And yet, I think of how I felt when I saw that video this morning. When I looked into my father’s face. When I realized the whole world saw me naked and at my most vulnerable just because Alexander wanted them to. Worse, they’re judging that image of me, making fun of me, jerking off to it…It makes me want to scream.
Makes me want to cry.
And most of all, it makes me want to make sure he can’t do this to anyone else. After all, if he recorded us having sex, he probably recorded himself with a lot of other women, too. Who’s to say he won’t do the same thing to them if they piss him off one day?
“Who says it will even work?” I demand in an effort to cut off all the different thoughts running through my head on a loop. “Even if I come out against Alexander, even if I tell the world that he’s the one who leaked that video, what’s it going to change? Who’s going to believe me? It’s not like we can prove he did it—he may be an idiot, but he’s a survivor. One who’s smart enough to know he has to cover his tracks.”
Chloe makes a choking sound. “Are you kidding me with that argument?” she demands. “Who exactly do you think you have on your side here? Beavis and Butthead? When Ethan and Miles work together, they’re pretty much unstoppable. I mean, if they can figure out how to cheaply and easily desalinate water and single-handedly end the drought in California, I think they can handle tracking down the IP address the video originated from. All you have to do is tell them that’s what you want.”
I don’t know what I want right now. I don’t have a fucking clue. It’s been less than twelve hours since my whole damn life fell apart. I don’t think it’s too much for me to ask for a little time to think things through before I do something I’ll regret.
Chloe must know what I’m thinking, because after a few seconds she says, “I know this is a lot. I know you’re freaking out. And in a perfect world you’d be able to crawl into bed and just bury your head until the next celebrity does something stupid.” She sighs. “But this isn’t a perfect world and you’re visible enough on the celebrity scene that this is a double shot of gossip. It’s not going to go away unless we make it go away. So why don’t you take the night and think about it. In the meantime, I’ll have Ethan’s PR department issue a statement for you—”
“I don’t want to issue a statement!” It’s more whine than anything else, because I know she’s right. The longer they go without a comment from me, the bigger the story will get.
“Fine,” I begrudgingly agree after a couple of long, silent minutes. “What’s the statement going to say?”
“Something along the lines of what goes on between two consenting adults is nobody’s business but theirs, and that your only mistake in this situation was trusting a man you cared about to keep you safe. We’ll also have legal chime in and remind them that the dissemination of this video—or any images from this video—without the express permission of the people involved puts anyone involved on shaky legal and ethical ground. Then we’ll follow it up with the injunction against it that Ethan’s lawyers have already filed on your behalf.”
I bury my face in my knees as gratitude sweeps through me. Of course Ethan and Chloe have my back. Of course they do. And so, apparently, does Miles. Who would have thought that was possible?
Before Chloe can say anything else, I hear Violet crying in the background. “Go take care of your daughter.”
“She can wait a few more minutes,” Chloe answers. “Ethan has her.”
“Yeah, but that’s her hungry cry and there’s not much he can do about that. Go.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “And thank you. For everything.”
“It’s nothing you wouldn’t—and haven’t—done for me,” she says firmly. “Who held my hand during the Brandon debacle?”
“Ethan.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “Considering I wouldn’t let him anywhere near me for most of it…”
Violet’s crying gets louder. “Go get your daughter,” I tell her again. “I’m fine. I swear.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I promise to think about what you said. In the meantime, have Ethan go ahead and release that statement.”
“I will.” She pauses. “It’s going to be okay, Tori. I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I swear, it will be. Get some rest and we’ll talk tomorrow—or later tonight. You know you can call me anytime.”
“I know.”
After she hangs up, I stay where I am for a while—thinking and also trying not to think. But avoidance will only get me so far, so eventually I push to my feet and start walking back toward the house. I’m about halfway there when Miles appears at the French doors, his eyes wary and worried.
Suddenly everything I’ve been feeling for the last few hours wells up inside me—the anger, the fear, the gratitude, the love, the resolve—and I walk straight up to him. I wrap my arms around his neck, thread my fingers through his hair, and pull his head down to mine.
And then I kiss him with all the passion and pent-up fury of those emotions, my lips moving on his as I empty everything that I’m feeling—everything that I am in this moment—straight into him.
Chapter 10
Miles
Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
At first that’s all I can think as Tori grabs on to me. As her hands tangle in my hair and her mouth all but devours mine. But once the shock wears off, I get caught up in the taste, the smell, the feel of her. Because, holy shit, does she taste good. Smell good. Feel good. Like cinnamon and vanilla all rolled up in one soft, sweet package.
I’m just getting into it when she starts to pull away, and I’m having none of it. My arms wrap around her of their own volition and then I’m turning her—turning us—so that her back is pressed up against the house and I’m pressed up against her.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, teasing, taunting, tangling with hers. She moans a little, her fingers tightening in my hair until tiny pinpricks of pain spring up along my skull. It doesn’t bother me—in fact, it turns me on even more—but it does send a warning flag up in my head and I pause for a moment, pulling away just far enough to look into her eyes. To make sure she’s okay with this. She might have been the one who initiated it, but I’m the one who took it so deep, so fast, and after everything that’s happened today the last thing I want to do is make her feel like anything else about her body is out of her control.
But her eyes are wide, her pupils already wide and blown out, and when she clutches at me, tries to pull me closer again, any idea I have of backing away totally disappears. Not when she is obviously as affected by this as I am.
So instead of letting her go, I cup her face in my hands, stroke my thumbs over her jaw and down her throat to the hollows just above her collarbone. I can feel her pulse beating there, fast and wild, just under the delicate softness of her skin. It turns me on even more, has my dick hardening and my body craving another taste of her.
Has me craving more, more, more.
Has me craving anything, everything, that she’s willing to give me.
Wrapped up in her now—wrapped up in this—I lean down, start to take her mouth with mine again. But she beats me to it, yanking me down until our mouths all but slam together.
It’s wicked and wild and carnal, the kind of kiss you see in movies or read about in books, where the whole world ceases to exist—where everything ceases to exist—except this one person. This one kiss. This one tangle of tongues and bodies and sensations.
It goes on and on and on, tongues sliding against each other, teeth nipping at delicate lips, hands skimming over skin turned hot and sensitive. She’s breathing heavily now—we both are—and still I don’t pull away. Still I don’t let up. And neither does she.
Instead her teeth close on my bottom lip hard enough to sting before she soothes it away with a few gentle strokes of her tongue. She does it again and again, until my head is muddled and my whole goddamn body is in sensory overload.
 
; I want to touch her, want to slide a hand under her shirt and cup her breast in my palm. Want to pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Want to thrust two fingers deep inside her and hear her whimper as she comes. But this is just our first kiss and it’s come out of nowhere on the heels of one of the most difficult days of her life.
It’s that thought more than any other that has me pulling back, that has me resting my forehead against hers and my hands safely on her waist as we both gasp for air.
“What was that?” Tori finally asks, eyes wide and voice more than a little shaky.
I pull back with a grin. “You tell me. You’re the one who kissed me, after all.”
She laughs a little, then pushes at my shoulders until I reluctantly step back. “It was a thank-you kiss.”
“Oh yeah?” I follow her as she starts through the doors that lead back into the kitchen. I only let her get a few steps before I grab her hand and spin her back around to face me. “I’m not sure what I’m being thanked for, but I’ll take it. In fact, want to thank me again?”
I lower my lips to hers with the plan of stealing another quick kiss. I expect her to shove me back, maybe even smack me—it wouldn’t be the first time Tori’s taken a swing at me considering how protective she is of Chloe. But in the end she does neither. Instead she lets me kiss her. More, she kisses me back. And though the kiss isn’t as deep or as sensual as what we shared on the patio, there’s something intensely satisfying in feeling her lips curve into a smile against my own.
This time, she’s the one who pulls away first. I watch as she makes her way toward the fridge, where she starts to pull out a bunch of the random vegetables that I tend to collect when I shop, all with some vague idea of making something delicious with them. More often than not, they stay in there until Chloe comes back to visit and finally uses them in some recipe or another. I might be a world-class inventor, but a chef I am not.
Still, I feel honor-bound to ask, “Do you need some help?” as she starts washing a bunch of broccolini under the tap.
“That’s okay.” She shoots me a look. “I’ve seen your culinary skills before.”
“Hey, I can follow a recipe as well as the next guy.”
“Yeah, if the next guy is blind and missing his opposable thumbs.” She puts the broccolini on the center island’s butcher-block top, then starts washing some mushrooms and asparagus.
“I resent that.”
“Resent it all you want.” She reaches over and taps a wet hand against my cheek. “Truth is truth. The last time you cooked a meal I was invited to, I nearly chipped a tooth on your hamburgers.”
“It was a new grill. I was just getting the hang of it.”
“Yeah, well, this is a new kitchen to you, so I figure it’s better not to take chances. Besides, think of this as a thank-you dinner. You shouldn’t have to help prepare your own thank-you meal.”
“I certainly won’t argue with that. But this is the second time you’ve mentioned thanking me in the last five minutes and, to be honest, I’m a little fuzzy on what I did that deserves both a kiss and a homemade meal.”
“Chloe told me what you did.”
“What I did?” Alarm bells go off in the back of my head. “What exactly did my sister tell you?”
“You’re seriously going to play dumb about this?” She shoots me a look, and when I still don’t say anything, she sighs. “Fine. I know you created bots to help you find wherever the video is posted and destroy it. I’m pretty sure all that work deserves more than a thank-you meal, but I’m broke, so it’ll have to do.”
Jesus. Is she kidding me with this? Frustrated and more upset than I should be by her logic, I end up snapping out, “You don’t need to thank me for that.”
“What?” She looks flabbergasted. “Of course I do! It was a really nice thing—”
“No.” I take the carton of mushrooms from her and slam it down on the counter so hard the bottom crumbles. “You don’t. You really, really don’t.” My fists are clenched now, a rage I wasn’t even aware I was feeling welling up inside me.
“Don’t you get that you’re the victim here? You’re the one whose trust was abused and you’re the one who was violated by that ridiculous fucktrumpet of a wannabe man. You don’t need to thank me for doing what anyone with an ounce of human decency should do. No woman should ever have to thank someone for that. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with the world that everyone seems to think the more vulnerable a woman is, the more she’s fair game. So don’t you dare thank me for trying to even the playing field for you a little when the media and everyone else in the world seems to have forgotten that.”
I’m not a violent guy, but when I think about what Alexander did to her by releasing that videotape or what Brandon did to Chloe just because he could—while I did nothing to stop it—I want to hit something. I want to plow my fist into the wall again and again and again, until the rage and hate and guilt are so buried in physical pain that I can’t feel them anymore.
For long seconds Tori doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Part of me is afraid I just offended the hell out of her—after all, the last thing she needs is to be told what to do by a man who profited from letting his own sister’s rapist off the hook. I might not have known about what my parents had done, but that’s never been a very good excuse in her opinion. Or in mine. I should have known what they’d done to Chloe. More, I should have stopped it.
I wait for Tori to call me on it as she always does, to tell me all the reasons she doesn’t buy my bullshit, but in the end all she does is hand me a small basket of cherry tomatoes and say, “If you really want to help, you can wash these.”
For long minutes she doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t really even look at me. But there’s something in her voice—in the way she holds her body—that tells me I’ve passed a hurdle I didn’t even know I was running toward.
It’s a surprisingly good feeling, despite all the negative ones still crawling around in my belly. Which is why I take the tomatoes without another word and start doing as instructed.
I’ve washed about half of them when Tori suddenly giggles.
“What?” I ask, wanting to be let in on the joke.
“Fucktrumpet?”
Now I’m laughing with her. “I don’t know. Some Scottish guy I follow on Twitter used it the other day and I pretty much thought it was the best insult I’d ever heard.”
“Are you kidding me? It might be the best insult ever invented. Certainly since Shakespearean times.”
“That’s pretty much what I’m thinking, too.”
For long seconds, we just stand there grinning at each other. The sudden camaraderie feels strange, but it also feels good. Really good. So much so that when she finally breaks eye contact and turns away, I can’t help missing it a little.
Especially since, as we stand there working in surprisingly companionable silence, I can’t help thinking about Chloe. About Alexander. About Tori and the mess her life has become overnight. Despite our less-than-harmonious past, I would help her out in a heartbeat if I thought she’d let me. But I know her well enough at this point to figure out that if I flat-out offer her money she’ll bite my hand off—and probably savage the both of us in the process. Which is why I’m working another angle in my head, even as I try to figure out how to broach the subject to her.
“What’s up?” she asks, after plopping the freshly washed and trimmed asparagus on the counter next to the other vegetables. “Why do you have that look on your face?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What look?”
“Like you just sucked on one of these.” She brandishes a large lemon at me before bumping me out of the way at the sink so she can wash it, too.
“Lemons aren’t as bad as people think,” I tell her in a conversation change so blatant it could be seen from space. “You should try sucking on one sometime.”
“Yeah, well, I would, but I prefer sucking on other things.”
>
My eyebrows hit my hairline at that—as I’m sure she intended them to—but Tori just shakes her head at me, her mouth twisted into an amused smirk. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I was referring to Jolly Ranchers.”
“Excuse me? Who has her mind in the gutter now? I was absolutely thinking about cinnamon Jolly Ranchers.” More accurately, I was thinking about how spicy-sweet Tori’s mouth is. And how much I’d like to kiss her again. Not to mention how good her lips would feel wrapped around my cock as she sucked me down her throat. But considering the way she tastes, cinnamon Jolly Ranchers aren’t actually that far off the mark. And a safer bet right now than telling her just how much I’d like her to suck on me for a while.
Of course, Tori’s not buying it. In fact, she looks at me so suspiciously that I can’t help wondering if my true thoughts are actually plastered on my forehead. She seems to be weighing her words carefully and I brace myself for a zinger, but in the end all she says is, “I’m a green apple girl myself.”
“Oh yeah?” I answer, tilting my head to study her appraisingly. It seems like an innocuous answer, but the look in her eyes tells me there’s more to it than she’s letting on. Or that I can figure out.
Normally that would grate on me—I’m the kind of guy who spends his life figuring things out, after all. Problems, puzzles, enigmas are pretty much my thing. The fact that Tori is definitely the latter—and that I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on who she is or how she thinks—should make me crazy. Instead it just intrigues me. Makes me want to dig deeper even as I pore over every new thing I learn about her.
“Now, that surprises me.”
“Good,” she says with a grin.
“Good?”
“Yeah, good.” She cocks a challenging brow my way. “All girls need a few surprises up their sleeves, don’t you think?”
“What I think is that you’ve got more than a few.” And suddenly I’m more interested than I want to be in unraveling as many as I can.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she’s smiling as she fills up a pot with water and sets it on the stove to boil. “I’m almost an open book.”