by Morgan Rae
“You want me to shoo them away?” A café worker in a black and white polka dot dress lifts her hands to her hips as she clicks her tongue at the paparazzi. “A bunch of jerks, if you ask me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Martin says. “You’re a sweetheart for asking.”
“If you say so.” Her hand rests briefly on my shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything else, honey.”
Her magnolia scented perfume lingers in her wake. Her invitation doesn’t go unnoticed, and maybe three months ago, I would have backed her into the kitchen and made more than the coffee drip. Instead, I ignore it and turn my attention back to my mug.
Martin’s eyes narrow. “Hey, when was the last time you got laid?”
“That isn’t any of your business.” I tell him.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been with anyone since Nancy.” I don’t have to respond, he already knows it’s true. “It’s been two months. That’s practically two years for you. No wonder you’re so high strung. Take a break from recording the album. Go to a strip club, get wasted, blow off some steam. You deserve it.”
How do I tell him that even the thought of sleeping with someone other than Tomlin makes my stomach curl?
Nancy. Not Tomlin.
I’m gripping the mug too tightly in my hand and I nearly break it. I collect myself, finish off the glass, and say, “Thank you for the coffee, Martin. I’m going to jet before it becomes a circus out there.”
"Damien." I go still even though I've already gotten to my feet. There is a hint of unease in his voice that makes me turn back to him. "As much as I hate to draw out this twisted love affair, you are contractually obligated to take part in the reunion show for Destination: Desire this weekend." His eyes are apologetic. "It's one night, here in LA. They'll put you up in a hotel, you'll do the episode for a couple hours, and then you're off the hook. We can wipe our hands clean of this."
"It's not that easy for me," I tell him.
He shrugs. "Just smile for the cameras. You'll get through it."
Smile for the cameras. It seems to be all anyone can say to me these days. I flip my hood over my head and push through the cafe. I leave through the back and give myself a couple minutes’ head start on the paparazzi.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: NANCY
My taxi rolls to a stop outside the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. I’m only staying a night, but the thought of picking out just the right outfit to win Damien Blaze back was a daunting task. The driver helps me pull my suitcase out of the trunk and I give him a generous tip before I roll it inside.
The concierge greets me with a practiced smile. “Welcome to the Four Seasons,” she says. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes,” I say as I lean on my suitcase. “Nancy Harper.”
Her manicured nails click over the keyboard and her lips press together tightly. “I’m sorry, it doesn’t look like we have a reservation under that name.”
I groan to myself. I made my lie and now I have to live in it. “Uh, it might be under Tomlin Murray.”
Her nails give a couple more quick clicks and that plastic smile returns. “Thank you, Miss Murray.” She glances down, makes a note on a sheet of paper, then turns around and lifts a small packet from the shelf behind her. She hands it over to me with a smile. “Please sign the top copy to acknowledge that you’ve received this. You’re in room 1802.”
A manila folder sits in front of me, the paper to sign on top along with a pen with a pink bow wrapped around it. As I sign, I let my eyes flicker to the shelf behind the concierge. There are two blue bows, one pink bow. One for each contestant. My heart pounds in my chest, one blue bow is gone.
One of the men is already here. Damien?
I let my hand slip, sending the pen flying behind the desk, before rolling to the floor. “Oh damn. I’m so sorry,” I say.
When the concierge crouches down to pick up the pen I lift myself on my tip-toes to look over the counter. I see the sheet of paper with the production company’s letterhead at the top. There’s a check next to my name and a room number. I scan through it quickly until I find what I’m looking for.
Damien Blaze. Room 1901. Check and mate.
I’m all smiles and apologies when the concierge stands back up and returns the pen to me. I hand off the signed sheet and take the packet and my luggage with me to the elevator. I ride it to the eighteenth floor, get out, and wheel my bag down to my room. The elevator key lights up in the doorway before letting me in.
The room is decorated in layers of deep sea blue that reminds me of the waves lapping on the shore. The room is nice enough with a queen-sized bed facing the television, and a nice view of the city.
I’m not the first one here. One of the lights on the nightstand is on and it pours over a gift basket at the head of my bed. I tug the pink bow free and find shampoo items, a box of cookies, a champagne split.
“Cute,” I say out loud. As I reach to undo the ribbon I feel the hairs stand on the back of my neck. I get the sickening feeling of someone watching me. My eyes flicker up to the corners of the ceiling checking for small cameras or recording devices. I’m constantly paranoid now, but for good reason. I wouldn’t put it past the production crew to bug the hotel rooms.
All this time spent trying to distance myself from Destination: Desire, and now I’m back behind enemy lines. I sit on the edge of my bed for a second, and take a breath to compose myself.
I know the production crew is already gearing up their questions for me tonight. I know they’re going to play me up as a “spy” and paint me as a heartless bitch who was just in it for the fame and fortune. I’m the break out story, I’m the one the reporters are now drooling to get their claws in.
But it’s no longer about the show for me. I’m here for one reason and one reason only, I have to get Damien back.
I get up, leave my room, and step in the elevator to head to the nineteenth floor. He’s at the top floor, star treatment for the star. I try to fix my hair in my reflection in the glossy elevator doors before they ding open but the best I can do is a messy bun. I walk down the hallway, reading the door numbers. 1903…1902…
1901
My heart is pounding in my throat. My instincts are screaming at me to run away, get back in the elevator and hide in my bed with my pillow over my head. But I don’t, I can’t. I summon my nerves and pound on the door.
It takes a moment before I get any response. I consider turning around again when I hear the chain scrap against the door and it swings open.
There he is. Shirtless, rougher around the edges, but still every inch of the man I gave my heart to. He’s lost a little weight around the middle and gained it in muscle around his chest, abdomen, and arms. I can see the lines clearly defined in his stomach, like a Roman statue, and they disappear into his jeans. His chest hair is peppered now, , but his skin glistens like he’s just worked up a sweat. His beard is trimmed down to an earthy stubble, but it gives his jaw a sharper edge than I remembered.
I look up and straight into his eyes. Those eyes that could steal the blue from a cloudless sky, those eyes that haunt my dreams, are now staring right back at me.
He plucks the earbuds from his ears, “Miss Harper,” he says. His tone is incredibly formal and brusque. “Can I help you?”
I thought I’d prepared myself for his cold shoulder, but it’s hard to see him like this now. Those eyes aren’t filled with the endless adoration I knew before. They’ve hardened and grown thorny with distrust.
I know he’s just protecting his heart, but it hurts all the same. I suck in a breath. “Hi. Can I come inside?” When he doesn’t budge from the doorway, I continue, “I thought we could talk before the show.”
Finally, he steps back and nods to let me in. I feel the heat rising from his bare skin as I brush past him. I feel a bolt of ice stab through my heart when I realize that’s how he looks and feels right after he’s had sex.
I swal
low the lump forming in my throat. “Are we…alone?” I ask. My eyes scan his hotel suite quickly. It’s a nicer room than mine, bigger, too, with huge glass windows. I have a mini-fridge, but he has a full kitchen set up. The door to what I assume is his bedroom is closed, which makes my stomach clench with nerves. If he’s going to flaunt his conquests in my face, I at least don’t want to be blindsided by it.
“Yes.” He unhooks the iPod from his pants, curls the wire around the body, and leaves it on the table. “They have a gym upstairs. I only got back a few minutes before you knocked.”
I try to hide the blush of embarrassment rising in my cheeks. I should have known better than to assume that he’d fallen back on his playboy ways. The Damien I fell in love with, and I know to be true, wouldn’t do that. Now I feel like an ass. I remind myself that it’s not my business who he screws, he’s no longer mine. My heart tugs at that final thought and I try to come up with something to say to fill the awkward silence. “That explains the uh…” I motion to his body lamely, “…you buffed up.”
“Working out seems to be the only thing that helps me unwind anymore. That, and writing music.” His arms cross over his chest and he gets straight to the point. “You wanted to talk.”
“Yes.” I’m back to business now and tuck some loose hair behind my ear. “You know. Without cameras.”
“How do I know you’re not wearing a wire?” he accuses.
I lift my arms. “Do you want me to take off my shirt?”
His eyes flash briefly before his jaw clenches. I get the impression that teasing him right now is like tonguing the trigger of a loaded gun, dangerous and wholly unadvisable.
“Sorry,” I let out a light laugh, hoping to break the tension, “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I know you’re mad at me for lying to you, and I get it, you have every right to feel betrayed by me.”
“You stabbed me in the back.” His voice is as hard as stone. “You humiliated me on national television. And then, when that wasn’t enough, you shared my every secret in your little article.”
I feel my teeth start to grind defensively. “Yes,” I say, controlling my temper. “But you have to understand, the things that Jack was publicizing about you, this whole spin about you killing Laura…the only way to clear your name was to tell the truth about what happened. I published the article to clear your name.”
“Thank you for that,” he says though his tone drips in acidity. “But my name wouldn’t have been ruined if it wasn’t for you. So really, well done.”
I’ve never seen this unabashed anger in him and it strikes a note of fear in me. I start to think this was a very bad idea.
“I get it!” I say and I throw my hands up. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know everyone hates me. Trust me, I didn’t come here for the publicity. I came here for you. I miss you.”
There’s a shift in his expression, like a passing shadow. “You miss me?”
I feel an inch of tepid relief. “Yes,” I try to keep the emotion out of my voice but I feel myself cracking under his gaze.. Still, I keep my eyes on his, silently pleading with him to believe me. “I miss you. I don’t want to fight.”
He fills the gap between us in one long-legged step. His scent of musk and hard oak takes my breath away and it’s taking everything I have not to lean into him right now.
“What do you want?”
For a second, I can’t catch my breath. The anger in his eyes has sharpened into something predatory and I stare up dumbly like a deer in the headlights. I swallow hard. I came to apologize but with him so close to me, so emotionally charged, all I want to do is reach out and touch him. My skin tingles with the desire to feel the touch of his fingertips and I’m afraid that if I linger any longer under his hungry gaze, my growing lust might highjack my good intentions. “Maybe I should go,” I breathe and take a step backwards.
My back hits the wall and Damien presses his palms on either side of my head, pinning me in. “You invade my room,” he says, his voice low and dark. “Interrupt my privacy, and you’re not even going to take what you want?”
“I…” My breath hitches in my throat when he cups my side and his fingertips graze my bare skin under my shirt. “Damien, I didn’t come here for…that…”
“Of course you did.” The growl of his voice makes me shudder. The hem of my pants bites into my hips as he unbuttons them. I hear the hiss of my zipper as he pulls it down. “No one has ever made love to you the way I do. All those boys who want something from you, they’ve never given you a kiss you feel all the way to your toes, have they?”
His breath beats against my mouth and he’s so close to kissing me I wet my lips in eager anticipation. My heart is hammering in my chest and I’m suddenly grateful for the cool plaster wall against my back as my head starts to spin. “Look,” I say and try to shake off the haze of lust as I plant my hands on his strong chest to keep him at bay. “Your sex-talk might work on your desperate little groupies, but you can’t get me on my knees that easily.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says and the clipped authority in his voice silences me. His hand slips in the opening of my pants and he cups my panties. I’m embarrassingly wet, I know he must feel the heat radiating from me even through the thin fabric. His voice comes from deep in his throat, low as a growl, when he says, “Tell me you want this.”
My hands that initially pushed him away now cling to his chest, coaxing him in closer. “I want this,” I whimper. I spread my legs wider, giving him access.
Damien’s fingers slip underneath my panties and I feel him spread open my sex. He smears my wetness around and finds my bundle of nerves. I gasp as bolts of hot pleasure shoot through my body every time he hits my sensitive little nub and then draws back again. He’s mapping me out, re-familiarizing himself with my most intimate parts.
“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” His hot breath hits me as he murmurs against my lips. “You’ve been dreaming about my fingers on your skin. My lips on your throat. My cock buried inside of you. You wake up yearning for me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whisper. My cheeks are flushed, burning red now. My lips are swollen with the need for him to kiss me, but he never does, hovering just an inch out of reach. He plunges a finger inside of me and I cry out as I grind against his palm.
“If you were mine,” he says, “I’d wake you up every morning with my tongue between your legs.”
There are no words to describe how turned on I am right now. He sucks my earlobe between his teeth and I feel my body wracked with immense pleasure as another finger fills me. He curls his fingers inside of me and finds that little spot that sends a flood of warmth through me. He’s playing me like a guitar and I’m singing for him, whimpering and gasping.
I want to touch him. I want to make him feel as good as he’s making me feel. My hands start to slip downwards, but he demands, “Keep your hands at my shoulders,” so I do. My nails dig into his skin though as he pumps his fingers deep inside of me, reaching places that only he can find. My thighs clench around his hand and my legs tremble wildly. I can barely hold myself up. His fingers are like magic, bringing me to heights of pleasure I’ve only dreamed about.
I nearly lose it when his thumb finds my clitoris and he begins flicking it. I’m rocking into his hand now, so desperate for him. The strap of my dress slips down, baring the top of my breast, but I’m too far gone to care. He’s strong, so strong now, that even his fingers hit me deeper, harder than any ex’s cock.
He’s right about one thing, Damien Blaze is a big, bad wolf of a man and he makes everyone that came before look like puppy dogs. I want him to swallow me whole. I feel his hot breath against my throat, I’m smothered in his deep-woods smell, and I want him inside of me. I want to be impaled by the hot iron of his manhood, I want to feel his hard muscles press against my back, I want those talented fingers curled deep in my hair, like the first night we were together.
But I’m not goi
ng to last that long. I gasp loudly as his merciless ministrations push me closer and closer to the edge and soon my sex is clamped around his fingers.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers into my ear. “Do you feel that deep…painful…agonizing ache?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Please.” My whole body is pulsing around his fingers and I’m sweating with feverish lust. I’m there, right there, just a hairsbreadth away from the blinding orgasm my body has been craving since the last time Damien Blaze got his hands on me.
His touch vanishes. I open my eyes in confusion, only to watch him as he sucks his two fingers in his mouth, licking himself clean of my juices. I groan and almost come from the sight alone. I’m slippery with need and the pain of his absence is almost unbearable.
Damien catches my face in his hand and he holds me in close so I can focus on nothing but the sound of his voice. “This ache you’re feeling right now,” he says, articulating every word slowly. “It’s nowhere near how badly my chest ached when you ripped my heart out with your lies.”
All air leaves my body and my heart drops into my stomach. He steps away from me, unlocks the door, and holds it open. He’s gone completely cold now, a total one-eighty from the man who was sensually whispering in my ear not moments ago.
“You should leave,” he says. “Before I’m forced to call up the producer and tell her you’ve been harassing me.”
My mouth has gone dry. My head is buzzing from confusion, embarrassment, hurt. Shaking, I button up my pants and adjust them back over my hips before walking out the door.
“Damien, listen—”
He doesn't. He closes the door in my face.
I stand there and blink at the door trying to comprehend what just happened. I'm in complete disarray, my panties are soaking wet, my body is screaming for release, and I feel like I've swallowed a stone. The pattern on the carpeted hallways blurs together as I make my way to the elevator, down one, and back to my room. My chest is tight with emotion and my vision blurs as I try to swipe my key card to get in. It takes three tries before the lock flashes green and lets me in, but by that time tears are already spilling down my cheeks.