Heartbreak Hotel (Dark Friends-to-Lovers)

by Kenya Wright

  Most of the time, I wished he would take that damn shirt off. I bet he had rock hard abs. I wanted his chest bare in front of me. Didn’t he know the type of reaction he caused in women? Did he have any idea how wet I was becoming under the fur?

  And we were just in a room, creating art, and with every minute, my nipples grew hard and I yearned for him to touch me. Never had I experienced something so hot and passionate in the creative process. Never had I been moved so easily by any man.

  We talked a little more, but silence filled the rest of time as he asked me to shift into different poses on my own. And so, our communication shifted to nonverbal. Earlier, he’d been flirting with that sexy mouth.

  Therefore, I decided to flirt with my body. With some poses, I exposed more skin, taunting him with my bare flesh, loving how he tried to stifle a groan. Other times, he seared me with a fiery gaze that filled me with arousal and I released my own low moan.

  It was a heated exchange of my teasing poses, and those looks from him that touched me down to my core.

  “You’re so beautiful.” Hawk increased his hand’s movements. The charcoal danced on the page. The muscles on his arm flexed under his shirt. Drawings of me were scattered all over the floor. Desire pulsed within, and I squeezed my thighs together unable to look at him anymore without touching myself.

  Is he as passionate in bed, as he is with his art?

  He paused from sketching and stared at me, searing my flesh with his gaze. “You’re saving me. Did you know that?”

  “How?”

  He set the sketch board on the ground next to him. “Just remember that I owe you.”

  “You’ve already given me this coat. I think we’re square.”

  “No.” He scooted closer and leaned his side against the couch. Taking a break, I lay my head on the pillow near his shoulder. I’d thought modeling would be super easy, but I’d discovered that holding positions caused an ache in muscles I’d never considered.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  It was hard to breathe with him so close, and me so naked.

  “How am I saving you, Hawk?”

  “Weeks before seeing you, I was restless and depressed. And then the heavens parted, and you appeared.”

  “More like, my spell drew you to me.”

  “That too.” He smiled. “You make jokes when you’re nervous.”

  “And how do you know that I’m nervous?”

  “You’re clutching the top of that fur like it holds your heart inside of your chest, and if you let it go, you’ll die.”

  I swallowed. “I thought we already discussed this. You make me nervous.”

  With that heated gaze of his, he leaned toward me. “Is it only when we’re this close?”

  His cologne swirled around me. I inhaled it and found myself lost in him, in the moment, in the soft fur along my body, in the jazz filling the room. So close, I could drown in him and not want to rise to the ocean’s surface.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” He turned his attention to my lips. “I only ask because...when I’m this close to you...I’m very nervous.”

  Desire surged through me.

  “You excite me.” Fire blazed through his eyes and he stared at me as if he was in a trance. And it was crazy, but I felt those same flames too, raging inside my core. If I moved forward a few inches and he did too, we would be kissing.

  “You’re flirting again,” I whispered.

  “And you love it.”

  “I do.”

  His voice deepened. “Then, we should have a conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “Us and how we both can be beautiful distractions to each other?”

  “What if I want more than a distraction?” My heart hammered in my chest.

  Silence moved between us and something else. It was hot and volcanic and bubbling at the top, ready to over flow.

  “Cherry Bomb, I can’t give you more. And it’s not...because you don’t deserve it. I just don’t have anything else inside me to give.”

  I blinked. “Can you elaborate?”

  “I would rather not.”

  “Then, we should probably stop flirting with each other.” Slowly, I sat up on the couch and made sure the coat was still closed.

  Disappointment showed in his eyes.

  I glanced at his sketch pad, but he shook his head and closed it.

  “Can I see what you drew?”

  “No,” he whispered.

  “That’s not fair. You showed me the others.”

  He rose from the floor, raking his fingers through his hair. “We should end now anyway.”

  “Yeah?”

  “But...”

  I stood up and the fur coat gathered around my legs, draping me in soft elegance. “But what?”

  “Let me take you out to lunch right now to celebrate.”

  I looked around. “And what are we celebrating?”

  “You not being a punk ass today.”

  “Ha.” I started to walk off.

  Catching me off guard, he captured my arm and gently turned me around. “I’m serious.”

  I looked up into that gorgeous face.

  “Let me take you to lunch.” He paused from talking and slipped his fingers down the arm of my coat and then captured my hand. “I shouldn’t even be asking you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not that type of guy. I don’t take women out to eat.”

  “Aww. You’re more of the Netflix and Chill type. A glorified fuck buddy?”

  “Somewhere in that realm.”

  “Then, you’re right. You shouldn’t ask me out to lunch. I am no one’s Netflix and Chill.”

  “But still, I want to hang out with you. Just as friends.” He trailed his thumb along the lines of my palm. Shivers of delight ran through me. He closed the small distance between us and pressed his hard body against mine. “Are you hungry?”

  It wasn’t fair of him to ask me that, not with my being naked and horny under the fur coat. Not with him seducing me the entire session. Not with the hunger glowing in his gaze. He could’ve wrapped his arms around me or leaned down and pressed his lips against mine, but he remained in control and precise like a hunter.

  My breathing turned heavy. I bit my bottom lip. I could barely think with him so close to me, his muscular chest molding against my body. Warmth spread across my skin. If he’d taken off my coat and kissed any inch of skin, I might’ve orgasmed right there.

  That very fact scared me. This was too fast.

  Yet, curiosity piqued my interests.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “We can do lunch.”

  Chapter 6

  Hawk

  “Then, lunch it is.” I stepped back from her. “I promise to do less flirting.”

  “Good.”

  She didn’t want me to be her distraction, but it was all I could think of. The whole time I drew her, I wanted to rip off that coat. Thank God, she hadn’t modeled for me nude yet. The situation might’ve been disastrous. I was already moving too fast—rushing toward the endgame like a starving horny man.

  When she was around me, this intense urge came over.

  Why are you taking her to lunch?

  I just wanted to be close to her, hold her hand. Keep her next to me. But this fear rose inside, telling me if I ever gave her too much distance, I’d lose my chance of seeing her again. Of course, it was irrational and crazy. But I couldn’t push the feeling away.

  I should calm down, before I scare her.

  “I’ll let you get dressed and we can meet downstairs.” I tried to clear the lusty fog in my head to think things through, but nothing came up except images of her naked and my covering paint all over her body. With that visual, my breathing shifted to panting.

  “Okay.” She walked off and I studied those hips swaying under that fur. Wrapped in luxury, she looked like a goddess that ruled over wild furry beasts. And all I could think about
was her ruling over me and how good it would feel.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, I found my breath. “What the hell was that? You came on too strong and then you pulled away and then came and then pushed again? She’s not a fucking yoyo, man.”

  I bet she hears me talking to myself. Great job, Hawk.

  It had been a long time since I’d obsessed over anybody. Personally, I didn’t want to lose myself in another person again.

  Lisa was the last time I lost control. Never again.

  I’d just started my company Rebel Media. We backed newspapers, websites, some radio, and indie networks that were focused on true investigative journalism. Brett served on my legal side, when he wasn’t busy running the family’s company. Several of my fraternity brothers joined the staff. Due to my family having some money and the company making profit immediately, Lisa and I decided that she didn’t have to work. She wanted to write a true crime novel and had begun researching serial killers.

  Things had gone fine. A year later, I held a company picnic. That night, one of the managers of Rebel Media died. The police called it a suicide.

  We were all in shock. Everyone wondered why a rich kid from a Wall Street family with a trust fund wife, and a big house in the suburbs would tear his wrists apart and bleed out in his bathroom.

  Yet, everything seemed on the up-and-up, until more suicides came. Other Rebel Media employees just disappeared, their families never hearing from them again.

  And I had all types of ideas about who could be behind it—the government, some sicko politician opposing the media, the Russians. Everybody remained on edge, paranoid and trusting no one.

  Meanwhile, no one considered that there could be a serial killer in our social circle, smiling and telling jokes. Baking us fresh homemade cakes and cookies and bringing them to the headquarters as she scoped out her next victim.

  In the years of Rebel Media’s rise, there’d been five employee suicides and five people that had gone missing. And they were all men that were connected to my company, but no other similarities. One was gay. Another transgender. The rest were heterosexual men from different economic classes, races, and religions. The cops refused to investigate the suicides, and the private investigators that Brett and I’d hired for the missing people could never figure it out.

  They were only certain that all ten people had been murdered.

  Rebel Media gained notoriety, went public, and rose to millions in shares. Still, this dark cloud of death hovered over us. There’d been a joke on the internet that we should change our logo to the grim reaper. Many employees feared for their life and quit. Others began investigating the matter on their off time. Even I became obsessed.

  Had I been working with my head and not my heart, I could’ve saved all of Lisa’s victims.

  A few weeks before I discovered everything, Lisa had begun to act weird, sneaking around and leaving our bed in the middle of the night. I didn’t worry too much because she never left the property. I’d followed her downstairs one night and all she did was stand by the kitchen window and stare into the backyard. Another time, she walked outside to the backyard and just lay on the ground for an hour, rubbing the dirt along her skin.

  I didn’t know what to do. Many things came to mind—mental illness, depression, hysteria. I’d assumed that my obsession with the murders and Rebel Media had caused a strain on her.

  One morning, I sat her down, confessed that I’d been watching her at night, and suggested we both go to a therapist. She cried, fell into my arms, and told me she would go. But, she never did. And I didn’t want to push her.

  Meanwhile, I thought the backyard was somehow a key to fixing her. With the suicides and missing people following me everywhere in public, I decided to just focus on helping Lisa.

  Had I been a shitty husband, I would’ve never known her secret.

  To surprise her, I sent her off to the spa and hired a team to create an amazing garden in our backyard. It was where she spent all her evenings. At least I could make it into a paradise for her to escape in.

  The gardener and crew had a huge image of Renoir’s famous painting “Woman with a Parasol in a Garden.” This had been Lisa’s favorite piece. It showed two small figures, one a woman whose parasol shaded her from the sun and a man stood next to her, leaning down as if to pick a flower. I hired the gardener and his team to transform our backyard into Renoir’s impressionist painting. Everyone had been excited, especially since the budget went beyond six figures. Trucks delivered tons of flowers and shrubs covered in many different colors and textures.

  They started digging that morning. I’d even helped dig to hurry the surprise.

  And then someone found a bone.

  And another.

  And another.

  And my world, my life, it tornadoed into this very dark thing.

  The gardener argued that the bones were too big for an animal, that they had to be human. The crew started looking at me with fear in their eyes as if I’d buried them myself. And the more we dug, the more a rotting stench filled the air.

  I called the police. News crews arrived with them. Lisa hadn’t returned home yet. Being that a Rebel Media employee badge was with one of the bones, I was arrested and in jail by that evening. After two hours, they let me out. I’d had alibis for all the murders. Each time, I’d been out of town, speaking at tech conferences.

  I went home to a dark house. My lovely fiancée met me within the shadows of my hallway, stuck a needle in my neck, took me miles away, and kept me in a cage for two days.

  Jesus! For once, stop thinking about this.

  And here I was now, about to get lost in another woman.

  Stop it. Stop thinking about Lisa. Stop thinking about Yaz.

  No other woman could have me feeling that way again. Not even Yaz.

  Fucking Cherry Bomb. Can I even call her that anymore? She’s not that cute little girl I had a crush on. She’s an incredible woman.

  To admit that she knocked me off my feet would be an understatement. I couldn’t point at one thing or another. It could’ve been our history. It could’ve been Lisa tainting my idea of love and Yaz showing me something new. It could’ve been just plain old fear.

  But after seeing Yaz again, suddenly, I began remembering the sweet feeling of new love, the bubbling excitement that came. The fire of attraction. The constant arousal. After all that had happened, I didn’t think I would ever feel those sensations.

  Yaz triggered more than inspiration to paint. Every time I turned her way, desire surged through my blood and throbbed in every bone. Potent with charm, she made my heart stir and my body crave more.

  Even now as she dressed down below, I kept wondering why I hadn’t taken her on that long white couch. Why hadn’t I slid the fur coat and exposed her naked body? Why hadn’t I slipped my fingers along that soft skin?

  I could’ve told her anything she wanted to hear. I could’ve lied and promised to give her more.

  Not with her. I can’t pretend with her. She would see through it.

  And now with the line between us clear, I still wouldn’t stop trying to cross it. There was too much unspoken lust bridging between us. It was why I had to take her out to lunch afterwards. I didn’t want this feeling to end and I dreaded the lonely hours ahead.

  She’s not going to want to just have sex. She’ll want more. Fuck. I want more with her.

  But just because I felt that way around her didn’t mean I could give those feeling back. I was too damaged, too abused. She deserved better—a normal guy with a simple past. Some other douche-bag had already broken her heart. The last thing I needed to do was convince her to let me use her body as a sex doll.

  I will break her heart if she gets involved with me. In the end, they always cry.

  That scared me. I knew I could give her too much control, and that very thought sent cold shivers up my skin. I knew I would just let go and we would be happy for a week or so, and then the depression would come again,
and I would distance myself.

  I couldn’t do that when she’d already lost so much in life.

  No. Leave this alone. I’ll just take her out to lunch. Well...and paint her again. And maybe do another lunch or dinner or... fuck. What am I saying?

  I put on my shoes, headed downstairs, and waited for her, pacing the whole time. This should’ve been a simple situation. We were two friends having lunch. But in my mind, a complicated beast rose. Fear. Lots and lots of fear. For a minute, I almost called the lunch off, convincing myself that I’d be wasting both of our time by doing it.

  Wine, food, and lust, those things didn’t go with friends. They went with courting. What would wine and conversation with her do but make my cock even stiffer than it had been in the studio?

  This is madness.

  If Yaz had been any other woman, I would’ve had her bent over the couch and pounding my cock into her until the next morning. I knew more could’ve happened in the studio today. She wanted me. That was apparent. Lust blazed in her eyes. A few times she captured that sweet bottom lip with her teeth. Another time she softly moaned.

  I almost spread that coat apart and kissed her between her thighs.

  Yeah. I’m going to cancel. We can’t do lunch together. This is crazy.

  Yaz came downstairs and thoughts of canceling disappeared. A lovely sundress molded around her curvy body. It was a clean and innocent look, and I wanted to spend the rest of the day dirtying her up. My hands itched to touch her. Had she been mine the dress would’ve been ripped and torn on the floor.

  Fuck that. We’re going to lunch.

  “Are you ready?” I extended my hand.

  “Yes.”

  She gave me hers. Her fingers felt warm.

  Hand-in-hand, we left the house. Several people on conch cruisers sped by. Conch cruisers were these bicycles that were painted and decorated with outrageous artwork and embellishments.

  We crossed Front Street and went to down to Captain’s seafood restaurant. It was in Key West’s tiny art district, a few blocks of tropical inspired murals and colorful houses where poets and painters loved to hang out. Known for the freshest fish in the Keys, the place remained packed for lunch and dinner.