What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 4)

by Selena Kitt

  I looked away but my cheeks heated. I fiddled idly with a hole in my jeans—fraying it so that it grew. I shook my head. I was not a prostitute and I wouldn’t be a prostitute after this whole thing was finished. It was one night of my life. Just one. I was empowering myself—

  And I was going to have sex with a man. That man. His hands would be on my body, that lush, hot mouth on me. I stayed silent and didn’t meet Heath’s gaze.

  “We also went over what he can and can’t do. I wanted to be very clear on that. No kink. No bondage of any kind. Straight vanilla all the way for my girl.”

  “Vanilla is a very tasty flavor, in my opinion.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “You haven’t lived, my dear. But just wait, once you get a taste, I have a feeling you’ll be wanting all sorts of flavors after this.”

  I blew out a breath. I highly doubted it. This was a business deal and I was benefiting from something that not only mattered little to me but had only served as a burden up until this point. I wanted to be rid of the stigma of being the twenty-two-year-old virgin without having to deal with any messy entanglements. I hadn’t wanted a relationship for quite some time and didn’t see that changing at all in the foreseeable future.

  “And no oral, right?” Heath asked.

  I looked at him like he was an idiot. As if he had to ask that. “That hasn’t changed and it’s not going to.”

  He sat back against his computer chair, which squeaked in protest. His gaze grew intent. “The man might want to get his money’s worth after all…” Heath said. He tried to give it that jokey air that he gave most of his words, but these held a dark edge.

  A cold pulse thumped at the base of my throat. “Don’t go there, Heath.”

  His stared at me. “I don’t think you’re ready for this. You can’t even talk about it.”

  “I can talk about it. I have talked about it. You know everything.”

  But despite his words, I still couldn’t get the picture out of my mind…that dark summer night, dry winds coming out of the foothills. Out on the edge of town, watching the lights and I was sobbing, on my knees. Hands wound into my hair so tightly, pulling so hard that my scalp would ache for days afterward.

  I shook my head, my hands crunching into balls. “Stop it. I’m fine.”

  He shrugged, that nonchalance returning. “Okay. If you say so. Let’s see…what else did we talk about? Oh yes, one night straight vanilla sex. Positions of your choice and comfort.”

  My eyes bugged. “Positions? It’s just one night.”

  Heath seemed to be stifling laughter. “Yeah—one night, who knows how many times that means? He’s young, very fit, he’s probably good for at least two, probably three. More if it’s been as long as he says it’s been. Eight months. Christ.”

  “What?” I screeched, horrified.

  “Doll, you act like you’re getting your legs waxed or something—well, admittedly it’s your first time so it will hurt a little, but I can guarantee you’re going to be having too much fun to notice. Just hope that he’s not really big—”

  I clapped my hands over my ears as if to block off the rest of his diatribe.

  “Mia,” he said and waited until I dropped my hands. “Mia, I’m not shitting now. If you can’t even talk about it like this, how in the hell are you going to go through with it?”

  I watched him for a moment. My best friend since the eighth grade. We were each other’s only comfort during some of the worst years of our lives—growing up in a small high desert community as awkward misfits, the both of us. When he came out in the ninth grade, I was the first person he told. When my boyfriend sexually assaulted me in the tenth grade, he was the first person I told.

  I shook my head. “I thought it would be just as simple as me drinking a bottle of wine and then lying back and thinking of medical school.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “It’s never even occurred to you that you might enjoy it, has it?”

  I shrugged. “You’ve screened the guy. You say he’s trustworthy. He won’t hurt me?”

  Heath shook his head. “There are no guarantees. You’ve got to trust that he won’t. I tried my hardest. Had him investigated. No criminal record, no dirty rumors of deviant behavior.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and began to twirl the dark brown end of it nervously around my forefinger.

  Heath cleared his throat. “I gotta ask and I know it’s a really personal question but… did you start taking your pills from Planned Parenthood?”

  I nodded. I’d started my period four weeks before and started the Pill at the prescribed time.

  “He’s cleared, medically. I saw the report with my own eyes.”

  I fidgeted. I wanted to back out. But I’d never in a million years admit that to Heath because he’d jump on that hesitation like a Golden Eagle swooping down on a rattlesnake.

  “He’s in the UK rolling out the European launch of the latest game expansion. But it’s not too late to back out of this.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, Heath! Don’t keep saying that. I need your support right now. I don’t need you to talk me out of this.”

  “I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t try to talk you out of this.”

  And then he approached, plopped himself down on the sofa beside me and wrapped me in his big arms. I planted my face against his broad chest. He smoothed my hair and the panic melted away.

  When I left an hour later, I was calm. Reserved. Resigned.

  I took the entire week off before I left so that I could write, plan and schedule my blogs to be published during my absence. I hoped this would throw readers off the track about what was going on in my personal life. I planted seeds of diversion by mentioning how busy I was getting with my day job. How I’d have to work double shifts for the next little while. White lies to throw the gossips off the trail.

  The gossips were already out discussing on other sites when and if the transaction would take place. I had mentioned, briefly, that I would not be able to discuss the results of the auction for many reasons. I’m not sure how many were really interested. My site was about gaming, after all. Most of those guys would rather go on epic raids for their elite gear than get laid—or hear about me getting laid. I understood that. I was one of them.

  I also took care of one last thread of unfinished business by telling my mom I was going to be hitting the books heavy for the next few days so I’d be unplugging my phone. It’s true that I was bringing study materials on the plane, but the less I told her, the better.

  “You sound tired, Mia. Are you sure you haven’t been studying too much?”

  “There’s no such thing as studying too much, Mom. People in my study group have private tutors and one went to a special test prep retreat.” I sighed inwardly, wondering how I would be able to compete with the myriad of hopeful medical students who went to these measures to succeed on their exams. Especially when I’d already proven myself a failure. My chest tightened thinking about how, if I had scored well last year, I’d have my acceptance letter to begin med school in the fall already in my hand.

  “I worry that between all you’ve got on your plate with your jobs and studying that you are burning the candle at both ends.”

  “I have no classes this semester. Believe me, if I could do all this while I was going to school, I can do it now. Don’t worry, Mom. Now I get to ask you how you’re doing.”

  “Oh,” she said lightly. “I’m just great. Things are looking up for me.”

  I frowned. Looking up? Had she gotten to be a better liar when I wasn’t noticing or were things actually improving for her? “What’s going on? Has something happened?”

  “I’m—I’m not really ready to talk about it.”

  I sat back, bewildered. Was Mom finally dating again? I blew out a breath. She’d never had any relationships the entire time I was growing up. She had male friends in the community and I know some of them may have wanted a romantic relationship, but my mom had n
ever been interested. When I was a teen, I asked her why she never dated and she shrugged and said she was waiting for me to grow up. Well, I was grown up now. Had she finally decided to get on with her life?

  “If it was something serious, you’d tell me…right?”

  “Of course,” she said evasively.

  We hung up a few minutes later and I stared at my phone for long moments. That was one of the weirdest phone calls I’d had with my mom in a long time. She was always an open book with me.

  But who was I to talk, really? I was keeping one hell of a secret from her. One that, if she ever discovered it, would hurt her. I had no right to go digging in her business if I wasn’t prepared to open up about mine. But still, I was worried. I was protective of my mom and given her experience with the Biological Sperm Donor, she hadn’t chosen well in the past.

  But Mom was smart and I had to trust that she’d learned from her mistakes. So to take my mind off of my worries and given the fact that I didn’t have much to pack, I spent most of the day before my departure wasting monsters on Dragon Epoch. I kept checking the player list for FallenOne but I was not in luck. My notifications list said that he hadn’t logged in since that day we had played together weeks before.

  The next day I was on a flight to Amsterdam with a small overnight bag. I had packed light, per Adam’s instructions. He’d clarified in later e-mails that he’d gotten my dress size from Heath and would have some clothes waiting for me. I’m sure he guessed, after spending five minutes in my little dive, that I wouldn’t have clothing fit to be seen at a place like Amstel Amsterdam.

  I traveled in my most comfortable pair of jeans, a T-shirt and walking shoes, with a small bag of toiletries and unmentionables tucked under the enormous recliner in first class.

  I’d gone through every short line at the airport and not a single person blinked an eye at my scruffy clothing and threadbare backpack. Everything was full service and everybody catered to my whim.

  I’d had a glass of chilled white wine at the first-class lounge. It took the edge off of traveling alone and the uncertainty of what I’d be facing in the Netherlands. I snacked on smoked salmon and crème fraiche to go with the wine. The jitters only dulled instead of dissipating.

  But the plane ride was something else entirely. I’d have fifteen hours of travel, yet, before I would touch down in Amsterdam. So I enjoyed myself in the top floor front of the immense 747. Shortly after takeoff for a direct flight to London, I was served more wine and handed a full menu. Dinner came on a white tablecloth with china and full silverware. I unabashedly enjoyed the pampering and lovely, lilting British accents spoken all around me.

  I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane—living true to the term “red-eye” flight as my eyes were scratchy and gritty by the time I’d deplaned.

  Upon our arrival in London, an airline employee greeted me, holding up a card with my name on it. She showed me down to the Heathrow First Class lounge and spa, giving me a list of all the appointments she’d made on my behalf. Then I was treated to a manicure, pedicure and facial before being handed a towel and a shiny green and gold shopping bag. Then she led me into a private bathroom with shower.

  After the long plane ride, it felt like heaven. And I still had a few hours before the flight to Amsterdam. The bag contained new clothes—the tags still on them from Harrods department store. A smart dark green and black sundress and even new underthings—silk panties and a matching, lacy bra. I blushed to look at them, but felt so pretty when I wore them that I could hardly be upset at the presumption.

  I’d never been spoiled before. And I could definitely see the appeal. I applied my makeup and dried and styled my hair and felt like a fresh, new person. I’d stepped into a whole new world, like a modern-day fairy tale. It was just a short, one-hour hop from here to Amsterdam, and Adam, who was waiting for me.

  In Amsterdam, a driver met me and whisked me off to the hotel, speaking cheerfully in almost perfect British-accented English, though he was clearly Dutch. He had the white-blond hair and pale blue eyes of his Viking ancestors.

  I arrived at the hotel just around noon and checked in, per Adam’s instructions. The clerk handed me an envelope and inside was a smart phone. I asked the clerk if it would work in Amsterdam and he gave me a puzzled look and nodded. I glanced at it and noticed a waiting text message from Adam. It told me to order myself some lunch in the suite and he would see me at 3 p.m. for a day of sightseeing.

  The bellhop guided me through a palatial lobby carved out of white marble and up an elegant Y-shaped, carpet-covered staircase to the elevators. I’d learned online that the majestic building dated from the nineteenth century and featured all the exquisite architectural details an earlier era. The bellhop loaded me into a small elevator—the type that had been fitted in as a nod to modern conveniences and seemed alien in this elegant, old-fashioned building.

  On the top floor, he directed me to the penthouse suite. And inside I found a space that could have fit my studio four times over. It was appointed in antique furnishings, had a bedroom and bathroom on the lower floor as well as a sitting room with couch and bar. A dark wood staircase led up to the unknown and I stared at it for a moment, determined to go exploring the minute I was alone. I wasn’t set to meet Adam for another hour, so I had no idea where he was or if he had checked in yet.

  “Mr. Drake…” I said to the bellhop.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. I do not know. You can call down to the lobby and ask.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay. I can text him.”

  The bellhop, who had insisted on carrying my ratty backpack for me, didn’t even hesitate or wait for a tip. Instead, he bowed himself out.

  A tingle of anticipation started at the base of my spine. I punched in a message on my phone.

  Am here. Waiting patiently.

  I hadn’t seen him in three weeks and in my mind he’d steadily grown more attractive and delicious. Hell, he’d reached almost godlike proportions by now, in my imagination. I was anxious to see him again. This would be the next and the last day that I would.

  There was no reply to my text. Likely he was still in meetings or maybe still in the air. I blew out a breath and fidgeted nervously, determined to satisfy my curiosity.

  I walked around downstairs, and briefly glanced at the room service menu before deciding I was too nervous to eat. I looked in every corner around the bar and the single bedroom, where I’d dumped my stuff. I wondered—if the bedroom was downstairs, then what was upstairs? A terrace?

  I galloped quickly up the stairs to find out. I landed in an even grander bedroom. It was elegantly decorated with a giant four-poster bed and accompanied by similar period furniture in dark woods. The curtains on the sidewall had been pulled aside and the windows looked out over the canals of Amsterdam.

  A fresh set of clothes—which I assumed were Adam’s—had been laid across the bed, but there was no one in the room. I entered and walked to the bed—a king size, decorated in blues, silvers and light gray French toile fabric. My eyes skimmed over the bed, wondering if this would be the place where things would happen tonight. My heart thrummed again and I swallowed, but there was no way I could tell if that was from fear or excitement.

  He was here, already. I heard a noise at the same moment a doorknob—presumably to the bathroom—rattled. I jumped back but before I could skitter out of the room, it opened and Adam stood in the doorway, frozen in mid-step. He’d just exited the shower.

  Our eyes locked and my breathing froze. He had one snowy towel slung low around his hips, another draped around his neck. He’d obviously just toweled his hair dry. The short cut was frizzed in every direction as if it had been artfully arranged that way.

  And his chest—every creased valley, firm muscular angle chiseled in perfect flesh—gleamed with steam. I sucked in a quick breath.

  “H-hi,” I finally said, tearing my eyes from his bare chest with reluctance.

  “Emilia.” He smiled openly with no apparent sel
f-consciousness. “You made it!”

  “I’m—I’m sorry for—I didn’t know you were even here yet. I was just exploring.”

  “No worries. My meeting let out earlier than expected so I beat you here. Did you have lunch?”

  I fought to keep my eyes from drifting downward again, from fixing on those perfect abs, lightly dusted with dark hair, that seemed to have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. “I—I wasn’t that hungry.”

  “Order room service. I could use a roast beef sandwich and theirs is delicious. We can catch up over lunch.”

  “Um,” I stammered and looked away and then back to him. “Sure. I’ll—just go do that then.”

  He laughed and pulled the towel from around his neck, throwing it back into the bathroom behind him. And that’s when I saw the tattoo.

  Scrawled in elegant jade-green script just under his left collarbone, it was easy to read and very simply designed. Just one word. A woman’s name. Sabrina.

  I couldn’t look away, my eyes zeroing in on that interesting detail. He glanced down to follow my gaze and then looked up again.

  “If you’d just give me a moment…unless you want to stay and do this now?” he said with laughter in his eyes.

  My mouth dropped. “I’ll go order lunch, then,” I repeated lamely before fumbling my way out, nearly tripping down the stairs.

  I ordered his roast beef sandwich with the works—he hadn’t told me what he wanted on it, after all, and for myself, a grilled cheese with smoked brie and Gruyère.

  By the time I was done with the order, he had entered the room, now fully dressed, thank God. Even in jeans and a button-down shirt, he was the epitome of handsome elegance. And even in my breezy sundress I felt awkward next to him. I wondered if that mega-suit he’d worn at the hotel during our first meeting was a fluke. Computer geeks typically didn’t suit up. Most of the coders I knew liked to brag about the casual dress their jobs allowed. But he didn’t seem like a typical computer geek.