A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  Dan palms Colin some money. “See you back at the flat.” He grabs my hand, and we head to my apartment via a cab. There are paparazzi on the sidewalk outside my apartment lobby, taking pictures, but his hand remains on my ass. The fleeting thought that my mother will probably see those photos flies in and out of my drunken head. I’m laughing as I punch in the code and open the door.

  I’m too busy pulling him by his belt into my bedroom to turn on the lights in the living room, or in my bedroom for that matter—there’s enough outdoor light seeping in through the windows to get by. At least I gave the bedroom door a good shove closed, but frankly, the moment it clicks shut, we’re stripping down fast. I’m kicking off my shoes and flinging off my shirt, while he’s unbuttoning his shirt and unfastening his pants. I like this sort of race. Three heartbeats and all my clothes later, my hands, addicted to his sculpted body, are on him quick—he’s so warm and soft, yet hard. With hooded eyes, he watches as I graze my nails over his round shoulders, down his chiseled chest to his washboard abs, and stroke his defined “V” that’s like a giant arrow, pointing to his long, hard path to pleasure. I reach around his waist and down the muscles of his back, dipping into the valley just above the swell of his ass. I give it a hard squeeze. “Your ass—it’s just so fine . . .” I yank down his underwear, the one remaining article of clothing between us.

  “Yours, too.” With a grin and a husky growl, he slaps my ass.

  I let out a yelp and a giggle that’s quickly overpowered by his mouth and his hands, slowly skimming down my shoulders to my waist, stopping for many blissful moments to roll his thumbs over my nipples, inviting them to rise higher. “Mmm,” he murmurs against my mouth. I respond with a moan. My God. He’s hardly touched me, really, but the sensations he’s building inside of me would beg to differ.

  Legs shaking with a wild desperation to get him closer, I push him against the closest wall, rattling a couple of picture frames. He grunts in response. I swing a leg around his hip, ready to mount him vertically, but he swiftly trades places with me, lifting me by my ass, and pressing my back against the cool wall. I wrap my legs around his waist, quickly locking his hips into mine. I take what he gives, and damn, is he a giver. Thrust . . . pound . . . slam . . . it’s a furious swirl of uninhibited passion and need.

  “Is this what you want, friend?” He pants, his rhythm steady.

  “Yes!”

  And harder he goes. His skin grows slick. Mine does, too, and soon it’s a challenge to hold on. “Fuck me everywhere in this room,” I blurt out, needing more! More! More!

  With my ass in his hands, he carries me a step or two, and throws me on the bed. He tugs on my ankles, dragging my ass to the very edge of the bed, leans my legs against his chest, with my feet on either side of his neck. He’s quick to angle himself just right and thrusts anew—a harder, faster rhythm now. Watching his abs tighten and his hips thrust forward, working in unison to fuck me, is a singular pleasure. The veins of his neck bulge and his eyes are shut tight, as if solely focused on not coming too soon. Hell, I’m struggling with the same. My body buzzes with an electric intensity.

  His eyes spring open. “I want to fuck you against the windows.” Holy shit. He’s got a wild, almost desperate look about him. “But I can’t. They’re out there.” He bends forward, kissing me hard while kneading my breasts roughly.

  Moments later, I push him away. He’s confused until I get up and step over to the full-length mirror that’s next to the chair. Facing it, I grip the top and spread my legs. Through the mirror, I see his eyes widen and he’s staring at my ass. I glance over my shoulder at him striking high noon. “Will this do?”

  “Fuck me,” he says, striding over. “Look at that.” He swats my ass hard and lines up. “Now you can watch me fuck you,” he says, dark and deep as one hand reaches around to fondle my breast as his other hand lines himself up behind me. I bend forward a bit more, but keeping an eye on him—he’s too sexy to look away. His heated face is taut, his breathing rapid, and the veins on his neck are pulsing as he enters me. With a firm grasp on my hips, he drives forward, his shoulders flexing each time. Fast in, slow out, slow and gentle . . . the pace ratchets up with every delicious thrust. I love how his eyes haven’t left my breasts that bounce with every one of his movements.

  I grip the mirror tighter. “Look at me,” I say. I can tell it’s a struggle for him to break his booby-trance, but he meets my eyes through the glass. “Fuck me harder.”

  Between his sharp intake of breath and his primal groan, I can tell all bets are off. Our skin smacks together as he pounds away so perfectly hard the mirror is shaking. I’d be worried about it falling over if I wasn’t entirely mesmerized by how hard he’s working me, how my hips are under his control, and how his muscles strain to control his pleasure. I can tell he’s just about there and his deep moaning confirms it.

  As much as I’d love stay right here, teetering on the edge of ecstasy all night, I’m in desperate need of release, too. The whole of my body aches for it. I let go and allow the intensity to build fast, and in warp speed, I’m there, moaning through the pulsating bliss; and he is, too—grunting something indecipherable. Afterward, we stay frozen to the spot, catching our breath after that mighty fine sprint.

  Finally, he grabs my shoulders, straightening me to standing, and kisses my shoulder. Through the mirror he says, “Happy birthday” with a wide, satisfied grin. Seems he likes this present as much as I do.

  “A very happy birthday indeed,” I say, blissed-out and woozy, but I quickly remember. “Oh! I have something for you. Sit on the chair.” I head to my dresser to dig through my top drawer of socks. I glance over my shoulder at him—Mr. Beautiful is just sitting there, gorgeous and naked.

  Although I’m still tipsy, I quickly shift, hiding the object behind my back. As I make my way over he says, “God, I love watching you walk to me. The way the outside light hits your body . . .” He shakes his head, smirking. “I can’t get enough.”

  I kneel down at his feet, resting my free hand on his knee. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.” I offer him a small, wrapped box.

  He sits up straight, beaming. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “Open it. Less tape on mine.”

  With a smirk, he lifts the tape from one side then the other. Once the paper’s gone he glances at me before opening the top of the box. “A lucky clover keychain.” He lifts it from the box. “It’s heavy.”

  Do I tell him? . . . Yes. “I got that for you because . . .” I exhale to better clear my head. “I feel like what we have between us is, well, extraordinary—like finding a real four-leaf clover—and . . . I’m so lucky to have you in my life.” He’s staring at me, fingering the heavy, silver keychain, and then he stretches out a hand to stroke my cheek.

  “That’s a genuine four-leaf clover pressed in the center glass, in case you weren’t sure . . . I don’t know—it’s just a little something.” I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. Silly gift idea.

  Dan seems on the verge of words, but kisses me sweetly, gently. He pulls away and stands, taking my hand to guide me onto my feet and to the bed. He lifts the sheets, signaling for me to climb in. We situate and snuggle, and he strokes my hair. “It’s everything,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Before—you said the gift was just a little something, but it’s not. It’s everything.”

  I squeeze him, and find myself teary for some reason, but before I can succumb to them, I fall asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday comes and goes, and I realize that saying good-bye to Dan is getting progressively more difficult. Sure, there’s the sadness of not being next to his fine, firm, warm flesh, but it’s more than that. I crave his presence. I’m unsure if it’s a good thing or not—to feel this connected—so I say nothing, but I wonder if he feels the same.

&n
bsp; I awake Monday morning to a cold, empty room. At least his lingering scent keeps me company. It’s tradition now that I swipe something of his to sleep with, and he swipes something of mine, too. In a small way, it soothes my ever-weary heart. So with his red T-shirt safely tucked under my pillow for the day, I pack my bag with my music materials. Time to get cracking on The Ledge’s songs and revising some of the soundtrack work.

  My phone rings just as I’m about to leave. It’s my mom. I sigh and answer, knowing this conversation is inevitable.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Claire. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Busy.”

  “Busy with what?”

  “Writing music. I have a couple of assignments from my agent to complete.”

  “Must be a challenge to write with no piano.” I roll my eyes at the smugness in her voice.

  “It’s a good thing I’m able to use a piano in NYU’s music department.”

  “They let you do that?”

  “Yes. It’s perfect for me.”

  “Oh. Convenient.”

  “Yeah, it works. How are you and Dad? It was nice seeing everyone over the weekend.”

  “We’re fine, and yes, it was good seeing everyone. Interesting meeting Daniel, too.”

  Interesting? Oh boy. I brace myself. “He enjoyed meeting everyone. I thought it was sweet he bought those flowers for Avery.”

  “It’s nice you suggested it.”

  “No, he thought it up all on his own. He’s actually a pretty thoughtful guy, Mom.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  I throw my hands up. “What? What’s the ‘mmm’ about? Why are you trying to find something wrong?”

  “I’m not trying to find anything wrong. Sure, he seems nice—”

  “Because he is nice.”

  “He’s too young for you. Too young to be tied down to one girl, especially in his position.” How does she manage to sift through my head to find all the nuggets of worry floating in my brain—the ones that I’ve been successfully drowning until now—and force me to examine them? I hate this. “I don’t know how else to open your eyes to the fact that as a successful actor, he’s easily able to pull the wool over your eyes, our eyes . . .”

  “Mom, I can’t worry about everything that could go wrong. Then I’m living in fear all the time. Is that what you want me to do?”

  “That’s my point. Living in fear is no way to live.”

  “I know! That’s what I’m saying.” She is so confusing!

  “It’s what I’m saying, too. Even if you don’t admit it, it’s there, Claire. He could be lying, he could be unfaithful to you, he could—”

  “Stop! I have to go, Mom. I have a deadline to meet.” I don’t wait for her to utter one more word. I hit END, grab my bag, and head out to the subway. She’s made my mind a scrambled mess! Ugh! All the worry that I’ve worked so hard to keep at bay is now front-and-center and plucking at my head.

  Heart racing, jitters jittering, I arrive at the university. Cheat on me . . . too young for me . . . I take several deep breaths, trying to center myself. I think about his gift and all he did for me this weekend. Frankly, no one’s ever been more thoughtful. Cheaters aren’t thoughtful, are they?

  I shake it off as best I can, take another calming breath, and pull open the door to the music building. As usual, I head into the office to sign in and get a key for one of the practice rooms I’ve reserved from Mrs. Winters, the secretary.

  When I appear at her desk she says, “Oh!” and smiles, getting up from her chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.” Weird. A few moments later, she comes out with the department head.

  “Hello, Claire,” he says.

  “Hi, Dr. Martin, how are you? Is everything okay?”

  “Oh yes, fine. Let me bring you to the practice room.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t want to bother you. Just tell me which one it is for today. I’ll find it.”

  “Follow me.”

  What’s up with this? I follow behind him. Maybe something is being renovated? Something fixed? We come around the usual corner and he stops in front of a room. “This is it.” He points to the plaque on the outside of the door. It says “C. Parelli.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, running my fingers over the nubs of the letters.

  “This is your room.”

  “What?”

  “It’s your room. Someone has arranged for this room to be solely for your use.”

  “Who?” I ask as if it’s not obvious.

  “It was anonymous.” He stares at me a moment. “It comes with a bonus key, too. Here you go.” He hands me two keys. “One’s to this room and one’s to the exterior door—in case you need to use the room after hours. We just ask that you lock up if you’re alone here.”

  I nod, stunned. “Okay. Thank you very much.”

  He leaves. I unlock the door, step in, and flick on the overhead light. It’s just like the other rooms I’ve used: small and square, but big enough to fit the baby grand piano and bench, a chair, and a music stand.

  It’s a tight squeeze, but I walk around the piano with my bag on my shoulder. I’m surprised to discover an envelope with my name on it, sitting on the piano bench. I slide the bag off my shoulder, dropping it onto the floor, and rip open the envelope.

  Happy composing, my love, and happy birthday. ~ Dan

  Holy fuck! Tears burst from my eyes and stream down my face. I can hardly find my phone in my bag with the tears pooling, but once I do, I call Dan. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a sniffly message.

  “I hope you get this because I’m inside and not sure I have reception, but I just got to the music room and . . . your note . . . and the room . . . I can’t even believe it. Thank you.”

  Lying faker? I don’t think so, Mom.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next month-and-a-half is both a whirlwind and time standing so freakishly frozen it would even annoy Elsa, the Snow Queen. I’m writing like crazy, which is great, but I’ve only seen Dan a few times—twice when I’ve gone to L.A. and once when he’s come to New York. It’s a horrible tease. I go from euphoric when we say hello to depressed when we say good-bye. When will it get easier? Ever? The imbalance is frustrating, especially since I can’t do anything about it.

  This weekend he’s coming in, and we’re headed to a Halloween party at a bar here in New York. Luckily, Bridget loves this sort of thing and has arranged it all.

  But before the fun tonight, I have to compose. I’ve been in the practice room nearly every day for weeks. Bridget’s been on me about getting a costume, but I haven’t had time. I’m blessed to have work coming, especially since I never anticipated having much, maybe a job here or there. In fact, I figured I’d have to find a part-time job. Thankfully, I haven’t needed to.

  I’m composing my way to the end of this song when my phone rings. “Hey Camille,” I say absently.

  “Claire, where the hell are you? We have to leave in a little over an hour!” Camille yells.

  “What?” I glance at the time on my phone. Shit! “I lost track of time. I’ll wrap it up right now and head home. Sorry!” I grab my things and bolt.

  Dan and Colin arrived this morning, but Dan’s been in meetings all day. Their friend Shane, who’s from London, came, too. He’s in town to see Colin’s band, who are playing at the bar we’re going to tonight. We made up the sofa for Shane, but Camille and I are hoping he and Bridget hit it off and there won’t be need for the sofa. That’ll probably be the case regardless, the slut. Anyway, we’re meeting the guys at the bar, where they’re catching up as Colin and the band set up for the show.

  I run inside my apartment with only forty-five minutes to get ready. “I’m home!” I shout, dropping my bag nex
t to the door.

  “Oh good!” Bridget says, coming out from the kitchen in a sexy schoolgirl outfit, complete with pigtail braids, a low-cut, button-down shirt tied at the waist, and a very short plaid skirt. She’s got shots poured for us.

  “Look at you, Britney Spears! You look amazing.”

  Bridget giggles and twirls. “Thanks!” She hands me a shot. “Got to start the night off right!”

  Camille comes out from her bedroom in her skin-tight, low-cut cop uniform with her hat tilted to the side. “Wow! You look awesome, too! Colin’s going to like it.”

  “Oh yeah, he will, and he’ll definitely approve of these.” She grins and twirls handcuffs around her finger.

  “Colin is such a willing victim,” Bridget says, smiling, handing a shot to Camille, too. We clank and toss them back.

  “Just how I like ’em,” Camille says.

  “Okay, so where’s mine?”

  “On your bed.”

  “What is it?” I start toward my room.

  Bridget smiles mischievously. “You’ll see.”

  Laid out on my bed are blue panties with white stars and a red corset with decorative gold piping. “What is this?” I say, holding up the thin, barely-there costume.

  Bridget and Camille come in. “Wonder Woman,” Bridget says, holding another round of shots.

  “Wonder Woman,” I repeat.

  “Yes, Wonder Woman. One of Dan’s dream outfits, remember?”

  “So is a librarian!”

  “You told me to get you something. Did you really think I’d dress you as a library marm?”

  I hold up the bottoms. “Bridget, this is glorified underwear—wait, it probably is underwear, isn’t it?”

  Bridget smiles wide. “You’re always so difficult. Just put it on and drink already.”

  Camille cracks up, Bridget’s giggling, and we all have another round.