Текст книги "Hollywood Dirt"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
CHAPTER 96
I had wondered when it would happen. Had been surprised when I had first gotten there and he had proposed eating. Had been on guard during our meal, my condoms at the ready, no more dumb mistakes for this girl.
Washing the dishes… I had thought that was a safe activity. But when I turned from the sink, the way he looked at me… maybe cleanliness was a turn-on for him. I’d been nervous walking over to him, my mind flipping through what I had eaten, wondering if there was pepper in my teeth, wondering if I should reach for my box full o’condoms now or—
He took all of that away when the bite of his fingers cupped against my back and pulled me forward. His kiss was frantic and needy, his tongue tasting me as if wanting the flavors from dinner, his hands sliding down my waist and over my hips and gripping my butt through the dress. It was so rough I almost gasped, his grip holding me against his body, and I could feel everything this man was thinking through those shorts, and God did I want it. I reached down, I couldn’t help myself, my fingers dragging over his T-shirt and down to his mesh shorts, pushing at the top hem and then under. Under. God. I haven’t touched these parts of a man in so long. And Scott—Scott was soft and a little doughy, his skin yielding if I pressed on it. My fingers slid right down the hard lines of Cole, under his underwear and he tilted up his pelvis as if he wanted it, and then my fingers brushed against it, and he groaned in my mouth, and I just about combusted, right there in his kitchen.
“Grab it,” he choked out against my mouth, his hands now both in my hair, hard against my neck, and he kissed me as if we would never kiss again, desperate and needy, his tongue against mine. I did grab it, wrapped my hands around his shaft, and he literally shuddered, my body pushing harder against his and when I squeezed it, it twitched. “Jack it. Please.” I don’t know how he managed to say the words, his kisses so close together, his lips on mine, on the side of my mouth, on my bottom lip. I felt his teeth for a minute, then they were gone, and my eyes closed as I tightened my hand and stroked it all the way up, then down, my confidence growing as the man freaking whimpered my name against my mouth. “Faster.” He panted and my hand moved faster.
One of his hands moved to the back of my dress and there was the rip of a zipper and then my dress was falling, his hands pushing the straps down my arms, my bra undone with talented fingers, his hand tugging it off, and I heard the sound of its clasp as it hit the kitchen floor. “Don’t stop.”
I wouldn’t stop, I couldn’t, because the feel of him in my hand was so beautiful, so perfect, his hips now thrusting, my hand doing nothing but holding tight and still as he jacked himself off in my grip. It was as if he couldn’t get enough, of me, of my mouth, of my touch. My dress was now around my waist, bunched up and stopped by the connection of my hand and him, his shorts still on, my hand still under, and I pulled at the fabric with my other hand, Cole and I fighting over space, both of us too anxious to be polite. I got his shorts over his hips, and they dropped to the floor. Cole pushed me off, and I stumbled back, my hand releasing him, my eyes opening, half-glazed with arousal, but I could see his chest heaving. My eyes focused on his, and he was as affected, maybe even more, than me. He yanked at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head, and I got a brief moment, when his head was covered, to stare at his beauty. Then his shirt was off, his feet were moving, and he was back on me, his hands settling on my bare waist, and he picked me up easily, swinging me to the counter. He yanked at my panties and then they were off and he pushed my knees apart. I reached for him again and he pushed away my hand, looking up at my face.
“I’m gonna come if you keep that up, and I’ve been waiting for this, fucking dreaming of this for two months.” He dropped to his knees and lifted my knees, pulling me to the edge of the counter, pulling my legs over his shoulders and leaning forward with his mouth.
Thank God I shaved. That was my first thought as I watched his mouth come closer, his eyes right there on my most private place, a place that Scott had only seen once or twice, his interest more focused on—I lost thought, literally lost the ability to think when he ran his mouth softly over the space between my legs and then inhaled. Inhaled. The way you would to a peach, when you can’t get enough of the smell and you want more. I’d done it, countless times. I knew the look that crossed over your face, knew the way your eyes closed. I never, not in a million years, thought that a man would have that look at the way I smelled. It made me want to open my legs wider, made me want to grab at the back of his head and say it’s yours and take it please.
I must have made some sort of a sound because he looked up at me, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from begging, couldn’t stop my hands from pulling slightly on his shoulders, couldn’t stop one of my legs from slowly dragging up his shoulder, my foot finding a resting place, my body opening even more. He held my eyes for one, long second, his tongue dipping into and out of me. Then he closed his eyes, as if in bliss, and leaned forward, his head dropping, his hands sliding up my thighs and under my butt cheeks, lifting me up into his mouth.
I couldn’t tell you the things I said. The things I screamed so loudly that my lungs hurt. The man shouldn’t be allowed to have a mouth. Shouldn’t be allowed to use that thing like a weapon, to cut open a woman’s soul, her secrets, her control, and rip them all to shreds. I lost myself, in those minutes with his head between my legs. He took all the pieces that made me Summer and swallowed them whole, made them his. I screamed his name and laid myself bare, and when I came I think I told him I loved him. I didn’t really know. I didn’t know who that woman, naked on a kitchen counter, was. I didn’t know who that man, that heartbreakingly beautiful, sexual freak of nature, was. I just knew that right then, in that instance, I loved him.
And at that moment, in that breakthrough, he stood up in the midst of my orgasm, yanked me back to the edge of the counter, and he pushed himself inside of me. Pumped his hips quick and fast—deep, furious strokes that made my orgasm never stop, never slow; it just stretched further and further until I lost it, somewhere along the line, and it just became gorgeous, beautiful sex. I wrapped my arms around his neck and his lips found mine. He kissed me, then moved to my neck, his teeth grabbing, then his tongue, and I held on to his shoulders and wrapped my feet around his back and I held on to him with all of my strength and what little control I had left. And when he came, I felt his break, felt his mind fall apart, heard him gasp my name, over and over, over and over, a stream of incoherent mumblings as he lost everything and found it in me, his arms locked around me, hugging me to him, and then I was off the counter and on the floor and against his chest, and the kitchen was finally quiet, save our shaky breaths.
CHAPTER 97
He loved her. He did. He fucking loved this woman. He loved her giggle when she couldn’t control it. He loved the mischief in her eyes when she was playful. He loved how her body stiffened and hands balled up and her gaze could eat through a grown man when she was mad. But none of that compared to how much he loved her sighs, the sound of his name when she screamed it, the way her mouth responded to his kisses, her scent—God he could bottle her juices and become a billionaire, but he would never because he couldn’t, in that moment, ever imagine another man with her. He would kill to keep her his, pay every cent of his fortune, destroy his career and never have another if it would keep her his. This was not a rebound, this was not infatuation, this was the end of his life as he knew it, and the realization hit that even if she didn’t want him, he would never ever find another woman like her, he would never ever get over her. He closed his eyes, felt her leg move against his, her chest heaving against his, her mouth by his neck, and he had never been so terrified.
CHAPTER 98
The decision was made, after I finally rolled off him, my shoulders hitting the cold tile, my legs trembling when I stood, a moment of awkward silence between us before I giggled and he smiled, that we needed dessert. Ice cream, preferably. On that we agreed. I went to the bathroom and felt a moment of panic when the evidence of his orgasm came out. Right. Another unprotected experience. Good thing I had just finished my period, my window of fertility not open yet. Still, I should probably go back to Tallahassee. I should also have my head cut open and examined because I had lost something, somewhere, that kept me intelligent.
Quincy had no ice cream shops, at least not that were open on a Friday night past ten. We debated over our problem, but there was really only one solution.
“Walmart?” Cole looked at me as if I had suggested we stage a coup and overtake the Quincy government.
“Yes. You know, giant superstore, has everything at every moment of the day?”
“I can’t go in a Walmart.”
“Because…”
“Not to sound like a pompous prick, but because of who I am. There will be crowds. Paparazzi. And DeLuca will have my ass if I am photographed with you. Especially with…” He made some general hand gesture that I’m pretty sure was meant to encompass my magazine article.
“It’s Quincy. At ten-thirty at night. There will be, like, three people there. And look—” I opened the curtain and pointed. “All the photographers are camped out at my house. Waiting for me to go batshit crazy.” It was true, they were still there, a line of six of their cars, stretched out politely to the left of the Holdens’ gate. Mama was going to turn the lights on and off through the night and keep the blinds drawn, television on. She’d wanted to get more creative with the ruse, but I shut that down. Mama, when she got creative, could go a little overboard. “We could get treats for Cocky there!” I added.
“There are still security cameras in Walmart.” He shook his head at me. “No.”
I twisted my mouth, then got an idea.
CHAPTER 99
“We’ll look like robbers.”
Summer looked at the two bags laid out on the dining room table, with a serious face. “You’re right.” Her forehead wrinkled, and then she looked back at him, an excited look on her face. “We should decorate them.”
He scowled in response, a grin pushing at the corners of his mouth. She clapped her hands in excitement, and it was official: he’d never be able to tell her no.
“This is stupid.” He pulled at the bottom of his paper bag and scratched an itch the paper was causing against his neck.
“Shut up,” Summer chirped, leaning over the gearshift and adjusting it, his eyes suddenly better lined up with the holes. They were face to face, her own paper bag covering her features, her eyes the only thing visible, shining through two oval circles, her holes much more ‘feminine,’ according to her, than Cole’s basic circles. She’d added blue eye shadow, giant lashes, and carefully drawn eyebrows, courtesy of a thirty-pack of markers they’d found in the study. “Your eye makeup looks fantastic,” he whispered and became suddenly aware of her hand, on his thigh, where she was resting her weight.
“Thank you,” she whispered back and giggled. “Though you should get that mole looked at. It’s worrisome.” Oh yes, the mole that she’d felt the need to add, drawn on his cartoon cheek. She’d added a thin hair coming out of the top of it, and just like that, his paper bag self was suddenly ugly. He’d compounded the issue, drawing worry lines on the forehead and bags under his ‘eyes.’ “He looks stressed,” she had said, then added a cigarette, limply hanging from his mouth. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Now he has a reason.”
“Lung cancer?” Cole had guessed.
“No!” When she’d shoved at his shoulder, he’d wanted to sweep the bags off the table and take her, right there, the markers pushed to the end of the table, her hair spreading out on the walnut surface. He hadn’t. He’d let her finish. “Bad breath and teeth staining,” she’d said somberly. “They are very serious side effects.”
“And that makes my bag man worry.”
“YES,” she’d stressed, picking up a watermelon pink marker and filling in the lips of her woman.
Now, he stared at those lips, then impulsively leaned forward, the paper bag crinkling as he pushed his lips against hers through two layers of brown papers. Her hand tightened on his thigh, then it was over. Her eyes laughed at him. “Are you done romancing? I want to get inside before you smear this super-expensive Crayola lipstick.”
“I’m done.”
“Then let’s do this.” She fist-pumped and opened his door, opting to crawl over his lap and out rather than return to her side. He didn’t mind, helping her on her way out, his hands friendly, and she shrieked out a protest before both feet landed on the ground.
At almost eleven at night, they were the fifth vehicle in the lot, if you ignored the line of employee cars parked on the far side of the building. Cole’s steps slowed as Summer strode toward the entrance, her feet hopping over a parking curb. Her head turned to him, and she saw his lag, her hand reaching out and grabbing him. “Come on, chicken. Grow some balls.” She tilted her head at him, the giant bag making her look like a bobblehead, and he grinned behind his mask.
It was stupid.
It was ridiculous.
It was also her idea, and she was laughing, and he would be damned if he interfered with that. He let her pull him forward and they stepped up to the front door. Wearing paper bags pulled over their heads. The greeter, a short older man with a belly, turned, a smile on his face, and paused, the unlit cigar hanging from his mouth drooping.
“Hey Bob,” Summer chirped, snagging a cart from his hand and pushing it forward.
“Hey Summer,” the old man drawled, the cigar fully dropping from his lips as he watched her pass, his nod in Cole’s direction slow and cautious. “Hey Mr. Masten.”
Cole smiled out of habit, then realized the man couldn’t see his mouth, and nodded. “Good evening.” He jogged a few steps, catching up with his paper bag girlfriend, and lowered his head to her. “He knows it’s us,” he murmured.
“Of course he does,” she said, her giant head turning to look up at him, her hazel eyes shining. “Now, Mr. Masten, let me properly welcome you to the beauty that is Walmart.”
She stopped, in the middle of the wide, main aisle, and spread her arms. Spun around a little and stopped. Did a curtsy for no apparent reason and then laughed.
“The list,” he reminded her.
“Oh yes.” She dug in her purse, her head tilted down, hand holding her mask in place against her mouth. “Here.” She shook it out and, from a register halfway down, a blue-aproned employee walked to the end of her aisle and stared at them. “Corn, string cheese, pasta, spaghetti, cabbage, berries, dried peas, plastic bottles, ice cream and whipped cream.” Her words ran together in a line, the last set as one long mashed together word.
“Whipped cream?” he repeated the last one, confused.
She tugged at the bottom of her bag as if to make sure that it was still on. “I always wanted a guy to lick whipped cream off me. Scott was never that adventurous.” She shrugged her shoulders, and the bag moved slightly as she shook her head. “You might be my last chance.”
The woman thought that whipped cream was adventurous. “Okay…” he said slowly. “Whipped cream.”
She tilted her head. “Your face is so sad, I can’t tell if you think that is a good idea or a bad one.”
He stepped closer and looked down at her big-eyed, bright-lipped face. “Woman, I think it’s an incredible idea. I will buy every single can they have in stock.”
Laughter bubbled out of her, and this truce was the best idea he’d ever had. “I like when you call me woman. And don’t be so eager. This is Walmart. They will have a gazillion cans in stock.”
He looked down at her and was glad that she couldn’t see his face. I like when you call me woman. He wanted to call her a lot more than that. Only one month of filming left. The sudden thought was sobering. Not enough time to figure out if his post-sex epiphany was true. Not enough time to properly win her heart.
CHAPTER 100
I wanted to split up. Divide and conquer, that was the best strategy when dealing with the enormity that was a superstore. But Cole said no, that we needed to stick together, and when his old man bag face said something, I couldn’t seem to say no. We should wear these all the time. Behind mine I felt fearless, like the words coming out of me weren’t mine at all, but those of some other, braver, more confident individual. Whipped cream? Where did that come from? And did I actually tell him I wanted him to lick it off? I should have been mortified, but I wasn’t. I felt free.
We took the scenic route through the store, stopping at the sunglass stand—our bag heads too big for proper modeling—then the toys section, a heated discussion erupting over a wall of board games and puzzles. We decided on Taboo and Scrabble, then got distracted with a cartwheel competition: Cole bet me a hundred dollars that I couldn’t do three cartwheels in a row without my bag falling off (I won, my hair is fluffy) and then I bet, double or nothing, that he couldn’t do three cartwheels in a row without falling over. Needless to say, I left two hundred bucks richer.
It was in the pet section when it happened. We were arguing over the toy selection, Cole insisting, his mouth muffled through the bag, that Cocky was a chicken—a distinction that he seemed to think removed any chance of him enjoying a cat toy—and I was arguing that if Cocky was a chicken then maybe he didn’t need any toys. That’s when he dropped the ridiculous tiny dog collar he’d been considering, and pinned me to the cart, his arms on the handle, my body in between.
I squirmed, and he wrapped a leg around me, holding me against him. “Kiss me,” he said, and I stopped squirming, my hands softening their push against his chest.
“Now?” I squeaked, and turned my head to look down the aisle, my paper bag getting crooked in the process, my right eye losing all sight.
He let go of the handles and pulled at my bag, my hair floating up with it, and he tossed it into the cart, his hands coming down to smooth the erratic pieces. “Cole,” I whispered. “The cameras.”
“I don’t care about the cameras,” he said gruffly, his bag pulled off and joining mine, and there was a moment of nothing, then he pulled with rough hands at the back of my head, and there was a moment of everything.
I knew I was supposed to hate this man, but I kissed him in that pet aisle and somewhere, in the months since he moved here, I lost that objective. I let him kiss me and couldn’t, no matter how deep I reached, find any hate at all.
CHAPTER 101
Our covers were blown, everyone in the store knew who we were anyway, but we still put the bags back on and continued shopping. The kiss had changed things, his hands constantly on me, resting on my lower back, playing with the ends of my hair, his fingers sliding through my fingers when we’d stop at a display. I found him a giant cowboy hat that I was able to squash on his head, the worried old man face now looking eerily similar to a country version of Robert DeNiro. He returned the favor with big hot pink earrings that he pierced the side of my bag with. “We’re so sexy,” I mused, striking a pose in front of a dressing room mirror. I had a sudden thought and wheeled around, facing him. “Photo booth!”
“What?” He adjusted his hat in the mirror. “God, this hat makes me look ridiculous.” His hands stalled as his statement sank in, and we both burst out laughing.
I chased down my original idea. “Let’s take a picture in the photo booth.”
“They have a photo booth?” I couldn’t see them, but I was pretty sure his eyebrows were raised in skepticism.
“The photo lab machine takes selfies. Come on.” I grabbed his hand and tugged at it, pulling him and our cart in the direction of the electronics department. I hadn’t been entirely sure of myself, but when we parked in front of the standalone machine, it turned out that I was right. It took pics in bursts of three. We took ten. The electronics girl popped her gum and stared at us like we were idiots.
We were idiots. Something about this man, whether it was having sex with him, or kissing him on camera, or running up a nine hundred dollar bill in the middle of the night at Walmart, made me act like an idiot. The cashier, a pixie brunette who I’d attended high school with, bagged our items, handing Cole his credit card and nodded at me. I smiled at her and wondered, for the first dark moment since entering the store, if she’d been one of Quincy’s ‘anonymous sources.’
When we pushed the buggies out the front door, the parking lot was dark, the ten thousand watts of parking bulbs out. And around us, as far as I could see, was pitch dark. We stopped, the carts squeaking, and stared.
