“Hands off,” I growl.
She grabs my jaw, and as she lowers her mouth to my ear, I know that she’ll be trouble. “I do what I want.”
She grabs my cock—or tries to. “I don’t know much about your business,” I say as I catch her wrist, “but in my line of work we shake hands first.”
“Funny!” Her red smile curves, stretching her face. Applause erupts from all directions, and it’s nothing like the polite applause from an audience watching a round of Texas Hold ‘Em.
“How would you like to be in an adult film,” she croons, “opposite me?”
“I’m busy tonight.” I strut over to Marchant, ignoring my involuntary hard-on, and grab his shoulder. “Sarabelle, my room, now.”
I keep my head down as I stride into the hall, shouldering past a smug-looking guy with sunken cheekbones and slick black hair; a short, bespectacled girl holding an enormous camera; and a couple of others I don’t see because my eyes are on the runner. In seconds, I’m at the suite that Marchant built for me, back when we were young and I was snorting blow and fucking like a demon.
I figured Sarabelle would be free, because she keeps Tuesdays open for her favorite clients. But even if she was working, she would have cleared her schedule. I strip, stashing my clothes in the chifferobe, and slide into a cool silk robe. By the time Sarabelle arrives, wearing nothing but a blue teddy and wicked grin, I’m sprawled out on the bed, stroking my dick.
“Mr. West, how can I help you?”
I eat her out then fuck her. When we’re both satisfied I buy her for the rest of the night, as per our old arrangement. I’m ready to split when Donnie, one of the male escorts, knocks on the door. He’s got a bottle of West Bourbon and two glasses already poured.
Under the bottle is a note, scrawled on a receipt: For being such a good sport. ~P
I toss back one of the glasses, then shove the note into the pocket of my robe.
I tip Donnie with the bottle and the other glass, and by the time he closes the door, the room is spinning.
I hear a woman’s voice as I sink to my knees, but I’m not sure which woman. Sarabelle is asleep. At least I thought she was. The voice is high-pitched, kind of like my stepmom’s when she’s mad at me. I blink at the swirling ceiling. Maybe it’s my mother’s—but I can’t remember that far back. I can’t remember...anything.
The next morning, I can’t even remember if Sarabelle spent the night in my room. All I know for sure is that she’s gone.
Elizabeth
November – Napa, California
THIS IS WHAT happens when you don’t leave your house for weeks on end, trying to prep for grad school finals. For the first time in my life, I’m looking at a man, imagining him naked.
Not just any man—my host for the evening, Hunter West. With tweed pants hugging muscular legs and his jacket carelessly unbuttoned so I can see his undershirt and black vest, he screams sex. The kind of sex that’s all slick skin and pheromones, bulging biceps and a six pack that ripples as he leans closer to plant kisses all over my face.
The little fantasy makes me blush, but I don’t look away from Hunter. We’re in the same room for the first time in at least six months, and I’m entranced.
I pretend to tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ear as I steal another glance at him. He’s standing by a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by some of California’s most eligible bachelorettes. I recognize a few of them from Hargrove Day School: Honey Neighton, a former cheerleader who missed senior year due to some kind of Ambien addiction; Brina Lulle, a pretty, petite figure skater who once qualified for the Olympic team but broke her ankle and didn’t go; Mary Baldwin Greese, the painfully shy daughter of one of L.A.’s most powerful talent agents. There are more of them, decked out in designer gowns every color of the fall and winter fabric palette.
Hunter is more than a head taller than most of them. His wide shoulders are almost triple the width of tiny Brina. He’s nodding at something she’s saying, the look on his face politely solicitous, but I tell myself that underneath, he’s mind-numbingly bored.
Honey Neighton fans herself with her hand, drawing attention to her breasts, and I smirk down at my gown. It’s like a bad regency romance: Everyone gathers at the nobleman’s estate for a hunt and the unmarried ladies fawn all over the awkward and ornery—but charming!—duke.
Hunter West isn’t a brooding romance novel hero, though. He has too much breeding to be awkward and he’s too straightforward to play at anything—although he is hard to get.