Selfie

by Leslie Johnson

  His last comment made me laugh. Spending a weekend with him sounded wonderful, and it would be the first time Hunter and I actually vacationed together. But the timing was bad.

  “I can’t,” I said, sighing with regret. “I have to be at the Hamptons this Saturday.”

  “The Hamptons?” he repeated. “Who are you going with?”

  “It’s sort of like a writers’ retreat.” I explained quickly. “Eric invited me because he thought I should spend some time with my writing peers.” When Hunter stared at me wordlessly, I added, “He owns the house, you see.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah, all right, then. Sounds reasonable enough. I guess we can always go some other time.”

  “How about next week?”

  It was his turn to shake his head. “I’m flying out to New York to check out a few acting studios. Roxy said Stella Adler offers a ten-week Saturday program that can fit into my schedule. If they accept me, I reckon I’ll go with that one.”

  And such was our life. While I was happy that we were busy pursuing our dreams, it also meant we couldn’t spend much quality time together even though I was staying at the penthouse. The irony didn’t escape me.

  “Then can we at least take a bath together?” I asked in frustration. “I feel like we haven’t really had a proper talk since I quit my day job.”

  A slow, sexy smile formed on Hunter’s lips. “One hot bath coming right up.”

  Once the spacious bathtub was filled to the brim with foamy water, Hunter and I shed off our clothes and climbed in. With a contented sigh, I leaned against his chest, watching as the foamy bubbles splashed over my breasts and legs. The glowing candlelight threw shadows on the walls and turned our simple bath into something more romantic.

  “Hmm, this is nice,” I said, reaching underwater to run my hands along Hunter’s long thighs. He murmured in agreement and cupped my breasts, leisurely running his thumbs across my soapy nipples.

  “Will Eric be at the Hamptons, too?” he asked quietly.

  After some hesitation, I nodded. “He might pop in for a brief visit to make the introductions. This is the first time I’m meeting the other writers in person.” I closed my eyes and leaned back, reveling in Hunter’s sensuous touch.

  “I don’t trust him, Roe.”

  “Why?”

  “Same reason you don’t trust Roxy.”

  “But it’s not the same. You and Roxy had a weird arrangement long before I came along, and she only grew crazy possessive when you ended it. Eric and I, however, have had a strictly professional relationship from the very beginning.”

  Hunter was unconvinced. “Well, my gut reaction says different. That guy reminds me of a spider. You’re getting caught up in his web, but you don’t even know it yet.”

  I bit my lip, somewhat irritated. “Let’s just agree to disagree on this one, okay? Yes, he slipped up once, but he’s been professional and courteous to me ever since. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because I’m not his type. He told me that.”

  “He did?” Hunter sounded surprised.

  “Yeah. He said my face was unconventional-looking, and that I wasn’t like the women he usually dated. Pretty blunt, don’t you think?”

  “That’s one bloody way of putting it.” Now Hunter sounded pissed. “He’s a rich, private school-educated, pompous arse that thinks he can say whatever the fuck he wants. Guys like that make me want to punch something.” And he unconsciously squeezed my breasts tightly, making me yelp in pain.

  “Ow!” I slapped at his hands until he released me. “For fuck’s sake, Hunter, there’s no need to take your anger out on my body.” I quickly sat up and examined my poor breasts. The red marks around the flesh told me I was sure to bruise tomorrow.

  Hunter immediately pulled me close, looking contrite. “Can’t believe I just did that. Sorry, babe. Guys like Eric bring out the worst in me, I guess.”

  I wondered if Hunter was jealous of Eric Steinberg. Which would be completely ridiculous if he were. Hunter was the epitome of male perfection, and he also had the laid-back personality and smarts to go with it. He had the kind of total package that all the money in the world couldn’t buy.

  Is it about the money, though? Does he think I would be attracted to Eric because the man has wealth and oozes sophistication?

  Certainly, many women would fall for such men. But here was a fact he didn’t know about me – I had attended an expensive private school, and I had met boys like that. Boys who traveled to Paris and Venice during their summer and winter holidays, who thought nothing of skiing in New Zealand every weekend, and hid behind Daddy’s multi-millions whenever they got into legal trouble. And I had never fallen for any of these boys who grew up to be entitled pricks. Not once.

  Of course, I wasn’t saying Eric Steinberg was an entitled prick. Not all rich boys grew up to be rich arseholes, after all.

  I splashed around and straddled Hunter, all smiles and forgiveness. “I want to tell you something interesting. You know that large school photo on your bedroom wall? Did you know I was a student at River Vale as well?”

  His demeanor suddenly changed. “Is that right?” A guarded expression entered his eyes.

  “Isn’t that insane? I mean, I was only there for three weeks because I ended up going to a private school in the city. But seriously, it’s so weird that our paths crossed even before we met in our uni classes!”

  He tilted his head to the side. “Do you remember seeing me? At River Vale?”

  “Well, no. At the time, all the Year 7 students were just a blur of nameless faces.”

  “Then our paths didn’t cross.”

  “Not literally, no, but we were at the same school . . .” I trailed off, sighing. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m trying to make it sound more significant than it actually is.”

  Hunter grabbed a bar of soap and began soaping up my chest. “If you had stayed at River Vale, we could have become high school sweethearts.”

  I laughed at the thought. “No, I doubt that. I was terribly shy and awkward as a teen, you see. I wouldn’t even have made a blip in your radar.” A small moan escaped through my lips as his fingers slowly slid over and around my sensitive nipples.

  “You don’t know that.”

  I arched my back, almost toppling backwards into the foamy bathwater. “Sure I do. I bet you dated girls like Roxy – beautiful blonde girls who later blossomed into leggy blonde beauties.”

  Hunter conceded with a self-deprecating smile. “What about you? What sort of bloke did you date in your fancy school?”

  “I didn’t date, that’s the problem. Although I did have a crush on a popular guy who was one year above me.” I smiled dreamily, remembering. “His name was Marcus Johnson, but he was always hanging around with this redheaded girl. I think they were best friends or something.”

  “And you never spoke to him?”

  “He wasn’t the type of guy you could approach easily. I remember one bold girl in my year deliberately flashed her G-string at him, and the look of sheer disinterest on his face almost made me cry. So imagine how she felt.”

  Hunter seemed to find the story intriguing. “I bet he had a crush on his best friend. Reckoned he fucked her when they graduated.”

  I leaned closer and slid my soapy breasts over his chest. “Funny,” I whispered into his ear. “Maybe you should be the one writing romance books instead of Helen Archer.”

  “I’d rather be doing the fucking than writing about it.” Then he washed the soap off my chest and leaned down to suck hungrily at my nipples, his tongue prodding at the hardened nubs. I whimpered and held on to his broad shoulders, gazing down as his mouth took in more of my soft flesh. The visual was such an incredible turn on that I let out a loud, orgasmic groan.

  Hunter responded with his own groan, resting his forehead between my breasts as his fingers stroked my pussy under the water.

  “I can never get enough of this,” he said, swiping my swollen folds open. “What kind of spell did you ca
st on me, Roe? Ever since that day when I first saw you –” He stopped abruptly, breathing hard against my skin.

  “When you first saw me at uni?” I breathed, panting with desire. “Seriously? Does that mean you already liked me when I was tutoring you?”

  He fell silent as he resumed stroking my clit. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said finally. “You’re not ready to know yet.”

  “Ready to know what?” His behavior was starting to baffle me. I was about to ask another question when his hands grabbed my arse and lifted me a few inches from the water.

  “Time for a ride, don’t you think?” he said, before gently easing me down his shaft. I shuddered with excitement, feeling unbearably stretched. My breasts bounced as my hips moved up and down – slow at first, then growing faster, my muscles coiling and tightening around me. The water slapped against our skin as my movements became more frenzied.

  “I’m almost there.” I gasped, my pussy clenching down hard as I orgasmed. Waves of intense pleasure swept through me, causing my back to arch dangerously. I cried out as Hunter wrapped his hands around my waist to keep me from falling.

  He followed soon after, groaning loudly with his own intense release. Our amplified moans and cries bounced around the bathroom walls and rang in our ears. It made the experience that much more erotic.

  Moments later, we padded into the shower to wash off the remaining foam lingering on our bodies. As I reached up to scrub Hunter’s back, I stared at his amazing body, his strong biceps, his tight, muscular arse, and his long legs. To think that this incredible man was mine. He was the best thing to ever happen to me.

  I want to marry you so bad.

  But the last thing I wanted to do was frighten him off. Our relationship was great, and he cared deeply for me. He’d also mentioned something about having a future together. So I wasn’t going to risk all that by talking about marriage.

  At least not yet, anyway.

  Chapter 20

  When Eric and I arrived at the Hamptons, I was brimming with excitement. This was my first time in Long Island, and the thought of spending an entire weekend near the beach with fellow writers and my laptop was enough to make me do a happy dance in the front seat.

  Like Wally would say, I was such a geek.

  My mouth dropped open as Eric drove up a narrow driveway that soon revealed an elegant, two-storied colonial-style house.

  “This is yours?” I whispered in awe.

  “It’s our family’s summer home,” he replied, clearly amused. “I spent a lot of vacations here as a kid.”

  This was an awesome place to have a writers’ retreat.

  As I lugged my weekend bag across the threshold, Eric came up from behind and grabbed the handles, carrying the bag upstairs with relative ease.

  “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

  I followed after him, admiring his preppy style and trying my damnedest not to stare at his arse. I decided to focus on the softness of his gray cashmere cardigan sweater instead. It looked expensive and new, like something he’d purchased the day before.

  “What do you think?” he asked, opening the door to one of the prettiest rooms I’d seen. A queen-sized bed with patterned bed sheets, arched windows, high ceilings with a chandelier hanging in the middle, and a working fireplace . . . I never wanted to leave.

  “It’s lovely.” I managed to choke out.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack and change into something more comfortable. Oh, before I go, what should we have for dinner?”

  I sat on the bed and smiled. “I’m not sure. Maybe we should decide later when the others arrive.”

  Eric stared at me strangely, his hand on the doorknob. “The others?” he repeated. “Rosemary, no one else is coming. It’s just you and me this weekend.”

  No, it couldn’t be. I had specifically heard him say this was a writers’ retreat. A weekend getaway for Wyman and Steinberg’s writers. I had come here fully expecting to meet new colleagues and get some feedback on my latest manuscript.

  Hunter’s words echoed through my head. That guy reminds me of a spider. You’re getting caught up in his web, but you don’t even know it yet.

  Maybe his gut feelings had been right, after all.

  Eric had been studying me carefully the whole time. “Rosemary, obviously there was a misunderstanding between us. When I told you I had invited writers to the Hamptons a few times, and that you were welcome to join me this weekend, your answer was yes.” He gave me a reprimanding stare. “I made it very clear that it would only be the two of us.”

  Bullshit. I know what I heard.

  Instead of getting angry, however, I forced out another smile. “You’re right; I made a mistake. But it doesn’t matter. I get to spend an entire weekend at the Hamptons, so it’s all good.”

  Eric visibly relaxed. “Excellent. I’m glad you’re approaching this in a sensible way.” His brown hair flopped over his eyes, and he brushed it aside impatiently. “I think we’ll have chicken piccata and a bottle of Pinot Grigio for dinner. What do you think?” He stood there expectantly, waiting for my response.

  “Fine by me,” I said, widening my smile. “I’ll be down to help you shortly.”

  “No, no, I’m cooking tonight. Just be sure to get your manuscript in order. After dinner, we’ll sit in my study and discuss what you’ve written so far.”

  That actually sounded pretty nice. Spending time with the senior editor of a major publishing house as he gave advice and guidance on a new book . . . damn, but it sounded more than nice. It was an amazing opportunity to get some pro feedback.

  I was beginning to realize how ungrateful my reaction had been earlier.

  When Eric left to start dinner, I flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling. So what if there was only the two of us? Why should I waste a perfectly good weekend with baseless suspicions?

  Hunter, I love you, but you’re so wrong about this.

  My mind made up, I jumped to my feet and began unpacking my travel bag.

  Rain pattered outside as we sat down to eat dinner.

  I had to admit, Eric was one hell of a cook. In fact, the whole setup was impressive – a rainy weekend in the Hamptons, a lovely summer home, good food, and good company. How many women had fallen for his charms under such romantic settings?

  Eric leaned across to pour more wine into my glass. “It’s a shame about the rain. We could have eaten outside, maybe taken an evening walk along the beach.”

  “This is nice, too,” I said, sipping my wine. “I love the rain.”

  A loud crash of thunder split the evening sky, making us jump in fright.

  “Even that?” he asked with a rueful smile.

  “The more dramatic, the better,” I replied, raising my glass in the air.

  We resumed eating our chicken and discussed some of the fiction titles dominating the bestseller lists.

  “Helen Archer’s latest book in The Aristocrat’s Forbidden Love series is doing quite well.” Eric noted with a straight face. “It’s the eighteenth book, I believe?”

  I nodded. “And it’s never going to end, trust me. Half her royalties depend on that series alone.”

  “How many forbidden loves can the aristocrat have before he gives up?”

  “The guy’s a French Casanova. He’ll have as many as he bloody well pleases.”

  “I’m telling you, it makes no sense. He should have gone mad from tertiary syphilis by the tenth book.”

  I raised a questioning brow. “I thought you hadn’t read the series?”

  “Well . . .” Eric trailed off, clearing his throat delicately. “I’ll confess to having read them last month for research purposes. But I had to stop around book twelve. I simply couldn’t take it anymore.”

  To my relief, our discussion shifted to a topic far more interesting than Helen Archer’s latest literary offering.

  Namely, my manuscript.

  After clearing the table, we moved into his study, an elegant roo
m filled with endless rows of hardcovers and encyclopedia sets. As soon as I sat down on the leather sofa, Eric offered me a glass of port. I accepted it and watched nervously as he made himself comfortable behind his antique desk.

  I downed the dessert wine, then went to pour myself some more.

  After an excruciating twenty minutes, he was still reading. I couldn’t take another second of it. “Thoughts?” I tentatively asked.

  He raised an index finger to silence me, his eyes still on the manuscript.

  Sighing, I went to drown my anxiety by raiding his excellent wine cabinet.

  He must have read into the night because I suddenly awoke on his sofa, tired and feeling a bit drunk. The sound of the pattering rain outside, the smell of expensive leather around me, and the quiet of the study occasionally broken by shuffling pages . . . these sensations had combined to lull me into a comfortable sleep. Horribly embarrassed, I sat up and peered at Eric, who was sitting there staring thoughtfully at me. We simply stared at each other across the room, not saying a word.

  “Is something wrong?” I finally asked, a tremor in my voice.

  “On the contrary, Miss Thornton.” He stood up and walked around his beautiful desk. “If anything, it seems I’ve become quite a fan of yours.”

  I found myself unable to speak.

  He crouched before me, his blue eyes searching my face. “When Roxy called and talked about you, I wasn’t the least bit interested. Why would I want to meet a budding young writer when Wyman and Steinberg already had enough of them? But it was her following challenge that ultimately sparked my curiosity.” He brushed a thumb across my cheek. “She was absolutely certain that I would develop feelings for you. Said you were my type, even my intellectual equal. But that night when I met you at the penthouse, I wasn’t impressed at all. Not even for a moment. It was only later when I began reading the complete novel you’d accidentally emailed that I sat up and paid attention.”