Still So Hot!

by Serena Bell

  “Hang on,” she said, and exited the restaurant to take the call. The narrow avenue was lively with tourists speaking in many languages, loaded up with shopping bags, laughing and flirting. Ah, the Caribbean. Would it really be possible to maintain the magic once she and Brett returned to the real world? And he had his pick of one-night stands on a regular basis?

  “Hey, Haven.”

  “Elisa. I need your help. ASAP. Do you have a Twitter account?”

  “I don’t. I keep meaning—”

  “You need to be on Twitter for your business now, Elisa, but that’s not the point. The point is that someone is live tweeting about Celine. Really creepy, intimate stuff. Convincingly intimate. Stuff you could only know if, say, you’d spent the whole weekend with her.”

  Elisa’s heart pounded. “You think it’s Steve.”

  “It has to be him.”

  “Oh, hell.” What a mess.

  “I’ve lost her again,” Haven said. “It’s been cat and mouse on and off since I’ve gotten here. I’ve texted her. I’ve called her. I’ve chased her around the resort. I’ve chased her around the island. I can’t get through to her. Can you talk to her? Tell her it’s time for this to end. She needs to go home.”

  “What makes you think she’ll listen to me? You guys fired me.”

  “She told me to fire you in a fit of pique. She does that to everyone. But you got her to pay attention in a way I’ve never seen her do with anyone else. Please, Elisa, will you at least try? Call her. Text her. Get her to meet with you. Tell her what Steve’s been doing. Tell her it’s time to go home. I’m begging you, and I don’t beg anyone.”

  “Of course,” Elisa said. “Of course I will.”

  “And let me know after you’ve talked to her.”

  “You got it.”

  Elisa went back inside and explained to Brett what had happened.

  “Steve?”

  She nodded. “That bastard.” Disappointment clotted her chest, and her words were unsteady. “Why did he bother to pretend? It just makes him more of a sadist.”

  She wasn’t as angry as she would have thought she’d be, though. She recognized what she felt as a variation on grief.

  She’d lost something, some briefly held hope, a little flare of optimism. She’d let herself hope that Brett had been right about Steve. He’d almost had her convinced that people deserved the benefit of the doubt. That they were capable of change.

  Almost.

  16

  IN THE END, Elisa sent Celine a text that said, “I have something important to tell you. Where are you?” and Celine sent back a text that said, “I’m changing in my room.” It was as easy as that.

  She knocked on the door, and Celine admitted her, no resistance, no anger. Her hair was up in a tightly knotted towel.

  Elisa didn’t try to sugarcoat it or mince words. She just related exactly what Haven had said to her. Then she pulled up the brand-new Twitter app she’d loaded on her phone, and showed Celine the list of the tweets sent by @Tomorrowsnews.

  Celine turned away from the sight. “We don’t know that it was Steve.”

  “‘She’s a fireball in bed. Whimpers when I kiss her, begs me for it, yells when she orgasms.’”

  Celine’s blue eyes contained so much kicked-puppy-dog hurt that Elisa had to look away.

  “I don’t understand. He told me he really likes me. He told me—”

  Elisa didn’t want to know. She ached enough for Celine without knowing what, exactly, Steve had promised her. “He meant it at the time.”

  Because they always did, didn’t they? Surely Brett had meant it when he had said that he couldn’t get enough. That he didn’t want to stop. And he had meant it when he had said he wanted to have dinner with her in New York.

  It was just that, at any moment, he could stop meaning it. She’d seen him do it before.

  It had hurt so much when he’d gone out with Julie, whether they’d had sex or not. She could lie to herself six thousand different ways, but it had hurt like nothing else had hurt. Because up until that moment she had told herself he was protecting their friendship by not pursuing her. She had told herself that he was attracted to her but not willing to risk what they had. Then, when he’d pursued Julie, she’d seen that wasn’t true. He wasn’t afraid for the friendship. He just didn’t feel that way about her. He would never be the guy who leaped hurdles for her. He’d never say I can’t get enough, and mean it, and mean it forever.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said to Celine. All her frustration with Celine, with the weekend, had melted away. They were two women in the same boat. Maybe Elisa had thought she was the captain once upon a time, but she knew the truth. She was bailing madly like everyone else.

  Celine gazed back at her, her eyes lost and a little wild. Elisa wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Another accusation, more anger.

  Celine’s face crumpled.

  Elisa didn’t think. She just reacted, taking the smaller woman in her arms. Celine was soft and smelled like strawberries, and as soon as Elisa put her arms around her, she began to cry. And Elisa held her. It was sort of like holding her younger, more naive self, the part of her that was going to get hurt again, because there was nothing she could do to stop herself from loving Brett.

  She held Celine and rocked her and whispered comfort until the tears stopped.

  “I really liked him,” Celine said, when she could talk again. “More than I’ve ever liked anyone. Do you know what one of the first things he ever said to me was? I was telling him about how Haven was rehabbing my image, and he said, ‘What’s wrong with your image?’ And I said, ‘It’s slutty, I guess,’ and he just looked at me, really looked at me, and said, ‘It’s human.’ But I guess that was all an act. That’s what he does, right? Gets celebrities to talk to him about their real selves. Makes people feel at ease.”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “He used me.”

  Elisa could only nod. She didn’t want to say I told you so or make Celine acknowledge that she’d been warned. She stroked Celine’s hair and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I slept with him. God, I have the worst judgment. The worst.”

  “No, hon. Don’t beat yourself up.” She was going to kill Steve if she ever got her hands on him. Wring his neck and then stomp on the limp body.

  “So what do you think? Is everything I told him going to be all over the weeklies?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “It is. It totally freaking is.”

  Elisa released Celine, and the star shook her blond head like a cat trying to regain equilibrium after a humiliating fall.

  “I’m going to call Haven. Will you stay?”

  Elisa nodded.

  Celine swiped tears and eye makeup prettily off her face. “She’s gonna kill me.”

  “No, she won’t. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Except trust him, a voice whispered in Elisa’s head.

  “You were right,” Celine whispered. “You were totally, totally right.”

  “I wish I weren’t.” About you, about me, about any of it. She was surprised when her own eyes filled with tears.

  Celine scrutinized Elisa for a moment. Then the star hugged Elisa again, an all-in, arms-tight, serious hug.

  Neither woman said a word, but Elisa understood that this time, Celine was comforting her.

  * * *

  WHEN THE KNOCK came on the door, Brett opened it, searching Elisa’s face for a clue about how things had gone. She mostly looked exhausted—and beautiful. Her skin had a porcelain quality, her lips were soft and pink, her eyes warm even now that her lids drooped slightly with fatigue. And then there was the long line of her throat and the expanse of clear, smooth skin above the scoop of her tank. His body made
note of all of it, cued now for instant response. “How did she take it?”

  She gave him the faintest quirk of those lickable lips, barely a smile. “About as well as could be expected.”

  “And she’s ready to go home?”

  “Yeah.”

  It was time—for Celine, and for Elisa and Brett. This would be their last night, the end of their strange, awkward, perfect weekend. And, he prayed, the beginning of something new. Something bigger. He’d never wanted anything like this before, a relationship that continued into the future, far past his own horizon.

  “How are you?” He pushed the door shut behind her and opened his arms. “Come here.”

  At first, she was stiff in his arms, but then he felt her slowly letting go, softening against him. His girl. His friend. As if something in her knew where she belonged. Right here. Even if she was still as nervous about him in some ways as she’d been at the beginning of the weekend. She had agreed to date him in New York, but he could tell she didn’t like it. Did it make her feel twitchy and claustrophobic, like she was the one with commitment issues?

  That was okay. He would show her that she could trust him.

  She came alive in his arms. She was like a new flicker of flame, her breath coming faster, her limbs moving impatiently as she tried to line her body up with his, find their best fit. And their best fit was crazily good, a near-perfect alignment, her breasts against his ribs, her hip against his rapidly hardening cock, the cradle of her thighs, soft, but with the shock of hard bone to grind against, just the hint of it driving him mad. And then there was her hair, the whole fragrant mass of it within his reach if he just dipped his head. Which he did, drawing in the deepest breath of her shampoo-and-Elisa scent he could.

  Her arms twined themselves around his neck, and she lifted her mouth to his, which instantly changed the whole tenor of the interaction. It caught fire, and she moaned into his mouth, which made him lose his grasp on reality, scoop her up, and ease her back against the closed door. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and she fitted herself so the hardness of her pubic bone put maximum pressure right where he wanted it. Unfortunately she was wearing pants, and so was he, but there was no way in hell he was putting her down. Having her up like this, wedged between him and the wall, was filling him with a frantic possessiveness.

  Even if she didn’t know it or trust him yet, she was his, and he kept one hand behind her, supporting her, as he slid the other up the front of her shirt, tracing the curve of her breast, the insistent tightness of her nipple. He rubbed himself as gently as he could over the seam of her pants, feeling the heat through all the layers of their clothing, hearing her gasp, her rapid breathing, and she worked herself harder against his hand, her head falling against the wall. “Don’t stop,” she moaned.

  “No,” he agreed.

  “It’s the perfect amount of friction. It’s the perfect amount of pressure.”

  He was torn. He wanted to give her that, and he wanted to give her more. He could make it perfect inside her, too, could fill her and still give her his body to strain against, and the thought of making perfect more perfect was too much to resist. He set her on her feet, and pushed her pants and panties down. She groped for his belt and button and zipper, yanking him open. The cool air was a relief until she started trying to climb his body, to get purchase on him, and he could feel her wetness slicking his thigh. That was too much for him to resist.

  He found the condom he’d stashed in his pocket and, with her help, managed to cover himself. Then he lifted her and sank into her in almost the same motion, driving her back against the wall, wet heat replacing cool air and threatening to wrench an orgasm out of him before he was ready to give in. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think about how much it was going to cost him to renovate the bathroom in his condo, and that helped enough so that he could thrust the rest of the way into her, seating himself so deeply in her that she whimpered and began trying to wriggle against him. “Come,” he commanded. “I want you to come so hard you forget your name.”

  She rocked and thrust, and he watched the flush climb into her face. He slid his fingers up her shirt again, wrapped his hand around the curve of her breast, took her nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger. He meant to tease only, and was shocked as hell when instead she jerked against him and cried out her release. So shocked, in fact, that he followed her, matching her long-clenching spasms with his own deep, almost painful thrusts and spurts. He leaned his forehead against the wall right next to where her head tipped back, and he listened to the duet of their breathing. His legs trembled and his arms ached, but there was no way he was letting her go. Not now. Not, if he had his way, ever.

  17

  SHE SLOWLY RETURNED to earth. He kept her there, against the wall, until their bodies started to cool. Then he set her down and went to toss the condom, and she hobbled, weak-kneed, to the bed and crawled under the covers.

  He’d divested himself of his pants, and now he peeled off his shirt and climbed in with her, wrapping himself around her, tugging her close so his body heat soaked into her. She relaxed, unwinding, degree by degree, all the muscles she hadn’t realized were stiff, all the parts of herself she’d been holding in check. All the emotions she’d kept from him. From herself.

  I love you.

  She’d started thinking it when he’d picked her up and pressed her to the wall. Something about the primitive, possessive way he’d held her. The way he’d taken her. She didn’t think she’d ever been taken before, a command wrapped in a sacrament. Yes, yes, yes. And I love you.

  Of course, she wouldn’t say it. She might never say it. She could only say it if he said it first, and he would probably never say it first, because unless she was very much mistaken, it was not something he was capable of feeling. Or at least not something he was capable of admitting he felt. There had been hundreds of women before her, and she’d bet her right arm that not one of them had heard those three little words spoken aloud.

  A girl could blame whatever she wanted. Maybe it was the way his parents had labeled and reduced him, never noticing him for any accomplishment other than his sunny good looks. They’d turned him into the “cute” one—and only that.

  Or it could be that she’d hit the nail on the head Friday night when she’d razzed him about not thinking very highly of himself. She’d been half-kidding, but there was plenty of truth in her words. He was always jocularly knocking himself down. And maybe, just maybe, he was afraid that, if he let a woman get close to him, if he opened more than a twenty-four-hour window and let someone into the inner sanctum, she’d see what he saw: not enough.

  She didn’t know. And even if she was right, she didn’t think she’d ever get him to admit it. He wasn’t the kind of guy who went in for that sort of introspection. But whatever it was, the end result had been the man who lay spooning her, a man whose generous nature and thorough-going awesomeness had somehow never led him to love or be loved.

  It made her sad for both of them.

  She wished he hadn’t asked to date her when they got home. She wished he hadn’t given her that flimsy, stupid reason to hope. It only made things harder, would only make it hurt worse when he was done with her, when he, inevitably, moved on. And yet, as much as it would hurt later, she wanted this. Everything he could give her, as many times as he would move in her like that, fierce but also tender.

  He stroked her hair, a slightly rough, definitely male hand, moving ever-so-sweetly through the strands, stopping at the slightest snare or tangle. His mouth was near her ear, and he whispered something she couldn’t make out at first. Her name. Over and over. Her heart swelled with—she might as well name it—with love.

  This was a buoyant, warm, dangerous feeling, so big she wanted to split open. Wanted him to split her open. That was the point—she grasped now, for the first time in her life—of sex. When he ma
de love to her—if that was what it was, if that was how he thought of it—he gave all those feelings room to expand, like those tiny toy sponges packed away in gelatin capsules that, with the application of hot water, released and actualized. This sense of becoming was what she’d been looking for.

  His phone on the night stand shattered the peace, vibrating against the wood. “Go away,” he told it.

  “You can get it.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  But he rolled over and grabbed the phone. She missed him, the heat and strength, his touch on her hair, his breath on her ear.

  “Oh, crap. It’s the network.” He tapped to answer. “Hello?” His voice shifted, became deeper, more serious. Professional.

  She lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

  “Hello, sir.” He sat up, tugging the sheet to cover himself.

  There was a long silence at Brett’s end. She could hear only a flutter of sound coming from the other end of the line. He listened, his posture rigid. She began to feel afraid. The longer he was silent, the more afraid she felt.

  “I know,” he said finally. “And I don’t want to make any excuses for it. I know we talked about how important a dignified image was, and I know this is the last thing the network wanted to see from me. I’m very sorry. Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  More silence. He didn’t turn to look at her, didn’t signal her, didn’t seem to remember she was there. Probably he wished she weren’t there. Brett had always compartmentalized the pieces of his life—the professional from the personal, the romantic from the rest—possibly that was why he could never include a woman in anything that mattered to him.

  He must be talking to his new boss. Most likely the network had seen the brouhaha about Celine and was not pleased. She couldn’t really blame them. No matter what role Brett had played in his own fate, no matter how much he was responsible for the situation he’d gotten himself into, it would be terrible for him to lose his job over it. There was enough collateral damage already.