Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2)

by Marlow, Francesca

  Sleeping in a man’s bed for the full night is a new experience for me. I’m not exactly up to speed on the etiquette of what to do. I’m torn between the desperate craving to lie next to him for an eternity and the embarrassing need to sneak out. I’ve been drinking plenty lately to suppress the emotions I’ve been suffering from. I don’t think it’s a good idea to add to that by getting wrapped up in a one-night stand. The aim was to feel good for one night only, and he certainly succeeded in making me feel wanted. Creeping out seems the only option available to me. Just because he’s amazing in the sack doesn’t mean he will be a great person, or even the right person for me. Besides, Mav and Lori are probably wondering where the hell I got to. I said I would only be five minutes, and then I was gone. I did send a courtesy text, but knowing Mav she will be panicking, as usual, that I’m with a complete stranger.

  She has a good point. I need to leave.

  I slowly start to unlock my hand from his when a lazy drone echoes in my ear.

  “You look beautiful in this light.”

  Oh my God. How long has he been awake?

  I opt for wit as my only option in this situation. “I’d say the same, but I can’t see you.” I shrug slightly and turn my head a little into the pillow. The flush is growing into a bright bloody beacon. No one has ever witnessed me the morning after having sex with them. I don’t hang around long enough. Knowing he is gives me a strange tingle. I feel timid under his caging posture. I’m not usually this shy, but then again, I’ve never felt this exposed before.

  His head begins to move, bringing his mouth closer to my ear and allowing me to catch a whiff of his musky sex scent. My nipples instinctively tighten with gratification. I will my body to stop reacting to him so blatantly. I need to leave quickly before this escalates any further. This is no good for me, and I can’t explain why.

  “I love your hair like that – the way it falls around your breasts,” he hums into my ear as he peers over my shoulder.

  I attempt to pull the sheet higher up my torso, all the while wondering whether his compliments mean he enjoyed last night as much as I did or if he is just polite. I wish I had left when I had the opportunity. I could have escaped this awkwardness. I want to return the pleasantries, but I scramble through my mind for a name and come up empty. Surely we exchanged names at some point? I wasn’t that drunk. It’s possible I was too wrapped up in the pleasure of his presence, riding the crazy thrill train as usual without a second thought for the consequences. I’m not sure I’ll ever learn my lesson, but then sometimes I wonder whether I want to, especially if last night was anything to go by.

  “Not going shy on me now, are you, Paris?”

  Oh, thank fuck for that. At least he knows my name.

  I sag my shoulders with relief. He must spot the shift in my posture because he places a delicate touch on my shoulder to twist me over until I’m facing the pools of his sleepy eyes. I desperately try to avert mine for as long as possible. I know I’ll look a bit of a mess wearing my misty morning mask with tousled hair and panda eyes. The dull thumping in my head is a warning that I’m probably going to suffer the biggest hangover of my life. I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, and I’m caught off guard by his beauty. My stomach dips with excitement, all the while astounded by how I managed to pull a man of such well-formed features. He isn’t like the usual type I’m attracted to. In the cold light of day, I can see how thick and strained his neck is. His unshaven, dark jaw is framed by long, wavy hair. He’s older than me. I’d place him in his late twenties. Every feature on his face is too perfect, too symmetrical and too angular. The intense pull between us kicks in and I can’t help but allow my gaze to be drawn to his. One look into his dark, hazel eyes and I can feel myself falling under his spell all over again.

  “I… I er…” Fumbling over my words, I rack my brain for something profound to say but all that slips out is, 'Morning,' followed by an embarrassed grimace.

  “Morning, sweetheart." He chuckles as he drops his head to the pillow, rolling onto his back. I’m instantly grateful for the small space between us. Last night, the alcohol quelled my inhibitions, but this morning, my self-consciousness is making me feel apprehensive. He’s probably used to eating girls like me for breakfast and spitting them back out as quickly. I need to escape. I have exams to study for and a promise to keep to Mav.

  I’m about to attempt to say something when he hops off the bed and leisurely saunters naked across the room. “Just going to the bathroom. Don’t go anywhere, my little Yummers.”

  Yummers? What the hell…?

  I frown with confusion as my head turns to the side, unable to stop myself from watching him. The subtle outlines of his muscles have got me entranced. I can tell he works out. As my eyes drift, following the contorted lines of his arms and back, they stop dead on his firm arse. I gasp in shock, quickly covering my mouth as I’m hit by a flashback from last night’s romp. If I was embarrassed before, I’m completely mortified now. I sweep the sheet right over my head to hide as I hear him continue to laugh and close the door.

  I bit into his bum and said it was yummers. How fucking drunk was I?

  This is my opportunity to get the hell out. As stunningly good-looking as he is, I've already managed to make a complete fool of myself, and let’s face it, this isn’t going anywhere. I will never break the rule of not sleeping over again. This icky situation is proof that I should have listened to my instincts. It also shows how long the fascination of chasing something exciting can last. I swiftly sling the sheet off of myself. Jumping off the bed, I rummage around fast in search of my clothes, praying to God he doesn’t come out and catch me. It’s clear from the large, open-plan space that I’m in an apartment. The decor is as perfect as the man who just left my side. Its minimalistic, modern furniture coupled with the grey, black and white decor screams that of a clean living, carefree bachelor. Whoever that man is in the bathroom, he takes pride in his appearance; he is suave, and he is clearly very much single. Yet another warning sign to leave, even if there is a tiny speck of temptation to stay for round two.

  I called him Yummers, for God’s sake. There’s no way I’m staying.

  I don’t blame him for laughing at me. I bet I sounded so immature when I made that rat arsed remark. He must have guessed how much younger I was. Every little move he has made since we awoke has probably been a torment, enjoying watching me squirm like the young girl I am. As much as last night was great sex for me, I’m going to hazard a guess that it wasn’t for him. That one, stupid fecking comment alone says it all. I snap from my humiliating thoughts when I spy my clothes slung across the floor in a trail from the door to the bed. I bend down like I’m on an army assault course, swiping them up into my hands and quickly dressing by the exit. I don’t give myself a chance to glance in the mirror. If I look like shit, so be it. Hopping on one foot, I frantically try to slip my heel onto the other, steadying my wobbly body by resting a palm against the wall. I practically feel sick, with my head hanging over and the anxiety building.

  The loud sound of the flush tells me I have about ten seconds to flee the scene. I grip the door handle tightly, swinging it open as I fly out of the apartment, still with only one shoe in place. I hurriedly hobble down the hallway, eager to find the lift. It’s bad enough I have to do the walk of shame in broad daylight, but if I was actually caught by another stranger doing this, I’m not sure I wouldn’t collapse into a heap of disgrace.

  Bile catches in the back of my throat and I quickly swallow it down. I seek out the lift fast, pressing the button in frenzy. While waiting, I finally get to slip my foot into the other shoe. All the while, my head is jerking from side to side as I try to avoid any onlookers. The ding of the lift stopping on my level is a small reprieve; seeing there is no one stood on the other side of the doors as they slide open is an even bigger one. I launch myself inside the one place I’m going to get some privacy, if only for a moment.

  Catching my breath, I clu
tch my bag to my chest and hesitantly turn to cast an eye in the full-length mirror. My dishevelled appearance and somewhat inappropriate evening attire exudes promiscuity, making me realise I have to act quickly to minimise the impending dirty looks. Wishing I’d had the chance to at least wash the clogged mascara away from my eyes and freshen up my mouth, all I can do is wipe away the remnants with my finger and embrace the tousle, shaking it up and out. After zipping my jacket all the way up to the top to hide my cleavage, I rummage through my bag to ensure my phone and purse is still there. As the lift comes to a stop, I raise my chin a little and slap on a smile. As much as I’m inwardly cringing, the best way to tackle this is in true Paris fashion, replacing the walk of shame with a strut. I may not know the name of the man I just slept with, but now I’m goddamn glad. At least there are no ‘what if’s’ looming around like a bad smell.

  I have three things to concentrate on now: getting back to our dorm with as little distress as possible, surviving Christmas Day without my dad, and passing my exams in January. That’s enough for my screwed up mind to have to cope with. There won’t be any more one-night stands for a while.

  Twelve

  29th January 2001

  Christmas Day comes and goes. I deliberate over ringing Mum because the bottom line is, I miss what we once had. Despite everything that has happened, the bleak reality of being in a flat with two of my friends, is nothing compared to the Hemsworth family Christmases. They both try their hardest to make it a nice day, with an artificial tree, pre-packed turkey dinners and some small thoughtful gifts, and while their efforts certainly don't go unnoticed, it isn't home or what I have always known. The familiar festive scents of pine, cinnamon and turkey are nowhere to be sniffed. Champagne and fresh orange juice is replaced with a cheap bottle of Bucks Fizz from the local shop. They are all materialistic changes, however, the one difference that cuts deep, is the absence of Dad’s regular dinnertime speech. He was the heart of the Hemsworth family, and when his stopped beating, so did the family’s. The grim realisation is that the tradition is as dead as he is. In the end, that’s why I refrain from ringing her. It wouldn’t provide the comfort I am craving and for one day only, I just want to remain calm, even if I’m not at peace.

  Over the weeks following Christmas, I embrace Izzy’s hard-working attitude and make a conscious effort to avoid trouble. Staying in is the only way to achieve that, and so far it has paid off well. It keeps me from any more regrettable sexual encounters and succeeds in helping me pass my exams. The sketchy details of that night are another reason to behave. I could have gone home with anyone; I know nothing about that man yet I gave myself up so easily. For my safety, I can’t let that happen again. I’ll admit, the itch to party is slowly scratching away at my skin, making it nigh on impossible to concentrate at times.

  The only coping mechanism I find that works is my motorbike. For a while after Dad died, I avoided riding it as it is hard to face painful childhood memories. But the adrenaline rush it sends flowing through my veins is a nice gentle reminder of just whose blood I have the pleasure of carrying. It ends up being a win-win situation for me. After Izzy has rescued it from Mum’s house on my behalf, I regularly ride to ease the frustration. I have no idea what they spoke about when she was there, and I told Izzy I don’t wish to know. It isn’t that I’m not curious. I just don’t need her in my life at the moment. I am doing okay, and I don’t want anything to tip me over the edge.

  “I still can’t believe we’re in some of the same lectures this term.” Mav jumps with excitement as all the students mill about the corridor, waiting to go into the theatre.

  “I know, and I have you to thank. If it weren’t for you, my arse would be grovelling back to my mum in Manchester.”

  I mean it, too. If it wasn’t for her holding my hand through the past couple of months, there is no way I would be standing here on my first day of term two. There have been plenty of arguments, which have upset me more than anything. We never usually argue, but as we grow older, the differences in our personalities are becoming more apparent. Despite that, I wouldn’t change her for the world. She is who she is, and I am who I am. Our friendship appears to be ever forgiving. That’s why it’s so special to me. The rifts cannot break the bond we have. That’s also why when Mav suggests taking a business module together, I jump at the chance. It means we get to spend some time together during the day, and if we ever decide to set up our own company, we will both have a sound understanding of the basics. We are dreaming big, but then that’s what we have been taught to do throughout our childhood by my father.

  “You don’t need to thank me, silly. But I might let you treat me to a few Coronas later on.”

  “You’re on,” I agree with a big grin. It will be nice to go out and have a few beers now we’re relaxing back into the swing of lessons.

  “And you can wipe that grin off your face, Paris.” she insists with an all too knowing expression, her voice changing to a whisper as people start to flood into the lecture theatre. “It’s just a few beers, you got me?” She playfully taps my nose, passing me to follow the students in. I just drop my head, shaking it as I chuckle. She knows me better than I know myself sometimes.

  I spin on the ball of my boot to follow her in. My style is always changing these days. I guess that's part of being a fashion student who is constantly surrounded by people who feel the need and desire to look good. Today, I'm wearing my black ankle boots, thick, black woolly tights, and a denim shirt as a dress with a big chunky belt, with a matching knitted scarf, my black leather jacket and a black bowler hat. The hat isn’t about fashion; it’s just my hair is a mess and I didn’t have a chance to sort it out before we left.

  Mav chooses a middle ground spot – not so close she’ll look like a swot, and not so far away that we can’t hear. I’d personally head straight for the back, giving myself the best chance of switching off and less chance of being collared to answer the question. As I settle into my seat, placing my folder on the desk, and dig into my pocket for my trusty pen, I catch her whisper in my ear.

  “Goose, check out the totty at the front.”

  She’s such a perv at times. People fall for her butter wouldn’t melt look on plenty of occasions, but I’m telling you, she likes to look at the men just as much as me. She’s just a little more subtle. I kick my bag under my chair and lift my head to see what all the fuss is about. Casting an eye around the front of the room, the man she’s talking about catches my attention. He has his back to me, but in one swift motion, the air in the room is sucked away like a vacuum. I’d recognise that arse anywhere, coupled with the long, wavy hair. I suddenly struggle to breathe.

  “Told you he was fit.” She chuckles from the side of me, obviously taking note of my reaction. She has no clue.

  “Mmmm, sure,” I manage to mumble, before sinking down into my chair.

  I want the floor to open wide and swallow me whole. All of a sudden, I’m grateful for the hat I’m wearing. I quickly cock it on my head, desperately attempting to cover my face up as much as possible. I doubt he will recognise me, but I don’t want to give him the slightest opportunity. He lazily turns around to address the class and my breath catches in my throat. He’s just as beautiful as I remember him being, only this time he’s wearing a suit. A fecking fitted, grey one that enhances every curve and bump of his muscles perfectly. This man has a flawless, irresistible style, which is tugging hard at my inner princess. He is fit to be a king, and I have a rising desire to be his queen.

  Jesus Christ, Paris. He’s your tutor! Sort yourself out.

  I just need to go unnoticed through the next hour. It can’t be that hard to become invisible in a crowded room. I’ll keep my eyes on my pad and just listen to his voice. There is no need for me to look in his direction. I don’t need to stare at his magnificent face to be able to learn what he is teaching.

  And my God is he a good bloody teacher.

  NO! No, no, no… Stop that shit.

 
“Good morning, class. My name is Professor Stone, and I’m going to be your tutor for this module, but you can all call me Rob.”

  A shiver descends down my spine at the same time as my eyes fall shut, his name ringing loudly in my head. The flashback is as clear as day in my mind…

  I’m back in his apartment, bent over on all fours, his body caging mine as he rhythmically slams into me over and over again. He growls into my ear while his hand writhes into my long, brown hair. “Say my name, Paris. Say it.” The next moment I’m breathlessly panting, “Rob.”

  I remember now. Professor I’m-so-fucking-good-at-shagging Stone. He never told me he was a tutor. I would have remembered that snippet of information. I doubt it would have stopped me from sleeping with him, but at least I would have known what to expect around campus. All the professions there are in Leeds and he is here, in this room, teaching me “Innovation and Creativity in Business.” The man is certainly creative.

  I’m jerked from my thoughts when I hear him comment, “I’ll get to know all your names as we go along.” My throat tightens in response like it has a ball stuck in there. I begin to feel like the room is spinning as panic surges through my body. He’s going to find out I’m in this class. He only has to take one look at the register and he will spot my name. There can’t be that many girls named Paris in the area. It’s not common. He continues to talk in that deep hum of his. “It will be nice for me to put faces to all the names on here,” he says, holding a sheet up in the air.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. He already read the names.

  I sit for the next ten minutes, trying to convince myself he probably won’t recognise my name. I’ll just be one in a long list to him. The amount of women he undoubtedly sleeps with, I’m certain he doesn’t remember all of them. I frantically doodle on the pad in front of me with a pen. I’m pressing so hard, I’m surprised I haven’t torn the paper in two. The tension and anxiety coursing through my veins reminds me of how reckless I can be at times. I should have known this mistake would come back to bite me in the arse.