close to his warmth until I stopped shaking. He kissed my cheek and hair, just holding me all the way back to my place. Jake walked us to the door, then waved goodbye. I knew he would be there, my faithful watchdog, to follow me around the next day, but now, I just wanted to be inside, with Russell, and to be held.

I unlocked the door and we went in. My phone was ringing and the caller ID said it was Sandy, so I answered it. "You're on the late entertainment news. Turn on Channel Ten," was all she said. I hunted for the remote and clicked on the set.

Russell glanced over, saw one of the pictures of us from Australia and cursed loudly, then saw tape of a group of people going into the Viper earlier tonight. There we were, and we hadn't even known there were people taping, but there also were several other famous people, Chrissie and her husband among them, so it wasn't just a scandal piece about us. Then they showed the blonde and I must have growled or made some kind of noise, because Russell shot me a surprised look. The announcer said something stupid about "Russell Crowe's former flame" being in the club too, and speculated about it's being an arranged meeting.

Russell groaned and flung down his jacket, uttering a stream of profanity that could blister the paint on the walls.

Sandy was groaning on the telephone, and we talked for a minute more before hanging up. I knew she would be busy tomorrow with Russell's publicist putting out quelling statements and so on. I was just tired and sad. It appeared everything was about to be dredged up again, and for no reason, just to sell scandal. I put my hands over my face and sank down on the sofa, defeated.

Russell turned off the TV, looking around for me. When he saw me, he strode over and gathered me up in his arms. "What's all this now?" he queried, knowing very well what "all this" was. "It wasn't so bad, Lynn, hush now baby."

"Not so bad?" I exclaimed, wiping my face with the backs of my hands and shoving him away. He didn't shove very well, being too strong for my ineffectual powers, but I did surprise him at least. He let go and I got up and stood right in front of him, shaking. "Not so bad? What would your definition of 'bad' be, Russell?" He just stared at me. I think he was in shock. "Would it be better if I hadn't been there? Then you could have just gone up to her and wagged your tail when she whistled, like a good little doggie."

"Lynn," he said in a very quiet voice that I have since come to know means he is on the edge of exploding, "that is totally unfair, and for you to even think I would do that is beneath you." His eyes flashed silver under his lowered, dagger-straight brows.

"You couldn't take your eyes off her," I yelled, wishing whomever it was who was saying all these petty jealous things with my voice would just shut the hell up.

"I looked at her for maybe ten seconds. I was surprised to see her there is all." He hadn't reached for me, and he was still speaking very quietly and enunciating very precisely. He was also watching my face very closely.

I think it was his very quietness and refusal to argue that got through my jealous anger. "Oh, my God," I said, staring at him in mortification, "oh, my God, I am so sorry!" I didn't know what else to say or do, so I sank to the floor in a miserable heap and just stared at the carpet.

Nothing happened for a long span of time, then Russell began speaking very quietly. "Lynn, I understand how you are feeling, and I know you've been under strain because of everything that's happened, and I want you to know that I am not angry with you, I'm angry with everyone who won't let go of the past and let me get on with my life."

I took a bit of a relieved breath, but was still too ashamed to look at him.

"I would have married her," he said quietly, "but she was coming out of a bad marriage, and she had her son to worry about. Plus, I think we both realized once the heat of the first few weeks cooled off, that we really didn't suit each other that well. She had been going to come to Australia for Christmas, but she backed out at the last minute. She didn't even have a good excuse, and she never really said good-bye to me," he said bitterly. "I found out from reading the papers, like everyone else, that it was over. Except, of course, everyone blamed me for dumping her, instead of the other way around. The last thing I heard from her was a note she sent me with the good luck piece for the Oscars. It just wished me luck."

I reached up and put my fingers over his lips, "I understand, you don't need to say any more."

He kissed my fingers and shook his head, "I do, and I promise I will, but right now, I just want to go to sleep in your bed. And I want to hold you close and know you're there for me."

"I am," I assured him.

We got up and dragged ourselves to bed where we just held each other all night. His kiss just before I drifted off to sleep was so sweet, I could have lived on that alone for the next ten years. Luckily, I wouldn't have to, given his liking for kissing.
 

Click on the MORE button for the next section. . .