Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

  "Just go to sleep," he says, stroking my hair and guiding me down so that my head is on the pillow. "I'll be right here."

  "I know you will."

  He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I force my eyes to flutter open.

  "Noah? Can I go with you? To LA?"

  "You want to meet Ryan? About the security system testimonials?"

  That's not what I mean, and for a second, his words make no sense. Then I remember Red Brick and the job and all the rest of it. "I just meant for the wrap party," I say sleepily. "I'd like to go. As your date, I mean. If that's okay."

  I force my eyes back open so I can see him, and I'm rewarded by a joyous smile.

  "Baby, that sounds perfect to me."

  19

  "I can't believe we're on a studio backlot. Look!" I say, pointing at the fake facade of a two-story house. "I know I've seen that house in some television show. No," I correct. "A movie. Definitely a movie."

  I'm not a celebrity hound, but I can't deny that being on the backlot with the likes of Hollywood A-listers like Lyle Tarpin and Francesca Muratti is pretty damn amazing. And even though I'm trying not to be a drooling fan girl, I think I'm losing the battle.

  "You're cute when you're awed," Noah says. To which I stick out my tongue. In the most polite way, of course.

  "But seriously," I say, hooking my arm through his as I gaze over the crowd and the set pieces for M. Sterious, the blockbuster action movie that will be released next year. "This is pretty much the best date ever."

  "Better than miniature golf?"

  I lift myself up on my tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Nothing's better than miniature golf."

  He laughs, then raises his hand to wave at someone across the crowd.

  And there really is a crowd.

  In addition to everyone who worked on the film, the cast and crew invited their own friends and family. And on top of that, Lyle invited fifty kids enrolled in various programs offered by the Stark Children's Foundation, an organization that assists abused, traumatized and disenfranchised children through sports and play therapy, though lately its mission has expanded to include mentoring.

  All of which I know because Lyle and Damien explained it when we first arrived, after being shuttled from the airport to the studio in a private car from Stark's fleet. Another perk that I could get used to.

  Lyle is active in the organization and acts as a Youth Advocate, which is more than just a mentor. Instead, Youth Advocates are celebrities who publicly share their own past trauma in order to help the kids in the program realize that they're not alone.

  "You should consider doing it," Lyle tells Noah, when he and his girlfriend, Sugar, come over to greet us. "There's power in owning the shit from your past. And a lot of these kids have lost family members through violence. You've got a lot to offer them."

  "We'll see," Noah says, as Sugar hip bumps Lyle even as she shoots me an amused glance. Her eyes are brown, a shade similar to mine, but no freckles dot her nose, and her hair is the kind of blonde that reminds me of beaches and summer.

  I remember that there was some sort of media brouhaha that involved the two of them a few months ago, but I don't recall any of the details, other than that I thought it was unfair that she'd had her privacy ripped away. It wasn't as if she'd jumped into the spotlight on purpose, like Celia and I were hoping to do with Pink Chameleon.

  But I suppose that's the price Sugar paid dating a guy whose face often peers out at the world from magazines in supermarket checkout lines. From the expression on her face when she looks at him, I'm certain she thinks it was worth the price.

  "This is supposed to be a party, not a recruitment event," Sugar continues. "So behave."

  "Only if I get to misbehave later," Lyle says with a wink.

  "I think that can be arranged."

  Lyle catches Noah's eye and grins. Then he turns his attention to me. "Come on. I'll introduce you to Francesca."

  "Muratti?" If Lyle's a star, Francesca Muratti is a supernova. "Really?"

  "I told her you were coming. She's a fan." He glances around. "Where did Celia go?"

  Noah had asked Lyle to invite her, and she'd completely squealed over him when we'd first arrived, then almost lost her shit when he'd autographed her T-shirt. Now, I look around and find her talking to a stunning brunette with a microphone. She sees me and waves, her shoulder-length pink curls bouncing.

  "Who's she talking to," I ask Lyle, but it's Noah who answers. "That's Jamie Archer. Well, Jamie Hunter, now."

  "You know her?" Considering he just told me she was married, the tinge of jealousy is ridiculous.

  "She's Nikki Stark's best friend. And she recently married Ryan Hunter."

  "The Stark security chief that you want to talk to about beta-testing?"

  "Right," Noah said. "He's around here somewhere. We'll find him later," he adds as Celia rushes up and grabs my arm.

  "That's Jamie Archer," she says. "She does entertainment reporting, and I told her we're getting Pink Chameleon back together. I think she might do a story on us!"

  "That's fabulous!" I don't tell her that since Jamie is friends with the Starks, it's a solid bet Noah can pull some strings to make that happen for sure. Celia's too proud of herself for having snagged such a potential PR coup.

  "Right now, Lyle wants us to meet Francesca Muratti."

  As I expect, her jaw drops. "No way."

  "She's a fan," Lyle says, then waves. "And here she comes." He indicates the famous brunette who's now walking next to a god of a man with chestnut hair, broad shoulders, a wide mouth, and hard, assessing eyes. He looks like a man used to giving orders. More important, he looks like a man who expects them to be followed.

  "Holy fu-dge," Celia says, correcting herself as one of the SCF kids scurries past us.

  "It was sweet of you to let the kids be extras," I say to Lyle, as Celia gapes at Francesca and her companion. Noah and I had come straight from the airport, and while the cast and crew shot the last scene with the kids as extras, Lyle had one of the makeup artists do my face, a favor for which I will be forever grateful. I'd been excited about the party, but not about my lingering bruises. And she'd managed to cover every one of them.

  "That's Holt," Celia whispers. "Holy crap, we're going to meet Francesca Muratti and Matthew Holt at the same time. I think I'm going to throw up."

  "You are not," I order, then smile as they approach, even though my stomach's turning flip-flops, too. "Hi, I'm Kiki, and this is Celia. Lyle says you're a fan of our music," I say to Francesca, "which is so amazing because we're both huge fans of yours. I mean, your films are so--ow."

  I stop rambling when Celia kicks me, after which I can't decide if I'd rather die of embarrassment or kick her back.

  "It's great to meet both of you," she says, taking it all in her stride. Noah's beside me now, and she turns her attention to him. "And great to see you again. Lyle says you're in Austin now. That's one of my favorite towns."

  "You'll have to come visit sometime," Noah says. "Maybe South By Southwest," he adds, mentioning the popular festival for music and more.

  "That could be fun," she says. "You two are really putting Pink Chameleon back together? Lyle said so, but he knows I'm a fan, and I wouldn't put it past him to tease me. Any chance you'll be performing at South By?"

  Celia and I exchange looks, and I'm sure I look just as awed as she does. "Oh," I finally say. "Um."

  Which was not my finest conversational moment, but it's better than Celia's wide-eyed silence.

  "These two are part of the group you wanted to tell me about?" Holt asks Francesca. It's a simple question, but there's an edge to it that makes me believe the stories about Holt. The man's got drive and talent and a boatload of money--but he's damaged goods.

  "Oh, yes. I think you'll be impressed."

  "I already am," Holt says. "Which one of you is Celia?"

  Beside me, Celia squeaks, but manages to cover by pretending to cough. "That's me
."

  "You're the one who sent me the track?"

  "I--um, yeah."

  He glances at Francesca. "You're right. I'm impressed." He shifts his focus and nods at both Celia and me. "I don't know how you got my personal email address, but send more. And I'll be in touch."

  He turns and walks away, and for a moment it's all I can do to breathe. Then Celia does a fist pump before scooping me into a hug. I hug her back, and we dance around like idiots, but the second she releases me, I launch myself into Noah's arms. He twirls me around, then kisses me--hard and fast and intoxicating. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

  "Noah," I say, my voice cracking on his name. I love Celia. I love that we have this chance.

  But right now, it's Noah I want to celebrate with.

  He's looking at me like he wants to devour me, and I think that's the best idea ever. "We're still working together," he murmurs, his voice pitched only for me.

  I draw in a breath, because that's a line I didn't want to cross. But with Noah, the lines are already blurred. We never spoke of it, but it happened. We're together. We're us.

  And right now, all I want is him.

  "I don't care," I whisper.

  I see the heat in his eyes. The need. And I know that there is no way in hell we're staying through the end of this party.

  Celia knows it, too, and she steps forward with one hand on her hip, tilts her head back, and looks Noah in the eye. "I've always liked you," she says. "Back then, before all the shit went down, I thought you were good for her. And even though I wanted to fucking kill you when you hurt my girl, I kinda got why you did it. Doesn't make you not an asshole, but I kinda understood.

  "But I'm telling you right now that if you hurt her again, I'm going to rip your nuts off." She smiles prettily. "I just want to be clear."

  "My nuts and I thank you for the warning." His gaze shifts to me. "I promise, it won't be necessary."

  "Hmm."

  "Later," I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at my friend.

  "Tomorrow," she says. "Lunch. Your hotel. Both of you. We have catching up and planning to do. 'Cause we're gonna be so famous. Matthew Fucking Holt," she says. "I can't even."

  Since I can't either, we grab each other and hug again. And when she releases me, she whispers, "I wasn't sure about him being back, but I think it's good."

  "I know it is," I say, then give her another squeeze before I pull away. Noah takes my hand, and we start toward the exit.

  We don't, however, make it. We're stopped by Lyle's voice over the loudspeaker, and when we look for the source, we see that he's standing on a makeshift stage near the craft services table. Most of the guests surround him, including the SCF kids.

  "I have a couple of very special announcements," he says, and Noah catches my eye, his look a question.

  I want to leave, but I don't want to be rude. And so I shrug, disappointed, and hold onto his hand as we listen to Lyle give a quick speech about SCF, the kids, and the Youth Advocate program.

  "He's right," I say. "You'd be a benefit to the program."

  "It's on my radar," Noah says, and I know better than to push. Instead, we listen to the rest of Lyle's speech. When he's done, he thanks everyone for coming, then asks for a few more minutes of our attention.

  "We have something special to announce," Lyle says, holding his hand out to Sugar, who joins him on the stage. "Last night, I asked the love of my life, Sugar Laine, to marry me. And I'm thrilled to announce that she said yes."

  The audience erupts, and when Lyle pulls Sugar close and kisses her very thoroughly, a few catcalls and wolf whistles are added to the mix.

  When the crowd dies down and Lyle and Sugar come off the stage to mingle, we go over to congratulate them and say goodbye. "You inspired us to go celebrate," Noah says, looking at me with such obvious heat and purpose I can feel my blush rise.

  "It was great meeting you," I tell Sugar as I hug her and Lyle goodbye in turn. "And congrats again."

  Once again, we head for the exit gate, and once again, we're stopped. This time by Damien, who's accompanied by his wife, Nikki, a former Texas beauty queen, who I recognize from years of seeing the two of them in magazines and on the internet.

  "Heading out?" Damien asks after introductions are made all around.

  "We have some plans this evening," Noah says, and I try to keep my expression bland, so as to not telegraph exactly what kind of plans he's talking about.

  "I won't take up much of your time, but in case you're planning on working tonight--" His expression suggests that he knows very well that we won't be. "--I wanted to tell you to hold off. I've been talking with the CEO of the Israeli company, and for a variety of reasons, we're considering a co-venture."

  "Oh." Noah catches my eye and frowns. "What does that mean for us?"

  "It means we're putting the marketing on hold." He turns to me. "We'll pay out the full contract with Crown Consulting, of course. And we'll bring Crown back on board when the new deal is ironed out, if your schedule permits."

  "Wow," I say. "Thank you." Not only for the promise of future work, but because a lot of companies would have haggled over whether full payment for this contract was still due, and under the situation he describes, it's a close question. I appreciate Stark not fighting that battle, especially since the income is so important to me.

  "Is this because of the possible leaks?" Noah asks. "Because I've been meaning to mention something."

  Damien frowns. "Not directly. But what's going on?"

  Noah tells him about the green pickup truck that he keeps seeing near his condo and office. "It's probably nothing to do with Red Brick. But it's bothering me, so I thought I'd mention it."

  "Doubtful it's relevant," Damien says. "But I'll have someone check it out."

  Noah nods, and Nikki steps closer to me. "I wanted to say I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk more, but I'm sure we'll see each other again."

  "Enjoy your evening," Damien says as he puts his arm around Nikki and pulls her close. The intimacy between them is so palpable it makes my heart ache, and without thinking, I reach out and take Noah's hand. That's what I want, I think. That's how I feel.

  I tilt my head to see him looking at me, his face a mirror of my emotions.

  And that's the moment it happens.

  That's the moment that I know we'll be okay.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to jump Noah in the elevator. I want him. I want to feel his body pressed against mine. I want to feel his mouth on me. I want his cock inside me.

  I want to close my eyes and give myself over to his pleasure.

  In short, I want to be his.

  I'm a bubbling mess of need by the time we finally stumble out of the elevator car and down the hall toward his room. He fumbles in his pocket, then presses the key against the magnetic pad.

  Nothing happens.

  We look at each other, and when he mutters, "Come on, you fucker," as he tries again, I know for certain that he's as desperate as I am to get inside.

  This time, thankfully, the key works, and he shoves the door open, then takes my hand and pulls me into the room with him.

  "I was starting to--" I begin, but I don't finish the thought, because Noah has me pressed up against the wall, his mouth silencing me in a kiss, his hands moving over my hair, my face, my breasts.

  "Finally," he says, when he comes up for air. "Do you know how long I've waited to touch you like this?"

  I laugh, delighted by the fact that he's just as crazed as I am. "I'd say exactly as long as I've waited. And please, please Noah, don't make me wait any longer."

  "Hell, no," he says.

  I'm wearing a thin cotton button-down paired with a knit skirt. And even as he speaks, his hands find the collar. He pulls hard in opposite directions, sending buttons flying as the shirt tears open, revealing my pale pink bra.

  I gasp, then laugh.

  "Don't say a word," he orders. "I don't care if you liked it. I
'll buy you a dozen more. I have to have you. I have to taste you."

  "I did like it," I say. "But I like what you just did better."

  His eyes meet mine, and the slow curve of his smile sends liquid heat coursing through me. I press my legs together. I'm so wet I can feel it on my thighs, and I know the miniscule bit of material that forms the crotch of my thong panties is already thoroughly soaked.

  As if he can read my thoughts, he tugs the skirt down. The elastic waistband stretches easily, and it slides over my hips, revealing my panties--or, more accurately, revealing me. Because the panties aren't much more than damp material. He tugs them down and tosses them to the side, then orders me to take off my bra.

  I do, but when I start to drop it on the ground, he takes it from me, then starts to wrap it around my wrists.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What I wanted to do in my condo, but what we weren't ready for."

  "Oh." I lick my lips, thinking back to that night and talk of trust and commitment. My heart swells with hope. "We're ready now?"

  His green eyes meet mine, and I think I can see all the way to his soul. "Oh, yes."

  He leads me to the bed, then looks at me with a frown. "Damn hotels. There's no place to secure it."

  He's right. The headboard is padded and apparently screwed to the wall.

  With a rakish grin, he trails a fingertip down my naked body, from my collarbone to my clit.

  I gasp, my breath shuddering, my legs wobbling.

  "Can I trust you to be good?"

  I nod. But honestly, right then, I'd say just about anything.

  Then I frown, because I realize I'm not sure what good means. Not in this context.

  He chuckles, obviously understanding my confusion. "I wanted to tie you down, but I can't. So I need you to stretch out. Hands above your head. I want you to mimic being bound."

  He nods toward the bed, and I climb on, then do as he says.

  "Beautiful." He bends over and brushes a light kiss over my lips. "It's important because I want to look at you and know that you're mine. I want you vulnerable, open to me. I want the trust, Kiki."

  His fingertips dance over my skin as he speaks, as if his words are only the melody and he's using the connection between my body and his for the harmony.

  "I want to look at you and know that I'm the only man with the privilege of seeing you naked and vulnerable. The only man who can touch you. And I want you to give yourself to me, knowing that I will never want another woman. I want your surrender, baby. Basically, I want all of you."