Intense 2
Page 133
Come over, now. I want you.
Chapter 12
Demanding, aren’t we?
I blush when he answers me seconds after I text him.
What can I say? I write back. I’m feeling . . .
Bored? Lonely? Turned on? All three. I delete the words.
I’m in the mood for some fun, I write.
Terrence arrives within fifteen minutes.
Immediately we are in one another’s arms, kissing passionately, devouring one another like there’s no tomorrow. Images of Roz and her mysterious patron flash through my mind: of the arch of her back, of how her long hair tumbled down, of how she screamed with the patron’s tongue darting between that cleft between her legs. I want Terrence to do all of that to me. I want it now.
Terrence seems to know what I want before I ask for it. Without words he’s tearing off my panties, throwing them across the room, stretching my legs wide with his palms before pressing his lips against me, his tongue playful, teasing—bringing me so close to pleasure, then letting me come down, so that I can never approach orgasm. The feeling is exhausting, tantalizing. I want it to go on forever. My desire to come mingles with the desire to make it last all night.
At last he uses his fingers, too, and then I’m over the edge. I come, so loudly that Terrence laughs softly, his chuckle deep in his throat.
“And to think,” he murmurs. “When I met you, you were so . . . inexperienced. And now you’re telling me to come over.”
He traces my cheek with his fingertips, grinning. “Maybe you’re the client?” he raises an eyebrow.
“And you’re the whore?”
His smile darkens.
“I don’t like that word,” he said. “Not for you. Not for any of the girls.”
“What are we, then?”
“Escorts? Professional mistresses? Courtesans? Call girls?”
“Does it change anything? Except the price?”
Terrence looks grave. “It’s more than a brothel I’m running here,” he says. “It’s a fantasy. For men and women alike. A chance for rich men and beautiful women to—mutually—make both their dreams come true.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask him. “Making all my dreams come true?”
“I certainly hope so.”
As he speaks, I feel almost ill. Part of me wants to call the whole thing off—to run away—to go back home to Vegas. I’m not interested in fantasy. I’m not interested in dreams coming true. Right now, I realize with a sickening jolt, I’m interested in a beautiful, unattainable boy with bright blue eyes and a wicked smile, who drives me wild, who I’m starting to have feelings for. The kind of feelings I can’t trust. The kind of feelings that will make it really hard for me to sleep with just another patron.
Maybe Roz will have the answers, I think. Roz will tell me what happened to Rita—and then I can leave . . .
I don’t want the money, anymore. I don’t want the designer clothes or the lessons in the contemporary global economy. I just want what Roz had with that man. Something like real, genuine love. Something I can hold onto.
“Staci?” Terrence is almost tender with me. “What is it?”
“What’s going on, here?” My voice is low.
“What do you mean?”
“With us?”
His smile turns into a frown.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—is this part of my job? Is this—training for my patron? Or is this something else?”
He is silent for a while.
“It was easier to think it was training you,” he said. “It was easier to think—that this was just a sex thing. Or an almost-sex thing. I don’t know. That’s what I told myself when I cancelled your meeting with—well, with the client.” He swallows. “But the truth is, I’m jealous. I’m not sure I want anyone else with you. I’m not sure I could stand to think about it.”
“Can it be?” I try to sound smooth, but my voice is shaking. “Does the great Terrence Blue have . . . feelings?”
“Maybe.” He shakes his head. “I mean—I don’t do monogamy, Staci. I don’t do relationships. With you, it started out as just attraction. But our chemistry is undeniable.”
And it hits me.
I want him. I want to be with him. Maybe not forever—I’m smart enough to know he’ll break my heart—but right now, he’s all I want. More than the cash. More even than answers.
I don’t want to sell my virginity for money. The sex I want is based in feelings, in emotions. Dare I say it—in love.
“I want you to take me,” I say. “I want you to make love to me—right now.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“If I’m ruined for your client, I don’t care,” I say. “I don’t want my first sex to be for money. I don’t want the money. Not yours, not anyone else’s.” I smile. “This one’s on the house.”
“Financially,” he stammers. “I mean—as a businessman, I should tell you that this is a very stupid decision.”
“And as a man?” I ask him.
His smile is sweet and sad. “As a man,” he said, “nothing could make me happier than to be your first.” He swallows. “If not your only.”
“Do you have a condom?”
He nods. He reaches in his pocket.
And then we hear the shot.
One big boom. The shattering of windows.
I recognize the direction of the sound.
“Roz . . .” I whisper.
We rush to room 238, but we’re too late.
In Roz’s hand is a gun. And in Roz’s forehead is a hole, gaping, bleeding, the blood trickling down into her glassy, open eyes.
Too many thoughts rush through me all at once. Panic. Terror. Fear. And rage—bitter, wild rage. I’m not seeing Roz’s face there, there half-smashed with a bullet through the brain, but Rita’s—the face of the girl I knew, the girl I loved, the girl whom I might have found, whom I’d almost found, and who was forever gone.
What if I hadn’t texted Terrence? What if I’d waited outside her door for the client to leave?
Would Roz still be alive? Would she have told me the truth of what happened to Rita?
I’m screaming, screaming my head off, barely aware of what I’m doing or why; I rush to her and then my hands are covered in her blood, Roz’s blood, and still I’m thinking that it’s Rita’s.
Rita . . . what’s become of Rita? Did she meet the same fate as Roz?
*****
This is the End of Part I
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For Laura Turner, helping others had been her way of coping and forgetting a past so painful, she had to hide it from the ones she loved or risk going insane. Helping her best friend Serena Singleton start a new life free from a dark past, made her feel she was helping herself move forward.
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When Laura moved to Los Angeles to work at a law firm who hired her to start even without her passing the bar, she meets the mysterious and sexy Peter Townshend, whose irresistible charm and take charge personality brings out a part of her she had hidden for years.
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Heat
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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VOL. 1
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Copyright © 2014 Kailin Gow
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DEDICATION
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Prologue
Bobby
The music from the nightclub pounded into my brain and the lights that flashed here and there added to the dizziness. Man, was this what getting wasted all about? Dizzy, nauseated, monster headache? Shit. I would never drink again.
I suddenly remembered all those times in high school when a few of the guys had tried to get me to drink, tried to get me drunk . . . ‘Come on, Bobby, just one beer.’ ‘Hey, Bobby, how about a shot of tequila?’
Back in the States, I was still under the legal drinking age, and man did my mom constantly remind me of that.
“If you want to get into a good school, you better fly right, Bobby.”
So I did, until last night when I arrived in Paris; legal drinking age eighteen, thank you very much. I wasted no time getting wasted. What else is an eighteen year old guy supposed to do?
But as I tried to lift my head off the floor, a stinky, sticky floor, I tried to count the number of drinks I’d had. I knew I’d started off with a few beers, threw in a few shots of something sweet and strong, and topped it off with a snifter of cognac.
While in Paris, right?
Still, while I knew it wasn’t a great idea to mix, all in all, I hadn’t really had that much to drink. It was just enough to get me partying, get me dancing, and get me talking some God awful French that I’m sure made no sense.
That didn’t keep the girls from coming, though. No sir. I don’t know if it was my boyish good looks, my cute American accent or my New York sense of style . . . oh, or maybe it was that I’d shown off my abs. I remembered pulling my shirt up a few times, giving the girls a peek. And then I simply took my shirt off entirely and paraded around like some kind of egomaniacal peacock. Hell, I put enough work to get my abs so tight and taut, I didn’t see the harm in showing off a bit? Anyway these French dames just kept coming. Older ones, younger ones, hot ones, hotter ones. The night had been a veritable smorgasbord of feminine bodies; boobs, asses and even more boobs.
“Ah, mais regardez ce beau derriere,” one older woman had called out as she’d swatted my butt.
Women weren’t really shy about reaching out and grabbing whatever appealed to them. If they liked what they saw, they went after it. It’d been pretty cool at first, but I’ll admit, it became a little intimidating after a while, like I had some kind of standard to live up to, or something.
Then again, I knew I was asking for it when I mentioned that I was Errol King’s kid brother.
“Le chef Errol King?” one amazed young woman had asked.
Yes, hard to believe, but the most baddest bad boy chef Errol King had been tamed by my own sister Taryn. Who would’ve thought the celebrity chef would ever settle down. The man was tied up and unavailable, while I was free and more than willing to taste a variety of women.
That was until my head had started pounding and my stomach had decided to start turning somersaults.
I pried my face off the floor and tried to stand, but the entire room started spinning and everything came at me in sets of two. I leaned up against the wall as two cute girls with flashy magenta hair held out two glasses of wine while each smiled with their two bright red mouths. For a moment I thought I was going to get my first taste of twins. The prospect was both thrilling and daunting. Two girls at once. Was I up for it?
There was really no point worrying about it. As it turned out, all I had to do was shake my head to get rid of the slightly disturbing image and get my eyes to focus on the one girl in front of me.
“Vous allez bien?” the girl asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve been better.” Then I remembered where I’d seen her before. Earlier in the night; she’d insisted I come to this part of town, to this club. The only word I’d been able to translate in her argument had been ‘party.’
Yep, I’d wanted to party and I’d been ready to follow her anywhere. With Taryn and Errol still enjoying their honeymoon, I was on my own to explore my new home for the next couple of years while enrolled at the Culinary Institute.
She planted a big, slobbering kiss on my mouth and if I’d been sober I’m sure I would have enjoyed it, but as it was, I felt all the more nauseated.
“I need some air,” I said. She looked at me with that frown everyone had been giving me ever since I arrived. I took in an exaggerated big breath and said, “De l’air.”
“Ah, oui. Absolument. Venez avec moi.” She helped me get my balance as I left the solidity of the wall, and led me to a door at the back of the club.
The minute the cool night air slapped my face, I had to lean against the graffiti filled brick wall and vomit. By the time I’d spit out the last of it, I turned and
she was gone.
“Great,” I muttered. I looked up and down the street hoping to get some sense of where I was. Looking up above the rooftops, I tried to find the ever present Eiffel Tower, but it was nowhere to be seen.
Had I left Paris?
No. I couldn’t have.
Clinging to the wall, I walked to the corner and looked at the street sign. Maybe I could call Taryn and get her to come pick me up. Crimé and Jomard. It shouldn’t be too hard to Taryn to find it, especially if Errol was with her. I crossed my fingers hoping she was in town. Last I’d heard she was still out at Errol’s country cottage. I pulled out my phone and tapped the first name on my contact list.
In Paris, she and Errol were my only contacts.
But no sooner had I tapped her name that my screen went black.
“You’re kidding me,” I groaned. Hadn’t I charged my phone just before leaving the campus? I was sure I had.
Well, whether I had or not was pointless now. My phone was out. If I wanted a ride I’d have to find a landline.
I looked down the intersecting street. The main entrance to the club I’d just sneaked out of was right there. Maybe I could go back in and get an employee to call a cab for me. But after only a step or two, I remembered the inexplicable fear that had accompanied my initial wave of nausea.
It wasn’t a fear of being sick, but a fear of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Something wasn’t right about that place; about the people in it.