Oh God. I'm done. I was an outcast before, but my old crowd will really slay me now.
Slowly I lift my eyelids, finding Hunter closer; he's leaning over the mattress, the weight of his gorgeous upper body propped on his thick arms. His face softens when his eyes meet mine, and he nods slightly. "Yes it is."
I have no idea what he's talking about anymore, because my brain has turned to soup. I'm all glowing, glittering sensation as his green gaze sweeps me from toes to crown. His brows are slightly gathered, his mouth still tight. Firelight illuminates his face, so I can see the exact moment he realizes what I've been doing. His torso stiffens as his hands, pressed against the mattress, curl into big fists. He makes a low, approving sound and speaks in a voice that sounds like molten lava.
"That’s so sexy."
I look down at my hand, still tangled in my gown. "It is?" I search his face.
"Oh, yeah. Hell yeah." He's on the bed with me that next second, his gym-ripped body licked by the glow of flames. I gasp when he grabs my hips and turns me toward him. His eyes are flaring, and I expect him to let go of my fleshy hips. I'm already recoiling, hating myself for humiliating myself in front of this man. Instead he pulls me closer, locking both hands around my big ass and squeezing.
"Let me get you off," he purrs. I feel a throb between my legs, followed by a rush of needy warmth.
Oh God.
Somehow, I manage to nod, and his hand is fishing in my gown. I can barely stand to watch him. I'm already panting, and my eyes want to squeeze shut. I won't let them. Fate has given me this gift, and I intend to experience it. I inhale deeply, trying to hold off my release.
Hunter's eyes glow as he strokes my calves and traces up my thigh, across my hip. He looks dazed as he lifts my panties with his finger, stroking oh so gently over me.
I whimper and he moves to straddle me, the fingers of his free hand tangling with mine, guiding my fingers, stroking me lightly, making me want to burst as he positions my finger, wraps his palm around my hand, and gently urges me inside myself.
His fingers are working my clit, and I'm wet...so wet. I am gasping, clenching and unclenching. My legs are locked, my feet dancing. All my blood has rushed under our joined fingers.
"You like it," he rasps, and then my finger is joined by his.
This is the most I've ever had, and I moan with the fullness of it. As I reach for him, clutching at his golden hair, he tugs away, ducking under my gown. I feel the soft heat of his tongue and shriek. My thighs clamp down around his head and it's like the universe is ripped apart. I groan and push his head down, nearly coming off the bed as he works me into what must be nirvana.
Holy shit.
I've never had an orgasm like this.
I'm bereft and shaking, gasping; humiliated and sated. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself, feeling like the child I clearly am. But as I peek shyly up at him, he grins, surprising me by stretching his gorgeous body over mine, hovering for a moment just above me before he dips down, kissing me lightly, even sweetly, on the lips. I can taste the salt of him. His breath smells like bourbon and when he tickles his damp mouth down my neck, I shudder so hard I think that I might burst.
And then I do—again. He cups me over my gown and strokes and— Oh my God.
From somewhere far away, I see him moving off the bed, standing wide-eyed at the foot of it. He's tugging at his golden hair, rubbing his eyes. Something is wrong, I think. He looks upset. I have the drowsy urge to hold him close and soothe the stress etched on that handsome face. But he is gone before I fall back down to Earth.
*
Did that really just happen? Christ in Heaven, I have stumbled into Fifty Shades of Grey. My legs are still shaking when I stand forever later. I grip the green duvet and set my gaze on the open door through which Hunter West disappeared; apparently this room has an attached bathroom.
I rub my temples, wondering if he's in there, or if the bathroom attaches to another room as well. Where did he go? Did that really just happen? I feel slightly sick about this. I feel gleeful. Hunter West! I picture him in the black button-up and Stetson he wears for poker tournaments. I picture his lazy smile as he waves at paparazzi from the red carpet at the premier of a movie his production company financed, his strong arm locked around a starlet's waist.
I shut my eyes and he is there above me. His eyes on my face are gentle as he leans to kiss my lips.
Still clinging to the duvet, I make my way around the bed and toward the open bathroom door, pausing to examine something on the floor, where Hunter was sitting when I came into the room. It looks like a cravat. On a whim, I scoop it up and bring it to my nose. It smells like Hunter. I tuck it in my clutch and turn back around to see the bedroom one more time. With a clearer head, it looks more damaged than it did before. The broken mirror and strewn pillows remind me of the carnage left after one of Mom's breakdowns.
I do a quick sweep of the furniture and walls, looking for any tell-tale trinkets, but other than Hunter's scent, there is no evidence that this room is his. I notice something blue glowing in the fireplace and step back toward it. It's a broken wine glass, cracked and glowing with the heat.
It gives me an uneasy feeling, which intensifies when I remember what Hunter was doing just before I saw him—or rather, who he was doing. It's not Priscilla's profession that bothers me. I don't think there's anything shameful about a woman who has sex in front of a camera. It's the memory of Hunter's footsteps on the bathroom floor that bothers me. The way he left her there, even if sex was the only thing between them. Also bothering me is the proximity of that encounter to the one he had with me. I want to be okay with it, to just not care, but Hunter is still my crush, and care I do.
Why did he leave the room without saying anything? Is he some kind of sex fiend? A bedroom Batman?
I can't decide if I'm amazed that this just happened, or if I'm angry that he treated me just like Priscilla Heat. He just left.
I gather my gown in one hand and step through the door to the bathroom, holding my breath in preparation for seeing Hunter. But I don't. I glance around the empty room. The walls are decked with heavy, gold mirrors; the floors, the massive tub, the even more massive shower, are brown and gold marble; there's a glass-encased painting on the wall between the pool-tub and the shower; it looks like Dali and I wonder if it's real.
I'm looking in the mirror, giving my body a rare critique and trying to put things with Hunter in perspective, when someone enters from the other end of the bathroom.
My stomach dips like I'm riding a roller coaster and when the figure steps into the light, I feel ill.
Not Hunter. Another woman.
I notice she's wearing a prim black dress and a crisp white apron. Not another lover. She gives me a shy smile and as she steps forward, I can see that her dark brown hair is tucked into a tidy bun.
"Miss DeVille?" she says softly.
"That's me," I say, hands on my hips.
She nods at the largest of the two tubs. "Would you like a bathe?" she asks me in a French accent.
"A bath?" I correct her automatically, then feel guilty; it's the soon-to-be professor in me.
"Yes." She nods vigorously. "Would you like to get into the bath?"
I narrow my eyes at the massive, square pool. "Um, that's not necessary." I stare at her and fold my arms. I'm not sure what to say.
I decide to be blunt. "Where is Hunter?"
"Mister West, he is tending to some business."
Oh, I just bet he is.
"Did he send you to offer me a bath?" I ask.
The girl hesitates, then nods.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'll take a few minutes in here by myself and I'll be gone."
The girl starts to go, and I put a hand over my breasts. I feel like someone's shoved a steel plate into my chest, and I tell myself that's what I get.
Who do you think he is, Lizzy? He's a freakin' man whore, and he found me in one of his bedrooms, funking the fuzzy frann
y. What the hell do I expect? That he'll rush back in and get down on one knee?
I step closer to the mirror, frantically smoothing my hair, and the housekeeper turns. "There is one more thing," she says.
I wait, brows arched.
"He does not make a habit. He say he found you, he had been drinking, you were beautiful. If there is any forgiveness to be asked, you will speak with him?"
I frowned, confused until I realize this must be Hunter West's damage control. Ouch. I swallow. Nod. "Yeah, whatever. Sure." She turns again, to go, and I say, "Wait." Her dark eyes meet mine, and I spit it out: "Tell him that's fine. I wasn't looking to get married, either."
After that, I lock the doors, pull my gown up, and work carefully to restore myself to my pre-Hunter state. I also give myself a mental shake.
He didn't use and abuse you, silly girl. You were both in the right place at the right time, and you had the best orgasm ever. If anything, he gave you stud service. It so happened to occur right after he was with another woman, but he didn't design it that way.
Besides, it was a great time. I can't regret that.
I try to believe my own propaganda as I smooth my hair, reapply my lipstick, and stuff the Hunter-scented cravat deeper into my clutch. I look perfectly respectable—and I am. I've had a nice time, and now I'm going back to the party. Maybe Suri will feel I've served my time, and I can go home and finish my reading for class on Monday; the subject is fitting: the morality (or amorality) of sex.
After a few more minutes of deep breaths, I start toward the door the maid went through, but as soon as I do, I can see royal blue and gold curtains. I don't want to come out in another bedroom, and I damn sure don't want to bump into Hunter again, so I turn around and open the door leading back into the emerald room.
What I find on the other side stuns me. Priscilla Heat is naked, lying on her back beside the fireplace, and Hunter is leaning over her. I'm so distracted by his amazing, taut backside, it takes me a second to notice what he's doing with his left hand.
It's pushed against Priscilla's throat. She moans. I gasp and Hunter's head whips my way. The look on his face is horror. I imagine mine is much the same. I fly through the blue room as fast as I can move.
*
I'm dashing through the hall, toward the vacant end that meets the front side of the house, and I guess I must be freaking out because I don't even notice Cross until he and I collide. His hands close on my shoulders as he holds me at arms' length, his blue eyes narrowing and then widening as he realizes I'm me.
"Where have you been, Lizzy? I was looking for you." His voice is low, and I can smell the vodka on his warm breath.
He must have had a lot to drink tonight, because his face has that relaxed look, the one I remember from the other night, out on Mom's lawn. On this rare occasion, Cross is an open door, and as I stand there looking up at him, his fingers press into the flesh of my shoulders.
"Is something wrong?" He moves his hand up to my face and cups my cheek. "You look like something happened."
Without waiting for my answer, he pulls me close. With my body pressed against his hard one, I realize that I'm shaking and I pray he doesn't notice. "I'm okay," I lie. And even though I'm not nurturing romantic feelings for Cross, being so close to him makes me feel warm. I imagine him sitting at his desk with a sketchpad and a pencil, dictating the design of a new Cross Hybrids bike, rough around the edges and pretty damn sexy.
He folds my head under his chin, and his deep voice vibrates through my ribs. "I should never have told you to come back here. I know Hunter West, and he's—" He inhales deeply, his nose in my hair, and then pushes me away, his eyes flying to mine. "Elizabeth, you didn't."
"Didn't what?"
He looks me over, up and down, and when his gaze falls on my left arm, all the color drains out of his face. "Fucking hell," he whispers.
"What?"
He snatches my purse, pulling out Hunter's cravat and waving it around. "Jesus, Lizzy. Really? Hunter West?"
I nod, because I'm not sure what else to do. “What's wrong with—”
I'm going to ask what's so wrong with Hunter West—a rhetorical question whose answer is among the hundreds of scandalous rumors I’ve collected about Hunter over the years. But before I can finish my question, Cross turns around and slams his fist into the wall, striking it hard enough to cause a loud boom.
I jump on him, stunned and appalled. "Cross! What the hell is wrong with you?!"
For half a second, he freezes, and I can feel the pent up rage seethe in him.
Another half a second and it’s gone.
He gently removes my arms and turns to look at me, his expression carefully subdued. "Do you need a ride home, Lizzy? Do you want to talk?"
"I'm fine,” I say, and his mouth twists. He tugs me down the hall, back toward the green bedroom, where I hear slapping again and Hunter's moan. My stomach lurches.
"Don't think that you're the only one," Cross says. His eyes bore into mine, looking for something I can't name. "Did he force you, Liz?"
"No way! Of course he didn't." I grab Cross's hand and drag him back the other way, toward the empty foyer. "Call off the state of emergency. I’ve still got my V-card. Unstamped."
“For how long?” he asks darkly, and I’ve had enough.
“I don’t care how much you’ve been drinking—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Do you really want to be just another fuck?”
I recoil, feeling like I've just been slapped. It takes me a full half-second to gather my thoughts, and when I do, I'm seething. "I could never be 'just another fuck', so don't you say that shit to me. I'll make my own choices and I don't do a bad job, unlike some people who drink themselves stupid and sleep with any warm body that will have them."
He works his jaw, and I know it was a low blow. He’s told me practically all his secrets since we were kids, and I know he uses sex to get affection.
"I'm just trying to be your friend, Lizzy.” But his voice is hard.
I feel steam coming out my ears. I'm judged enough based on my mom, and I don't need Cross adding to it. "Why were you back here?"
The look on his face tells me exactly what I had suspected: he was looking for space for his two redheads.
"I'm not like him," he starts.
"Right," I snap.
I can see the hurt in his eyes. Instantly, I'm gutted.
"Cross, I'm sorry—"
But he's out the front doors in a gust of frigid air, and I can't take back what I've said. I stand there, trembling harder than I was before, feeling angry at him and like a shitty friend.
For a few long seconds, my stomach clenches as I ask myself why Hunter? I know that he's a man ho. I know he doesn't 'like' me. He doesn't even know me. And yet...I've never even had a crush on anyone but him. In one long second, I realize how messed up I must really be, and it makes me want to cry.
I kill the urge quickly, my shoulders heaving as I stare through the wavy glass panes on the ornate doors. I can hear Cross's bike crank from somewhere in the direction of the front of the house, and despite how terrible I feel, I don't want to leave without talking to the one close friend I have left.
I press my back against the wall, taking big, deep breaths and blotting the stinging wetness from my eyes when tears try to come. I stand there probably fifteen minutes before I make my way back around to the great room, and the first thing I do when I step into the room is scan for Hunter. I spot him surrounded by a flock of women, missing his jacket and his tie—or rather, cravat—sporting just his vest and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
My body throbs, and Hunter's gaze flickers over mine—there, then gone without conveying anything.
Then Suri is in front of me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright from wine. "Woman, where were you? Cross almost ruined his cover!"
Cross lives at my mom's house, in my old room. It's a secret. His family disowned him, and Cross doesn't want them to know where he is. His f
ather, Drake Carlson, the governor of California, actually said he didn't care if Cross turned up dead. I wouldn't have believed it, but Cross let me hear the voice mail.
My family has fallen off the social grid, and Mom's in rehab and I live with Suri, so we think he's well hidden. Just in case, Cross and I try to stay away from each other publicly.
“Yeah, I just ran into him.” My eyes widen warily.
"What happened?" she asks.
"Cross freaked out," I say. It's the only thing I can manage. "I guess I should go find him." He'll be at Mom's, alone. At least I think he will be. Cross isn't the type to hit the bars when he's upset, much as he'd like everyone to think the opposite.