Unleash Me: Wedding (The Unleash Me Series)

by Christina Ross

  “Perfect.”

  “I should probably go,” I said. “I have to unpack, and Ethel is likely wondering what’s taking me so long. We’ll be having dinner soon.”

  “How about if you call me later?” he said. “You know—tonight. When you’re getting into bed.”

  “Of course I’ll call and say good night.”

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Maybe I want a little bit more than that.”

  I narrowed my eyes when he said that. “What are you up to?” I asked.

  “Just because we’re apart doesn’t mean we can’t keep things interesting.”

  “Are you talking phone sex?”

  “What if I am?”

  “But what if your parents hear me? You know how I am when you get me going. I become a siren!”

  “I think we should do it,” he said. “Come on. We can talk about all the things I’d like to do…starting with my mouth pressed between your legs.”

  “Now you’re starting to turn me on.”

  “And that’s a problem because…”

  “Because I can’t walk back to that house with my headlights on.”

  “Come on, Lisa. Let me get you off later.”

  “Oh, my God…”

  “You know you want to do it.”

  “I do. In fact, after today, you don’t know how much I do.”

  “Then call me,” he said. “Just before you turn in. My parents’ bedroom is on the first floor and at the opposite end of the house from the bedrooms on the second floor, where you’ll be. Believe me, they won’t hear you. The house is too big.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” he said. “I know that house, and it’s built like a fortress.”

  “I have to admit it sounds kind of kinky,” I said. “Think of it—me getting pseudo laid in the house that God built. How about if we up the ante? How about if we FaceTime it!”

  “Seeing you naked would be even better.”

  “OK, so we’re doing this. I’ll call you around ten or so.”

  “I’ll be up and waiting,” Tank said. “With my hands full.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Wait until you see how terrible.”

  I told him that I loved him and then turned off my phone and put it back in my pants pocket—but not before glancing down and noticing that my nipples had stiffened to the point that they were pressing against my tank. Since it was a long walk back to the house, I knew they’d settle down before I got there, so I took a breath, tried to relax, and started back up the mowed path.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the time I’d returned to the house, my nipples had gotten themselves in check, even though my mind was racing with illicit thoughts of the clandestine evening Tank and I would have later—once I was certain Ethel and Harold were in bed and dead asleep.

  Tank and I had never had phone sex before, let alone video sex, simply because we’d rarely been apart. So I had to wonder what this little experiment of ours would even look like.

  I mean, where would I hold the phone? Near my little meow-meow, as Epifania liked to call it? Straight up against my breasts so Tank could see what he was missing? Or maybe video sex was all about the facial expressions I would make as we got each other off. Maybe it was all about me arching my back, rolling my eyes back into their sockets, and pulling at my hair as I went through variations of my O face.

  And then I considered the lighting, which was critical, because nothing said sexy like a harsh glare against pale white skin. The lighting needed to be warm, seductive, and inviting. I hadn’t seen my room yet, but I doubted the lights were on dimmers. Still, I was creative. I could always toss a light piece of fabric over a lamp to give the room a romantic glow.

  As for what I’d wear later? Let’s just say I was grateful I’d brought several sexy negligees with me for when Tank arrived later in the week, because otherwise I’d be screwed.

  When I entered the house and walked toward the kitchen, I saw Ethel seated on the padded bench next to the large bay window that overlooked the front of the house. In her hands was the trade-paperback version of the first book I’d published with Wenn—You Only Die Twice. From the looks of it, she was almost halfway through it, which just underscored that Ethel McCollister was a fucking speed reader. I’d only been gone for a couple of hours, for God’s sake, and she was burning through my book.

  “Well, well,” she said as she looked up at me. “And here I was thinking that you’d run away.”

  Thinking or hoping?

  I decided to sidestep the jab.

  “Ethel, I have to thank you,” I said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “For all the work you did around the gazebo. Harold told me that you personally chose every flower, bush, and plant yourself, and that you oversaw the completion of all of it. It’s beyond beautiful. Thank you for taking the time to do that for us.”

  “It was my pleasure, Lisa. I wanted everything to look just right.”

  “It does,” I said.

  “And I’m relieved. Now, tell me…because I have to tell you that I have been wondering—do you really believe in abortion?”

  And already we’re at it!

  “Excuse me?”

  “Abortion,” she repeated. “Ripping an unborn child from a mother’s womb.” She tapped her index finger against the spine of my book. “I just finished a particularly upsetting scene in which one of your characters decides to have an abortion, and it got me to thinking—I wonder if Lisa would ever have one. Or, for that matter, if she’s ever had one—not that it’s any of my business, of course, but I have to say that you’ve made me wonder whether that’s the case, particularly since that scene was so rich in detail. It seemed culled from personal experience. I’m hoping that isn’t the case.”

  “I’ve never had an abortion, Ethel. And as for the scene you’re referring to, the character in question had recently been bitten and become infected. She was dying, and she knew that when she passed, she would eventually turn into a monster capable of anything. She chose to have the abortion because she didn’t know if her unborn child also had become infected through her blood or what she would do to it if she gave birth to it and it was healthy.”

  “Are you suggesting that she would have eaten her own child?”

  “She might have, and she knew it. She had the abortion out of a desperate act of love for a child she’d never come to know.”

  “But if it hadn’t become infected, certainly one of the survivors she’s with could have taken it from her,” Ethel said. “Kept it safe—made sure that it was loved. So, why didn’t she consider that route? There was, after all, a chance that the baby might have been fine. She could have chosen life, couldn’t she?”

  “I suppose she could have, but that’s not the direction I decided to take the book.”

  “Because you believe in the sin of abortion.”

  It wasn’t a question—instead, it was a loaded statement. She was outright challenging me, but how far should I take this? Was she really looking for an argument already? Or was she just goading me to see how I’d react? Either way, if she kept this up, it could turn into an argument, which I didn’t want to have, especially on my first day here.

  Don’t take any of her shit, Lisa. Tank’s words echoed in the mind.

  I promise to take only what I can swallow, but nothing more.

  Those proved to be fateful words, because this? This was something I couldn’t swallow. So, despite the inevitable consequences, I decided to take her on.

  “I believe that my character did the right thing for her.”

  “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Then let me be clear, Ethel. I believe in a woman’s right to choose.”

  “I thought so,” she said. “All of you liberals do. As you’ve likely guessed by now, I believe in the sanctity of life.”

 
Even though I was, in fact, a liberal, I nevertheless wanted to know how she’d labeled me as one. “What makes you think I’m a liberal?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Lisa. Perhaps because of the scene we just spoke about. Or maybe it’s due to your liberal use of taking the Lord’s name in vain in print, which for the life of me I can’t understand, since there are other ways to express one’s displeasure. Or perhaps it’s just your characters in general—at least in this book. I mean, they are a crude, scrappy lot, aren’t they? I’ve skimmed through two sex scenes so far, and I’m only halfway through the book. Goodness knows what’s to come.”

  “It’s a book, Ethel. Fiction. Entertainment for the masses.”

  “Just fiction?” she asked pointedly. “You know, I once read somewhere that writing is an extension of one’s personality. How do you feel about that? Any truth to it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, you would abort a child?”

  “That would depend on the situation. But how about if we frame this another way, Ethel?”

  “And what way is that, Lisa?”

  “For a moment, how about if you give some thought to those cozy mysteries you read. Generally, a murder is involved, isn’t that right?”

  “Generally.”

  “Then let me ask you this—when you read those books, do you automatically assume that the writer is a murderer? That the idea that they wrote about a murder is an extension of their personalities and who they are as people? Or do you just read the books for enjoyment without giving a single thought to who wrote them and who they might be as human beings?”

  “I see what you’re doing,” she said, reaching for the red ribbon on the windowsill next to her and wedging it into my book before snapping it shut. “You’re deflecting.”

  “No, I’m not. In fact, I believe you’re the one who just deflected. You can’t have it both ways, Ethel. You can’t judge me on my morality when you refuse to judge your favorite writers as you judge me.”

  “The women I read don’t write about such filth,” she said. “But you do.”

  I held up my hands when she said that before this truly escalated.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “You and I are done for today. I’m tired. I need to unpack. And before long, I’ll be going to bed.”

  “But there’s dinner,” she said as she stood up. “It’s simmering on the stove.”

  What’s simmering is me, lady, and trust me on this—you don’t want to see me blow.

  “I’m no longer hungry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We were just having a discussion.”

  “That was no discussion, Ethel. That was nothing but pure, unbridled judgment—yours, when it comes to how you view me. It’s true, and you know it. Now, if you could show me to my room, I’ll get settled in, I’ll unpack, I’ll try to forget about today and what’s been said to me throughout the day, and hopefully we can start fresh tomorrow.”

  “Harold is going to wonder why you aren’t at dinner. He’s going to sense there’s an issue.”

  “That’s not my problem—it’s yours. Besides, I’m sure you are absolutely capable of finding an excellent excuse for my absence that has nothing to do with the real reason I won’t be at dinner.”

  “So, now you’re calling me a liar?”

  “Call it what you will.” I leaned toward her, and when I did, her eyes widened. “You think you know me, Ethel, but you don’t. Not even close. My hope is that you won’t continue to judge this particular book by her cover, because you are way off when it comes to me. But enough of this. Please show me to my room. I’m tired, I’m going to turn in early—and frankly, I’d rather be alone than sit at dinner with you while you judge my manners and how I eat.”

  “I would do no such thing.”

  “We both know better. So, show me to my bedroom. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Later that evening, after I’d unpacked my suitcases in the large guest room Ethel had prepared for me, my stomach growled, and I knew I’d be going to bed hungry due to the ridiculous conversation she’d baited me into having with her.

  For a while, I’d half-expected Harold to come and check on me, but he hadn’t, which told me that Ethel had successfully made him believe I really was too tired to eat and that I’d decided to unpack and go to bed early.

  Whatever…

  I was arranging my toiletries in the en suite bathroom when I checked the time on my watch and thought of Tank. It was half past eight, the sun had set, and a purplish twilight glow filled the bedroom with lavender-colored light. I went over to the three windows opposite my bed, drew the blinds, shut the curtains—and wondered if I had it in me to go forward with what Tank and I had planned for tonight.

  If you don’t, then she’s really won the day. Is that what you want?

  I thought about that for a moment, and I knew that of course it wasn’t what I wanted. This was my wedding week, and while Tank might not be with me now due to circumstances neither of us could have predicted or prevented, that didn’t mean we still couldn’t be together—regardless of the method.

  I’ve got to shake this off, I thought, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. I can’t let her get to me…or ruin what could be a fun night with the love of my life. I owe it to Tank to give my all to him. So, fuck Ethel McCollister and her assumptions about me. Let her have them.

  With resolve, I went to the antique armoire across the room, opened its set of double doors, and removed a sexy lace teddy that would leave little to the imagination when I wore it. It was bright red and Tank had never seen me in it before, and as I turned it this way and that, I thought it would be perfect for tonight.

  I laid it over the back of a chair and then looked around the bedroom with new eyes. As I had suspected, the lighting was way too harsh, but after grabbing a dark-brown hand towel from the bathroom and placing it over the lamp next to my bed, the room transformed itself into something that was perfectly lit and kind of sexy. The exception was the flowery bedspread, which looked as if Ethel had made it herself. With a flick of my wrist, it was gone, leaving clean, white sheets in its wake.

  This isn’t looking so bad…

  And then I thought of my phone, which I hadn’t charged since leaving New York. I grabbed it off a side table, turned it on, and saw that the battery was nearly dead. Quickly, I removed the charger from my carryon, found a socket next to the side table, and plugged the adapter in. The good news is that the phone charged quickly, so I’d likely just averted a crisis.

  Shoes, I thought. I need a pair of hot-looking shoes…

  I returned to the armoire and looked at all the shoes I’d brought with me. There were nearly a dozen of them, all lined across the bottom of the armoire. Most of them were perfectly appropriate for any occasion, one pair was for my wedding day, another pair was for the wedding rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner, and then there were the three pairs that were just sexy enough for those few evenings I’d spend with Tank when he arrived here after attending Brian’s funeral.

  For tonight, I decided to go with the Gianvito Rossi folie metallic leather ankle-wrap sandals with the four-inch heels, which Tank also hadn’t seen. Plucking them out of the armoire, I placed them next to the bed. Before I headed off to take a shower, I went over to my bedroom door and saw with a jolt that there was no lock on it.

  How can that be? I thought in horror. No locks? Seriously?

  But what could I do about that? Nothing. So I just focused on the moment.

  Time passed, and I made sure everything was just right in the bedroom. I looked at my watch, saw that it was nine, and wondered what time Ethel and Harold went to sleep. Or if they were already in bed now. I thought of opening the door to check for movement or conversation downstairs, but I didn’t dare to. If one of them heard me, they might call up to me—which I didn’t want, especially considering what Tank and I were about to do. Since my bedroom light was on, at the very least I want
ed them to think I was simply in bed and possibly reading before I went to sleep.

  I can’t do anything with Tank if they’re awake, I thought. Too risky. Not worth it. But Tank will know when they generally turn in. And he’ll also know the best way for me to check.

  ***

  After I’d showered, blown out my hair, and done my makeup, I wiggled into my skin-tight teddy before putting on my shoes, which proved a rather significant challenge, because I wasn’t sure how to properly crisscross the straps around my ankles and up my lower calf.

  When I’d finally figured it out, I sat back on the bed, stretched my legs out toward the ceiling, and kicked my feet a few times in the air as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Then I hooked the shoes at their heels as I pressed my hand against my sex and closed my eyes in anticipation for what was to come.

  Which hopefully would be both of us.

  It was twenty minutes before ten when I remembered that I’d brought a bottle of Grey Goose with me in my carryon, knowing in my gut that I’d never find a drink here since the McCollisters didn’t imbibe.

  But I did.

  Needing a shot of liquid courage if only to relax and to really get into the mood, I hurried over to the armoire and removed the bottle from the bag. Despite the fact that I had no ice to chill the vodka, at least there was a glass next to the sink. I poured myself a good inch, tossed it back, looked at myself in the mirror, fussed over my hair, added another layer of lip gloss, and then returned to the bedroom and reached for my phone. The battery was now at 90 percent, certainly powerful enough for what Tank and I had in mind.

  Or maybe not, depending on how far we go…

  Before I called him, I sat down on the bed, turned on the phone, and looked at myself in the camera as I positioned myself.

  Not bad, I thought as I hoisted up the girls and fluffed out my hair. The lighting is actually good. I turned onto my stomach, moved the camera around so it was aimed at my ass, and then I craned my neck around so I could see what it looked like on the phone. Oh, God, I thought. I’m beyond pale, but at least my ass is in shape, so there’s that. But what to do about my hoo-ha? Do I even dare look at it through this thing? Is Tank even going to want me to go there? What if he does, and I haven’t seen how it photographs first? Oh, Christ, I have to look.