by Kenya Wright
The music rose as his new song, Hearts Torn, came on.
I didn’t even understand the words. It was all jumbled lyrics on top of a hot beat. Whoever produced it should get an award.
It was an odd song to dance to, but I shifted my hips back and forth and swung my hands as if I’d never before heard better music. Hunter watched a few feet away. Every now and then, he studied how others looked at us as if he was scoping out my stalker.
Everything’s going to be okay. Now that he’s here.
The song went on and on for too long. Finally, it shifted to another song. I smiled and leaned Trigger’s way. “Okay. I’m leaving. I know the release party was a success.”
“What do you mean you’re leaving?” He softly gripped my arm, but I could tell he had no intention of letting me go. “Give me a few more songs, Zola. The money is worth it, baby. And even more…I’m worth it.”
He slipped his hand down to mine and tried to twirl me.
Somehow, Hunter switched the move. First, he appeared out of nowhere. Second, the move wasn’t overly aggressive. It almost looked practiced, like he’d intended on having Trigger twirl me into him.
In one second, I was in Trigger’s hold. The next Hunter had me.
But I knew something had snapped on Trigger’s wrist as I spun into Hunter’s arms. Trigger stared down at his fingers and screamed. His music drowned the noise. A few of his boys hurried to him.
Hunter held me in his arms and guided me to the center of the dance floor. A few in the crowd held their phones up, snapping and recording us.
Hunter tilted my way and whispered in my ear, “York is no longer allowed to manage you. He’s letting too many idiots come around you.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Trigger had moved to the stage as his manager checked his fingers. More cameras snapped. Some of his boys started harassing the people around, telling them to put up their cameras. And when I turned back to Hunter, a grin spread across his face.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I wanted to hurt him more, but I knew you wouldn’t appreciate it.” Hunter pulled me into his arms. “So, instead, we’ll dance a little.”
“O-kay.”
“It’ll look more normal that way, so we won’t go viral.”
I swallowed and looked at the crowd. “I think it’s too late for that. That’s going viral.”
Hunter gazed over my shoulder. “We should probably go anyway. Your ex looks like he wants to show how brave he is.”
I checked behind me again.
Trigger glared at his men as he gestured toward Hunter.
“Yeah. We should go.” I tried to hurry us off the dance floor, but Hunter wasn’t having it.
“But, just give me one song, even though it’s a shitty one.” And with the way he said it, I knew he wasn’t doing it for anything else but to be close.
He wants me just as much as I want him.
And it felt so good to be in his arms.
Following Hunter's expert lead, we flowed with the music, rocking with the rhythm, feeling the tempo throb through our feet. My body’s temperature rose to scorching. A bead of sweat trickled between my breasts.
Others walked out onto the dance floor. It became packed with warm bodies and spicy scents. The air reverberated with licks from the sensual Latin guitar. Everyone was having a good time. Moving to the music. Drifting on the tempo.
And in my arms, he unraveled a little.
I gazed up at him as we grooved to the beat. All the hard edges seemed to have melted to smooth, fluid lines. Lines I yearned to stroke. Even his face, usually hard as stone, had softened to sensual gorgeousness.
The next sensation I became aware of was more heat. It radiated from his body in undulating waves. With it came his scent as I slid my hands up his arms to his shoulders and started moving with him. His scent surrounded me, and it was dark and dangerous, sexy and utterly intoxicating. I breathed him in, deep and slow, and felt the tips of my breasts press against his chest, hardening to tight, painful peaks.
I want you, Hunter.
I struggled for balance and lost. All I felt was him, and my body was very aware of how close we were.
The music and Hunter consumed me, sexually charging the moment. The sway of his hips went from rhythm to a clear invitation. The subtle brush of his thighs against mine told me that he was losing control.
His warm breath slipped against my face. He wrapped me tightly against him, lowered his head. His stubbled cheek brushed my temple and he drew me closer still.
My chest ached. My pussy clenched. How many times had I dreamed of a moment like this? One where he was touching me, holding me. Brushing his lips against my face.
A new song came on.
We continued to dance.
And the dark ache intensified into greedy need.
The dance transitioned to something more. Something intimate, deeply arousing. It probably wasn’t intentional, but as we slipped our bodies against each other, his thick erection pressed against my stomach.
Damn, Hunter.
I became entranced. I loved how he felt moving against me. I loved the feel of his hands on my waist. They tenderly caressed, slipping to the small of my back, then to my hips, and then his fingers splayed wide as he gripped my ass.
My body trembled under him. Shock came, and then lust.
“This,” he whispered against my ear, “was a really, really bad idea.”
His lips whispered across the shell of my ear, his message was very clear. While he might’ve not wanted to confess his desire for me earlier, he was damn sure willing to explore the matter more.
We danced, two people crowded by others. Lights glowing. Cameras flashing. But our dance felt like something more. It was a lingering caress, a hot moment of clarity.
“Zola,” he whispered as the song ended on a haunting note.
His body stilled long before he stopped moving against me. Before the next song came on, he gestured for us to leave.
And then he guided me off the floor, pushing me through a sea of cameras and lights. People screamed out questions, asking about Trigger and the incident. News had been slow today. I was sure we’d be trending for a few minutes. They would make a mountain out of a molehill and then speculate for days.
But I didn’t care about any of that.
All I could think about was Hunter’s body moving against mine.
12
A Douchebag, a Gun, and a Bottle of Whiskey
Hunter
It took forever to get Zola to the car. Her people followed. Crowds and lines of onlookers blocked the way. I checked my phone in between breaks.
Apparently, we’d been trending on twitter. Everything had gotten out to the public—my knocking down Trigger’s hand, their dance, and ours. People had been comparing video footage of the dances, analyzing which dance Zola truly looked to be enjoying herself. I’d won that round.
There continued to be others. They created stories. Gossip blogs claimed I’d been Trigger’s bodyguard, fell in love with Zola, and quit working for Trigger that night. Others had me as an up-and-coming actor that somehow grabbed Zola’s attention. None knew our true history. Not one reported on Zola’s stalker. Several jealous fans began to cut Zola down, calling her a shallow hoe for playing with both of our hearts.
I didn’t let Zola glance at her phone, keeping her busy as we made it to the car.
Maybe I went a little far with Mr. Trigger, but he should’ve kept his hand to himself. Had no one been there, I would’ve broken it.
My phone buzzed. York had already called five times. Since I hadn’t answered the consecutive calls, he texted.
York: What the fuck is going on in New York?
Me: I’ve got it handled.
York: Did you really break the guy’s hand?
Me: Don’t believe the gossip blogs.
York: Of course not. They are trying to make it seem like Zola and you are together.
Guilt moved in
my heart.
Me: We’re still leaving the event. I’ll talk to you later.
Once the driver picked us up, there were more packed streets and traffic due to Trigger’s party. We then had to take each person home. The driver had offered to take Zola and I first, but I wanted to get a feel of the people around her, and where they lived.
I hadn’t finished telling Zola about the different types of stalkers because I didn’t want her to further stress. But there were also intimacy seeking stalkers. They stalked due to loneliness and a lack of a close confidantes. Victims were usually strangers or acquaintances who became the target of the stalker’s desire for a relationship.
It could be someone they simply worked for, yet in their mind, they believed their relationship was much deeper than the reality. This behavior was fueled by a severe mental illness involving delusional beliefs about the victim. Erotomaniac delusions. Sometimes they established an emotional connection with the person. They would be a friend and possibly try to make the relationship more intimate. Whether the victim told them no or not, the stalker would believe they were closely linked.
Could it be any of these people here?
Each person arrived at their place, and nothing seemed off. Alexander had a penthouse in a high rise several blocks from the hotel, but he was nowhere near Zola’s apartment.
Zola’s makeup artist, Takako, had the gossip on everyone. As soon as Alexander left the car, Takako boasted about how Alexander had an uber rich sugar daddy. Apparently, the guy was some ninety-year-old bank oligarch, and Alexander had been his lifelong secret. Meanwhile, Takako claimed Alexander had some allegations brought against him by young male models. He’d gotten overly-touchy and showed up at a few male model’s places drunk and begging them to have sex. Takako never hinted at his cocaine habit, so I wondered if they really knew anything at all.
The whole time, I listened as Takako yapped to Zola. Exhausted, Zola merely smiled and nodded, probably ready for them to go as I was.
Takako had more to say after we dropped off CiCi at a decent sized building on the edge of Soho.
“Nice spot.” Takako rolled their eyes. “That’s what comes when you sleep your way to the top.”
For the first time, Zola shook her head. “Don’t talk about CiCi like that. She’s one of the hardest working models out there.”
“She’s slept with so many—”
“Let’s leave it alone, Takako.”
Takako blinked. “Fine.”
“Thanks.”
An odd silence filled the car.
Zola leaned back in her seat. I watched her from the side, trying my best to not be so obvious. Soon, we would need to have a discussion. I was eager to get it over with.
Fuck. She felt so good on the dance floor.
I couldn’t help myself. I’d had to hold her for a little longer. It was completely out of Bodyguarding 101 protocol.
One, never dance with the person you are supposed to be guarding.
But still, I had her in my arms and couldn’t let go. I’d slipped my hands across her body, and she was no longer my adopted kid sister. She was a sexy, lush woman I yearned to taste.
I can’t go back on this. We need to figure it out. She wants me just as much as I crave her.
When her body pressed against mine, her nipples poked at my chest. I bet she’d gotten wet and hungry. I imagined it as I swayed my hips with hers and went erect. Even now, in the car, I sat next to her hard and ready to stuff her with my cock.
I cleared my throat.
Takako snapped my way. They said nothing, but anger filled their eyes. I wondered if they were upset due to Zola cutting them off, or if they had a problem with me.
Rolling their eyes, Takako turned away and gazed outside the window.
I need Baptiste to do some deeper research into all of them—Takako, Alexander, and CiCi. They’re the closest to her. They might know something, or they’re a part of the stalking in some way.
When we arrived at Takako’s building, I checked my side and realized Zola had fallen asleep.
I knew you were tired.
The driver eased back into Manhattan’s midnight traffic.
I studied Zola as she slept. The moonlight and Manhattan’s glow shined on her through the car window, dancing all over her brown skin. I had a perfect view of her, not that I ever needed one. Her face had been imprinted in my mind since the first time I’d met her. Upon that moment, she’d been my only dark obsession. And the more time I spent with her, the more it grew and grew inside my chest.
I couldn’t stop staring at her lips. How many years had I dreamt about tasting them? How many nights had I pretended to kiss her as I placed my mouth on others? How dumb was I to deny myself Zola? How stupid? Was it that necessary to be so careful? Should I just take it there and see what happens?
Her chest rose and fell with soft breaths. Those big, lush breasts strained tight against the dress’s material. With the way she leaned in the seat, her legs had spread open, giving me a small peek of red panties.
My cock grew in my pants. I turned away, but not before groaning out her name. “Zola.”
I’d been well-behaved tonight, and so I looked again. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward and stared between those soft thighs.
Her pussy was right there. If I extended my hand a little, I could touch it. I could slip the red silk back and play with those little folds pressed against the material. I inhaled, loving the scent of her.
Stop it. You’re being a fucking creep. No better than the stalker.
I forced myself to lean back in the seat. That dark urge spiraled inside of me, blazed on fire. My skin heated. My cock jerked in my pants. I grabbed it, rubbing the tip a little bit to calm myself down.
Of course, it didn’t work.
Zola moaned a little in her sleep.
And it was in that moment that I wanted to hear her moan again. Images of me stuffing her with my cock struck me. All I could think about was the dirtiest things, unloading cum all inside her. Long, hot white streams.
My balls ached to get the job done.
I slipped my hand over my thick length and then grabbed my balls, giving them a small tug. The ache shifted to hungry throbbing. It never got better, but how would it?
My obsession lay asleep with those thighs spread, taunting the shit out of me.
And my cock had goals. He’d aimed her way, and was ready to slip through those pussy lips, slick and aroused. Sliding right inside the softest place on her body. My cock understood the barriers in our way but didn’t give a fuck. The beast in me took over. I yearned to fuck her. To thrust to the hilt.
Zeus. Apollo.
Those lips had me in a trance. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I could’ve had one moment with those lips. She’d asked long ago, and I’d said no. But now, I very much wanted to not only kiss that mouth but that pussy too.
Yahweh. Jah.
I closed my eyes in an attempt to get control of myself, but I couldn’t stop thinking that I should’ve kissed her that one night. It was an evening I’d pushed out of my head for so long.
In the car, it all came back to me.
Zola had shown up to the house drunk. I’d been home after my first set of military training. It was a surprise visit.
In all truth, I’d just want to come home and be near them for a few minutes. I’d missed the smell of them—Mrs. Ellen’s roasted duck in simmering red wine, the cozy aroma of burning wood from York’s famous winter bonfires that always came close to getting out of hand, and most of all, Zola’s natural perfume of flowers.
But that night, York and Mrs. Ellen went to see a new sci-fi movie. Neither were concerned that Zola was on a date. I’d said no to the movie and vowed to wait at the house for her.
Mrs. Ellen had argued that Zola was now eighteen and had no curfew. I responded that Zola still needed a curfew. Mrs. Ellen laughed.
Thankfully, Mrs. Ellen didn’t know I’d taken Zola’s date to the si
de, showed him my knife, and told him to bring her home by eight.
Zola and her date returned at eight on the dot.
I’d already drank half a bottle of whiskey waiting for them to show up. And then the douchebag didn’t even walk her to the door. Granted, I stood in the doorway with a gun and a scowl on my face. He saw me, dropped his mouth open, let her out, and then sped the fuck off.
It hadn’t been my best moment.
Zola strolled up to the house in a very tight red dress. “Hunter, you scared the shit out of him.”
As she moved, her breasts jiggled and were close to coming out of the top.
I watched her walk inside the house. “Just because you’re eighteen doesn’t mean you need to wear a bathing suit everywhere you go.”
“This dress hides more than a bathing suit.”
“Said no one.” Following her, I sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”
“I had some wine at dinner.”
“You’re not twenty-one.” I slammed the door closed.
She turned and faced me. “It was his family’s restaurant. They own the little pizza joint near—”
“How much wine did you have?”
“Hunter, really?” She pointed at my hand. “And would you put the gun down, please.”
I’d forgotten I was still holding it. Still, her last few words had been slurred. She’d had too much wine.
“How was your date?”
“All Jefferey did was ask questions about you.”
“Jefferey the jerk?” I placed my gun on the coffee table.
“He’s my friend.” She pointed to the gun. “If Mom sees that, she’s going to flip.”
“I’ve got an hour before she comes back.” I walked over to Zola, wanting to make sure she was okay. “Do you need some water?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Tipsy.”
“You shouldn’t drink with douchebags.”
“Thanks for the advice.” She gestured to the kitchen. “Maybe I can make up my bad choice this evening by having a glass with you.”
