I let out the air I was holding in my chest, relieved, and once again I’m affirmed that she is the woman for me. It was hot, and we are in sync. So compatible. So together. So close.
And I can live with her like this—with her body at my disposal, with my love a secret tucked inside me. I can live with whatever we have together at the moment, this version of close.
But as I tuck my dick inside my pants and pull her back into the hotel room to shower and clean up, I can’t help but wonder how long before this isn’t close enough.
Chapter Thirteen
Wow
Natalia
I step out of the secured area of the Orlando airport and slip my sunglasses on before scanning the waiting crowd for my driver. My eyes land quickly on the sign meant for me—Punky Brewster. Then I look up to see who’s holding the sign. Where I expect to see an anonymous man wearing a suit, I find instead a casually dressed teenage dream.
Nick Ryder. Here in the airport with a sign that’s getting double-takes because of how clearly fake the name scrawled on it is.
He’s wearing a ball cap, sunglasses, and has notable scruff on his face, but it doesn’t stop me from recognizing him instantly.
Like anyone else could, at any moment now.
I pull my bag behind me as I step toward him with a scowl on my face. “Are you kidding me?” I mouth. “What the fuck?”
“What?” he asks innocently when I’m close enough to hear him.
“You couldn’t wait in the car?” Never mind the fact that I was disappointed he waited in the car in Las Vegas. That isn’t the point. The point is that fantasy and reality are different animals, and where I can imagine keeping a unicorn for a pet all I want, I still know the odds of keeping one are against me.
He takes my bag from me and starts walking toward the airport exit. “No, I couldn’t wait in the car. Which is fine, because I’m in disguise. Which reminds me . . .” He stops suddenly and pulls out a second ball cap from his back pocket and places it on my head. “Now you’re in disguise too.”
All my annoyance falls away because he’s so irresistibly cute. “You’re a dork.”
“You better believe it.” He puts his arm around my waist, and I don’t even flinch. We’ve gotten away without being seen so far, and we are in disguise, sort of. Maybe I can have a unicorn for a pet. Maybe fantasy can become real.
Or, more likely, the risks seem minimal when I’m dying to touch him, dying for him to touch me.
I sense he feels the same when, instead of directing us through the doors to go outside and through the humid air toward whatever car he’s hired, he pulls me into a long hallway leading to a utility closet and a water fountain. Maybe he’s thirsty, I think, just as he pushes me against the wall and covers my lips with his.
Yes, I was thirsty for this too.
I kiss him back greedily, disappointed when he breaks off the kiss to look at me.
“Sorry, Punky. I couldn’t help myself.” He readjusts the crotch of his jeans, which seems to have gotten tighter in the last couple of minutes, then pulls me back out of the hallway. “I think I can make it to the car now.”
I shake my head and grin. What else can I do? The guy is adorable.
It’s been six weeks since our New York adventure. Three weeks since he flew back to LA for a two-day hiatus claiming he missed his bed (as well as me in it). One and a half weeks since I surprised him spur of the moment in Chicago, getting his room card from his weirdly anxious tour guy and waiting naked on his bed until he ambled in with extra tiramisu in a little to-go box. Then he ate it off my body.
We’ve talked every day on the phone, sometimes twice. We’ve texted so much it could be a novel. I am completely wound up in this guy, and I can’t ever remember feeling this way about someone before. Garner liked my name linked to his, not me. Before him, Jayce wanted my undivided attention to talk about himself. Every guy I’ve been with, it’s the same story. My entire dating life has always been about what someone else wanted.
But now? I’m enjoying myself.
Is this what it feels like to have no strings?
None of the trauma or the angst or the pressure of a relationship. No arguments about times, or dates, or whose publicist needs a boon so he sends papz to ruin a simple Target run. Is that why this is going so unbelievably well? Because I’m finally living the life everyone thinks I live? I’m jet-setting around the country, banging the hottest eligible young bachelor, behaving like nothing matters but my own desires. Have I been living my life wrong all these years?
Though, actually, for a no-commitment relationship, this is starting to get a little structured. Instead of making this trip on the fly, like all our other hookups have been, we planned this one out. He has a few days of vacation after performing in Orlando last night, so when he suggested I come meet him for a three-day getaway, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
Either I really don’t know how to do a fling, or I’m doing the best fling anyone’s ever had.
I’m leaning toward the latter.
Outside, we cross the street to the parking garage where he leads me to a red Porsche. He hasn’t even hired a driver for us this time. No wonder he came into the airport himself.
“This is your version of incognito?” I ask as he tucks my bag into the small trunk.
“It’s our vacation, baby. I wanted everything to be awesome.”
His use of the word our makes me both nervous and excited. Just as much as his use of the word baby. I like the sound of it, maybe because I like being part of a couple. Not that Nick and I are a couple, but whatever we have does seem to offer some of the same benefits. Someone to make me come regularly. Someone to think about in between. That’s all.
Or, I’m completely head over heels for the guy, and I just can’t admit it.
No, no, no. Not that. Surely not that.
What am I going to do if it is that?
“What are you thinking?” he asks when we’re both seated in the low-slung seats of the car.
I look at him, study his features. He’s so handsome and genuine and incredibly present in every moment we spend together. I decide to be present, too. To live in the moment, and stop worrying about all the rest. What we have can’t last, but it can last for today.
God, I hope it lasts longer than today.
“I was just thinking about how much I’ve missed you,” I say, rubbing my hand against the rough grain of his unshaven cheek. “I talk to you every day, more than to anyone else I know, and somehow I still really missed you.”
He kisses me again and when he breaks away he groans. “Yeah, I know what you’ve missed. Believe me, I have too.” He turns the car on and puts it into reverse. I’m simultaneously relieved that he’s bringing it back to the reason I’m here and disappointed that he’s stopped bringing up the idea of making it more. “That’s going to have to wait, though. We have a schedule to keep.”
Not too long ago, I would’ve gotten nervous about the mention of a schedule. I’ve learned now that I can trust Nick to protect our privacy. He understands how important my reputation is to me.
As for the fact that we are only supposed to be having sex and nothing else, well, I’ve learned a thing or two about that as well. Like how much better the sex is when we spend time together doing other things first. It builds the tension so that by the time we’re finally in a room alone together, we are all but rabid with our need to touch, to finally shed our clothes and claw our way into each other.
I’m wet just thinking about it.
Of course that might also be the seats. The leather against my bare legs feels almost as soft and sleek as his cock. It’s making the buzz between us even louder.
Admittedly, I like spending time with Nick, even with our clothes on. He’s funny and smart and challenges me to be more adventurous. Perhaps when the sex between us cools off, he and I will still be good friends.
That’s a thing with no strings, right?
I sure hope so. Be
cause lately, I can’t imagine my life without him.
When we get to the hotel, Nick pulls into the passenger unloading area rather than parking the vehicle. He pulls a hotel key card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Room five-thirteen. Go—”
“How do you remember your room number when you’re in a new one every night?” We’re in no rush—we’re on vacation—and I’m suddenly curious so I ask.
“I take a picture of the door on my phone the first time I go in. But I memorized this one. Five-thirteen. Go up there and—”
“I know the drill by now,” I interrupt. “I’ll go up and play with myself, you will follow ten minutes later or so, just when I can’t stand it anymore. And so forth.” And so forth meaning that’s when we will rip each other’s clothes off and get busy breaking in the room.
But he tsks at me. “Don’t go getting all impatient like you know what’s happening here. Things are going to be different tonight. Five-thirteen is your room. Me, I’m in a different room.”
Now that definitely wasn’t what I was expecting. Like, at all. My stomach goes from tight with anticipation to clenching with worry. “We have separate rooms?” I know I sound as dismayed as I feel.
He grins. “We will not be sleeping in separate rooms, no. I’m not going to bed without your ass cuddled up next to me.” I’m relieved in an almost embarrassingly visible way as my smile returns. “This room is for you to change in. If I’m anywhere in the vicinity when you take your clothes off, we’ll never leave our suite, and like I said, we have plans.”
“Okay, I guess,” I say, less anxious now that he’s explained.
“Did you bring something nice like I asked?”
I have. It had felt like an off-the-cuff request, so it definitely shouldn’t have taken me three days to find the exact right dress.
But it had.
“Put that on, and get dressed up for me, baby. At exactly six-fifteen, you come down here and find a car waiting for you. The driver knows where to take you. When you arrive, tell the hostess who you are—Punky Brewster, of course—and I will meet you there. Got it?”
A shiver runs down my back. I love this bossy, I’m-in-charge side of Nick. He tends to use it most in the bedroom, or during phone sex, but it turns out I appreciate it just as much when he’s using it for foreplay.
Because that’s what all these plans are—foreplay. Extravagant, distracting, wonderful foreplay.
“Got it,” I say, then kiss his scruffy cheek before jumping out of the car. He pops the trunk and the doorman is waiting to gather my bags, and though I desperately want to look back, want to watch him watching me as I know he is, I keep my head high and my face forward and walk into the hotel.
It takes me the entire two hours to get ready before I have to meet my driver to get ready. Even though I showered this morning, my hair has been in a messy bun all day, and the recycled, vaguely medicinal air of the plane is clinging to my body. I shower again, making mountains of lather out of my new grapefruit body wash. Nick always orders a grapefruit with his breakfast, I’ve noticed, and I want him to be thinking delicious thoughts about me, too.
Once I’m clean and sweet and shaved all over, I take my time going all out with my hair and makeup. The dress I brought is a red Valentino with cleavage down to the naval and a skirt that hits mid-thigh. Paired with silver jewel-embellished Louboutin heels, I look nearly red carpet ready. The flutters in my stomach are the same, too.
I can’t wait for him to see me.
The car waiting for me is a black sedan. The driver—an actual driver this time—is standing outside with a flash card that could very well be the same one that Nick held up for me at the airport. The driver helps me into the backseat before taking his spot behind the wheel.
“I, uh, don’t know where we are going . . .” I begin, feeling awkward to not have an instruction for my driver. I should have texted Nick before this.
“No worries, Ms. Brewster. Mr. Keaton gave me my instructions.”
I raise a brow. “Mr. Keaton?”
The driver meets my eyes in his rearview mirror. “Alex P.?”
“Oh,” I stifle a laugh. Of course. Alex P. Keaton, the teenaged Republican from Family Ties. Apparently, that’s who Nick is this evening—his exact opposite. “You know my name isn’t really Punky Brewster,” I tell the man, feeling a little silly that we’re being so obvious.
“I had no idea,” he says with a laugh. “Ms. Brewster,” he adds with a wink.
Henry—the driver, as I learn shortly—takes me to another hotel, which is definitely a surprise. Before my mind starts making up a hundred new scenarios of what’s happening, Henry gives me instructions.
“Head inside to the restaurant called L’amour. Tell the hostess you are Ms. Brewster and she’ll take you to your seat.”
I thank Henry, and when I try to tip him he declines, saying he’s already been well taken care of. I believe him, too. Nick seems to be good at that—at taking care of people. At least, he’s good at taking care of me.
I try not to dwell on how much I like it.
Inside the restaurant, I tell the hostess my name—my pseudonym, rather—and she immediately takes me down the hallway to a private dining room. It’s empty except for one long banquet table that seems able to hold a dozen people, but there are only place settings for two on one end. I feel like I’ve just walked into Beauty and the Beast, and the silverware will start dancing at any moment.
Not that there’s a single beastly thing about Nick except for his skills in the bedroom.
A server walks in the room to join us, and I focus on him as I squeeze my legs together, saving the thoughts of our sex for later. The hostess introduces him as Paolo and tells me I will be in good hands tonight under his care.
Secretly, I’m hoping I’m under the care of someone else, someone who hasn’t yet arrived.
“Shall I help you with your seat, Ms. Brewster?”
“Thank you, no,” I say biting back a smile at his use of my name. “I’ve been sitting half the day. I’d like to stand for now.” Actually, I’d rather pace. For some reason I’m feeling nervous. My hands are sweaty and I can’t stop fidgeting with my hair.
“Of course. Let me pour your champagne.”
I watch as Paolo takes the bottle from the bucket on the sideboard of the room. I recognize the label—Nick went all out. The price of this vintage could fund an entire day’s film shoot. The server pops the cork and pours me a glass. Then, after asking if I need anything else, he excuses himself.
I stare at the bubbly in my hands, wondering if I should taste it before Nick arrives. I know he wouldn’t mind, but everything he’s said up to now makes this feel like he’s planned a special night for the two of us and it feels wrong not to share with him from the very beginning.
I don’t have to think about it much longer, though, because a few seconds later, the door opens and my lover slides in, looking both fuck-hot and classically handsome in a perfectly tailored tux.
He takes my breath away.
“Wow,” he says staring at me. “I truly thought you were prettiest wearing nothing, but this is . . . You look . . . Wow.”
I’ve never seen him speechless before, and it makes me blush. He walks closer to me and grabs the champagne from the bucket to fill his own glass. “By the way, you don’t have to worry that I was spotted. I got permission to come in the back, through the kitchen.”
No wonder the hostess hadn’t walked him in.
“You truly thought of everything,” I say taking a step closer to him. Weirdly, I hadn’t even been worrying about that until he said it. It’s starting to feel like we exist in our own pocket universe, that when we’re together, the rest of the world stops turning.
“Good. I wanted our date to be perfect.”
I take a deep breath to steady myself. The word date has thrown me off.
But Nick calms me, like he always does. “Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s just us, same as always. Just thi
s time, we’re eating something a little nicer than room service.” He lifts his glass toward me. “Toast?”
I nod, feeling somewhat calmer, and knowing the champagne will ease any last trepidation remaining inside me. “To dining outside of our bedroom,” I say clinking my glass to his.
Nick’s handsome face wrinkles, as though that wasn’t quite the toast he was going after. “To dining with you outside of our bedroom,” he amends, and I can’t find anything to protest so I just nod, my eyes fixed on his as we both take a sip.
Paolo returns then, and our attention turns to ordering. The normality of it makes it easy to settle in and enjoy the night. Even if we are technically on a date, it’s only our first date, I tell myself. And surely there can be a few dates involved in the fling. What’s the real difference between eating here or eating there, after all? Fresher food, and no crumbs in the bed.
We spend our meal talking easily together, our feet tangled up underneath the table. Our conversation is much of what we usually say over the phone. Idle chat about the news and entertainment gossip that connects our circles in Los Angeles. We discuss books and movies and music and bad TV sitcoms, all things we do endlessly every time we’re together.
When there’s a lull in the conversation, he asks, “Did you do anything exciting on the plane?”
For a second, it hits me that it’s a weird question. That we’re so consumed with each other that we even want to know about the space of a few hours of downtime, all the ins and outs of each other’s thoughts. But that’s the fun of an affair, isn’t it? That obsession that’s as tasty as the bites of food he keeps feeding me.
“I read a couple of scripts my agent sent over. Nothing exciting.” Mostly I spent the flight daydreaming about Nick, but I don’t tell him that. I’m afraid he’d misinterpret it.
He reaches over to play with my fingers. “Too bad. I know you’re looking for something juicy for your next project.”
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