His tongue traces my clit just so, and I’m done for.
Even as I’m throbbing, spasming around his hand and groaning like an animal in heat, I’m shocked and awed, aware that I have never had an orgasm like this one.
In its wake, I realize I’m still shaking; I’m bereft and gasping, humiliated and so very sated. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself, feeling like the simpering virgin that I clearly am.
How long can I keep my eyes shut? When at last I peek up at him, Hunter 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, and—oh God—myself. Mostly, though, he smells like bourbon. When he tickles his damp mouth down my neck, I shudder so hard I think that I might burst.
He cups me over my gown, dragging a fingertip over the spot where I’m still throbbing. Just one little stroke and—
Two for two. Oh holy shit.
From somewhere far away, I see him moving off the bed, then standing wide-eyed at the footboard. He’s tugging at his golden hair, rubbing his eyes. Something is wrong, I think. He looks upset. I have the 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 happen? Oh my God, I’ve stumbled into a fantasy. My legs are still shaking when I slide down off the bed forever later. I grip the green duvet and look toward the partly open door through which Hunter West disappeared; apparently this room has an attached bathroom.
I push some hair out of my face, wondering if he’s still in there or if the bathroom leads to another bedroom.
Where did he go? How was that real? 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 playboy grin 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 conjure the image of him above me. His eyes on my face are gentle as he leans down 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 an old-fashioned cravat. On a whim, I scoop it up and bring it to my nose. It smells like Hunter. I tuck the souvenir into 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 after one of Mom’s breakdowns.
I do a quick sweep of the furniture and walls, looking for I’m not even sure, but other than Hunter’s scent and the neck-tie I already snatched up, 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 a few minutes ago—or rather, who he was doing. It’s not Priscilla’s profession that gets to 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 the proximity of that encounter to the one he had with me.
Why did he leave the room the way he did? Is he some kind of bedroom Batman?
I can’t decide if I should laugh or feel insulted that he treated me just like Priscilla Heat.
I gather my gown in one hand and step through the door to the bathroom, holding my breath because I expect to see Hunter. But I don’t. I glance around the empty room. The walls are decked with heavy, gold mirrors; the floors, the massive tub, and the even more massive shower are brown and gold marble; there’s a glass-encased painting on the wall between the tub and the shower; it looks like Dali and I wonder if there’s any way it’s real. Who puts Dali in the bathroom?
I’m blink into 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.