She crawls up my body and smiles against my cheek. “Every time. You’re so good.”

Pleasure glows low in my belly, an aftershock of her mouth and her words. Compliments from Amy are an addiction I didn’t know I had.

We lie on our sides facing each other. Amy’s body is heavy, her skin warm from the orgasm I just gave her. In the soft light she looks a little angelic, her hair a wild mess of short curls and her lips plump and turned up in the hint of a smile.

“Why do you call me that?” I whisper.

“Call you what?” she asks, her voice husky and warm. Amy drifts on the edge of consciousness, her eyes barely open. Meanwhile I can’t stop touching her. My new favorite place is her ass, pulling her hips into mine.

“Hollywood.”

She takes a deep breath, like she is making a concerted effort to stay on this side of awake. “Because you went to Hollywood,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “For the show.”

I kiss her because she’s cute. Her mouth tastes like me, warm and salty, and mine probably tastes like her.

I’ve never had a kiss like this, that tastes this good, with so much pleasure on my tongue.

“But I didn’t,” I say, smiling against her lips. She hums in response, her mouth buzzing against me. “We filmed in Georgia.”

She rolls onto her back and flings her arm over her face. “You mean to tell me I have to call you Atlanta now?”

I laugh, too loud for the soft light and the slick feeling between my thighs. “You can still call me Hollywood. Or if you want...” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Sophie.”

She grumbles. The music from her laptop is almost too quiet to reach us here, the comforter acting like a cocoon billowed up around us, keeping the world out. I creep my hand the few scant inches between us again. The urge to touch at least some part of her burns in me so that even when she rolls away, I crawl back to her. Always caressing her, keeping her on the edge of awake just to hear the soft, throaty sound of her voice.

“I’m proud of you,” I whisper.

She pulls her arm off her face and frowns with her eyes closed. “Huh?”

“The way you dealt with your dad tonight. Don’t worry, I won’t make you talk about it,” I say quickly when her jaw tenses and she opens her eyes. “He doesn’t seem like an easy person to be the child of.”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I dealt with him.”

“You did better than you think.”

Gently, I brush her hair back from her face. My fingers follow the curve of her ear, her jaw, back to her lips. She’s such a tough person, a strong woman, that these little moments when she lets me see, or maybe lets slip these little pieces of tenderness, they almost knock me out.