Heartbreak Hotel (Dark Friends-to-Lovers)

by Kenya Wright

  “No. She hasn’t been here since Eric passed.”

  Three months after Hawk graduated from college, his father died in a plane crash. My sister had called me with the news. I’d tried to reach out to Hawk, but he’d never returned my calls. I didn’t blame him. When my parents died, I didn’t want to talk to anyone either.

  Losing a loved one was the hardest thing to recover from.

  Was that why he seemed so dark? Maybe he didn’t recover. Maybe he’s still mourning his father.

  “Hawkins asked me to have you change your clothes in here.” She guided me over to a huge closet full of breathtaking fur coats. “He wants you to wear one.”

  “Which one?” I asked, when I opened the door. “There’s at least twenty in here.”

  “I think you’re supposed to pick anyone that pleases you.”

  “That’s going to be hard. They all look amazing.” I twisted my lips to the side. “Which one would you choose?”

  Her face brightened. “I’m actually a fan of furs. Hawkins always gets me a new one for my birthday.”

  We walked into the closet.

  “These are probably the most desirable and luxurious furs out there.” She ran her fingers around one. “He probably spent a good penny to have them delivered so fast.”

  “These just came in today?”

  She nodded and pulled one out that was a chocolatey shade of dark brown. “So, you have the three supreme types of furs—mink, sable, and chinchilla. Usually a woman’s first fur is a mink. Lightweight, soft texture, unique sheen, and incredibly long life.”

  I caressed the velvety soft texture. “Wow. This is on a whole other level.”

  She handed it to me, rummaged through the racks, and grabbed another. “Then you have your sable fur. This is one of the most coveted on earth. Silky pelt. Many run six figures.”

  “Six figures?” I wouldn’t even grab it. “This is crazy.”

  She placed the coat on the vanity table near us and grabbed a lovely one that was absolutely glamorous. It was a blue-gray color. I took it from her, totally drawn to its sexy appeal.

  “That’s chinchilla,” Vera said. “The most prestigious of the furs. Lavish. Extremely lightweight. No other fur is softer or warmer.”

  “I like this one.” I put it on. “How much is this?”

  “Probably right at a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s the one?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Vera’s expression changed to a naughty one as if she knew a secret that I didn’t. “Apparently, Hawkins wants you to wear a fur and nothing else.”

  An embarrassed flush hit me. “Uh...yeah...of course. We’re going for...a classic...style of painting.”

  To-total-ly…not…awkward.

  Vera winked at me. “This painting is going to be so sexy. You must show me, when it’s done. He never likes anyone to see his work. Make sure you make him show me.”

  “I will.”

  Unless it’s ugly.

  “Have fun.” Vera left, and I stood there feeling like Alice falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland.

  You can do this. Don’t be nervous. You’re going to have a blast.

  Twenty minutes later, I was wearing a fur coat and nothing else. If I’d been scared at the front door, I was terrified while half naked and inside his house. There were no buttons on the soft garment, so I kept it closed in the front with my hands.

  You’re a big girl. You can do this.

  Vera had waited outside of the room while I changed. We climbed the stairs, stopped on the top floor, and opened a large door.

  Jazz music flowed out to the hallway, a ballad of saxophones and trumpets, piano, and the tender beat of drums.

  Wow. This is how he treats his hobbies?

  Hawk’s studio was as large as three living rooms. It had high ceilings and the windows were stained glass. Light traveled through and sprinkled colorful dots onto the white walls and blank canvases. Art supplies stacked the shelves. Empty canvases lay against every wall and they were all sizes—from as small as my hand to has high and wide as one of the walls. A jointed mannequin lounged on a chair by the window.

  There was a long chart presenting the primary colors at the top—red, yellow, and blue. The secondary colors came next—violets, greens, oranges. Others dotted the large board—ocher and yellows, silver and sienna.

  A door stood in the back. The jazz music came from there.

  “Please take off your shoes,” Vera said. “He’s pretty uptight about anybody wearing shoes in here.”

  “Oh.” I hurried back and slipped of my shoes.

  Vera got to my side. “Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.”

  “Thanks, but no.” I drank the impressive space in. “I’m fine.”

  And too nervous to eat.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  Hawk’s gorgeous face flashed in my mind, delivering a thrill of anticipation through me.

  The last thing I need is liquor.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’ll have tea, if possible.”

  “Hot or cold?”

  Thinking of Hawk had already made me hot. “Cold, please.”

  “Okay.” She pointed to the door further away. “He’s in there.”

  “Alright.” Exhaling, I walked into the spacious room, following the path of jazz notes to the source. His studio could’ve been a one-bedroom apartment.

  Hawk stood in the center of the other room with his back to me. “I thought you would punk out and not show up.”

  “Since when have you known me to punk out?”

  “True.” Satisfied, he turned to me, and damn near took my breath away. His white shirt clung to rock hard abs. I wished he’d had it off because I could tell his jeans hung low on his waist and probably displayed a lot of sexy muscle.

  Tiny drops of paint decorated the arms and bottom of his shirt. He wore no shoes and had the most gorgeous toes. Had our feet been side-by-side, he would’ve won a trophy of some kind.

  He must have a hundred women begging him to have sex.

  An easel stood in front of him. Various tubes of paint and different sized paint brushes sat on top of a table positioned to his right. Near the couch, he had several lamps of various sizes. One stood five feet high, another hung from the ceiling.

  Only one was on today, casting shadows along the couch.

  Hawk pierced me with his gaze. “Scared?”

  “A little.”

  He directed his gaze to my bare feet and then second-by-second raised his view up my body. It was so erotic. His eyes had touched my bare skin. There was no protection under this fur. It was like he had x-ray vision and could see me naked and exposed.

  He bit his bottom lip and warmed me with his gaze.

  “Are you hot?” he asked. “I could take your coat.”

  I kept the hold on the front of the fur. “That’s very nice of you, but I would like to keep it on.”

  “Okay, but remember, I’m here for you.” He did a dramatic bow. “Do you like the coat?”

  “Love it. I need several of these for different occasions.” I did a twirl and he laughed. “I’m serious. If one is cold, this is what you wear.”

  “Good. Then you should keep it.”

  “What?”

  “What else would I do with it, after we’re done? Just keep it, Yaz.” He walked toward me and extended his hand. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Stop being shy, Cherry Bomb. Art is lines. Lot of beautiful lines, thin strokes, thick strokes, curved and parallel.” He gave me an intense stare. “Lots of beautiful lines.”

  “I’m still nervous.” I gave him my hand.

  “Why?”

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  His grip gently tightened around my fingers as he leaned forward and barely left two inches of space between us. “How am I making you nervous?”


  I cleared my throat. “I plead the fifth.”

  “Interesting. At least I have a few hours to get that answer out of you.”

  “New topic.” I backed away. “Why do you like to paint women nude?”

  “Stay right here. I’m still setting up.” He walked over to the couch and placed several brightly colored pillows onto it. “Why do I like nude painting? Because it’s an art thing. It’s a way to honor the human body. Some think it’s a way to honor God. I don’t know about that.”

  “Hmmm. Tell me more.”

  “In ancient times, the Greeks considered the male body much more stunning and fascinating. That’s why sculpted female figures usually had a veil or fabric around them.” He turned on another lamp, studied the shadows along the wall, and then dragged the light a few inches back. “Think of Leonardo da Vinci who didn’t even consider a system of ideal proportions for the female body, thinking that women didn’t have an ideal size.”

  “I didn’t think of that when it came to da Vinci.”

  “Go into the Middle Ages and the nude disappeared altogether.” He walked over to the other side of the room and grabbed a sheet. “During that time, Christian philosophy rose and divided the person into two parts—the corrupt body and the immortal soul.”

  He brought the sheet over to the couch, lay it there for a few seconds, shook his head, and picked it back up. “This philosophy viewed the body as no more than an appendage. Therefore, if people or even artists focused on the beauty of body, they would be concentrating on the root of human sin.”

  “So, how did nudes come back into fame?”

  He took the sheet back to where he’d found it. “I don’t know the exacts, but one of my favorite artists, Michelangelo, definitely elevated the nude. He used the human body to express his faith not only in god, but humankind.”

  “So, to appreciate the human body, is to love God?”

  “Basically.”

  “So, the few times I’ve gone to a male strip club, I’ve dropped dollars for the divine?”

  He laughed.

  “By the way,” I said, “your brain is hot.”

  “Then, I’ll be spitting out facts all day.”

  The whole time, Hawk followed me with his piercing gaze like a hungry hunter tracking prey. Not dangerous, but sensually exciting. Not creepy, but hot as hell and making me horny. There should’ve been laws against how he stared at me. His attention made my body shiver in lust and my nipples stiffen in desire.

  His deep voice danced along my skin. “I didn’t get any sleep last night. All I did was think about how I would paint you and how I could make this session as comfortable as possible. Now, I don’t know what lighting to use, what backdrop to work with. Anything. Now, I’m nervous.”

  “Stop lying.”

  “It’s true.” He gestured to the long white couch. “That’s where you’ll be posing. Choose any position that makes you comfortable. This session is about getting used to drawing you, playing with the curve of your chin and the exotic shape of your eyes. Toying with different shades of paint. And then there’s...your curves, of course.”

  “Of course.” I gave him a nervous smile. “You sound like a professional.”

  “I’m trying to be.”

  I lay on the couch, making sure the coat remained closed as much as possible. As I got into my first position, simply lying on my side. The bottom of the coat opened, exposed my legs, and barely remained closed near my thighs. I began to move into another position.

  “No,” he whispered. “Stay like that.”

  I looked up at him. My heart stopped.

  His gaze decorated my legs. “Have you heard from your ex-fiancé yet?’

  “What?”

  “Just wondering.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sat down in cross-legged several feet in front of me, so close he could reach his hand out to touch me. And I couldn’t deny it; my skin craved his caress.

  He dragged what looked like a toolbox to him and open it. Tons of drawing materials lay inside—pencils, charcoal sticks, sharpeners, erasers, pens, chalk, and other things I wasn’t sure the use was for.

  “Has he told you how much he regrets everything?” he asked.

  “You don’t even know what he did. It could’ve been my fault.”

  “No. I know you. It was his fault.” Hawk picked up a piece of charcoal on the ground near him and placed a large sketch pad on his thigh. “But you didn’t answer the question. Has he called you yet?”

  I gave him a weak smile. “Kind of. He’s been texting me every day about how he’s innocent. When I don’t respond, he then tries to start an argument with me about books. Granted, I bought them for his birthdays and whatever. He never read them, so I stopped buying him books and got him tickets to sporting events instead.”

  “He’s not a big reader?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a writer. You should be dating a book nerd.”

  “Thank you for your dating advice. I’ll remember that.” I shook my head. “Why are we talking about this?”

  “Because I’m nosy. Don’t move your head.” Hawk began drawing me. “I’ve always liked your lips.”

  My body tingled in odd embarrassment. I felt like a freaking virgin school girl. This was insane.

  “You’re blushing a lot,” he whispered.

  “You’re making me blush.”

  “How? I’m just telling the truth.”

  “You’re flirting.”

  “Friends flirt.”

  “Do they?”

  He licked his lips and smiled. “I do.”

  “You never flirted before.”

  “I did, Cherry Bomb. I just did it badly. Now, I’ve had more practice and gained a lot of confidence.”

  “Apparently.”

  He looked up from his sketch book. “Do you like it when I flirt with you?”

  I swallowed, and suddenly the coat was too hot, and I wanted to take it off. “Your flirting catches me off guard.”

  “Maybe there’s a spell for that in your grimoire.”

  “Not funny.”

  “What? You don’t have a grimoire? That’s the first rule in wizarding.” He returned to his pad. “I’ll be filing a complaint with the Ministry of Mystical Violations tomorrow.”

  “Wow. You’re still a super nerd.” I raised my head up a little to try and get a look at what he was drawing.

  “Stop that and remain still.”

  “Sorry. I just wanted to see.”

  “You’re still impatient.”

  “You still like to keep secrets from me.”

  “No.” His forehead wrinkled. “I never kept secrets from you. Well... maybe one.”

  I frowned. “What was the secret?”

  He chuckled, but it came out in a nervous way, reminding me of his past self.

  “What?” I asked again. “Oh, this is going to be juicy. What was the secret?”

  “I doubt it was a secret. Everyone else knew. You had to know.”

  “Know what?”

  He hit me with an intense stare. “I was pretty love struck with you our whole childhood.”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it.

  Shocked, he laughed. “You didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “I should’ve said something.”

  “I’m still blown away. I mean, you know? For a while I thought you were gay.”

  “Oh really?”

  “I mean, other boys were always trying to get me alone and kiss me. You were the only one that kept it friendly. I just assumed I wasn’t your type or you just weren’t interested in girls. That’s why I always skinny-dipped with you.”

  “Those were always my favorite parts of winter.” He studied his sketch pad and paused.

  I looked at the pad. “I want to see.”

  “No.”

  “What are you drawing now?”

  “The delicious curve of your neck.”

  As soon as he said it, shivers of pleas
ure slipped along that spot as if he was right in front of me, gripping a paint brush and caressing my flesh with the tip. My nipples stiffened under the fur. I became moist and needy in all the right places.

  I’d prepared for a lot of things with this session—staying still during the poses, not vomiting from nervousness, keeping a positive attitude. What I hadn’t prepared for was my body reacting to him with such a hot intensity.

  All that time he had a crush on me, and now he’s flirting. What do I do with that?

  He stopped drawing and looked at me. “Did I catch you off guard again?”

  “A little bit.” I tried to get the focus back on him. “So, you like Michelangelo? Who else?”

  “Many artists. Who’s your favorite?”

  I hate when he does that. Throws the light back on me.

  I sighed. “Picasso. I like the idea of cubism and its breaking away of existing ideas. He created whatever he wished on the canvas without bowing to social norms.”

  “That sounds like you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What made you start writing erotica? Is my sweet little Cherry Bomb now a nasty girl?”

  I shook my head and laughed.

  “Don’t move.”

  “Stop making me move.” I remained stiff. “Did you read the book yet?”

  “No.”

  “Because I asked you not to?”

  “No, because I’d spent all night cleaning up the studio and ordering furs. I wanted everything to be special. I’m going to crack your book open tonight.”

  “I would rather you not.”

  “Because?”

  “When I write, it’s kind of like my alter ego is penning the book.”

  “And you don’t want me to meet her?”

  “She’s too dark and nasty.”

  He looked at me. “I like dark and nasty.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Why did you choose erotica?” he asked. “I figured you for straight romance.”

  “I love romance, but erotica is about the sexual thrills, not the emotional highs. There can still be some romance, but the real focus is exploring the heroine’s sexual journey.”

  “Something you don’t do much?”

  “Hey. I’ve explored...just not as much as my heroines.”

  “Maybe, you should.”

  “Maybe,” I whispered.

  The moment continued like that. Words filled with promises, flirting on both sides. And every now and then, a low groan would slip from his lips, and warmth would pool between my thighs.