Luna Exposed

by Kristin Leigh

  But he doesn’t. He steps away and I hear a few beeps before finally opening my eyes. He’s standing in front of a keypad beside the door. He snaps it closed and pulls his keys out of his pocket to unlock the door. When it swings open, he nudges me gently forward with a hand to the small of my back.

  Yet another thing I’ve always wondered about…being guided by nothing but a hand above my butt. Nope, never happened before.

  The door closes behind us with an echo, and there are more beeps as he disarms what I assume is his alarm system. Not sure what the thing was out front. The keypad he’s in front of gives a little “boop-boop” sound, and he’s moving us again. A light flickers on and I stop, dead in my tracks.

  “Wow.” I look around with my mouth open, completely in awe. I snap it closed at his chuckle. Real classy, Luna. Now he knows for sure that he brought home a poor hillbilly.

  But I can’t help it. I’ve never been in such a grand house. Dual staircases frame an open foyer and lead to a landing on the second floor before reversing course to continue to the third floor. The entryway is bigger than the house I grew up in. It’s…indescribable.

  But it’s made even more incredible by the antiques everywhere. I look around, trying to find something that looks new. But everything looks like Ma Cottrell put it there when the house was built and no one has ever been allowed to touch it. One room of furniture in this house would support the girls and me for a few years, at least.

  I turn back to Gabe, expecting to hear some history on the house, or at least a little bragging and an offer for a tour. I’d certainly brag about it. But he doesn’t say anything, just holds his hand out to me again.

  So that’s how it’s going to be. Fine. I place my hand in his and we cross the gleaming hardwood and start up the staircase. He didn’t bring me here for romance or a date. We’re here to fuck, and he thinks he has to prove something after our conversation on the front porch.

  He’s silent as we climb the stairs and thankfully, my mouth isn’t jabbering away without my permission again. At the top of the stairs he turns right, and we continue to the second door on the left. He fumbles in his pocket for a key and unlocks the door. I stare into the dark room, apprehension whispering along my nerves. I don’t know this man, this stranger, and I’m suddenly suspicious.

  Why would a man keep an internal door locked unless he keeps headless bodies in there? Or big barrels of acid to dissolve human body parts. What was that serial killer’s name? I look up at him then into the darkened doorway as I take a few steps backward. The low-key arousal I’d felt on the porch scurries away like a terrified rodent.

  It must all be an act for unsuspecting women. He and Dan and the bartender, Jim, make women think they’re rich. Or hell, by the looks of this house, they are. But they do the “unaccepted gay guy and his straight, hot brother” act to get their victims.

  My fight or flight instinct kicks in and I swirl around, wondering if I’ll survive a jump from the balcony. But I don’t get more than two steps toward finding out before he’s grabbing me.

  And I know that’s it. I’m going to be raped and killed. I was lured into the den of a monster with my depression and struggling libido. I scream so hard and loud that my throat aches with it. I kick, I flail, and I cry. I don’t want to die. But those hard arms I’d thought were so attractive are surrounding me, lifting me so I can’t run.

  “Luna! Jesus, what the fuck?”

  His voice filters through my screams and I realize no one can hear me; there’s no use in screaming.

  “Fucking figures,” he mutters. “God dammit!” My foot connects with his leg and he drops me suddenly, the restraining arms lifting so quickly I don’t have time to put my feet down. I land on the floor with a painful thud and sit there, stunned.

  “Please…” I’m whimpering and begging but I don’t care. I can’t leave my girls. “Please,” I whisper again. “Please, if I die my girls will have to live with their father. He’s…”

  “What the hell do you mean if you die?” He roars and I cringe.

  Okay, maybe I’m overreacting here. Just a little. But the panic doesn’t recede quickly enough for me to really process that thought. I just sit on the floor, a pathetic, slobbering, teary-eyed mess.

  He breathes deeply and from the corner of my eye I see him kneel next to me. He brushes my hair away from my face and asks softly, “What are your girls’ names, Luna?”

  I sniffle and cringe away. “Hannah and Carmen.”

  “Those are nice names. How old are they?” He’s still speaking softly, soothingly.

  “Hannah’s eight and Carmen’s six.” My voice is a little stronger now and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. He’s not going to kill me. I’m a paranoid freak, and he’s probably going to call the funny farm to come get me. God, I feel like an idiot.

  “So Hannah’s in third grade and Carmen’s in first?” He rubs his hand up and down my back, the touch soothing and gentle.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. I clear my throat and look up at him. It can’t have been more than two minutes since he opened the door and I lost my ever-loving mind but I’m exhausted. The little adrenaline spurt is fading and rational thought returning. I owe him an apology. A very sincere apology. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just…”

  He smiles down at me and helps me to my feet. “You’ve just heard enough horror stories about women going missing and being murdered that you panicked. It’s all right. I understand.” His hands are rubbing my shoulders, kneading the tense muscles gently. “And I’m a complete stranger. But…” He pauses and releases me to stand and flip the light switch in the dark room.

  He helps me to my feet wordlessly, stepping back so I can examine the room. I almost collapse with relief. It’s just a bedroom. Granted, a much nicer bedroom than I’ve ever slept in, but a bedroom nonetheless. No dismembered limbs or scalped heads.

  “Here.” He roots around in his pocket around and comes up with his phone, holding it out to me. I just stare at it. “Take it,” he instructs.

  I do.

  “Now call the police station. Not 911, but the police station. They’ll be able to trace my phone if they need to. Give them your name and tell them you’re with me.” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands me his driver’s license. “Give them my license number and tell them if you go missing or turn up dead, they should look for me.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “I’ll have a car brought for you while you call.”

  I know what that means, what he didn’t say. If I make the call, he’s sending me home. I don’t know if I want to continue what we started, but at the very least, I know I can’t let it end that way. I shake my head. “No, it’s all right. I…I’m okay now. I don’t know why I freaked out.”

  He takes his phone back and puts it and his wallet away with a smile. “Maybe because you don’t go home with strangers often.”

  “Try ever,” I mutter. And that was true. I’ve never had a one-night stand.

  He leans against the wall by the open door and watches me for a moment. “Would you like a drink?”

  I shake my head for a second before I realize that my mouth is dry and my throat is on fire. “Yeah, some water would be nice.”

  With a nod, he disappears into the not-so-scary bedroom and returns seconds later with an icy cold bottle of water. Must be nice to have a fridge in the bedroom. He uncaps it for me and hands me the bottle.

  “Thanks.” I guzzle it, taking half the bottle before lowering it to breathe. The icy water feels so good on my raw throat, and I barely take time to catch my breath before I tip it up and finish the rest.

  When I look back at him, he’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a half-smile. “Better?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t know what to do with the bottle so I just kind of switch it back and forth between my hands. He holds his hand out and I place it in his grasp.

  “Would you like me to take you home?”

  Would I? I
don’t know. I’d like to have my one-night stand, but…I’m still a little shaken. “I…no.” That sounded weak. I clear my throat. “No,” I try again, much more satisfied with how composed I sound.

  He nods and gestures into the bedroom. “There’s a bathroom in here if you’d like to freshen up.”

  That probably means I look like shit. “Sure. Thanks.” I take a fortifying breath and step into the bedroom.

  It’s not scary at all. Simply decorated in shades of blue and brown, it’s masculine and tasteful. But it’s also not lived in. It’s a guest room. Or maybe a sex room. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. In fact, I’d prefer that it be a sex room. Going to his bedroom and seeing the things that make a bedroom personal—photographs, combs, reading glasses, books with dog-eared pages—would seem too personal somehow.

  I mean, yeah, I’m about to get naked with the guy. But I’m never going to see him again, and the last thing I want to do is find out something that makes me want to see him.

  There’s really only one thing I need from Mr. Gabe O’Malley, and he’s packing it in a pair of black slacks that look like they cost more than my last car.

  Slut. Yeah, yeah. Tonight I’m a slut and I’m going to be okay with it.

  I stroll through the room, the plush carpet making it a little hard to walk in my heels. I’m not stopping to take them off because I’ll end up looking awkward and probably fall on my ass. So I just struggle through it and hope he thinks the little extra sway in my hips is sexy. Maybe he thinks a woman twisting her ankles is hot.

  When I make it across the massive room and enter the relative privacy of the bathroom, I close the door behind me and lean against it with a sigh.

  What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me. Then again, I don’t know who I am. The Luna from high school and my two meager years of college faded away in the past decade, leaving someone I can’t identify easily.

  I’ve been either Corey’s wife, or Hannah and Carmen’s mom. Thinking of Corey makes me frown, so I push away from the door and look at myself in the giant mirror that dominates the wall behind the double marble sinks that flow gently into countertops.

  Rich bastard. I flash back to how happy I was when Corey installed my curved shower curtain rod. Half-ass installed it, anyway. I’d been so stupidly pleased with such a small thing and…I look around the opulent grace of this spare bathroom, hot tears hovering on my eyelids.

  No. No, to hell with that. I’ve managed to avoid those thoughts all night. Sobriety and a luxurious bathroom are not going to be the cause of my second breakdown in this guy’s house.

  I focus on my reflection and brush the tears away gently to avoid smearing what little make-up I have on. Surprisingly enough, I still look good. Everything’s in place and the way it should be. Boobs perky—thank you Victoria’s Secret—and no glaring zits, boogers, or smudges on my face. My hair is a little frizzy, but not bad. My slightly-better-than-average looks survived my panic attack. Fantastic. I pull my lips back and lean forward. No food in my teeth.

  I take a moment to use the restroom and wash my hands. I’m glad I decided to shave at the last minute, glad I wore underwear designed to make me feel sexy. I stare at my reflection, wondering what he sees and telling myself it doesn’t matter because this is nothing more than sex, and he only has to be interested long enough to either satisfy me or disappoint me.

  Guess which one I’m betting on and which one I’m hoping for.

  I take a fortifying breath, gather my nerve, open the door, and step out.

  Chapter 5

  He’s lounging in a chair in the far corner, legs crossed and a glass in his hand with a small amount of amber liquid swirling in the bottom. The lights are off, and he’s turned on a floor lamp next to his chair. He looks at me, arrogance written on every line of his body.

  “Take off your shoes before you break an ankle,” he says, his voice soft and low.

  I comply wordlessly. Not because I’m obeying though. Just because I want the damn shoes off. Yeah, let’s go with that.

  The shoes end up toppled over next to me and I wonder how I manage to stay upright on them when they can’t even stand on their own.

  “Now your dress,” he instructs.

  I snap my eyes back to him. He wants me to strip for him? No way in hell…unless it’s a one-night stand. I never stripped for my ex because he veiled his insults in compliments. Like, “you look good for a woman that’s had two kids,” and “I don’t mind if your tits sag.”

  Bastard. Here’s a man who actually wants me to strip for him, and I’m damn well going to do it.

  I set my mouth, raise my chin, and slip the dress from my shoulders. It’s got a little stretch to it, so I’ve never actually used the zipper in the back. It puddles at my feet and I step out and use my toes to move it on top of my shoes. I stand in front of him proudly, all my doubts and reservations tucked carefully away.

  His eyes roam over me from head to toe, taking in the lacy, pale pink push-up bra and matching panties. His eyes are a hot blue fire now instead of cold ice.

  “Put the shoes back on,” he whispers, his voice strained.

  I have to move my dress from on top of them, but I slide the heels back on and stand, waiting, with one hip cocked out and my arms slack at my side. I hope it’s sexy.

  He uncrosses his legs and puts the glass down on the table next to him with a little clink.

  “Come here, moon goddess.”

  Ridiculously pleased with the complimentary nickname—and let’s not lie, the fact that he’s smart enough to know a little mythology—I walk forward carefully until the fabric of his pants brushes my legs.

  He leans forward and slides a finger beneath the waistband of my panties, pulling them out slightly. The heat of that single finger is startling and I can’t stop my sharp inhalation.

  “Are you wet?” His whisper barely reaches my ears and I know I’m blushing from head to toe. No one’s ever been so blatant about sexuality with me before, and it’s embarrassing. But sort of arousing, too and I realize that—to answer his question—if I wasn’t before, I’m getting that way now.

  “Yes,” I answer, my voice loud in the silent room.

  “Good,” he murmurs, still tracing the skin of my lower abdomen beneath the waistband. He pulls his hand away and leans back. “Straddle me.”

  I blink at him in disbelief for a moment. He raises an eyebrow and waits, looking as patient as a mother hen.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other nervously. That look—oh God, that look—jump-starts every nerve in my body, and I clench my thighs together when a pressure begins to thrum between my legs.

  And still he waits, that black brow lifted assertively. He knows I’ll do it eventually. So I brutally shove the uneasiness away and wedge my legs on either side of his.

  “Thank you, Luna.” His voice comes out deeper than it has before, and it appeals to every little secret feminine part of me.

  His hands move to rest on my hips for a moment before he slides one down along the arched leg of my panties and slips it beneath. I tense a little but he ignores it. The finger strokes gently against me, parting my folds to slip inside less than an inch.

  “I’m going to have to define the word ‘wet’ to you, moon goddess.” He looks back up at me, the finger still fondling me gently. “This is not nearly wet enough.”

  He yanks his hand away and stands, taking me with him, draping my legs over his hips. I squeak in surprise and wrap my arms around his neck to keep from falling.

  “I’ve got you.” He speaks right next to my ear and squeezes the cheeks of my ass, pressing me against his erection.

  It’s a nice erection, bigger than I’ve been with in my vast and varied experience of a whopping three men. But not big enough to send me running for the hills. Is there such a thing? I doubt it.

  He climbs onto the bed, still holding me and lays me down in the center, kneeling between my legs as he looks me up and down. “Don’t move,” he tells
me, for the second time tonight.

  He rises off the bed, all masculine grace, and opens the nightstand drawer. He pulls out a box—a whole freaking box—of condoms, a long strand of white beads or—pearls? Surely not real ones—and a silk scarf.

  So it is a sex room, and it looks like I’ve managed to land myself a one-night stand with a kinky bastard.

  That’s fantastic, and I mean that sincerely. I can barely keep from wiggling in excitement. Not arousal, not yet. That will come later, hopefully.

  I frown as he closes the drawer and walks to the other side of the room. Pearls and silk scarves I can handle. That’s Jackie Kennedy-classy and I’d like to find out how he plans to use them. But—swear to God—if he starts pulling out whips and chains, I am leaving faster than a pimp out of church. It’s fun to read about, but I don’t trust anyone that much, particularly a complete stranger.

  But he doesn’t laugh maniacally and throw open a secret door to a torture dungeon, just picks up his glass and tosses back the remainder of his drink.

  Ice clinks in the bottom, and he saunters back to the bed with a smirk. He puts a knee up and the mattress sinks beneath his weight. I try not to roll into him, and he adjusts until his knee is pressing into my side.

  “Since you’re not wet enough yet…” he trails off and fishes a piece of ice out of the bottom of the glass.

  Ice play. That’s not too kinky. I relax, realizing that I’ve tensed up. But when he slides the ice into my panties, directly above my clit, I tense again and grab his forearm.

  “That’s cold!” I screech in protest.

  He chuckles and grabs both of my hands in one of his without responding. It’s so, so cold, melting far too slowly against me and I hope that my clit goes numb soon. I can feel a slow drip as a tiny bit of the ice melts. Then another drip, barely moving an inch before meeting my panties and getting soaked up. Chillbumps rise on my arms and legs and I shiver.

  He watches me, his direct gaze unwavering. When the intensity of the ice decreases the smallest amount, he reaches a hand down my panties and slides it farther between my folds and pushes it inside me with one finger.