Table Read Heat

Whitney Parrish color-coded her emotional beats the way other people organized their sock drawers. Pink for longing, orange for rage, green for the messy middle bits that didn't have a name yet. The script for *A Taste of Ash* lay open on the kitchen table, bristling with sticky notes, looking less like a play and more like a paper garden.

Adam set a mug of coffee by her elbow. He didn't drink his own. He just stood there, watching her highlight, like he was cataloging the exact angle of her wrist for some future reference file only he could access.

"You're going to bleed all over that thing," he said.

"It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make." She glanced up, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I can't play Belinda if I don't know where she's angry and where she's just horny. There's a difference. Most directors don't get that."

"And you do?"

"I'm a professional, Adam. I know the difference between rage and lust. Sometimes it's just a matter of which breath you take."

He pulled out the chair across from her. "Read it with me. I want to hear how it sounds."

Whitney raised an eyebrow. Adam didn't read lines. Adam built spreadsheets and fixed leaky faucets and knew exactly how many screws were left in the junk drawer. But he picked up the script, turning to Scene Fourteen, and cleared his throat.

"Right here?" he asked.

"Right there."

They started. Belinda and Marc, two people who had no business being in that room, tearing into each other in a rented space that smelled like rain and regret. Whitney sank into Belinda's voice, finding the rhythm of the desperate, clipped sentences.

"I don't want you to be gentle," she read, tracing the line with her finger. "I want you to be honest."

Adam's voice dropped, losing its usual flat, steady tone. "Honesty is just another way of saying I don't care who gets hurt."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

Whitney looked up. Adam wasn't looking at the page anymore. His eyes were on her, dark, the kitchen light catching the flecks of gold in his irises. The air in the room shifted, suddenly thick and warm.

"Your line," he said quietly.

Whitney blinked. She looked down at the page. *Tell me what you see when you look at me.*

"Tell me what you see when you look at me," she repeated, her voice thinner than she intended.

Adam pushed the script aside. It slid across the table, scattering a few pink sticky notes to the floor. He stood, walked around the table, and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I see a woman who knows exactly what she wants," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, "and is terrified no one is going to give it to her."

Whitney's breath hitched. This wasn't the script anymore. This was Adam, her Adam, who usually took off his shoes at the door and sorted the recycling into correct bins, speaking in a voice that vibrated right down to her clit.

"Adam..."

"Shh. You're in the scene." His hands slid down her arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He turned her chair around so she faced him. He dropped to his knees on the kitchen tile.

"This is insane," she whispered. "It's a Tuesday. We're drinking instant coffee."

"Method acting." He slid his hands up her thighs, pushing the hem of her skirt up. "I'm researching your motivation."

She laughed, but it came out breathless and needy. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled. She lifted her hips, helping him, the cool air of the kitchen hitting her bare skin a second before his warm breath did.

He didn't tease. He usually did, driving her crazy with slow, maddening circles until she begged. But tonight, he just looked at her, spread open on the kitchen chair, and made a low sound in his throat.

"You're soaked," he said.

"It's the script," she lied.

"Liar." He leaned in and licked her, a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit that made her back arch off the chair. "You're soaked because you like being read to. You like being watched."

Whitney grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He started with broad, flat strokes of his tongue, painting her with a slow, deliberate patience that made her thighs tremble. Then he narrowed his focus, circling her clit with the tip, featherlight at first, then firmer, finding a rhythm that matched the pulse she could feel hammering through her whole body. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady against the chair, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her thighs as he worked.

She tasted the sound she made. It was raw and unguarded. The kitchen was quiet except for her breathing and the wet, intimate sounds of his mouth.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upward, pressing against the spot that made her vision blur. The heel of his palm ground against her as his tongue kept its relentless pace. The pressure coiled tighter and tighter in her belly, a spring winding toward release.

"Adam, I'm..."

She was close. So close. Her thighs were shaking, clamping against his ears, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The orgasm was right there, a breath away, a heartbeat away.

Adam stopped.

He pulled his hand free. He pulled his mouth away. He sat back on his heels, looking up at her with a calm, steady expression that was absolutely criminal.

Whitney whimpered. It was an involuntary, humiliating sound. "Why? Why did you stop?"

Adam brought his fingers to his lips. He sucked her taste off them, watching her the whole time. "I want to save it."

"Save it?" She was panting, her skirt still bunched around her waist, her body screaming at her to finish the job herself. "Save it for what?"

"I want to see you do this on stage." He stood up, adjusting his glasses. His erection was clearly visible against the zipper of his jeans, but he ignored it. "I want to sit in that booth and watch you become her. I want to see you look at Glen Morse like you're going to eat him alive, knowing I'm the one who got you here first."

Whitney stared at him. "You're insane."

"Probably." He leaned down and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. "But I want to see what you look like when you're someone else."

He walked out of the kitchen. She heard him go down the hall to his office, closing the door with a soft click, presumably to deal with his own problem.

Whitney sat there, exposed and aching, surrounded by fallen sticky notes.

"What the hell just happened?" she muttered.

She looked at the script. *A Taste of Ash*. Scene Fourteen. She picked up her pink highlighter and drew a heavy, aggressive line under Belinda's next monologue.

*Okay*, she thought. *If that's the game, I'm going to win.*

Two days later, the Old Mill Playhouse smelled like dust and old velvet and floor wax. The air conditioning rattled in the rafters, fighting a losing battle against the summer heat.

Whitney walked in with her script and a bottle of water, her heart doing a little flutter of anticipation. She loved this place. She loved the creaky stage, the faded murals, the way the light looked when it hit the empty seats.

Heidi Frost, the stage manager, was already there, arguing with a lighting rig that seemed to have a personal vendetta against her.

"If you sway one more time, I'm taping you to the ceiling," Heidi told the fixture, her clipboard tucked under her arm like a weapon. She saw Whitney and nodded. "Parrish. You're early. Good. I need you to sign a release form for the prop cigarettes. They're herbal, but the fire marshal is a paranoid man."

"Where do you want me?" Whitney asked.

"Stage. Blocking starts in ten. Glen is in the green room, drinking coffee and pretending he isn't nervous."

"Glen Morse gets nervous?"

"He's human. Shocking, I know."

Whitney walked toward the stage, her heels clicking on the floorboards. The green room door was open. Glen Morse stepped out.

He was taller than she remembered. Silver at the temples, a jawline that could cut glass, and an easy, practiced smile that probably worked on everyone in the county. He wore a faded leather jacket over a black t-shirt, looking like a cliché, but somehow pulling it off with a grace that felt entirely his own.

"Whitney Parrish," he said, extending a hand. "The leading lady. I've heard you're a force of nature."

"I do my best." She took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, dry. He held it a beat longer than necessary.

"I'm looking forward to this," he said, his eyes dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her eyes. "The script is dense. Heavy. It requires a lot of trust."

"I'm a very trusting person," Whitney said, pulling her hand back.

"Good." He smiled, and it didn't quite reach the hungry look in his eyes. "Let's see what we can build."

They moved to the stage. Heidi called the blocking from the front row, her voice brisk and efficient. Whitney tried to focus on the markings, the tape on the floor, the technical aspects of her craft. But Glen was a physical presence. He moved with a loose, easy confidence that made her hyper-aware of her own body.

They started with Scene Fourteen.

Glen stepped into her space. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne, something woodsy and dark. "I don't want you to be gentle," he said, delivering Marc's line with a low, rough intensity that hadn't been on the page when Adam read it.

Whitney swallowed. "Honesty is just another way of saying I don't care who gets hurt."

Glen reached out and touched her waist. It was a blocking move, guiding her to her mark. But his thumb brushed the underside of her ribs, right where her skin was exposed between her shirt and her skirt.

It felt like a brand.

Whitney gasped. It was a small sound, barely audible, but she saw Glen's eyes flash. He heard it. He knew exactly what he did.

"Sorry," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "Was that too much?"

"No," Whitney said, her voice steadier than she felt. "It was honest."

Glen smiled. "Good."

Whitney looked up, toward the back of the house. The tech booth was elevated, enclosed in glass, overlooking the stage. Adam was there. He sat at the light board, a pair of headphones around his neck, staring down at them.

He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just watched, his expression intense, his hand resting on the fader.

Whitney felt a jolt of electricity go through her that had nothing to do with Glen's thumb. Adam was watching. He was watching her stand here, with another man's hands on her body, and he was *enjoying* it.

She turned back to Glen. She stepped closer to him, closing the distance he had left. She put her hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the leather.

"Let's go again," she said, looking up at him. "From the top. And this time, don't hold back."

Glen's eyebrows went up. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

She glanced back at the booth. Adam was leaning forward now, his elbows on the console.

*Okay*, she thought, a wild, thrilling sense of power rushing through her. *Let's see if I can make both of them sweat.*