by Ella James
Using every bit of willpower I have, I reach around his arms, pushing past the elastic of his boxer-briefs to cup his head. My fingers glide down on each side of his cock and he moans, pressing his forehead against mine, kissing my mouth. His is open, panting. "Elizabeth."
The way he says my given name, all breathless and lustful, is conditioning. I wrap my fingers around him, pumping him near the top. With my other hand I cup his balls. I'm surprised by how heavy they feel.
The hand that's stroking his cock moves over his head, finding it slick. I made Hunter wet. That thought makes me wet. His cock is pulsing and when I glide up and down again, he lays his cheek against my shoulder, holding onto my back with one hand while his other teases my clit.
"Libby..."
The nickname brings me back to the here and now, and I loosen my grip on him. His hand, holding onto my shoulder, trails down to cup my ass; his fingers in my panties shove deeper inside and I feel pressure building there. I shift my hips, desperate to relieve it.
"Hunter," I groan. I feel shaky, almost scared.
He tugs me to him, lifting me up and carrying me across the room. We go through a big, glass door and into somewhere hot—the sauna, where he gently lays me out on one of the benches. I watch through lust-heavy eyes as he grabs a red towel and lays it on the wood plank floor; then he lifts me in his arms again and spreads me out. My pants are unzipped and folded down. His hand is moving and I'm gasping.
Hunter West.
Oh, yes.
No. I shouldn't be doing this.
"You're with Priscilla," I whimper.
He laughs, a hard, dry sound. "I'm not."
"I don't even...know you," I pant. It doesn't matter to me, but it should.
He thumbs my clit and I arch against his hand. "What’s to know?"
He's kissing my breasts, with one finger inside me. I've got one hand inside his boxer-briefs, and he is groaning in my ear.
This is wrong, this is so wrong. I know it is, but I can't stop.
"We're in a bathroom. I must be crazy."
"Sauna," he pants.
Then his finger glides out of me and skates over my clit. I clench my knees around his arm, barely able to keep my hand on his cock moving as I tremble.
"I can't do this," I whimper, although I obviously am doing it.
He rests his hand atop my mound, but I still have him by the shaft. My hand trembles, and it must feel good, because he shuts his eyes. As he does, his hips rock into me, and heat blooms all over my hand. His eyes flip open and I'm shocked to find that this is...wow.
I blink up at him, fuzzily aware that Hunter is coming and I should stroke him. He groans so loudly it hurts my ears, and his hands come down on my shoulders.
He pants, and drops his head against my shoulder in a way I love. I cup his cheek. My mind is racing, and as my pulse calms, I ask, only loud enough to rise above the sound of our deep breathing, "Why do you call me Libby?"
He lifts his head, his eyes on mine. His softens, like he's remembering something nice. "I used to know someone named Libby. She was kind...and when I met you, you reminded me of her."
I flush with shame. So the name is not for me. Of course not. He's dating a porn star, for crying out loud. Is he like this with everyone, I wonder? Sex on a stick, making women everywhere drop what they're doing and give him a hand-job in club bathrooms? I think about his back, unable to reconcile the grisly wounds with the look of kindness burning in his eyes right now. He must be some kind of fiend.
I draw my hands back to my sides, scooting away so I dislodge the hand that's still in my panties. I'm staring at his handsome face while telling myself that this is it. This insanity with Hunter West is over now.
"Libby, what's—" wrong?
How could I ever begin to explain?
I stagger to my feet and throw open the sauna door, and I’m into the bathroom before Hunter is even on his feet. I'm crying before I get into the hall. By the time I sprint into the parking lot, I know I have a lot to learn about more than sex—starting with how to shield my fragile heart.
*
~HUNTER~
I can't go after her. I can't even move. I'm shaking everywhere. I can't believe I told her that—the name Libby. I’ve never mentioned her to anyone, ever—not even Marchant. But I told Elizabeth DeVille. I told her something secret, something as personal to me as flesh and blood—and she looked at me like I'd just slapped her. Why did it make her so upset? Does she think Libby is a girlfriend?
'Libby' came into my mind the moment I saw Elizabeth DeVille trying to pop the hood of an old Porsche in the middle of the road in the middle of the night. She'd begun as a neon blip on my infrared security camera, but even then I could see her temper, her determination. As she watched me in my garage later that night, her perceptive eyes brought the first Libby back to mind. I have a thing for names, so the few times I saw her again over the years, I would remember how she reminded me of Libby.
I don't bother asking myself why I always end up doing crazy things with Libby DeVille. I already know I don't have the answer. She just does it to me. Gets under my skin like a rash.
As I leave the sauna and stroll back into the stall where I left my shirt, everything on my body aches, but nothing more than the regret inside my chest.
Chapter Twenty-Three
~ELIZABETH~
"Scarlett!"
"SCARLETT!"
"There she is!"
I'm standing in the parking lot by the side of the Joseph building, having just declined a ride from—of all people—Michael Lockwood, the guy who Hunter bashed to pieces, when my posse catches up to me. I turn around, and before I can get a good view of anything, Juniper smashes into me, surprising me with a ferocious hug. "We were dreadfully worried!"
"I'm sorry, girl." Loveless pats my head, and Bella says, "We've been looking for you for half an hour."
Juniper releases me, and I look down the row of concerned faces. "I'm really sorry. It's my fault. I went to the bar and..."
"That's when I saw Juan," Loveless says. "He was my client a few years ago and I hadn't seen him since then so I guess I got distracted."
I feel relieved. None of them saw me with Hunter—at the bar or in the bathroom.
"I'm so sorry," Loveless says. She grabs my hand, and I'm being tugged behind the rest of them. I assume we're going to our ride, and a few seconds later, there is Rod in the Escalade. The other girls shuffle me inside first—"So you don't get lost," Bella teases—so I end up in the back, sandwiched between Loveless and a wall.
As we crawl onto the crowded strip, I listen to the girls talk about the reason we're leaving 'early'. Apparently Domino, Marie V.'s overzealous client, started talking crap about the guy whose nose he broke in the fight, and Loveless thought it was a good idea for the Love Inc. crew to leave.
"So I held you guys up? I'm sorry."
"It was Loveless's fault for leaving you," Juniper says. "Don't worry. We're a family here. We forgive each other."
"How was Juan?” Bella asks Loveless. "Still looking fine as mama's apple pie?"
"Finer than a key lime pie," Loveless confirms.
She glances over at me, giving me an exaggerated wink. I don't really understand it, and it's not long before I find myself drifting off into my own little bubble of Scarlett angst. How is it possible that I’m selling my virginity as a fund-raising measure, but I'm so addicted to my crush that I'm all tied up in knots not over the auction the day after tomorrow but over who said crush is screwing and why.
By the time we make it off the strip, I've decided that I can console myself with something: Hunter is obviously in to me in the same way I am to him. I remember the way his green eyes burned when he grabbed my arm in the ladies' room. When I add everything together, I’m very tempted to say Hunter doesn't want to have a thing with me, but he can't help himself.
I smirk. Maybe it's pheromones.
My smirk turns into a frown when I remember seeing Priscilla
out by Hunter's car.
I really wish that bitch would just disappear.
The road darkens as we head southeast, toward the ranch, and in the privacy of the dark, I allow myself to remember Hunter's beautiful body. I'm pretty sure this will be the last time I ever see it—I'm not doing that to myself again—so I want to remember everything. But the thing that stands out most in my mind, other than the beautiful, blissful expression on his relaxed face as I worked him toward an orgasm, is his back.
And I know Priscilla did that. And I hate her for it.
And I wonder for the hundred-thousandth time, why? Why is he with her? Assuming for a second that her personality and her job don’t matter at all (and I’m aware the job gripe is kind of hypocritical considering the company I’m presently keeping), she’s not even that striking. She’s attractive in a prefabricated kind of way, but there are lots of other fish in the sea—other pretty women with Crest-white smiles, fake tits, and mile-long legs.
I swallow, feeling weird. I'm one of them, aren't I? Okay, my boobs are real, but now that I've gotten into shape, I'm leggy, and I've always had a nice, white smile. It's strange to think of myself as pretty when I'm so accustomed to ignoring my appearance—but I am pretty. I'm striking. A week or two under Brenda's care and I'll be just as cut as the next working girl. I'm the whole package, so why is he with her?
I’m going to figure that out.
As far as the other major thing I have to think about—I feel comfortable with this, comfortable in general as the girls take turns describing features of their best-ever client, leaving the others to guess names. And then we turn onto the little asphalt road that's lined with billboards, and Loveless leans in close and whispers, "I didn't talk to Juan tonight. I saw him, but he went downstairs before I could get to him."
Her eyes widen purposefully, and I know what she's saying. She saw me disappear with Hunter. I expect her to ask me for details, but instead she pats my knee. "It's your story, Cinderella. Just tell me, did you lose a shoe?"
She has a habit of saying things that I don’t understand, but I have a miserable sense that the answer is yes. Tears fill my eyes, and she whispers, "Oh, honey."
I nod, and I feel a little better.
When Rod lets us off in front of the girls' rooms, Loveless slips off with me, toward the big house.
*
"I'm okay if you're busy tonight," I tell her as we make it to the side entrance. "I don't want you to feel like you have to babysit my sad self."
"Pshh. I don't do anything I don't want to do. Not usually. When I break that rule," Loveless says as we walk toward the elevator, "I break it for my Daddy when he calls wanting to talk about baseball.”
“Baseball?”
She shrugs. “He loves the Cubs. I can’t stand baseball.”
I think about my own Dad and feel a sharp pang. "Does your Dad know you do this?"
We step into the elevator, and Loveless smiles. "He knows I've got a good job in the entertainment industry, and he knows where I live." She shrugs. "I bet he thinks that I'm a stripper—but he doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.” She laughs. “Thank God."
I nod. "Sounds perfect."
"It is. When it comes to some things, Mom and Dad don't want to know."
"Are your parents married?"
She shakes her head. "Divorced. My mom's married to a woman up in New York. It was an amicable split."
"Are you an only child?"
She laughs as the elevator dings and we step out. "You sound like Marchant giving me a job interview. He likes to psychoanalyze us."
"Really?" That doesn't seem like the party-going bachelor I hear so much about.
She nods. "Really. Once you get three or more women in one place, it gets crazy enough without adding an extra dose of cray cray."
I smile. "Don't I know."
I lead the way to my room and unlock the door. When we step inside, Loveless inhales deeply. "I love that smell."
"Which one?"
"That flowery smell they put into the rooms here," She looks over at a side table and smiles knowingly. "Those are tiger lilies—they aren’t what smells."
"So they spray in here to make it smell good? Like that 'new car smell' that dealers use?"
"Yep." She winks and walks over to the refrigerator, opening the door and smirking at the contents. "You've got the sex 'fridge, too."
I'm in stitches as she goes through my refrigerator, giving examples for how to use honey, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, chocolate ice cream, strawberry yogurt, pickles, champagne, white wine, chardonnay, cherries...
By the time she's finished, I feel five percent more lighthearted.
"Thank you, Loveless."
"For what?" she asks, popping open a box of refrigerated chocolates. She holds it out to me. "I'm just informing you of what goes on in this room when we get over-booked. These are girls' private rooms, but we have to make do sometimes. I think I've come in here at least three times." She smiles naughtily, and I laugh.
"You're about as innocent as a junior high schooler."
"I am not," I say defensively.
Her mouth draws into a frown. "I guess you're not. So maybe you should just get on with your story. I want the whole sordid tale. I've got a Hunter story of my own."
"Yours first," I say. She opens her mouth to protest, and I say, "Because mine will take all night."
Her brown eyes widen and she waves a chocolate. "I've got enough of this to keep me going. I'll go first, but I want the whole thing after that."
I blush, and she hoots. "Okay," I say grudgingly.
She crosses her long legs and begins to unlace her wedge sandals. "I was working with Mr. West a couple of years ago. I think maybe five. He used to come out here and get all coked up, drinking everything besides that big ole water tower Marchant uses to irrigate this place. But he never came to us that way. He's got a room here, so he would spend the night and sober up. Sometime around three or four, he would come knocking."
"On your door," I murmur.
"It wasn't me first. He used to come see one of their college friends. Elinor. But she was only here for two, three years and she moved on. I think she's a lawyer up in Portland now. Great set of natural DDs."
"What's a DD?"
She laughs. "Double-Ds."
"Ooooh." I smack my head. “Right.”
"You've got good ones, too."
I look down at my girls and smile a little awkwardly. "Thank you."
She nods, then reaches out her hand, pinkie extended. "I want you to pinkie swear for me that what I tell you next won't leave this room. Hunter hasn't been here for a while, but he's still my client until it's been a year, and he's Marchant's best buddy. I don't need a headache, you know what I mean?"
"My mother's an alcoholic."
Her face scrunches. "What?"
"I'm telling you something about me. So it won't feel so uneven."
"My Dad has another family." I inhale deeply, because the truth is, it still hurts like hell. "A new wife and two girls. She says her girls came from the sperm bank, but I think that's a lie. They look like my Dad."
"Oh." Her eyes go wide. "Well that is something. I appreciate your confidence. You're right. It does make sharing easier. That must suck a big dick."
I nod. "Yes."
"So you want to hear my Hunter story?"
"For sure."
"Well, he used to come in feeling like hell. You could see it in his eyes. He was tired and I think he would feel sick. I think he wouldn't want to go to sleep, so he'd come into my room and want to fuck me for four hours straight."
I flinch at her words, and she gives me a knowing look. "It's not the f-word bothering you, is it?"
"No," I confess. "I have a dumb crush on him."
"So you don't want to picture him with me."
"It's silly."
"No it's not. It's natural. And it's been a while, sister. More than half a year at this point.”
"That's oka
y. You can, keep going. It's not like he's mine or anything."
"You sure?”
I nod, not entirely sure I want to hear, but certain I don’t want to miss out on details.
“Well…anyway. Hunter came to see me for a while, and after some time I learned his ways. I talked to the other girls and you know, we compared stories. And here's something I figured out: He likes us all to shut our eyes. We have to."