Trashed (Stripped #2)

by Jasinda Wilder

Something thrills through me at the way Adam ushers me out of the small ballroom, waving goodbye to Rose and Gareth and a few others. He’s eager to be gone, his hand on my back keeps me moving, his big body shielding me from the paparazzi as we board an elevator.

  Chapter 6

  I just can’t handle it anymore. I can’t handle the scrutiny, the whispers. Everyone is talking about her. I shouldn’t have brought her here. She’s too beautiful, too dominating and mysterious a presence, too captivating. The fact that she’s totally oblivious to her hypnotic charm only serves to make her that much more appealing. Gareth was mesmerized. Rose was puzzled and a little jealous, I think. And the reporters? Ravenous. They couldn’t get enough of her.

  So I take her up to the Cupola Bar, find a table in the darkest, most intimate corner of the upper section. There’s a window on our left, looking out over the island. When it’s clear, you can see the bridge in all its splendor from the Cupola Bar, but it’s still bucketing rain, so all we can see is darkness and the occasional flash of lightning.

  Once we have drinks and solitude, I touch her chin with my thumb, turn her face to mine. “You okay, Des?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is hesitant. “I guess. It was just…a lot. Sudden, and surprising. I didn’t know what I was getting into. I’m not a public kind of girl, Adam. I’m just not. I wasn’t ready for that.”

  I sigh. “I’m sorry. I brought you on impulse, and didn’t really think about how it might affect you.”

  “It’s okay. I survived.” She pulls her hair over one shoulder, dragging her fingers through it.

  “You more than survived, Des. You killed it.”

  “Killed it?” She sounds skeptical.

  “Everyone was talking about you.”

  “It’s not every day you see a six-foot-tall giant of a girl like me. Especially wearing these heels.” She shrugs a shoulder.

  I lift her chin again. “No, Des, that’s not it. You’re tall, yes, but you’re beautiful. You dominated the room.”

  She tries to shake her head and look away. “Whatever, Adam.”

  “Don’t ‘whatever’ me,” I tell her, leaning down.

  Her lips, red and plump, beckon me. She stops breathing, and so do I. I go slow. I give her time to stop me, time to pull away, time to realize what I’m about to do. An exhale of sweet breath past those red lips, and then my mouth is on hers, and I’m tasting her lips, touching my palm to her neck, beneath the coal-black sheaf of her hair, my thumb just beneath her earlobe.

  “Adam…” she breathes, withdraws her lips from mine, but doesn’t pull away entirely.

  I sigh. “Too much?”

  She shakes her head, brushing the tip of her nose against mine. “No. Yes. I mean…” She lets out a breath that’s part sigh and part self-deprecating laugh. “You’re too much, Adam. This. Everything. It’s just too much.”

  I pull back, take a sip of my drink, and tangle one of my hands in hers. “Explain.”

  She takes a drink, and then a moment of silence to think. Eventually she lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I just don’t get you. Or what you want from me. Why I’m here. Why you’re wasting your time with me. I mean, you’re a famous movie star. I’m a trash collector. We have literally zero things in common.”

  “I’m just a guy, Des. Sure, my job is making movies, and some of them have done all right. Which is awesome. I have fun. I enjoy what I do, and plan to do it for a long time. But…it’s not who I am. I’m not a movie star. I’m just Adam.” I touch a fingertip to her chin, and she looks at me. “You’re wrong about you and I not having anything in common, though.”

  She frowns. “Oh yeah? So name one thing.”

  “I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me.”

  She doesn’t disagree. She just looks at me for a long moment. “Is that enough?”

  “Enough for what?”

  “For…whatever it is you want from me.”

  I trace a finger behind her ear, down her neck, across the ridge of her shoulder. “And what is it you think I want from you?”

  She shivers under my touch. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking.”

  “I told you yesterday what I want. I thought I made myself pretty damn clear.” I lean in and touch my lips to the crook of her neck, her shoulder, her throat, and then to the shell of her ear, and I whisper softly. “I want you, Des. All of you. I want you to let me show you how good I can make you feel. I want your skin. I want your mouth. I want your body. I want you.”

  She closes her eyes and I watch her hands curl into fists in the material of her dress at her thighs. “Yeah, but for how long?”

  “Honest answer? I don’t know.”

  “An honest answer for an honest answer then,” she says, turning her head so my lips brush across her cheekbone. “I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

  “Why not?”

  She shakes her head, as if she doesn’t know how to answer that, or won’t. “Because…I just can’t. I just can’t. I don’t know how.”

  “I can show you.”

  “How?”

  “Like this.” I put my palm to her cheek, tilting her face to mine.

  And once again, I lean in as slowly as I can. My eyes are open, hers are, too. Her eyes are wide and brown and scared, and I wish I knew what this girl has been through to put such fear in her eyes, what she’s endured that has such high, thick walls between herself and the rest of the world. I want to know what’s behind those walls, but I’m not sure how to get past them without spooking her.

  So I kiss her. Gently, slowly. Just lips, at first.

  And this time, she melts. Not all at once, like butter in a microwave, but like a chunk of ice in a cool, shadowy pond: slowly, gradually. She leans into me, a shoulder touching mine, her breasts squishing against my chest, and then her hand is on my shoulder and stealing up to my chin, then to my neck and she cups my skin beneath the hairline and she’s not breathing and neither am I. I circle my arm behind her back and hold her close, and she twists in the booth so she can press closer, and our mouths move, seek, claim. Her tongue slips out first this time, touches my lip, my teeth, and then I’m tasting her tongue and she’s sighing into my mouth.

  I remove my lips from hers and maybe it’s my imagination, but it sounded like she made a little moan at the loss of the kiss.

  “Des…” I breathe her name, a single syllable whispering between our mouths. “Come to my room with me.”

  I stand up, toss back the last of my drink, and then hold my hand out to her. She stares up at me, and I can see thoughts whirling in her eyes, see desire warring with doubt. Or fear. Or whatever it is that is holding her back. After a long moment, she stands up, taking my hand. We start forward, and then she stops, turns back, and downs her drink. She sets the empty beer bottle down a little hard, with a sigh as she swallows the beer.

  “Kiss me again,” she says, leaning into me.

  I don’t need to be asked twice. I pull her to my chest, press my palm to her lower back and cradle her cheek with my other hand. She delves into my mouth with that sweet, strong tongue of hers, and her hands curl at my chest, fingertips digging into the material of my jacket.

  I’m hungry for her, my hands desperate to slip lower, to drag that sexy fucking dress off and reveal her curves and her skin, needing her mouth on my skin, her flesh under my lips, her essence on my tongue. I can’t stay here with her either. I need her alone. I’m hard, aching, throbbing.

  I break the kiss with a low, almost inaudible growl and lead her by the hand down the steps to the green-on-green hallway to my room. I’m so consumed by the need to resume the kiss that I fumble with the key. I finally get the door open, and I don’t even notice the gaudy purple explosion in the sitting room, or the bizarrely archaic headboard and canopy of the bed.

  All I see is Des, her bright expressive eyes, and her hands, and the fall of black hair around her shoulders. She stops, her back to the door,
hands flat against the surface at her hips, arms slightly bent, just her ass, hands, and shoulder blades touching the door. It’s a stance of readiness, preparation for flight, for battle. Her eyes shine, fixed on me. Her lips are slightly parted, her chin tilted slightly upward.

  I stand three feet away, and she’s just staring at me, me at her. And then I move. I take a step toward her, and I tug at my bow tie, tossing it aside. I shrug out of my jacket. Unbutton the cuffs of my shirt. I finish unbuttoning my shirt and shrug out of it, my torso clad in a skin-tight white T-shirt. The slim shiny black dress belt is next, tossed aside. Shoes, kicked off. Socks, toed off.

  Her nostrils flare, her eyes go wider, if that’s even possible, and her chest heaves as she sucks in a deep breath.

  “Des,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  She doesn’t answer, doesn’t do anything, and just holds her about-to-bolt pose, her eyes following my every motion. She hasn’t moved, and is barely breathing.

  I close the space between us, stopping just shy of pressing our bodies together. I just look at her, for a moment, assessing the turmoil in her eyes. She wants me, her eyes roaming my arms and chest and face tell me that. The swell of her chest with each breath tells me that; it also tells me she’s nervous, or scared, or something.

  Why, I don’t know, and I’m not going to ask. I just have to be attentive to her mood, to how she responds to me.

  I descend to my knees slowly, and her eyes follow me, but her head doesn’t tip down. Her mouth falls open a bit wider, and then a breath leaves her in a whoosh as I palm her knee just beneath where the hem of her dress ends on one side. I curl my fingers around the back of her knee; slide my hand down the plump musculature of her calf. Her breath hitches. I wrap my hand around her ankle, lift her foot, and slide the shoe off. She goes down flat-footed, and I slip my fingers between her legs, under the slinky fabric of her dress, to the back of her other leg. I caress her kneecap, around to the back, feather my fingers across the crease, down over the curve of her calf, and lift her foot, remove her other shoe.

  I stand up, dragging both hands up the backs of her legs, lifting the hem of her dress as I rise. When I’m at my full height, her dress is bunched at mid-thigh and she’s breathing deep and fast. I lean in, press my nose to the side of her throat and inhale, slipping my palms around her thighs.

  “Adam…” she breathes.

  I move one hand into her hair, bury my fingers in the thick shimmery cool weight, and bring my mouth to hers, my other hand moving of its own volition up and up and up to the firm globe of her butt. She breathes into my mouth, and then her teeth click against mine as she closes in suddenly and ravenously for the kiss. Her hands lift, press flat against my chest, and her tongue seeks mine, and I pull her flush against me. She feels my erection, I know she does; there’s no way she can miss it. It’s a hot iron rod between us, straining against my boxer-briefs and the fly of my tuxedo slacks.

  She breaks free from the kiss, and her head thunks against the wood of the door.

  “Des? Do you want to go?” I let her dress go, move my hand from the bare smooth hot flesh of her ass out to rest on her hip over the fabric. “I don’t want you to be scared. Or do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” she whispers.

  “But you seem like you’re about to freak out.”

  “I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Like what?” I tug her hair gently so she has to look at me.

  “This. You and me. I barely know you. I just met you. This is crazy.” Her hands rest on my chest, her eyes seek mine. “This isn’t what I do.”

  “Me neither,” I say.

  Her head tilts to one side. “It’s not?”

  I laugh softly. “No. Not even close.” I bring my hand to her face, and she presses her cheek into my palm. “Just because I’m an actor doesn’t mean I’m a player or a man-whore.”

  “You’re just being…aggressive about this.”

  I kiss her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “When I see something I want, I make it mine.”

  “And you want me?”

  “Hell yeah I do.”

  She bites her lower lip between her teeth and then releases it. “So…you’re making me yours?”

  “Yes.” I tighten my grip on her hip. “Do you want that, Des?”

  She blinks at me, and I can tell she’s deciding. Determination solidifies in her eyes, and she pushes at my chest. I take a step back, give her some space.

  “Yes. I do.” She lets out a long, slow breath. “Just…I need one thing from you first.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t or won’t keep.”

  I smile at her. “That’s a basic life principle, for me,” I say. “I never make promises or commitments unless I’m one hundred percent sure I can hold my end up. And this, with you and me? All I know is I like it. I like you. I’m attracted to you in an insanely intense kind of way, and all I know is I want to explore it. I don’t know where it’s gonna go. I just want to try and find out. That’s all.”

  She smiles, but it’s a little shaky still. “I can deal with that.”

  And then, instead of reaching for me, or kissing me, or touching me, she turns her back to me, pulls her hair over one shoulder, baring her shoulders and upper back, and the zipper of her dress. She twists her head to look at me over her shoulder, and her gaze on mine is expectant. Offering.

  Instead of ripping at the zipper like I want to, I sidle across the inches separating us, capture her biceps in my hands, and kiss the ridge of her shoulder. The round spot where her arm becomes her shoulder. Across the base of her neck. I tease the edge of her dress at her back; slide my finger between fabric and skin, following the path of my finger with kisses across her warm smooth flesh. She inhales sharply, and I pinch the cold metal pull of the zipper between finger and thumb. I drag my lips across skin, up her neck to behind her ear. She’s not breathing, and I’m not either; we are both breathless with anticipation.

  The opening of the zipper is a loud sound in the silence. Her dress opens to the small of her back, baring an expanse of spine and the black band of a strapless bra, and the tattoo running across her back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

  The tattoo is simple, handwritten script, elegant and feminine. It says: The ache for home lives in all of us…

  I run my hands over her ink, wondering what it means to her and not daring to ask. I feel her tense as I touch the tattoo, and I know she’s bracing for the question. So I slip my palms up her back and over her shoulders, down toward her cleavage. Another sharp inhalation, but I’m teasing her, playing games with her. I’m not ready to touch her yet, oh no, not yet, I have to see her first, have get her bare so I can soak up her beauty. I merely brush the cups of the dress away, run my palms between skin and dress to push the material down. It falls, pools around her feet. She steps out, and stands facing away from me clad in a strapless black bra and a matching black thong.

  I’m breathless. “You…are incredible,” I tell her.

  “No, I’m not—”

  I don’t give her a chance to finish. I spin her, crash my mouth against hers to silence her protest. “Yes. You are.” I pull back to look into her eyes. “‘I’m beautiful.’ Say it.”

  She turns to face me. “Adam, I—”

  “Say it.” She blinks hard, bites her lower lip, and I can’t handle that, not at all. I take that plump lower lip between my teeth, stretch it out, let it go, and claim her mouth. “Des. Say it.”

  “I’m beautiful.” She can’t help smiling as she says it. “Is that better?”

  “A little.” I grin back at her.

  I reach for her, but she dances backward. “You can’t get me naked without letting me have some of you bare, too.”

  I hold my arms out. “Go for it, babe.”

  She takes the corner of her lower lip between her teeth again, steps forward, slips h
er fingers under the stretched cotton of my undershirt. Instead of lifting it off me like I was expecting, though, Des does the unexpected: she unhooks the fly of my slacks, tugs the zipper down, and her eyes go to mine. Her hands slide under the loosened waistband of the slacks and then they are around my ankles and I’m stepping out. Her eyes drift down to my tented underwear.

  She blushes.

  I reach for her again, but she shakes her head. “I’m in nothing but my underwear, so I get to have you the same way.”

  I laugh and let her peel my shirt off, and she tosses the white undershirt onto the pile of our clothes, hers and mine mixed together on the floor of the foyer. My eyes roam her body. Tan, taut skin, curves for days, legs long and strong, and her eyes, bright and liquid brown and feverish.

  I take her hand, walk backward, leading her up into the bedroom. She hops up the last step, and her breasts bounce heavily. I don’t let her get two steps into the bedroom before I’m jerking her towards me so she stumbles into me. I slide my lips over hers, and she responds immediately, lifting up on her toes to deepen the kiss, and my blood pounds like thunder in my ears and my heart hammers in my chest. Her hands are moving in slow circles on my back, from shoulders to waist, shoulders to waist, each time dipping lower, as if working up the courage to grab my ass.

  I find the hook-and-eye fastener of her bra, pull the edges together and loosen one eyelet, the second, and then the third and last. She’s pressed against my chest, so the bra is caught between us; I lean back without breaking the kiss, and the undergarment falls to the floor between us. Des’s mouth goes still against mine, her body tensing.

  “Let me see you,” I say, stepping back and taking both of her hands in mine so she can’t cover herself.

  I stare at her. Take in her beauty. God, I knew she had curves galore, but…damn. The girl is a goddess. Big, heavy tits, high and firm, round and peaked with dark areolae, thick nipples puckered into hard beads. Thighs I want to bury my face in, and her ass…goddamn. I’ve had my hands on it, but now that she’s bare, I have to touch it again. I step closer, slide my hands over her hips and clutch her full, round ass, which is delightfully bare except for the string of the thong.