by Ella James
I’m watching him more brazenly than ever now, curious to see how he reacts to the goddess stalking his way. I’m surprised when his jaw tightens. He almost seems to wince. Then she’s close enough to reach for him. He drapes an arm around her shoulder, a gentleman greeting a fond acquaintance, and I realize who she is: Priscilla Heat, infamous porn star and my good friend Cross’s arch nemesis. I don’t know what went wrong between the two of them—he hasn’t even told me how he knows her—but Cross seriously hates the woman.
I wonder if he’s seen her yet. I wonder how she knows Hunter.
A soft giggle pulls me back to earth, to Suri, who’s standing beside me in front of a wall of glass doors that lead onto a balcony overlooking Hunter’s vineyards. I turn to Suri, but I can still sense Hunter at the other end of the room, exuding a low-level hum that makes my electrons feel unstable.
“I knew you still wanted to do him,” Suri giggles, wiggling her eyebrows like she’s trying to attract attention.
“I do not,” I hiss.
Squinting my left eye, I look around us, mindful of who is close enough to eavesdrop. I can’t see faces clearly because my left contact fell out in Suri’s limousine, but I think I spot Carolitta Hamshon in a circle of gowns just beyond the couch in front of me.
I angle my body more toward Suri. “I do not,” I whisper, even lower. There’s no way I want Carolitta’s coven of bitches to hear this. It’s embarrassing enough that Suri spotted me ogling.
“Yes you do, girlie. You’ve wanted him since sweet sixteen.”
Suri knows all about the time Mom’s Porsche broke down on the winding road that runs past West Vineyard. Hunter came to my rescue at just past midnight, leaving a beautiful brunette in a silky gown watching from his front door as he pushed Mom’s Porsche down his long driveway and into his garage.
He’d pushed it up a ramp and stripped down to his jeans, then pulled out a rolling body board, eased his broad torso onto it, and scooted his fine self beneath the belly of the car. He emerged twenty minutes later covered in oil smudges, with grease in his golden hair and a self-satisfied smile on his tiger face, inexplicably smelling slightly of bourbon.
After that, he’d insisted I stay the night in his spacious guesthouse. Suri also knows how, the next morning, I’d heard moans coming from the direction of the pool. And how, from that point on, my insides have quivered every time I see him on “Mad Money” or read about his poker tournaments.
It’s even worse when the gossip blogs feature him toting a trophy date to this event or that. Page Six and some of the other gossip rags even call Hunter, Marchant, and their friends the Vegas Royals—I guess in a play on the term “royal flush.” Every time I read about him with a woman, I feel like scratching her eyeballs out.
I don’t like it, but it’s something I’ve resigned myself to living with.
“I’m not lying,” I mumble, but Suri’s no longer paying attention to me. She’s shifted slightly in her silver Manolos, tossing a not-at-all-discreet glance Hunter’s way.
“Suri, stop,” I hiss.
“His eyes are almost yellow,” she murmurs, this time having the tact to lean her head near mine. “You told me they were green, but when he passed by earlier, I swear they looked like cat eyes.”
I nod. I think of him as part tiger. He’s languid to the point of appearing almost lazy, and yellow or green, those eyes are framed by ridiculous lashes, set in a strong face with prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a sensuous smile.
I hear his chuckle, low and warmer than a gulp of bourbon, and I swear my knees shake under my slip like a debutant on her first night out.
“Elizabeth DeVille, I think you have your first boy obsession.”
She says ‘boy’ obsession because Suri has a long standing joke-suspicion that I’m gay.
“He’s not my obsession,” I whisper, tight-jawed. I can feel sweat prickling underneath my arms, and the truth is, I’m starting to get a little upset as I worry Hunter will somehow know.
“Suuure he’s not. Save it for the funnies, girlie.” Suri winks, and then her boyfriend Adam Hamilton pops up, smiling at us both and holding two wine flutes. He hands one to me and presses the other into Suri’s hand. He glances from my face to hers and frowns, his eyebrows scrunching.
“What is it?” Suri giggles. Suri is always giggling. If she were a party drink, she’d be champagne for sure.
“There’s something here,” he says, pointing accusingly from Suri to me. “You’re doing one of those girl things where you talk about someone and they don’t even know it.” He shakes his head. “It’s not fair.”
“Well it wasn’t about you,” Suri says, propping one hand on the hip of her burgundy, silk sheath Valentino gown. She slides her eyes to me, and Adam grins his dimpled grin. “Oh, I see. Miss Elizabeth.”
“No, not Miss Elizabeth.” I scowl, because I resent the simpering nickname.
“She has a hot crush,” Suri murmurs, barely containing another giggle behind her wine flute.
“I do not.” My face is flaming. I seriously consider smacking Suri, except I know that would draw even more attention, and I am not a fan of attention.
“Bet my crush is even hotter,” Adam says, taking Suri’s hand. He brushes her brown curls out of her face and nods to the doors behind us, most of which have been propped open, letting in the nippy November air. “Want to dance?”
I roll my eyes at their cheesiness, but truthfully I’m glad Adam got the heat off me.
“Why of course, my love.” Suri curtsies, and I have the wherewithal to flush on her behalf. Someone from Suri’s family should act a lot more reserved in public. Suri’s like an oblivious 9-year-old.
I, on the other hand, am absolutely conscious of the eyes pulled to my orbit as Suri and Adam pass through the doors behind me, leaving me alone with my half-empty wine flute. I hate moments like these, where I know what everyone is thinking: Look at Elizabeth DeVille, left alone by the only friend she has. With a mother like hers and hardly any money left, it’s a wonder she has even one.
Mentally shoving off their judgment, I lift the tail of my green dress in my right hand and gently pick my way through the crowded room, toward a slender hallway just beyond a staircase. I can’t resist a glance over my shoulder as I go; I’m looking for Hunter, but he’s nowhere in sight.
To my left, beyond a wine-gurgling fountain and across a vast oriental rug, I spot my friend Cross Carlson with his arms around the red-haired Cole twins: identical, including their D-cup racks. He winks, and I give him a genuine smile, hoping the black-haired, blue-eyed devil in the bespoke tux is actually Cross. I really can’t see. I curse the loss of my contact, and my own vanity. I have a pair of glasses in my clutch, but I’m too vain to wear them with my emerald satin, mermaid-cut Vera Wang.
Not that it would change my aesthetics much. With or without glasses, I’m still a fat girl. Not like…unusually fat. Just regular, eats-too-much-good-food fat. The kind of fat that curls the waist of my blue jeans down and creates an unattractive line of back fat between my pants and my top, just over the butt, when I sit cross-legged, hunched over one of my textbooks.
Since finishing undergrad—since my mom threw my dad out before having her third nervous breakdown in as many years, and dad went running to another family, complete with two new daughters—I’ve gained probably forty pounds, and the thing about the new me is, I don’t care. I like Phish Food ice cream. I like beer, wine, and whiskey. I like Dove dark chocolate even better than the fancy imported stuff, and my mystery novel fetish is such that the time I don’t spend studying for a PhD in Ethics is devoted to figuring out whodunnit.
With the exception of Hunter West, who’s been my own personal porn since that fateful night Mom’s Porsche broke down, I don’t find that many men attractive. Maybe I am a lesbian, but I don’t think so. I’ve never had the hots for another woman. I think most guys are just boring.
I clutch the tail of my dress a little more tightly as I gli
de down the hallway just off the great room. The wall on my right has turned from stone to glass, and I realize I’m approaching the atrium: a glass-walled garden in the middle of the octagonal house.
Through the glass wall on my right, I see a swatch of starry sky, and I remember three nights ago, at Mom’s house. Cross and I went to the front lawn to watch a meteor shower, and I think he wanted to kiss me.
He’s always been like that when he drinks. Affectionate. And horny. Most girls love it, but Cross is one of my oldest friends. I know how closed off he is to everyone, how shallow he keeps things, especially with girls he “dates,” and I can’t risk that happening with me. I need our long, deep talks—almost as much as I need his unwavering friendship. Besides, if we hooked up and things went wrong, Cross wouldn’t have anywhere to live.
I let my mind linger on his troubles only for a moment before I hurry past the atrium, knowing everyone standing in the glass-framed garden is probably making out or gossiping in cliques. I don’t need their eyes on me.
My destination, a replica of an old-fashioned powder room, should be just past a serving closet up here on my left. I look at the rug as I walk; it’s red, ornate, and old, and it covers most of the hardwood in this hall. My lack of sight in my left eye makes my right eye jump around, taking in the Sanskrit wall-hangings and the glittering, crystal light fixtures on the ceiling—and all the space in-between. I want to be sure I don’t run into any company.
Cross texted the directions to the powder room earlier today when I asked for an escape place if I found myself alone. Mom built the room on request, for his women, Cross told me, adding a winking smilie at the end. Cross’s mom is a well-known California architect, and this octagonal mansion in the spot where the original estate burned is one of her most recent creations.
The ‘something brass’ Cross told me would mark the powder room is a brass door-knocker in the shape of a tiger’s face. I smile when I see it. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a moan: a woman’s gaspy moan, followed by a man’s more throaty one.
I should move. I know I should, but I just can’t. My BCBGs are pasted to the rug as my whole body heats to a boil.
Hunter is in there. I know that moan.
He moans again, and I hear a strangled “no” from low down in his throat. My body slumps against the door as my pulse races. Sweat blooms over every inch of me. I can’t swallow or breathe as the woman whispers something in an enticing alto voice, and Hunter’s baritone voice purrs, “Such a bitch.”
“You’re the bitch,” she laughs, and I hear the smack of a hand on skin. She moans like she’s turned on, and I imagine Hunter’s golden hair around his tiger face, the sexy curve of his lips as another slap rings through the room and the woman laughs again, high-pitched and off-key like the whinny of a horse.
Holy crap.
His release is rough, too. I can easily imagine his hips swinging, his ass tightening as he pumps into her from behind. His moan is guttural, almost a grunt. It sounds like pain, but I know it must be pleasure.
“Jesus,” the woman pants. “You’re worth the trouble. Really, Hunter...what a fucking stud.”
I listen with my heart in my throat, but Hunter is silent as the woman makes a little mewling sound. I can hear the shuffling sound of fabric over bodies, but there are no words—just the woman’s panting.
A second later there’s heavy footfall, followed by the low squeal of a closing door.
“Christ,” the raspy, female voice whispers.
Looking down at my hand on the doorknob, I realize there’s a key hole and I peek through it, getting a fleeting glimpse of Priscilla Heat in her red taffeta gown. Hunter has left her there with swollen lips and wild hair, examining her manicure as she leans on one of the ivy-covered columns framing a sunken tub.
Hunter—well-mannered, charming Hunter—slapped her ass, bruised her lips, and then he left her there. For some reason, that does crazy things to me: the image of Hunter, pulling down his expensive trousers and taking out his cock. Quick, rough sex, and then he’s gone.
I glance behind me and, seeing no one, stumble farther down the hallway. I’m weaving like a drunk, and I am drunk: drunk on pent-up lust and yes, a pathetic, juvenile crush. I stumble past a row of dark wood doors, stopping for a breath when I reach a bend in the hall.
I lean against the burgundy wallpaper, shocked by the intensity of my arousal. Every breath only steepens my desire. I think about how long it’s been since I took care of myself. I’ve been busy studying for finals, so I guess it’s been about a week. As I stand there throbbing, I look down the remainder of the hall and notice there are no doors beyond the one I just passed. The hall turns to the right and leads around to the massive foyer, if I’m correct about where I am.
I glance left and right again. No one is around. I can’t even hear the string band playing in the great hall. I take a deep, shaky breath. Then I grab the handle of the door behind me. It’s taller and wider than the others, and to my surprise, it gives when I turn the knob.
Blinded by a haze of lust, I sail into the room, flaps of emerald silk flying around me, my hand already reaching between my legs.
Through my mental fog, I notice the vastness of the bedroom. My eyes slide over the flames blooming in a marble fireplace and I spot a tasseled pillow tossed haphazardly, inches from the fire. My attention settles on the bed; it’s huge, with four mahogany posts and a deep green bedspread that matches my gown almost perfectly. I dimly note a surprising lack of pillows, just before I trip on one. I glance down at my feet, surprised to find I am standing in a sea of pillows. I glance around, still panting, and notice a broken mirror hanging beside a small armoire.
I’m confused and for a second, worried, but another glance around the room reveals nothing else out of the ordinary. I assume someone has used the room for a party quickie. That turns me on even more, and I rush back to the door, locking it behind me before striding to the bed.
It’s ridiculous. I’m still blazing hot. I feel full and restless. Desperate. I know what I need. I’ve never done this outside my bedroom, but Hunter West does something strange to me, so I’m not entirely surprised—nor am I inclined to stifle my desire. I’m a grown woman, and God knows I’m the only one with a say-so in my sex life. Why not do what I want? Ten minutes, and I’ll be back out in the hall, feeling a lot more level-headed. It’s win-win.
I laugh softly as I scoot up onto the mattress, inhaling the sweet scent of leather and cologne as I lean back on the only remaining pillow. Sweaty and trembling, I part my legs and reach under my gown. My fingers have just found their mark when a shadow rises from the floor space on the other side of the bed.
2
Elizabeth
HUNTER IS SHIRTLESS and sweat-slicked, with dark eyes and a thoughtful, soft mouth. He wipes his forehead, squinting, and speaks in a voice that sounds strangely far away. “Is that you, Libby?”
He gets to his feet, and I can’t speak. Can’t even move. When I find my voice, I sound like I’m choking. “Libby? N-no.”
God help me, he’s beautiful. I’m in awe of his wide shoulders and that chiseled chest. My heart is racing and between my legs, I clench in response to—well, it must be pheromones. I have the urge to grab his arms and pull him down beside me on the bed. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, belatedly aware that I’ve got a hand up in my gown.
Oh God. I’m done. I was an outcast before, but once this story gets around, my old crowd will really slay me.
I lift my eyelids, finding Hunter closer; he’s leaned over the mattress, the weight of his gorgeous upper body propped on his thick arms.
His face softens when his eyes meet mine, and he nods slightly. “Yes it is.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about anymore, because my brain has turned to soup. I’m all glowing, glittering sensation as his gaze sweeps up and down me. His brows are gathered, his mouth still tight. Firelight illuminates his face, so I can see the exact moment he realizes what I’v
e been doing. His lips press flat as his hands, pressed against the mattress, curl into big fists. He makes a low, approving sound and speaks in a voice that sounds like molten lava.
“That’s so fucking sexy.”
I look down at my hand, still tangled in my gown. “Is it?” I search his face.
“Oh, yeah.” He’s on the bed with me that next second, his gym-ripped body licked by the glow of flames. I gasp when he grabs my hips and turns me toward him. His eyes widen, and I expect him to let go of my fleshy hips. I’m already recoiling, so shy in this moment that I wish I could disappear. Instead he pulls me closer, locking both hands around my ass and squeezing.
“Let me get you off,” he offers hoarsely. I feel a throb between my legs, followed by a rush of needy warmth.
Oh my God.
Somehow I manage to nod, and his hand is fishing in my gown. I can barely stand to watch him. I’m already panting, and my eyes want to squeeze shut. I won’t let them. Fate has given me this gift, and I intend to experience it. I inhale deeply, trying not to pass out.
Hunter swallows as he strokes my calves and traces up my thigh, across my hip. He looks dazed as he lifts my panties with his finger, stroking oh so gently over me.
I whimper, and he moves between my legs, the fingers of his free hand tangling with mine, guiding my hand, stroking me lightly, making me want to burst as he positions my finger, wraps his palm around my hand, and urges me inside myself.
His finger circles my clit, and I can’t help gasping, clenching and unclenching as my hips want to thrust. My legs are locked, my feet arching. All the blood in my body has rushed under our joined fingers.
“You’re gonna like this,” he rasps. Then my finger is joined by his.
This is the most I’ve ever had. I can’t help moaning with the fullness of it. As I reach for him, clutching his forearm, he grins and ducks under my gown. I can feel his body’s heat as he shifts, moving sort of onto his knees. Then I think his head is—
