by Sybil Bartel
I shot off a text to Luna, telling him I needed her agent’s and publicist’s numbers, then I threw the vehicle in reverse. Pulling out of the parking garage, I hit the street with her unbuckled, moaning ass in the back.
The first turn I took, she rolled and hit the side of the car. Her grunt did nothing to tame my hard-as-hell dick. Adjusting myself, I stepped on the gas and flew through all the lights. I was at my building in eight minutes. Eight minutes of listening to her make sounds no man wanted to hear unless he was directly responsible for them.
I pulled into one of the parking spots under the building and killed the engine. “Stay,” I ordered as I got out. Taking my shirt off as I walked to the back, I powered open the lift gate.
Her hair everywhere, her face flushed, she would’ve been fucking gorgeous if she wasn’t high as shit. Not to mention, backing away from me on all fours.
“Come here,” I ordered, holding my shirt out. “You’re putting this on.”
She shook her head, and hair stuck to her mouth. “That’s drowning.”
“That’s the rules,” I corrected.
We looked at each other, and for a split second, I thought I was getting through. Then she let out a high-pitched squeal like a damn cat.
Fighting for patience, I tried another tactic. “Do you want to drown?”
Her head shook like a pendulum.
“Put on the shirt and you won’t.”
Her head stopped shaking, but she didn’t move. She eyed the shirt.
I went for broke. “Water’s rising, you need to put this on.”
Slow, like a wounded, untrusting animal, she crawled toward me.
I didn’t do comfort. Ever. I dominated and fucked women, then I left before the sun came up. I didn’t have time to fucking coddle, let alone cuddle. But for a single second, the way she was looking at me, I thought about picking her up. For what, I didn’t know. She was unfuckable in this state.
I impatiently waited as she crawled the final few inches toward me, then I threw my shirt over her head. “Good girl,” I muttered, slipping her arms through, not knowing what the fuck had gotten into me. “Can you walk?”
I didn’t get the last word out before she launched herself at me. Her arms wrapped around me in a death grip, her legs went around my waist, and she buried her face against my neck. A split second later, she was crying.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I caught her with an arm under her bare ass before I yanked my shirt down on her and tucked it under. Closing the lift gate, I locked the vehicle and strode to the elevators. Despite her huge tits, there was no weight to her. I’d be surprised if she was a buck ten soaking wet.
Thinking of her soaking wet made my dick come back to life, and I pounded my fist on the call button. Waiting for the elevator, stepping inside, riding up eighteen floors, I didn’t say shit.
I listened to her cry.
I’d never thought about a woman crying before, because I was immune. Tears had zero effect on me. Ask any of the women I’d walked away from who’d pulled that bullshit. Sobbing was drama I didn’t need. But this young-as-hell woman in my arms wasn’t sobbing.
She was fucking weeping.
Weeping like shit hurt deep.
I didn’t utter a word as I unlocked my condo and walked inside. I didn’t speak as I carried her to my bedroom. And I sure as shit didn’t say anything as I peeled her off me and dropped her on my bed.
But when she started to crawl away, I barked out a command.
“Freeze. You’re staying right there.”
The weeping stopped and she froze.
On all fours.
With her bare ass facing me.
My head cocked, and I issued another order, “Lie down.”
She lay down.
Goddamn. “You gonna stay, or do I have to handcuff you to the bed while I shower?”
She curled in a ball.
My dick hard as fuck because it didn’t get the memo that she wasn’t being submissive, she was high as shit, I stood there for thirty seconds, waiting.
Besides her chest rising and falling with each breath, she didn’t move. At the minute mark, I figured she’d gotten the message. Locking the bedroom door just in case, not that’d it do anything except slow her down for a few seconds, I strode to the master bath and turned on the shower. Two fucking minutes in my arms and I smelled like her. Yeah, it was ocean and alcohol and sweat, but it was also pussy and perfume. And that was enough to make me want to wash that shit off before any more deviant thoughts entered my head.
I checked on her in the bedroom before I stripped down, but she still hadn’t moved. Kicking my boots off, then my clothes, I got in the shower with a raging hard-on. I needed to get fucking laid soon and get this shit under control.
Not wanting to take the time to jerk off, I was in and out and walking back to the bedroom with a towel around my waist in under three minutes.
Bed empty, she was gone.
“Motherfucker.” I spun in a circle.
The bedroom door was still locked, the floor on the opposite side of the bed was vacant, and the slider to the balcony was still closed.
That left the closet.
I hit the light in the walk-in and found her rocking in the back, her knees to her chest. Her hair was pushed back, and black streaks of makeup from her eyes ran down her face.
Jesus. She looked like the poster child for say no to drugs.
“All right, let’s go.” I was done with this shit. “You’re getting in the shower.”
Of course she didn’t move.
I scooped her up and walked right back in to the shower and set her on her feet. She started to shiver. I tossed my towel to the floor just outside the shower and turned on the water full blast.
Shock hit her face, her mouth opened, and her back arched like needles were piercing it. Thank fuck she didn’t scream or start with the animal sounds again, because after being up for twenty hours, I wasn’t in the mood for anything except my bed or fucking. The latter of which wasn’t happening.
“We’re getting you cleaned up,” I muttered, tilting her head back into the spray.
Her hands flew to my waist in a death grip, and she closed her eyes.
I wet her long hair, then dumped a handful of my shampoo on the top of her head. “Wash,” I ordered.
Still fucking silent, her eyes still closed, her hands still on my waist, she didn’t move.
Goddamn it.
In the single most cock-blocking shower with a woman I’d ever had, I washed her fucking hair.
Then I washed her.
Every goddamn inch, because apparently I was into torture.
With nothing left but her face and the makeup that hadn’t washed off, I took her hand and placed the bar of soap in it. “Do your face.”
Water running down her body, her eyelashes wet, she looked at me. Really fucking looked at me.
Then slow, just like in the back of the SUV, she came at me.
Except this time she didn’t look terrified.
Her lips hit me midchest and she licked me.
OH MY GOD, MY HEAD.
It was pounding like I was on a construction site and someone was relentlessly hammering on my skull. I couldn’t remember a worse headache.
Why the fuck did I drink so much last night?
And why the hell did I leave all the damn lights on?
I raised my arm to put my hand over my face, but halfway through the motion something caught. A metal clanking sound rattled the silence, and a split second later pain bit into my wrist.
What the…?
I opened one eye.
Oh my God.
I was fucking handcuffed?
Belated panic set in, and I opened both eyes, picking my head up.
White sheets, fluffy pillows, thick white comforter, and a wall of glass looking out over sparkling turquoise waters.
My head fell back and I inhaled.
Okay. I wasn’t in jail. That was good. One less th
ing for my asshole agent to be pissed about. Although…. No, don’t even think it. Jail would be bad, even if it did destroy my career and get me off this fucking merry-go-round. Beds in jail wouldn’t be this soft. I rolled my head and inhaled again. Or smell this good.
Because damn, it smelled really good.
But not hotel good.
No bleach, no disinfectant, no sterile this-is-supposed-to-be-clean-but-they-are-still-used-sheets distinctive smell. I knew that smell. I’d lived that smell for more years than I could count. After back-to-back movies for the past decade, I was intimate with hotel sheet smell.
This wasn’t that.
This was…
Oh no.
No, no, no.
My heart suddenly in my throat, I slowly rolled the other way.
Holy.
Fucking.
SHIT.
He was huge.
A giant beast of a man with unbelievably huge muscles was asleep next to me. And holy fuck, he was hot. Scary as hell looking, but oh-my-God hot.
And apparently naked.
With the sheet only up to his waist, he had chiseled abs, a screen-worthy jawline, and strong cheekbones. He wasn’t just naked and hot, he was every bad decision I’d never made but wished I had gorgeous.
Stupidly, I mentally ran through every A-lister I knew, but I already knew this guy wasn’t Hollywood. He was too… masculine. And his dark brown, almost black hair was practically shaved in a neat buzz that screamed military, not movies.
His chest expanded with a long inhale, but he didn’t open his eyes. “You’re staring.”
Oh, my God.
Sleep rough and deep, his voice was more vibration than baritone, and it went straight between my legs.
I wanted to taste him.
Actually, I wanted to crawl on top of him and ride every ounce of sexual energy he was giving off while drowning in his scent and listening to his voice forever.
And I didn’t have sex. Like ever.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. But ages sixteen to eighteen didn’t count. I was young and stupid then and I’d spread my legs for a slimy prick of a costar who’d fucked every groupie he could get his hands on behind my back. But since then? I’d been smart. I’d kept my legs closed. Unless… last night….
Oh God.
Panicked, I looked down.
Naked as the day I was born.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. I was going to be really pissed if I’d screwed him and didn’t remember a single minute of it. But more, I was going to be seriously pissed at myself. Jeez, why the hell couldn’t I remember a damn thing from last night?
“Relax, sweetheart.” Mistaking my silence, he gave me his sexy-as-hell voice again. “I didn’t fuck you.”
My nipples hardened to the point of pain when he said fuck. “But you managed to handcuff me.” I should be seriously pissed about that. Infuriated, actually. But all that was happening was a growing ache and pool of moisture between my legs that not only said I hadn’t been well used last night, but screamed I needed to get my hormones under control and tell my libido to fuck off.
“I needed some sleep.” He opened one gorgeously green-and-brown eye and looked at me. “Didn’t want you running across South Beach naked.” He paused. “Again.”
Again? Naked? Fuck. FUCK. I mean… shit, I worked out every day and went vegan two years ago to stave off any resemblance to a natural woman my body might be inclined to adopt. I didn’t have anything to be ashamed about walking around naked, unless this was the Renaissance. Then I’d look like a starving pauper, but it wasn’t fifteen hundred, or whenever the Renaissance was. It was Hollywood and it was cutthroat. Unless you looked like a twelve-year-old boy, had no tits, could sing better than Whitney, and were willing to take ridiculous roles no female with a brain would ever touch, then you didn’t work in Hollywood.
So, I shamelessly worked and took that multimillion-dollar paycheck. And apparently ran naked across South Beach.
Shit.
Shit.
“Did my ass look good?” That’s the first thing my publicist would ask me.
The sexy-as-hell tank of man lying next to me opened both eyes and his head as his eyebrows shot to his forehead. “That’s what you’re worried about? Your ass?”
“Yep.” Nope. Well, maybe if he was looking.
He laid his head back down and closed his eyes. “It’s a great fucking ass. Needs some meat on it, but still fuckable.”
“Gee.” Dick. “Thanks.” I changed my mind. He wasn’t sexy as hell. He was crude.
“Not that I need to tell you how your ass looks.” He reached to the nightstand on his side without opening his eyes. Like Superman, his hand landed unerringly on a cell phone. He picked it up, tossed it, and it landed in the exact middle of my chest. “You’re little show’s on every news channel from here to Dubai. Check out your ass for yourself. Passcode’s one-one-nine.”
I stared at the phone on my chest and stupidly wondered what his contacts list would look like. I envisioned a lot of female names. Ones like Candi, Brandi, and Mandi. He looked like he went for the fake-breasted, exotic dancer type. Or any girl he could use and toss aside an hour later. Shoot, ten minutes later for all I knew. Unable to restrain myself, I peeked at him again. Okay, maybe more than ten minutes. But I wasn’t going to think about that.
Sighing, I tossed his phone on his mountain of a chest. “Where’s my cell?”
“Fuck if I know.” His eyes still closed, he put his phone back on the nightstand. “Probably with all of your shit at your hotel suite.”
I tugged on my still handcuffed wrist. “And why am I not back at my hotel suite?”
He did the open-one-eye thing again. “You don’t remember fuck-all from last night, do you?”
I had to admit, it was kind of nice having someone talk normally to me. No Miss MacKenzie this, no ma’am that. And he wasn’t shy. At all. He didn’t stumble over words or say stupid tongue-tied shit. Which made me wonder… “Do you spend a lot of time around actors?”
He smirked and closed his eye again.
I took in the length of him and wondered how big his dick was. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was a stupid question.”
It suddenly occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t tongue tied because I wasn’t his preferred gender of choice. “Okay, how’s this question? Do you like to fuck men or women?” Hell. “Or both?”
Slow, like a turning tide, his mammoth chest rolled to face me as he moved an even bigger arm, bulging muscles and all, under his head. His heated gaze met mine, then it slowly dragged down my face to my lips and drank me in before sliding even lower to my chest and devouring me.
I felt like I’d just been savored, used, and spit out, all without a single touch.
“I fuck women,” he rumbled. “Hard.”
Ohhh God. Wet city. My mouth ran away from me. “Yes, but do you do it well?”
“If I fucked you, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
I let out a snort I was sure was not attractive by any means, but it was a nervous tic I’d never been able to fully break. “Cocky much?”
The side of his mouth tipped up. “Cock being the operative word.”
A single half smile and my entire body tightened with need. I wanted to hate how fucking sexy he was, or at the very least be alarmed by a stranger in my bed, but the sad fucking truth was that my life was nothing except strangers. Actors, agents, publicists, fans, security, costars, I didn’t know any of them and none of them knew the real me.
At least this stranger wasn’t pretending to be nice, or faking professionalism only to gawk. Instead he was being almost normal. Cocky as hell, but still, normal enough to make me forget my empty stomach and hunger pains long enough to remember how long it’d been since I’d had sex.
Not that I wanted to let on for one second that I was thinking about him or his muscles.
Putting the years of acting classes to good use, I managed to keep my expr
ession this side of disinterested and firmly in the bored camp. “Operative word, huh?”
He didn’t hesitate. “My dick’s big, and I know how to use it.”
Hungover, deranged, out of my mind—I didn’t know what my excuse was, but the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “How big?”
“You’ll never know.”
I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic as hell, but he sank the blow even lower with a smirk.
“Unless you remember last night.”
I shifted my legs and desperately tried to remember even a single detail about him from last night, but all I had was vague impressions of strong arms and sand and shitty feelings of being trapped, which was a constant for me anyway. Besides, this beast of a man had just said we didn’t fuck, and my pussy felt as empty as it always did, so I was betting on no sex, but that didn’t mean I, or we, didn’t do something else.
The thought alone had me salivating.
And now I wanted to remember this beast of a man from last night more than anything. Except everything after the club was a fog, and now that I was thinking about it, that was seriously fucking fucked-up.
Colton Bradley Payne fucked-up.
Colton I-have-more-drugs-than-a-pharmacy-and-I-always-forget-my-lines Payne.
That motherfucker.
“I don’t remember last night,” I ground out, putting two and two together. Colton drugged me. I knew he did.
The sexy hazel-eyed beast of a man leveled me with a look. “Then you’re not gonna know how big my dick is.”
It was instant. All my Colton anger transferred into Mr. Muscle anger. “First of all,” I snapped, attempting to hold up one finger, but only managing to get my wrist lynched by the damn handcuff again. “You said we didn’t fuck. Second of all, uncuff me. And third of all, do it fucking quick because I need to find Colton Bradley Payne.”
He stared at me a moment, and his expression didn’t change, but he looked at me like he couldn’t believe I’d just said fuck. Which I got, a lot. I was Hollywood’s brightest child star before I was Hollywood’s darling, and anyone who didn’t actually know me was always surprised to realize I wasn’t the cherubic thirteen-year-old with virtue anymore.
Indignant, I glanced pointedly at my restraint. “Are you going to uncuff me?”