"I'm going to fuck you now," he says, then thrusts inside me. He's deep, and I moan in pleasure as he fills me. I rock back, wanting to take more of him, and as I do he pulls me to him, his free hand gripping my waist. Then he slides that hand down, teasing me where our bodies are joined, making his fingers slick before he slides them up to my ass. "I want you here, too," he says. "Have you ever?"
I shake my head. "Just toys," I say, as the sensation of the oil on my clit and his hand on my ass drives me very close to the edge. I feel a blush coming on. "I liked it."
"I'll remember that," he says. "Right now--right now I think I'm too far gone. Jesus, Jamie, what you do to me."
He thrusts again, deeper and faster, even as he teases and torments my clit, the effect of the oil shooting me up into the stratosphere. I hold my breath, willing the climax to wash over me, craving the explosion, desperate for the man to fill me.
And then, with one final thrust, he cries my name and empties himself into me. His hand presses against my clit, and the renewed pressure sends me tumbling over after him, faster and faster until there is nowhere to go, and he topples us both over onto the bed.
I am still bound, a tight ball, and he is curved around me. I am breathing deep, my mind little more than mush and my body like liquid. "Christ, Hunter. You destroyed me."
"No," he says. "It's you who've broken me. There's a fire in you, kitten. And I want to burn with you."
"Kitten," I repeat, my voice dreamy. "Why kitten?"
He chuckles. "I think it suits you." He kisses my shoulder. "You're soft and warm and definitely playful. But I'll need to watch the claws."
I have to bite back a laugh. "Yes," I say. "You will."
We lay that way for a moment, then he unties my bindings. I stretch, relishing the motion, as he reaches for the remote on the bedside table and presses the button to close the electronic blinds.
Then he pulls the quilt up over both of us and holds me close.
I spoon against him, his chest warm against my back, and his cock still semi-hard against my rear. He drapes his arm around me and holds me close.
I could get used to this, I think.
Hell, I could get used to him.
Except for the short nap by the pool, I haven't slept in almost two days and exhaustion presses down on me. I close my eyes, feeling warm and satisfied and sweetly used, and, finally, let sleep sweep me away.
Chapter Five
When my eyes flutter open, I do not know how much time has passed. Very little, I think, as we are still in the same position. But the gentle softness that drew me into sleep is gone, replaced by something cold and panicky.
I do not remember my dreams, but I am damn certain that my subconscious has been poking her manicured fingernail hard into my ass.
I don't want to wake him, and so I gently lift his arm, then slide out from under it. He doesn't move, and I take a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and look at him. Even in sleep there's a strength to him, and he really is so damn good-looking that I could just sit here all day drinking him in.
He makes me feel amazing--sensual, sexual, special. But it's not just sex. There's something about Ryan Hunter--about the way we connect--that makes me smile. We click. We always have, even without the touching, the fucking.
I like him, I think.
More than that, I could love him.
The thought churns up that undercurrent of panic, making it rise to the top. Turning my skin cold and prickly.
The last time I fell for a guy, I got my heart ripped out and stomped upon. Bryan Raine, a narcissistic asshole who was a major catalyst for The Plan. A man who pulled me in and twisted me up.
Granted, Bryan Raine isn't even worthy to lick Ryan's boots, but when you get down to it, my panic isn't about Ryan. It's about me.
And I fucked up.
No matter how amazing these last few hours were--no matter how wonderful he made me feel--I blew it big-time. Like I had with Raine. Like I had with so many guys.
I mean, for fuck's sake, all I asked of myself was that I go home and get my shit together. And then one hot guy tells me he wants me in his bed, and I start panting like a bitch in heat.
Pathetic.
Frustrated and angry with myself, I stand up. My phone is on the bedside table, and I can see on the lock screen that I've missed a call. I take it with me to the bathroom, and as I'm in there I listen to the voice message. It's from Georgia Myers, the head of programming for the network television affiliate I'd auditioned for in Dallas.
I listen, my heart pounding faster and faster, as she offers me the job.
"I understand you're currently out of town, but I'm still hoping that you can start right away. This is a little unorthodox, but our public relations director used to work in Los Angeles, and she has some contacts in the film industry. You may be aware that the new Derrick Johnson movie is filming in Las Vegas," she adds, referring to the hottest new director in town. "We've actually been granted access to some of the cast. It's a pretty big coup for a local affiliate station, and we're very excited by the opportunity."
She continues, asking me to call and let her know if I can take the job and, if so, if I can get to Vegas quickly. She'll find out who among the cast is available for an interview and e-mail me the research material.
That pounding in my chest increases as my panic takes on a new quality. A this-is-a-fucking-awesome-opportunity I-don't-want-to-screw-it-up quality.
I won't, I think. I can't.
I can do this job. I look good on camera. I'm comfortable talking with people. This is the kind of job I want. The kind of job I need.
It's the kind of job in which I can prove myself--and the kind of job that can lead me right back to Los Angeles when I'm clear.
In other words, it's step one of The Plan already checked off the list.
I start to race out of the bathroom, eager to tell Ryan--and then I pull myself up short in the doorway. What the hell am I doing?
I could get used to this, I'd thought as I slid out of bed earlier.
And damn me all to hell, it was true. I could get used to it. Already he's filled my head and knocked me off center. Already, he is the first person I wanted to share good news with.
Oh, god. Oh, god. I really have fucked up and good. I should have walked away. Should have told him no.
But I'm a goddamn wimp who can't even stick to her own decisions. Who gets so twisted up by a man she can't even manage to follow her own path.
Worse than that, I let him take control. I let him get close. I dropped my shields and surrendered totally.
I've given him the power to hurt me--and I know goddamn well that eventually he will do just that.
They always do.
How had I screwed it up so badly? I'd gone from being determined to stand strong and get my shit together to drowning in the residue of all my bad choices.
I look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed. I know what will happen when he wakes. He will soothe my tears, tell me it will be okay. He'll heal my wounds with kisses, and before I know it, I'll be on my back with his cock inside me, my job and my plan all but forgotten.
I tell myself I am strong enough to resist. That I will tell him and then simply walk away.
But I know better. I want him--his touch, his kisses. If he wakes, I will stay.
And I will hate myself--and him--for it.
I turn, lost, and stumble back to the bathroom counter. I blink back tears and stare at my reflection. "Do something," I say to the girl who looks back at me. "Fix this."
And so I do the only thing I can think to do--I run.
Chapter Six
I'm sorry.
That's all I wrote on the note that I left on the bedside table. I wanted to say more, but I'm not good at saying the words, and I'm even worse at psychoanalyzing myself.
And I'm certain that I had to go--I have to get my shit together, and you scare the crap out of me wouldn't have been the best approach, even if it was
true.
I've been driving for two hours now, and the sun has long since disappeared behind the San Bernardino mountains that fill my rearview mirror.
I'd made my escape quietly, wearing only the jeans and T-shirt that I'd left in the bathroom, and taking only my purse and phone. I'd brought a suitcase with me to California, of course, and my suite was littered with shopping bags. But I hadn't bothered with any of that because there was no way for me to pack and not wake up Ryan.
So I'd run, knowing full well that I could call Gregory, Damien's valet, in the morning and have him gather my things and ship them to my parents in Texas.
As for the Vegas job--well, I had makeup in my purse, but I guess I'd just have to suck it up and shop for clothes. I figured that counted as retail therapy, and even considering the damage that I would undoubtedly do to my credit card, it would be cheaper than a round of sessions with a shrink.
I'd taken the Ferrari from where Damien had left it for me in his impressive underground garage. It had taken concentration to get out of Malibu because I tend to get turned around on all the twisting roads, but as soon as I hit the highway, I started thinking about Ryan. About leaving.
About the way he made me feel.
Twice, I reached for my phone, then yanked my hand back before I could close my fingers tight around it. When I reached for it a third time, I snatched it up, then powered the damn thing off and tossed it in the glove box.
Out of sight, out of mind. Except while that worked to stifle the urge to call him, it did nothing to stifle the thoughts and memories and emotions that rattled in my head. The memory of his mouth upon me, his cock inside me. The image of his face as he gazed at me with such tenderness. My own admonitions telling me to run--to get clear. Ryan's stern pronouncement that he liked me wild--but that he wouldn't let me walk.
But I did walk--hell, I did more than walk. I ran.
And now, on the road, I am second-guessing myself all over again.
Fuck it.
I've been listening to my own thoughts for two hours and I can't stand it anymore. I check the mirrors to confirm that I'm the only car on this stretch of Interstate 15, then snatch my phone out of the glove box and power it back on.
I fiddle with the radio until I finally figure out how to set it for auxiliary and turn on Bluetooth. A few more adjustments, and I'm jamming to one of the many playlists I keep on my phone. A mix of classic and new rock, along with a few heavy metal songs to add a little pop to the mix. It's loud enough and rough enough to keep me from thinking--and that is exactly what I want.
Considering how densely populated Los Angeles is, this stretch of California is like culture shock. I passed Barstow at least thirty minutes ago, and since then I've seen only one other car on the road. More recently, a sign announced the town of Yermo, but it must have been off the highway because as I cruised by in the dark, I'd seen nothing but the long, narrow tunnel of my own headlights.
Honestly, it's a little freaky.
I've made the drive from Los Angeles to Vegas a number of times, so I know more or less where I am and that I have about two hours of absolute nothingness ahead of me until I see the brilliance of Vegas filling up the night sky. That means I'll be rolling into town just after midnight, which is fine by me. The city will still be hopping. I can grab some breakfast at a diner, and then I can go crash.
Sex--and my nap--had reinvigorated me some, but I am starting to fade again. It's hard not to when I am blanketed in black, lost in the seemingly endless abyss of the Mojave Desert at night.
The car shudders slightly, and I frown, wondering if I've just run over some debris. When it does it again, I click off the music so that I can actually think. I check the rearview mirror, but I can see nothing there in the pitch black.
I take my hands off the steering wheel, but the Ferrari continues straight, so I rule out a flat tire. It shudders again and then slows. I press harder on the accelerator, but that does nothing. Automatically, my eyes go to the gas gauge, but I still have almost half a tank, so that isn't the problem. Maybe it's something electrical? Or maybe--
Shit.
Damien had warned me about the broken gas gauge at least a million times, and Nikki had reminded me again earlier today. And still all it took was a gorgeous man to completely empty my head of any and all useful facts.
And now I'm going to have to wait for AAA, which, of course, will take forever.
I steer onto the shoulder, but keep my foot on the accelerator, living the absurd fantasy that maybe I'll reach a convenience store, gas station, five-star hotel. Something.
But when the Ferrari gives its last gasp of life, I look out as far as the headlights reach and see absolutely nothing. I look left and right, hoping to see the flicker of light from a house or from a business.
Nothing.
Neither are there lights approaching in my rearview mirror or coming toward me, westbound toward the coast.
Shit.
Apparently, I'm stuck. Isn't that just peachy?
I put the car in park, kill the engine, and turn on the hazard lights. Then I snatch up my phone and search my contacts for the 800 number for AAA, but when I dial, the call immediately fails. I spit out a curse, then try again, and only when the call fails once more do I think to glance at my phone's signal strength.
No service.
What the fuck? How can there be no service? This is America for fuck's sake, where everyone and their dog has a cell phone and wants to be able to use it. And, seriously, isn't one of the primary reasons for owning a cell phone so that you can make a call when you're in trouble? And yet the Powers That Be don't put cell towers in scary, empty parts of the country where stranded women may need to make a phone call so that they don't have to wait in a Ferrari for the next car--which just might be driven by a sex-crazed psychopath?
I exhale, pissed, and beat my palm against the steering wheel. Then I open my door, thinking that I'll just start walking.
Then I immediately close my door and lock it because the walking plan is just about as stupid as it gets, especially now that I have sex-crazed psychopaths on the brain.
Okay. Fine. This is not a problem.
Well, yes it is. But it's not an insurmountable problem.
I pull my phone out again and stare at the screen as if that will magically make a signal appear.
Since I do not actually have magical abilities, nothing happens. But I open my text messaging program anyway. I read somewhere that text messages don't require as strong a signal, and also that the strength of a cell tower's signal changes all the time. So maybe if I send a text, eventually it will find a signal and flitter away to its destination.
Clearly, there is a reason that I am an actress and not an engineer. But I figure that even if it doesn't help, it won't hurt.
I open the messaging app and stare at the phone. Because the first person I think of to text is Ryan--and yet how the hell am I supposed to phrase it? Sorry I skipped out on you. Please come save me.
Somehow, that doesn't work for me.
I consider texting Sylvia, Damien's secretary with whom Nikki and I have become friends, but I'm certain that she will simply send Ryan. He is, after all, Stark International's security dude. Evelyn Dodge, my friend and pseudo-agent, would be a great choice, but I happen to know that she and her lover Blaine left around lunchtime for a Manhattan getaway.
I tell myself I'm being stupid. That Ryan will be mad, yes, but he won't leave me stranded. I'm his boss's new wife's best friend, after all. So even if he doesn't come himself, he'll send someone else.
Besides, odds are the text will never go through.
I spend a few moments thinking about it, then decide on the message.
Sorry I bolted, but I need help. Stranded on the 15 just past Yermo. Please?
I read it once more, then press "send" before I can talk myself out of it. Then I put in my headphones, turn my music back on, lean back in my seat, and wait.
If nothing else, I
figure I'll be rescued come morning. There will be more traffic, for one thing, and maybe even the highway patrol.
As it turns out, I don't have to wait that long.
Not even five minutes have passed when I see the flash of lights in the rearview mirror. I turn off the music and watch the car approach. I can't tell what kind it is; all I can see is the glare of the lights as it crawls closer and closer, moving at a snail's pace now.
It is still on the highway, but as I watch it slides to the right, pulling off onto the shoulder. Then it eases forward until it is right behind me.
I expect the driver to kill the lights, but he or she doesn't, and I am left sitting there in my Please Carjack Me Now Ferrari with sex fiends on my mind.
My pulse starts to beat more quickly, and I curse myself for not getting the tire iron out of the trunk. Because there's not a damn thing I can use as a weapon inside the vehicle--not unless I intend to beat someone senseless with my iPhone.
I am astounded at my naivete and pissed off at my own stupidity. I passed through Barstow with its stretch of gas stations and I was so busy trying not to think that I didn't think. And now here I am, trapped in a car with Ted Bundy parked behind me.
I check the phone once more, but it still shows no signal.
Fuck.
I see the door to the car open, and someone gets out. A man, I think, though I can see very little in the dark in my mirror.
I check the door locks again and am relieved to find them secure.
He is approaching the car now, walking with the light at his back so that he appears as only the shadow of a man. I tell myself to be calm, that he is probably just a Good Samaritan. That most serial killers are not trolling the interstates.
I know it. I believe it, and I'm still scared shitless. Terrified that Ryan will get my text and two hours later will arrive at the Ferrari to find me battered and bloodied and very much dead.
Stop it. Just stop it, already.
And then he's there--his torso right by my window--and his firm rap on the door combines with my nerves to rip a scream from my throat.
The man bends down, and I suck in a gasp that is part surprise, part fear, part wonder.