“What?” I asked, confused. My brain was muddled, and I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. There was no way beautiful, perfect, Whitney Galloway wanted me to smack her on the butt during sex. This was morphing in surprising and weird ways I wasn’t exactly prepared for.
“Damn it, Kyle,” she snapped. She was doing all the work, gyrating her hips. Doing this little swivel thing that felt unbelievable.
Had she done this before? With who?
Ugh, I didn’t want to think about that.
I wouldn’t think about that.
I tapped her firm ass cheek. Not hard, just a light brush of my fingers.
“Not like that. Harder.” That seemed to be her mantra since we got naked. Harder. Rougher.
This was a far cry from the sweet, gentle lovemaking I had pictured in my head. Okay, I was a dude—I had fantasized about pushing her against the wall and fucking her sideways. But there was always lots of kissing and touching and murmuring of sweet nothings.
It seemed the traditional gender roles were completely reversed with Whitney and me.
I felt the pressure increase in my balls, radiating up my shaft. I was about to blow my load. I couldn’t keep this pace much longer.
“Wait a second, Whit …” I gripped her hips, trying to slow her down. I didn’t want to virgin out and lose it five minutes in. I was a newbie to the whole screwing thing, after all. And this position was making it hard to hold it together.
Whitney wasn’t getting the memo. She rolled onto her back, wrapped her legs around my waist, digging her nails into my thighs. Her chest and face were flushed. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her full lips parted as she panted. Her dark red hair spilled out on the pillow, and I couldn’t stop staring at her.
At her face. At her breasts. At her creamy, flat stomach.
I felt my chest tighten, and my eyes start to burn. Crap, I couldn’t start crying in the middle of sex. That would be a level of humiliation I would never live down. I bit down on the inside of my cheek and breathed heavily through my nose.
I leaned down to kiss her, and she moaned into my mouth.
The moan did it.
I shuddered and shot my load.
Whitney’s eyes popped open. “Did you come?” she asked. It sounded like an accusation. I felt the familiar stirrings of embarrassment.
“Um, well, yeah.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Well, I didn’t. So, what are you going to do about that?”
“I, uh, well, uh …” I stuttered and stumbled over my words like an idiot.
Whitney chuckled, and I felt her laugh in every part of my body. “I love your innocence. I want you to eat my pussy, Webber.”
I felt heat climb up my neck. Whitney saying the word ‘pussy’ was both strange and a major turn on.
“Oh. Okay.” I seriously sounded like a simpleton.
I pulled my dick out of her and clumsily removed the condom, tying a sloppy knot in the end. I moved as quickly as I could, dropping it in the trashcan by the bed. Then I got on my stomach, my face between her legs. I had an idea of what I was supposed to do, but like actual sex, this was another thing I had never done before.
Should I kiss her there? Lick her? What the hell? I was becoming annoyed with myself and wishing I had been more of a dude and watched more porn.
I felt Whitney dig her fingers into my hair and push my face into her crotch. Okay then …
I started licking and sucking. She tasted incredible. After a few minutes of fumbling around with my tongue, I got the hang of it, and Whitney started writhing beneath my mouth. “Yes, like that. Oh my God, Kyle,” she screamed as I sucked on the sensitive skin.
“Use your fingers too,” she gasped, her thighs squeezing the side of my head, her fingers digging into my scalp.
I did as I was told, rubbing her with my fingers while I lapped her up.
“I’m going to come. Oh my God, I’m going to come!” she squealed, and suddenly I could taste it in my mouth.
Her legs collapsed on either side of me, and she let out what sounded like a long, contented sigh.
I sat up, resting on my knees. Whitney’s bed was a double, but at the moment, there wasn’t a lot of room for me. She was sprawled out in the middle, making no move to let me lay down beside her.
I figured this was the part where we cuddled. I really wanted to. I wanted to hold her body against mine and kiss the spot at the back of her neck that I had only recently learned drove her wild. I wanted to feel that connection I always imagined we’d feel.
I angled my body so that I spooned into her side. Whitney’s face was turned away from me, and her eyes were closed. The air conditioner was blasting from the vent above the bed, and I was starting to get cold. I could see goosebumps along Whit’s arms and belly, but she made no move to pull the blanket over us.
I tentatively put my arm over her stomach, my cock pressed against her hip. I pressed my nose into the side of her neck. Even though I had only seconds before had my dick inside her, I didn’t feel close enough. I was half hanging off the bed and wished she’d give me a few inches, but she didn’t seem in a hurry to make room.
I kissed her shoulder and felt her tense. It was subtle, but it was there all the same. Was I being too clingy? Wasn’t this what people who were into each other did after sex?
“That was awesome,” I said lamely, kissing her shoulder again and trying to pull her closer.
Whitney resisted me, pulling her body away slightly and rolling her head to look at me. Her eyes were open now and watching me with an unreadable expression. Like her sister, my best friend Meg, she had bright green eyes. But while Meg’s were often teasing and warm, Whitney’s right now were dark and almost annoyed.
“Yeah,” was all she said. Then she slid out from beneath my arm and got out of bed, reaching for a red and white striped robe that hung on the back of the door and quickly put it on, tying it tightly at the waist.
“I need a drink. Do you want anything?” she asked, not looking at me. She pulled her long hair up into a ponytail and picked her phone up off the bedside table, staring at the screen, a small smile on her face.
“Water would be great. That was quite a workout, right?” Ugh. I needed to put a sock in it. I sounded like a total douchebag.
But Whitney didn’t seem to hear me. She was staring at her phone, still wearing that smile that had nothing to do with me or what we had just done.
“I need to make a call,” she said distractedly, not bothering to look at me as she left the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Alright then.
Alone in her room, I sat up and took in the space I had barely paid attention to when I arrived. Things had progressed quicker than I had ever imagined once I showed up at Whitney’s Los Angeles apartment. She led me inside. We shared a beer on her patio, made small chit-chat, then she asked me why I came.
“To see you,” was all I said, and then she kissed me.
I didn’t question it. Why would I? This was what I wanted. This was what I had hoped would happen when I decided to make the trip to see her. I didn’t want to think too much about why, after all this time of ignoring my existence, she jumped into bed with me. Almost too eagerly. Too desperately.
Now I sat amid Whitney’s black bed sheets trying to find clues to who the woman was. I thought I knew her. I had spent so many years cataloging every detail. Her favorite color was pink. Her favorite flower was a lily. She loved salty snacks and wasn’t a fan of chocolate. She got teary-eyed whenever I Will Always Love You came on the radio, and she had seen Dirty Dancing at least thirty times. She and Meg argued but never maliciously, and she and her dad did crosswords every Sunday morning.
Okay, so listing all that stuff out, I sounded like a damn stalker, and I wasn’t. I swear it. I had just spent enough time with her family to pick up on things. So maybe I paid closer attention to anything and everything that had to do with Whitney Galloway. Like my grandpa always said, find something you’re good at a
nd stick to it.
And I was good at loving Whitney.
Only, I was beginning to think that the Whitney that was now talking on the phone in a hushed whisper wasn’t the Whitney I remembered from Southport, Pennsylvania.
For starters, the clothes that spilled out of the tiny closet were nothing like the clothes she wore in high school. Not wanting to paw through her things, but unable to help having a snoop, I looked through the dresses and blouses that hung haphazardly. She used to be a girly girl, liking soft colors and modest hemlines. Clearly, that wasn’t the case anymore. There were more than a few dresses so small I wondered if they covered anything. Her shirts all were either mere scraps of cloth or had necklines I imagined left little to the imagination. There was even a leather skirt and thigh-high boots. I was sure she looked smokin’ when she wore them, but they were definitely different from what I was used to seeing her in.
I also noticed that aside from a framed photograph of her parents, there weren’t any other pictures in her room. I remembered her bedroom back home had been covered with photographs of her friends and family. Whitney was a popular girl, and her room had shown that.
Clearly, new LA Whitney didn’t care about surrounding herself with the faces of loved ones.
Feeling awkward as I waited for Whitney to finish her phone call, I figured I should get dressed. I hadn’t been lying when I said I’d like a glass of water. My throat was bone dry, and my legs were a little wobbly after the sex marathon. Well, maybe not a marathon, but it sure as hell felt like it.
I pulled on my boxers and the T-shirt I had been wearing on the plane. I gave the pits a quick sniff and promptly dropped it on the floor. No way I was putting it back on. I scanned the room and saw a grey T-shirt about my size over the back of the overstuffed chair in the corner. Not thinking much about it, I put it on and quietly walked out to the living room.
Whitney’s apartment was small. Tiny even. It had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a room that served as a living room and kitchen combined. There was a balcony that overlooked a parking lot, big enough for two plastic chairs and a wilted plant.
It was obvious Whitney wasn’t much of a neat freak. In fact, she bordered on slob. I could see dishes piled in the sink, cabinets open, and what looked like cereal spilled on the counter. The small, circular coffee table was covered in magazines mostly of the Glamour and Cosmopolitan variety. Shoes, socks, and random shirts were all over the floor. Discarded potato chip packets and boxes of snack cakes were piled precariously on one arm of the two-seater couch.
I kicked a pair of gym shorts out of the way as I made my way to the kitchen. Whitney was standing at the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, her back to me. Her head was bent, and she was talking so low I could barely hear her.
I didn’t want to be the creepy guy eavesdropping on her conversation, so I quickly went to the sink and filled a glass with water as quietly as possible. I glanced over to Whitney, but she hadn’t turned my way, clearly not aware I was in the room.
Figuring she was talking shop, I started to walk back to the bedroom to wait for her when I came up short.
“I’m so wet for you, baby. I always am,” she purred into the phone.
What the fuck?
Not caring if I was being invasive, I listened closely to her side of the conversation. And the more I heard, the more my heart sank.
“You upset me earlier. I thought we were going to spend the weekend together. You promised.” Her tone was playful, but with an undercurrent of hurt that was easy to spot. Then she giggled. “Mmm, I can’t wait.” She sounded aroused. I should know, I thought I had heard the same tone in her voice only a few minutes ago.
“Are you sure? You said earlier—” She was rubbing the back of her neck. She seemed tense but excited. “Okay, give me a few minutes to get my stuff together, and I’ll be right over.” She giggled. “I miss you too, baby. Not too much longer.” A pause. “I love you.”
I all but ran back to her bedroom, feeling like I was going to throw up.
When Whitney kissed me, I naively thought we were on the same page. Three sex romps later, and I believed that this was the start of something special between us. That our time had finally come.
Clearly, that wasn’t the case. She was obviously involved with someone else. Not just involved, but seriously involved. She told them she loved them.
Again, what the fuck?
Then why had she slept with me?
What was going on?
And more importantly, how could I have so misjudged Whitney?
I sat down on the bed, not sure what I should do. Should I confront her? I wasn’t exactly a confrontational kind of guy. Even though I was tall and broad and had the physique of a linebacker, I wasn’t confident. I wasn’t the bravado type. I was the fall in love deeply and forever kind of man.
And that had just bitten me on the ass.
I braced my elbows on my knees, covering my face with my hands. I had gone from the top of the world to rock bottom in five minutes.
I heard the door to the bedroom open, and I looked up at Whitney. She shot me a vague smile, not quite meeting my eyes. She pulled a dress out of the closet—one of the tiny ones that looked made for a toddler—and a pair of black high heeled shoes. “I have to head out. It’s a work thing. I probably won’t be back tonight. Sometimes these things go on all hours.” She wouldn't look at me. She spoke breezily as if she didn’t really care if she was convincing or not.
“You can stay here, I guess. But work’s crazy this week. I’m not sure how long you’re planning to be out here, but I doubt I’ll be able to be much of a host, so maybe a hotel would be better. One of those places where you can get a package deal on Hollywood tours or something.” Whitney shrugged her shoulders and scratched at her nose. “So, yeah, that’s probably the best idea. Maybe we can meet up again before you go …” Her voice drifted off as if she had given up on any attempt at niceties.
She was throwing me out. I had never felt so cheap and worthless in my entire life. Damn.
I cleared my throat and readied myself to let her have it. To ask her who she was talking to on the phone. To demand an explanation as to why she would screw my brains out, then leave me to meet up with another guy while wearing a sexy dress she definitely hadn’t put on for me. A guy she apparently ‘loved’ even though she had just spent the last hour having sex with me.
I wanted to tell her that I thought she was different. That I remembered her to be someone who was kind and gracious. Someone who volunteered her time at the old folk’s home and made blankets for newborns at the hospital.
I wanted to tell her that I loved the girl from Southport, who made everyone feel special just by being in her presence.
But the words froze in my mouth. I watched her gather her things and leave the room without waiting for a reply. She didn’t care what I did; she just didn’t want me there.
And that hurt.
No.
It broke me apart.
Feeling like I was moving through quicksand, I got dressed. The man who had taken these clothes off was a mile away from the man who put them back on.
Something had died inside of me in the last thirty minutes. Something I didn’t think I’d ever get back.
When Whitney came back into the room, she was dressed to the nines. She was a makeup artist. I sincerely doubted she wore a little black dress and stripper shoes to work. She wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that she was going out—without me.
Even though I was angry and hurt, I couldn’t deny that she was gorgeous. Her skin glowed, and her hair was piled at the back of her neck, a few strands falling loose around her shoulders. Her long legs looked amazing, and I forced myself not to think how they had been wrapped around my waist not long ago.
The dress put her magnificent breasts on full display. The strapless number accentuated her neck, and I felt my groin tighten in response. This was a woman made for sex, and she knew it.
She wa
s a complete stranger.
I realized at that moment that I didn’t know this Whitney Galloway. And I was pretty damn sure I didn’t want to. Because this Whitney Galloway didn’t seem to care that she had just stomped all over my heart—and my pride.
She grabbed a beaded purse from the dresser and turned to leave, then as if remembering I was still there, she finally looked my way.
Our eyes met briefly—the first time they had since I had my dick inside her. Something flashed there. Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was an apology. I didn’t really care at that point. She could go to hell for all I cared.
Perhaps if I kept telling myself that, I’d actually believe it.
“So, you can find a place to stay, right? I just don’t want you to be bored since I won’t be around.” She grimaced as if in pain. Served her right.
“Right, because you’ll be working,” I said pointedly, giving her revealing outfit a slow once over. It was very passive-aggressive, but it was the best I could do.
For the first time, she looked almost contrite. Embarrassed even. “Kyle, I—” She stopped herself, her expression hardening. “I didn’t ask you to come. Am I supposed to put my life on hold because my sister’s buddy decided to make an impromptu visit?”
“You knew I was coming!” I threw back at her. “And is that all I am to you? Your sister’s friend?” I didn’t want to sound like my heart was breaking, but it was. And I had never been one to hide things.
She threw her head back and laughed. A shrill sound that wasn’t remotely sincere. “Now Web, don’t go thinking sex means anything. It never does. And definitely not in LA.” She never called me by my nickname. I was always Kyle to her. That was the final nail in our miserable coffin.
She walked over to where I stood in the middle of her bedroom, went up on her tiptoes, and kissed my cheek. Lips that had been melded to mine. Lips that I had worshipped for so long.
She patted my arm like I was a cute dog or something. “If you need help finding a hotel, text me. Otherwise, let’s try to meet up before you head back to Southport.”
One Hot Secret: A Second Chance Romance (Love on Fire) Page 25
