“What’s that? I’ve never heard of that movie.”
“It’s a documentary about dominant-submissive relationships.”
She looked away quickly. “Oh… oh.”
“It’s a popular topic right now, and I demystify it, portraying it for exactly what it is-just another relationship dynamic.”
“What, like Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“Like I said, popular. Hot, if your entire knowledge of the bedroom includes the missionary position. My documentary just portrays real people in real relationships. Minus the judgment. All facts.”
Her eyes shifted away from mine. “It’s still taboo. All the spanking and toys and domineering stuff. But if it’s in the name of art, then, it’s okay. Right?”
She sounded slightly uncomfortable, slightly sarcastic.
“It’s okay?” I repeated. “When you have two consenting adults, anything goes. And to an outsider looking in, it can be artistic.”
“Artistic,” she scoffed, her cheeks darkening to a blushing shade of pink. “So you like to direct art,” she concluded with a benign shrug.
I decided to be honest, since ‘shocked’ was my favorite expression of hers so far.
“Maybe I just like to direct people having sex.”
Her eyes darted to me, and then back to her lap. “So… Oscar-worthy porn. You’re a smart man, Keaton “The Kid” Thane.”
I reached for her hand, and she looked up at me in surprise as I laced my fingers through hers. I needed to change the subject, fast, before she closed up on me again. “Thorne. Here, I’m just good old, corn-fed, hometown Keaton Thorne.”
She smiled distantly, accepting my hand. “So, Keaton Thane, who’s your hero? What kind of director do you want to be?”
I loved her interview voice. “Well, Miss Hale, while I admire the greats like Quentin Tarantino and Joss Whedon, I have an unhealthy director crush on Clint Eastwood. I want to be Clint Eastwood when I grow up.”
She smirked. “Well, just growl “goddamnit” after every sentence and you’re well on your way, director.”
I glared at her fingers animatedly as they bobbed in the air. “Stop air quoting me, goddamnit.”
She laughed, settling back in the seat and letting me hold her hand.
For now, that was enough.
I kept my mouth shut for most of the drive, settling on listening to her choices in music. As she explained that she was making me a playlist of approved songs for the weekend, I only smiled.
I didn’t want to say anything that might make her pull her hand out of mine. Every so often, I’d brush my thumb over her palm, lightly, and she’d hold her breath.
Stopping for gas about a half an hour from Pittsburgh, I turned toward the Sheetz building. “Do you want a drink? Or anything?”
She bit her lip, and I watched her eyebrows rise in thought. “Um… water… and…,” she deliberated for another few seconds, and I waited. “Starburst. No-Skittles. Yes. Skittles. Well, both. And if they have any Gummy Bears…,”
“Skittles? As in, the candy?”
“Weakness.” She shrugged, and I reached for her door, pulling it open.
“Well, you’re coming in with me, then, Vivie. I’m a grown man. I can’t go in there and buy a Red Bull and a bag full of candy. I may as well rent a white cargo van and hang out in a playground.”
She groaned, sighing with a reluctant laugh as she stepped out of the convertible. “You’re a very self-conscious person, you know that? You care too much about your appearance.”
“Live in Hollywood for a year. It’ll change you.”
“Is that an invitation?” She suggested, walking ahead of me. I watched her perfect ass sashay across the parking lot, unable to wipe the thick leer off my face.
Back in the car, I slipped my hand into hers once more.
Kelsey hadn’t contacted me again, but I had called my lawyer while Vivian was packing. He assured me that this was just another convoluted effort to get more money out of me, but ultimately, the divorce was going to be drawn out even longer. She agreed to paternity testing… but not until after the baby was born.
“You’re squeezing my hand,” she said, and I broke from my thoughts, releasing her fingers.
“Sorry.”
“What’s wrong? I can tell something’s bugging you.”
I considered hiding my situation until at least eighty-five percent of the way through the weekend, but finally decided to just be honest. “My ex might be pregnant. I have to do a paternity test, and it’s holding up my divorce.”
She listened, expressionless. “Do you think it’s yours?”
“No. But since there is a possibility, I need to be sure.”
She nodded, spinning the sapphire ring that I’d bought for her in circles around her finger. “What are you going to do if it is?”
I gave a low groan. “Step up, I guess. Murder is illegal.”
She stiffened. “Are you talking about abortion?”
“No, I’m talking about offing my ex. I haven’t decided which I’d prefer-a bloody Jaws shark attack, or watching her get eaten on the toilet by the T-Rex in Jurassic Park.”
Her shoulders shook with a restrained giggle, and I realized that she’d cover her mouth when she’d smile really wide. “What about Seven? What’s in the b-o-o-x,” she whined, breaking into laughter.
I raised my eyes at her, reveling in her ability to thoroughly entertain me. “No, no, I’m going with Hannibal. Not that a lobotomy could possibly make her any more fucking stupid.”
“Okay, Keaton, stop,” she held her abdomen, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “This conversation is highly inappropriate.”
“I am highly inappropriate. I thought you’d gathered that by now,” I answered, turning toward our exit.
When I found her warm fingers threading through mine again, I realized that I was having fun.
A lot of fun.
Point Blank
V
“We only have one luxury suite left, Mr. Thorne.”
Keaton spoke the words from the corner of his mouth through thinned lips, like a ventriloquist, as we stood at the front desk of the Omni William Penn Hotel.
“What?” I asked, not sure if he was talking to me or the front desk attendant.
“I’m feeding this guy his lines,” Keaton whispered loudly to me, holding his hand up to block his words. He turned back to the man, continuing. “I apologize, but you and the lady will have to share the suite.”
The clerk was a willing cohort, pretending to peruse the computer screen in front of him. “Mr. Thorne, I apologize, but there really is only one luxury suite available.”
“What?” I demanded, fuming as Keaton slipped a fifty dollar bill beneath his credit card receipt.
“Oh, hell!” He tsked, crossing his arms and mock glaring at me. “It’s going to be impossible to keep this girl off of me.”
“Damnit Keaton-”
“Calm down,” he ordered, lowering his mouth to my ear. “I’ll keep my slithering cock under control.”
“You are unbelievable,” I hissed back, having to nearly run to keep up with his stride to the elevator. “You specifically said I’d have my own room-”
“You have some money left over from your wardrobe fund, right? Enough to spring for an economy suite?”
“I have $85.46 left from your ridiculous shopping spree, and I’m not wasting it on a hotel room,” I growled, stepping into the elevator with him.
An elderly couple exiting the elevator watched us intently, and the woman suddenly gasped, reaching for Keaton. “Keat? Is that my little Keat, all grown up? Charlie, Charlie,” she smacked the old man in the blue suit twice across the shoulder, and he lifted his eyes to peer through bifocals.
“Give the boy room to breathe, Meems,” the man snapped at who I guessed was his wife. “Keaton, that you, son?”
“Hi Uncle Charlie,” Keaton hit the stop door button on the elevator panel, bending over to hug the couple. The woman patted his
shoulder, pressing a long, pink kiss to his cheek. “Aunt Meems, you don’t age, how is that possible?”
“I knew you were my favorite,” Aunt Meems proclaimed, pinching the lipstick mark off of his cheek. “Is this your wife?”
Here we go. I managed to keep my eyes on Keaton’s aunt and uncle (or great aunt and uncle, I deduced) while flashing a brilliant smile. “Vivian Hale. I’m Keaton’s girlfriend,” I held my hand out, shaking both of their hands. “You may know my grandmother-…,”
“Laney! Charlie, this is Greg’s daughter… remember, he married Catherine Locks? Right out of high school? Greg Hale, you remember, he was the quarterback for Laurel Valley,” she pushed his shoulder, and he flashed an aggravated grimace.
“Stop poking me, woman! Yes I remember Greg,” he turned back to Keaton. “You still the big Hollywood director?”
“Not this weekend,” Keaton answered, his arm sliding around my back. “This weekend, I’m just Luke’s big brother. And I’m enjoying this time off with Vivian.” He bent to brush a small kiss on my neck, and I couldn’t help but scrunch up, giggling as his lips tickled the sensitive part of my throat.
“Ah, so beautiful. Beautiful girl,” Uncle Charlie said appreciatively, and Aunt Meems pushed him off of the elevator.
“See you at the wedding, honey,” she called.
The doors slid closed, and I slumped against the wall. “Well?”
“Well, you’re ticklish,” he answered, shifting the suitcase at his feet. “That is something I will absolutely use to my advantage.”
“Oh shut up, everyone is ticklish somewhere,” I protested, watching the floor numbers continue to light up. What floor are we on?
“Not me.”
“You just want me to drag my hands all over your body, and I’m not taking the bait. You know, if you want to be a successful director, you have to drop all these clichéd, overdone scenes. Bribing the desk clerk? Kissing in the elevator in front of the elderly couple? You’re actually kind of disappointing me, Keaton,” I curled my lips inward to hide my grin as the elevator stopped at just the right time. The doors opened, and I marched out, leaving him following me, floundering.
“Are you telling me how to direct?”
I found our suite, turning to him. He had his arms full with two suitcases and three garment bags.
Shifting into starlet mode, I let my lids get heavy, locking my eyes in his. My fingers slid over his hip before plunging into the pocket of his shorts. I made sure to brush the back of my hand over his thigh as I secured the keycard between my fingers.
When I discovered his full-on erection with my fingertips, I couldn’t help but gasp.
It was his turn to be amused. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”
I snatched my hand away with the key card, and I knew that my face was on fire.
The heat that I’d felt through the thin lining of his pocket was enough to send a burning path from my navel to my thighs. I wetted my lips, nodding.
“You’re not following our contract,” I choked, still fastened to his gaze.
He took an impossible step closer, and I wanted to knock the garment bags to the floor to feel him pressed against me. “You’re playing the reluctant escort very well. But we both know that you didn’t want your own room.” He dipped his face even closer, and my one-inch heels propelled me nearer to his mouth. “And I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“You will,” I managed, my own unreliable breaths coming too quickly and too long in between. I slid the keycard into the lock, shoving forward. “I’m drafting the rest of the contract before we leave for dinner. And you’re going to sign it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He followed me inside, dropping the suitcases against the wall. “But involuntary woodies are inevitable, so I can’t be penalized for them.”
I groaned at his dorky pun with a reflexive grin, taking in the luxury of the massive suite. I felt like spinning around with my arms thrown out in a Julie Andrews circle. “This is beautiful, look at this place,” I said, admiring the artwork, the crystal chandeliers, and the smooth, mahogany furniture. I turned to see that he’d disappeared into the bathroom.
“I’m peeing. Be right out.”
“Peeing?” I shook my head, trying to block out the sounds from the bathroom. He wasn’t shy, that much was clear. I heard the sink running, turning again.
And I froze.
The single, king-sized bed loomed like a sacrificial altar, and my mouth fell open.
He took a running leap from behind me and dove for the bed, landing once on his back, bouncing, and then ending up on his side. Bending his arm, he propped his head up with one hand, smoothing a slow circle over the mattress with the other.
“Come here to me, my firecracker.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “You have the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Twelve and a half. Like my shoe size.”
“Keaton, my god, you are incorrigible.”
“Incorrigible? Hey schweetheart,” he began with an old-timey accent, grinning, “I’m just on vacation, and I’m trying to have fun. Will you loosen up a little, please? Contract aside, I really am enjoying your company. You’re funny with your witty little comebacks and your huge vocabulary... and you’re fucking hot, and I would like you to give me a break here.”
I stared at him.
What was I being so bitchy for? Really? I liked him, too. I liked his humor, his fuck-it-all demeanor, and his teasing attitude. Maybe I really was engrossed in playing the reluctant escort role far too much.
I’m getting paid, he’s fucking hot, and I’m about to get all dressed up and go to a party. Take it down a notch.
I dropped my purse and stepped out of my heels, lowering to the bed to crawl on my hands and knees to him. His eyebrows rose so far up his forehead, I thought that they’d disappear into the air.
“I’ll feel much better after you sign the ‘contract.’”
I managed to deliver the air quotes for about two seconds before he howled, tackling me, rolling me onto my back. “You’re going to lose a finger.”
His face. God, his face. He should be starring, not directing. Those eyes took on an insane gleam. “This finger?”
I lifted my pointer finger slowly, and he grinned, snapping for it. I shrieked and rolled just in time, actually a little wary of those sharp, white teeth accidently closing over my skin. “Hold still…,”
“No!” I flipped him to his back, catching his hand in midair. “How do you like it?” I demanded, straddling him but holding myself up to keep space between us.
I bit down on his finger.
The moment my teeth clenched, his expression sobered. He slid both of his hands over my jaw, pushing his finger into my mouth.
I started to pull away, but he held me firmly in place.
After endless seconds, I shut my eyes and closed my lips over his skin.
He tasted like soap, like the complimentary bar he’d probably just opened in the bathroom… and just a hint of coffee. My tongue darted, twirling over the tip, and warmth spread over me, dizzying, distracting.
Groaning softly, he pressed against my tongue with the pad of his pointer finger. I liked the sound that he made when I worked my lips up and down the length to his palm. I almost lowered my thighs to grind against him, but his voice startled me.
“V.”
He exhaled, pulling his hand away and lifting me up and off of him.
“Let’s… get going. I’m going to take a quick shower, and you draw up that contract. I’ll be right out, okay?”
I nodded, silent. Even if I had a voice, I wouldn’t have known what to say.
He disappeared into the bathroom, and I stared at my hands, numb.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
Stop it! I screamed at myself. He’s not even divorced, and his ex is pregnant. He’s arrogant, he’s bossy, and he’s employing you to boost his ego and maintain his reputation. Everything about this man scream
s asshole, and here you are, sucking on his fucking finger, convinced there’s something more here than a scheming opportunist and a naïve, inexperienced actress.
And you don’t need this. Not after what you’ve been through… not after Matthew.
The shower turned on, and I stalked to the desk in the corner of the suite, yanking the drawers open too forcefully. I found an Omni pen and pad of paper in seconds, and sat down, willing my thudding heart to settle.
Contract Dates: July 4-July 7
Item One: Final wardrobe decisions are executed by Mr. Thorne.
Item Two: Miss Hale and Mr. Thorne agree to the background story as discussed, and will not deviate from, elaborate on, or embellish said story.
Item Three: Sexual intercourse is prohibited between Mr. Thorne and Miss Hale, and Mr. Thorne agrees to prohibit intercourse with third parties.
(I threw that in, deciding it would make ‘fucking the bride’s sister’ a violation of contract.)
Item Four: Mr. Thorne agrees to pay Miss Hale $2,085.46 in US American currency by 3:00 PM Monday, July 8th.
Item Five: Both parties agree to a mutual separation with no connections.
There.
I stared at my neat handwriting, proofreading my work, before marking two X lines. I signed my name, and then slammed the pen down on the tablet for him.
The shower turned off, and I quickly tore a sheet of paper from the bottom of the notepad.
Going to get some air. I’ll meet you in the lobby.
Sign the contract before you come downstairs.
I rushed out of the room before he could emerge from the steamy bathroom, hips draped in a too-small hotel towel, forcing me to admire his muscular body and enormous penis.
Because, after all, wasn’t that how the scene was supposed to go?
The lobby was glamorous, with champagne colored walls, detailed arches, and chic chandeliers. A baby grand piano occupied the lounge, and I adjusted my skirt, moving easily in my heels to the front entryway.
Keaton was going to be a problem.
I wanted him.
I was in no position to have him.
He wanted a guilt-free, no-strings-attached weekend, and to simply cut a check and be on his way by Monday.
Below Unforgiven Page 8
