by Ella James
Chapter Thirty-One
~ELIZABETH~
I open my eyes to streams of golden light peeking through the edges of the curtains over a massive, wall-long window. The first thing I think is something important happened, but for that first minute, I can't remember what. All I know is that I feel rested, and my huge oak bed, with its sheer, flowing canopy and satin duvet, makes me feel like a princess.
Holy crabcakes. I'm at Hunter's house. And...what the fudge was that last night? There's no reason my memory of the previous night should make me nervous, but suddenly that's what I am. I can't move from the bed. I can hardly even breathe as I think about the man who slept next door to me. Is he okay? Still sleeping?
What the hell am I doing here, in this bedroom that connects to his? I feel almost crushed by a wave of surreality. I sold my V-card. For ten million dollars. To Hunter West.
How am I ever going to pull this off? Have sex with Hunter? I imagine a fully awake and fully erect hunter, naked and lying over me...
Dear God.
I hop off the bed and fly through my morning preparations. Since I showered the night before, I consider skipping, but considering what might be on today's agenda, I shower one more time. I dress in a pair of brown leggings and a long, sexy red sweater that dips down just a little low in front. I pull on some ankle-length boots I borrowed from Suri and put on just a dash of makeup. If Hunter might be seeing me up close, I don't want to look phony, but I don’t want him to see the sprinkling of freckles on my nose, either.
But will he be seeing me up close?
I feel silly for over-thinking things when I've messed around with Hunter before, but those times were different. Spontaneous. This… despite what I thought going into the sex business, it is kind of weird.
I send a quick text to Suri, telling her to text me updates about Cross. I want so badly to tell her what’s going on, but I don’t. I do enjoy a moment of glee, where I want to fall down on my knees and thank the heavens that Cross is awake. Then I tuck my purse and phone under the bed, give myself one more glance in the mirror, and step out into the hall.
The first thing I'll do after reassuring myself that Hunter is okay is let him know I'm not cool with our plan. I don't want to initiate sex. I've never done it before and he is, after all, the winning bidder. He should chose the moment. If he doesn't want to… I won't be offended.
Slowly—so slowly that I'm almost not moving at all—I step to the door beside mine and raise my fist to knock. My knuckles connect with the cold cherry wood, and I hold my breath as I listen for his footsteps. Nothing. I knock twice more, trying not to worry when he doesn't answer. Then I tuck my hair behind my ears and head for the stairs. Maybe I'll find him in his study.
My pulse is pounding by the time I reach the bottom of the curling staircase. With sunlight streaming through the windows, I can fully appreciate the beauty of the foyer, with its glossy marble floors and sleek wood walls. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling is made of what looks like an old-school wagon wheel and some kind of copper. It's just the right blend of eclectic and classic.
I'm thinking of going left, toward the study, but then I catch a whiff of something delicious. It's pretty unlikely that Hunter's wearing an apron, but I'm so hungry, I don't care who's cooking. I come down off the bottom stair and follow my nose, toward the right, past a grand dining room with a fireplace and a long table topped with what looks like an ivory sculpture of a sailboat. I'm walking past that room, toward another room that looks like a formal living area, when I see, through a half-cracked doorway in the dining room, a posh black and white kitchen. Score!
I'm stepping past the table when Hunter's beautiful body fills the doorway. I'm shocked to see his lips spread in a cat-like grin as he looks me over from head to boot.
"Libby DeVille, right here in my house." He tilts his blond head at the room behind him. "I've got breakfast."
As he turns back into the kitchen, I realize he's holding a wooden spoon. Holy belly bats, that's sexy. Hunter in house clothes, cooking breakfast. Dark jeans hang off his hips, with a worn-out spot over the left pocket. A scruffy green button-up shirt is rolled up to his elbows. Rugged boots with real live mud clomp on the tile floor as he heads for the stove.
As I step into the kitchen, which smells like butter and sugar and bacon, he turns around from the stove and flashes me a cautious smile.
"How are ya?"
I surprise myself by sliding a look up and down his delectable body. I just can't resist. I notice that despite his sunnier attitude, his eyes are still tired and, underneath a day's worth of stubble, his normally tanned face looks slightly pale.
"How are you?" I ask, praying he'll mistake the ogle I just gave him for friendly concern.
"Up and kicking," he says, turning back to what he's doing so I get a view of his broad back and ass. The double oven and industrial-sized sink face a massive window overlooking rolling acres of grazing cattle. Framing them on either side are rows of bar space, complete with black stools, place mats, and silverware.
I take a seat at the bar nearest me, choosing the spot closest to the oven, so Hunter is standing right in front of me. I prop my elbow on the counter—black granite with coppery swirls—and try to pretend that this is normal for us. Me and Hunter, regular breakfast buddies.
He's pushing some bacon around on a skillet, not looking my way, when I begin to wonder if this will be a repeat of last night. I'm not sure if I can stand the awkwardness again. Then he lifts his head and pins me with a warm gaze I can feel between my legs.
"You cook?" he asks, and I notice for the first time that there are two big platters on the bar on Hunter's other side, already piled high with biscuits and cinnamon rolls. Wowzers.
“I don't,” I say, hanging my head. “Suri, my roommate, cooks like a champ, so I'm kind of spoiled. I'm surprised you do,” I add. “I would have thought you had somebody.”
“All honesty?” He arches a brow. “I gave my chef the day off.” He picks up a gooey-looking cinnamon roll and hands it to me. Then he gives a slight shake of his head and grabs a plate from one of the cabinets. “Try that,” he says, pushing the plate my way, “and tell me you're still skeptical.”
I do, and “oh my God.” I shut my eyes, and when I open them, he's grinning.
“That's just sinful.”
“Our cook in New Orleans taught me to make these things from scratch,” he tells me, biting into one. His eyes widen, like he's realized he can't speak around the cinnamon roll, so he quickly tries to chew, which makes me laugh.
Our gazes hold like magnets as we both finish our rolls, and then Hunter turns back to the oven, where the bacon is popping and crackling.
His eyes flick over me as he works on the pan. "I have to say, I miss the getup from last night."
I'm surprised charmed. I smile at him. "Do you now?"
"I do."
He quickly moves the bacon from the skillet to another plate, then pushes it toward me. I try not to watch his tight ass as he turns and grabs a basket of eggs out of the 'fridge. I can't help admiring his shoulders as he cracks them into a giant bowl. He seems so...different in his own space. Not at all like the Hunter from my sex fantasies, or the anguished man from the last few nights.
I wish there was some way to ask about last night in particular, but I can’t think of one.
"How do you like your scrambled eggs?" he asks over his shoulder.
"Hard, I guess," I say, and yeah, I blush a second after I said it.
He doesn’t notice though, and I munch my bacon. He’s quiet, again, so I have time to work up my nerve. A few minutes into his egg scrambling, I bring up the subject of our deal.
“I'm not sure I like the deal we made last night.”
His green eyes flicker over mine, then return to the eggs. I can see his shoulders tense.
“I'm glad you mentioned that,” he says, sliding a glance at me as he stirs the eggs. "I've thought about it more, and I'm thinking it
might be best if you head home a little earlier.”
He pauses, giving me a pensive look, and I cross my hand over my stomach. I'm not sure what to say. I just don't understand.
“You can go whenever you want," he says, meeting my eyes. "You'll still get your money."
His words hit me like a drop-kick to the chest, and I can't control what comes out of my mouth. "You don't want me?"
"I didn't say that." His words are hot—and so sincere that it's impossible not to believe him. "If you really want to do this, I do too. But it needs to happen today."
"Why?"
His jaw tightens, and again, he won't look at me as he stirs. "I've got some business that just came up. You'd be more comfortable back at your own place."
Oh, so that's how it's going to be. My temper flares. "You're bullshitting me. Not that it matters. You did pay for this, so you can do whatever you want."
"It's not Priscilla," he says, pressing his lips together. "It's not like that."
He moves the eggs off the stove and checks the oven before walking around the bar to stand right in front of me.
His hands tunnel under my hair. “I want you,” he says in a husky voice, and then I can feel how much he wants me bump against my hip. “I'm disappointed about the change of plans. Believe me. But it's what's got to be."
"Why did you do it? Why did you say...to stay the week? Why did you even bid on me?"
"I want this to be yours. On your terms. That's how it should be, Libby. You should be comfortable. I thought you'd like a few days here to get your footing." His fingers, in my hair, trail up my face; his thumb strokes my brow, and I shiver. "I didn't buy you for sex, although I'd love to take you to my bed. I bought you because I can't stand the thought of some other bastard pawing at you. Not you."
"But it's okay for other girls?"
He strokes my hair off my forehead. "I've only ever been with ones who choose, Libby. At Marchant's, all the girls choose their clients. It's invitation only out there, I'm sure you know. They set their own prices. Get paid well. And most of them aren't doing it for altruistic reasons."
He strokes his calloused thumb over my lower lip, and I'm shaking. My insides have gone liquid. "You used to go out there," I whisper.
"I did."
"How come?" He cups my cheek, still gentle, but I can sense him closing off.
"I've got my reasons."
"But you could sleep with any girl."
Loosening his grip on me, he laughs, and I look up at him. "I'm glad you find me so appealing, Miss DeVille."
I blush. "Almost any girl."
His jaw drops open in a funny way, and I grin so hard I can feel the dimples in my cheeks.
"Is it because you like to keep your distance?" I ask.
“Wow.” He sort of chuckles a little bit. “Sneak attack.”
I shrug, because I didn’t really mean to sneak attack. I just felt like I had an opportunity. Pretense has never been stripped away like it is now between the two of us, so I figure I should take advantage of it.
Hunter seems to feel the same way. "Keep my distance?" He strokes up and down my cheek bone, and I feel hypnotized as I reach out and put my palm on his thigh. "What do you mean, keep my distance?"
My knees part a little as he steps closer, coming in between them.
"Do I strike you as a man who keeps my distance?"
"I don't mean that," I say, breathless. "I mean, no relationships."
"I have a better question: How is it a pretty girl like you's still got her V-card?"
"I'm not a girl," I whisper.
"No, you're not."
He leans down and covers my mouth with his, and I pull him close, feeling his hardness with a heady rush as he rocks his body into mine.
"You're a woman," he says, between hard kisses. "Goddamned gorgeous one at that."
My hands drift into the pockets of his jeans, and oh my God, that ass. It's tight and firm and everything a man's ass should be. I want to pull his jeans off. Squeeze it. Kiss it.
I'm panting, elated by his compliments, as he trails gently down my throat and kisses my collar bone.
"I'm like you," I whisper into his hair. "Want to keep my distance."
"Not doing a very good job of it," he pants.
He comes up for air, pushing his forehead against mine, so close that I can count the yellow flecks in his irises. "You know what I mean,” I murmur. “I don't want a relationship. I never do. I mean I never have."
His eyes change, going from aroused to something more shrouded as runs his fingers down my arm. "Probably your mother."
I lean back, stunned that he said that to me. "Probably so.” I guess I come off as the screwed-up daughter of a drug addict. Lovely.
"I'm only saying because I've had my share of therapy," he says, squeezing my hand before he walks back around the counter, to the oven. He opens it, and a heavenly sweet smell wafts out.
"You have?"
"Yes ma'am. Mostly when I was a kid."
"After your mother passed away?" It's a forward question, but then he's been forward with me.
Something passes over his face—something ugly. He covers it quickly and nods. "Something like that."
"Well you're probably right.” I lean against the bar, propping my head in one of my palms. “Relationships, other than with Suri and a few other friends—they just don't seem worth it to me.”
"That's because you don't want to get hurt."
"You're quite the Ann Landers, Hunter West. I'm shocked."
He looks at me without any trace of a smile. "I do write an advice column. Vegas High-Rolling. For the Las Vegas Sun News."
I gape, and he laughs. "You gotta be outta your fucking mind if you think anyone would give me a column." He sobers a little. "Pardon the French. I don't have the cleanest mouth."
"I'm sure you don't," I say coyly. I'm feeling a little more relaxed now, and happy to flirt with him, and willing to broach sensitive subject. Like: "So what's up with you and Priscilla?"
"Nothing but the sky," he says, pouring two tall glasses of orange juice.
"You don't care about her, but there's chemistry?"
"I don't care about her," he says flatly.
His eyes meet mine, and they're so cold, and all of a sudden it's painfully obvious to me that we're not really friends, or breakfast buddies, or anything at all. We don't know each other, and I've struck a bad cord with my prying question.
Hunter turns back to the stove and begins to pile two plates with food. When he speaks again, his tone is lighter. "I’ve got a question for you: weren't you even a little worried about who would win your heart?"
"Uh, yeah. My friend Suri kept joking that it would be someone old and slimy."
He smirks, piling scrambled eggs on two big, square plates. "Are you saying I'm over the hill?"
"I didn't know you'd swoop in to rescue me."
"That wasn't a rescue. Believe me." He checks the oven again, then shuts it. "Do your parents know?” He sticks his hands into his pockets and leans against the sink. “I assume not."
"They don't."
"I'm surprised your friends let you go through with it."
"I needed the money," I say. "And it was one friend. I didn't really let her argue."
"Well, I'm good for it." He rubs the bridge of his nose, like he has a headache.
"Do you win a lot at poker?"
"More in investments." He peeks into the oven one more time, and I think how sexy he looks in chef mode. "What kind of jam do you like?"
"Strawberry."
"I'm a strawberry man myself."
He slides the jar of homemade jam over to me, then puts the oven mitt back on and opens the oven, pulling out a tray of...
"Beignets! Holy crap, I love beignets!" He puts two on a plate and slides it across the bar, then puts two on his plate. He does not come around and sit beside me.
I pick one up and turn the hot pastry around in my burning fingertips. "You're incredibl
e."
"You think so?" He regards me silently over the counter as he polishes off a piece of bacon, then says, "I know you're doing this for Cross Carlson. I'm not sure if I think you're stupid or amazing."
I scrunch my face up. "That's not the only reason. I'm also doing it because I'm tired of being a virgin."
That draws a chuckle from him. "What's so tiring about it?"
"I guess I'm tired of all the anticipation."