Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Twenty-one
I do what I’ve been asked.
I try my hardest to stay away from Ransom. I do all I can to keep him at arm’s length. But that doesn’t mean he’s promised the same thing.
We finish our first day at Oasis without incident, all of us too exhausted from traveling to do much more than unpack and rest. The next, Tucker and I order dinner to our room—chef’s special five-course meal. And now that Riku is running the kitchen, it’s no surprise that everything is divine.
You know that saying, “Birds of a feather flock together”? Well, if Justice was a particular species of bird, he’d obviously be a beautiful one, such as a peacock—proud and exotic. And Riku would be strutting right beside him, just as gorgeous and unattainable.
I met him when he was the sous chef for Oasis, but after things went south and Justice disappeared, Riku was one of the few who stuck around, holding out hope that he would return. He never gave up on him, even when JD gave up on himself. So it was only fitting that he make Riku, his only real friend and confidant outside of Ally, head chef and part owner of the new and improved Oasis.
“You know, I could get used to this,” Tucker says as I feed him a bite of the most incredible key lime pie I’ve ever tasted.
We’re in bed listening to soothing jazz from the bedside stereo, the confection positioned on a tray between us. Tuck picks up the small dessert fork and divvies off a portion to serve me. I take it gratefully, moaning around the cool metal between my lips.
“You shouldn’t do things like that,” my husband warns, his voice gravely.
“Do what?” I look up at him with hooded eyes and smile.
It only takes mere seconds before I am flat on my back and my panties are dangling from my foot. Tucker kisses me from the inside of my ankles to the tops of my thighs. And when I’m panting, begging him to touch me more, kiss me more, he spreads me wide and licks me slowly from front to back, savoring every slick part of me. I shake and squirm as he devours the first drops of fresh, warm wetness. And when that wave ends, another begins as he slides his swollen cock inside me with all the patience and control of a deranged serial killer. God, it’s maddening. How can he take it? How can he not be so ravenous for release that he just greedily takes me without regard for my comfort or safety?
I grip his ass, scoring the taut flesh with my fingernails, pulling him in closer, deeper. He groans into the crook of my neck, so I do it again and again, begging him with my body to join me in this realm of reckless abandon. Just let go, it whispers, its slick tongue trailing the shell of his ear. It’ll be ok. I promise you’ll like it.
He comes hard, quicker than I expect. He grunts in my ear as if the sheer violence of the act pains him. My body cools underneath him, rigid and still, as he empties his demise inside my womb.
“Oh,” he groans, kissing my neck. “That snuck up on me. Sorry, baby.”
“It’s ok,” I lie. I shouldn’t be upset, considering that he licked me to orgasm beforehand, but I’m a selfish bitch. I wanted him to take me. I wanted him to claim me. And he failed.
“Seriously, give me half an hour, and I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” He pulls out of me and rolls onto his back, his chest heaving with exhaustion.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s been a while, and you’ve had such a hard week. You needed that.” I say the words, knowing they’re true, but I don’t mean them. I wish like hell that I did though.
He kisses my face once more and closes his eyes. Within minutes, he’s snoring softly, his softening cock still glistening with my wetness.
Great.
I climb out of bed and clamber into the bathroom. Along with a glass-encased shower, each room is outfitted with a claw-foot tub large enough for two, and luxurious bath soaps and oils. I decide that a hot, bubble bath is just what I need to expel all the nervous energy still simmering inside me, and I fill it up as high as it will go without overflowing, hoping to drown my discontent. An hour later, my water is cool, my skin is pruned, and my joints are still not uncoiled.
I towel off and slip on a plain cotton dress and sandals. Even with the late hour, it’s still hot out, and if I happen to step outside, I don’t want to sweat my face off. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m seeking. I just know that I can’t stay within these four walls. There are a dozen different voices drifting from the pool area when I make my way downstairs. I think about checking it out, but decide not to. Nearly naked couples submerged in water? No thank you.
Right off the main dining room is a bar area, housing a few pub tables and stools. Masculine laughter echoes from that direction along with what sounds like a lively commentator on a sports show. I pause, letting the shadows envelop me, listening to chatter about the latest game and some domestic scandal between a popular baseball player and his wife. I hear them bond over their mutual appreciation for various musicians and colorful stories of their favorite travels. I stand there, an intruder, a voyeur, and I ache with jealousy, longing to be on the receiving end of those chuckles and casual banter. Not feeling like I have to calculate every word to avoid a slip of the tongue.
“Must be incredible to go on tour,” Riku says, pausing to take a sip from his beer. “I saw you guys back in 2012 and it was insane. I can’t even imagine how your fan base has grown since then. And how much your sound has evolved since the first album.”
“Yeah. Been a crazy ride. But I think this next album will shock people, which is fucking hard to do in this market. But I think it’s the subtlety that’ll get them. The simplicity.” I can hear the smile in Ransom’s voice.
“Shock them with simplicity? I like it.”
They tap beer bottles and go back to gazing at the big screen that displays the sports highlights of the week. Growing weary, I take a deep breath and step around the seclusion of the wall.
“Heidi! What’s up, girl?” Riku smiles, damn near startling me by the sheer perfection of it. The tall, golden-skinned half Japanese, half Brazilian stunner is beyond gorgeous. He’s actually prettier than most women I’ve seen. His heavy-lashed eyes naturally look as if they’re lined with onyx, and his lips and nose are thin yet perfectly aligned. Jet-black hair is cut and styled in a short, classic style for the kitchen, and it suits him. Anything flashier would detract from the beauty of his face.
“How’s it going, Riku,” I say, returning his grin as I approach. “Haven’t burned the place down yet, I see.”
“Aw, girl. You know that’s not happening. How was dinner?”
I force myself to keep my eyes trained on Riku, but I can feel Ransom’s stare sliding over every inch of my frame. Looking at him would be bad for the both of us. I wouldn’t be able to hide the flush of my cheeks and the sharp intake of breath. And he wouldn’t be able to resist devouring every one of my reactions like sex-flavored candy while wearing that smug smile on his face.
“Delicious.” The word is no more than a whisper on my lips. I mean to elaborate, but standing before not one, but two, incredibly sexy men, my body wound tighter than a rubber band threatening to snap, I can’t seem to find the words.
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Riku replies thoughtfully. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Please.”
He disappears around the bar, leaving me to confront the one person I was told to stay away from.
“I was wondering when you’d quit eavesdropping and come join us.”
I snap my gaze to him and frown. “What? How did you . . . ?”
He laughs, tipping his head back to give me full view of his throat. Oh, how I would kill to rake my teeth against the fragile skin, the promise of puncture so thrilling that we both moan when the sharpness of my canines make contact.
“You know that feeling you get when danger is near? The hair stands up on the back of your arms. That niggling sensation that crawls up your spine. The silent alarm that goes off in your ears. That’s what I get when you’re close by. I smell danger.”
His words are like the sweetest poetry, his voice like syrup dripping from his lips. I don’t know what to make of it . . . don’t know what to say other than, “I know.”
“You know?” One corner of his mouth lifts. “You know you’re dangerous?”
“I know we’re dangerous together.”
“Yes. We are.” He nods before sipping the remnants of his brew. I eye it, questioning. Should an addict be drinking? He did say it wasn’t alcohol that was his main vice, and other than that one time after SNL, I had never seen him drink more than beer.
“Which is why this is a bad idea. We were a mistake.”
He looks at me then. Really stops to see me through those eyes made of black lava rock. Maybe he’s surprised. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he hates me enough that he’ll be able to walk away. I can’t say which reaction I was going for, but any would be better than this.
“A mistake, eh?” He’s suddenly too close to me, yet I don’t think he’s moved. I just know I feel overwhelmed by his presence, almost violated.
“You know what I mean, Ransom,” I whisper furiously, my eyes intently watching the doorway. “This isn’t right. What we did . . . It’s not fair. Not to Tuck, not to you, not to me. So can we try to forget about it? Please?”
“You want to forget about it? Just like that?” He looks amused. “Can you forget me?”
“I can try.”
He nods and places the empty beer bottle on the bar, just as Riku arrives from the back with a glass of something bubbly and pink. “Here we are,” he announces. “Been saving a bottle of this stuff especially for you.”
I plaster on a smile and accept it, and while I know it’s delicious, I can’t taste anything but regret and longing on my tongue.
“Well, I’m out,” Ransom states, dapping up his new friend. “Catch you later.” He looks at me momentarily and tips his head. “Heidi.”
“Ransom.” Then he turns around and disappears from view.
“Well . . . damn.”
“What?” I frown, looking at Riku over the rim of my glass.
“It’s just . . . if you were somebody else, I’d swear you two are in a lover’s quarrel. Must be your sparkling personality,” he jibes.
“Ha ha. Sparkling personality, my ass. Someone has to be the hard nose around here, when all you strong, strapping men are writing sonnets and getting mani-pedis.”
“Mani-pedis?” he feigns outrage. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know that I receive paraffin dips. Don’t get it twisted.”
We share a few laughs until a few guests begin to filter in from outside. I recognize a few CEOs, TV personalities, and even a big shot record label exec. Of course, my presence doesn’t evoke any warm fuzzies so I down the rest of my drink and bid Riku good night. When I return to my room, I find that Tucker is still knocked out, flat on his stomach, snoring softly. Half an hour—yeah right. Tuck hasn’t been able to go two rounds since his twenties. And it’s not that he isn’t in shape or the equipment is malfunctioning. We’re just usually too tired or too busy. Honestly, sex between us had become a weekly chore that we just wanted to “get over with” to release the pressure. And while it’s still good, it has become much like the rest of our life—predictable.
I figure I could sleep if I tried, so I slide between the sheets next to him. Out of habit, I check my phone, which I had left on the nightstand, set to Silent. To my surprise, there’s a message. I don’t even have to read the name to know who it is.
I could try too.
I tap out a quick reply, confused by his cryptic statement.
Try what?
To forget you.
Ok.
My heart sinks, but he can’t know that. It would only complicate things further, and make it that much harder to let go.
Is that what you want?
He’s asking me if I want him to forget me, as if he knows it’s ripping me up inside, turning muscle and organs into shreds of bloody despair. In a desperate plea, my traitorous heart is screaming No. No, Ransom, don’t forget me. But my head slices through like a hot knife to butter, silencing the weaker vessel.
That’s what I need.
Ok. I’ll try. But I can’t promise you anything.
Thank you.
I don’t know why I say that, but it seems appropriate.
So will you still be my publicist?
Of course.
So you’ll still be there for me when I need you to be?
That’s my job.
Your job, huh?
I roll my eyes but find myself smiling down at the screen.
Yes, Ransom.
I hope he can feel the playful exasperation in my words.
Good. Because I need you. Now.
I almost drop my phone, imagining his mouth saying those words to me, his lips whispering in my ear as he expresses this uncontrollable need for me.
I need to ask you something.
The text comes in before I can conjure up any more ridiculous scenarios.
Why?
Just come out to the hall. I’ll step out so you know where my room is.
I’m texting that it’s not a good idea, it’s inappropriate, it’s wrong, it’s late, yada yada yada, when another text comes in.
Come on, H. I heard you loud & clear. I won’t touch you, I swear. Just give me 5 min.
I look over at my husband, the sated man I love sleeping next to me with remnants of our love making a dried, flaky, white souvenir on his soft cock. I don’t feel him between my thighs anymore. It still aches, but not for him.
My fingers tremble over the touchpad of my phone. Five minutes with my client. Even Justice can’t deny that interaction is necessary.
Ok. Give me 2.
I shuffle to the bathroom and quickly run a brush through my hair and swish some mouthwash around to expel the stale taste of champagne. I’m in a flimsy, coral applique nightgown and nothing else. If I change, it’ll look like I’m expecting more than just a five-minute conversation, and I didn’t pack any sweats. I decide the matching robe will have to do, and even though I’m supposed to be keeping up the ruse that this is totally casual and even a bit inconvenient, I dab on a little sheer lip gloss and pinch my cheeks. I’m going to hell, but at least I won’t be alone.
I step into the hall barefoot and look down the hall. Lounging in the doorway of his room, wearing nothing but basketball shorts much like the ones he wore yesterday, stands Ransom Reed. His hair is sexily tousled as if he had been in bed while he was texting me, and it looks like his already tan skin has taken in some sun. He dips his head forward, training those dark, deceptive eyes on me, before tilting it to one side, signaling for me to come to him. I hesitate for a breath, and collect my senses. I promised Justice. I promised myself. I won’t throw away a solid marriage and a good man for some kid. He’s twenty-four . . . of course he’s hot and ready to go on command. At that age, he’s nothing more than a walking, talking hard-on.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say as I approach, my voice much more icy than I intend. Ransom doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s becoming immune to my bullshit.
“Come in.” He moves inside to let me in. When I pass, I catch the word inscribed in silver on his door.
Temptation.
Justice Drake, you patronizing fucker.
I ignore it and step inside, my arms crossed over my chest protectively. I’ve never felt unsafe with Ransom, not even when he was tripping off oxy and blow. But now that I’m here alone with him, in a dimly lit bedroom outfitted in lush reds, blacks, and grays, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so afraid. Not of him. Of myself, and what my body wants. And what I’m capable of doing to satisfy it.
“Have a seat,” he says, offering an oversize, cranberry armchair. He didn’t offer the bed. That’s a good sign. He goes over to the small kitchenette and opens the mini fridge. “Water? Tea? Wine?”
“Wine, please.” I know it’s a mistake the very second I ask for it, but I need something to take the edge off. Something to keep me from ripping off this satin robe and mounting Ransom against the mahogany chest of drawers.
He cracks the seal of a small bottle and pours me a glass. I take it with a grateful smile and watch as he plants himself on the bed across from me.
“So?” My throat is coated with broken glass, so I take a swig to wash it down.
“So.”
“You said you had a question, Ransom.”
“Right. I do.”
I make an aggravated noise that sounds too much like a moan. I could have been riding my husband right now after waking him up with my hot mouth. Or shit . . . I could be masturbating. Being here is like walking a tightrope with no net underneath. I know I’ll fall, and on some level I want to, just to get it over with. But I know the plunge will kill me. And right now, with the suspense piercing my resolve like a thousand little ice picks, leaping to my death seems less and less daunting.
Seeing the irritation play across my features, Ransom finally puts me out of my misery after taking a deep breath. “Caleb . . . what did he say about me? What was his explanation?”
I take a sip of wine and look around the room. Against the blood-stained walls are black and white photos of men, women, and couples. All naked. All rooted in their own passion, completely oblivious to the camera’s lens. They’re erotic, yes, but not pornographic. They’re beautiful. They’ve created art with nothing but their skin.
“That you’re an addict,” I finally answer, tearing my eyes from the series of grayscale flesh. “And while he seems to believe you have it under control, sometimes you break and need to get away for a while. Hence our little cross-country excursion.”
He lifts a brow. “And that’s all? That’s all he told you?”
“Is there more?” I want to ask him, how much worse can it get? But think better of it. I honestly don’t know what’s ailing him, and until I do, it’s better not to aggravate him.
He answers, “No,” yet the frown deep between his brows seems uncertain. “Yes, I am. And yes, it’s under control. I’m sorry for how I acted that night you found me at the bar, and I’m sorry for what I said to you. Well, most of it at least.”
“Most of it?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything about Tucker or your marriage. That was out of line. And I shouldn’t have insinuated that you were there for anything more than to put my ass to sleep and make sure I didn’t swallow my own tongue.”
My voice is a whisper on ice, skating across the diamond planes. “You remember that?”
“Yeah. Remember that slap you gave me too. Damn, H. You’ve got one helluva arm.” He laughs and rubs his jaw that’s lightly dusted with dark stubble. “But I deserved it. And again, I’m sorry.”
I nod, accepting his apology, although there’s really nothing to forgive. Can I really blame him for feeling used by me?
“You said you were sorry for most of what you said. What aren’t you sorry for?” I ask, emboldened by the wine.
Ransom shrugs and looks down at his callused hands. “Fill in the blanks, H. Don’t you remember? You were sober that night.”
I was. And I do.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his helpless plea and the heart-wrenching vulnerability on his face since that night. He asked me to stay with him. He said he could make me feel young again, and do all the things Tucker refuses to do. He felt abandoned, but I could tell it wasn’t just by me. It was by everyone. Ransom felt utterly alone and fraught for a connection. So much so that he was willing to make an older woman’s fantasy come true while her husband stroked himself to orgasm in the corner. What generates that level of desperation? What drives a person to offer their body to a stranger just to feel loved for a little while? Or makes them fill their veins with poison to numb the pain?
Now more than ever, I want to go to him. But not for sex. I just want to hold him, make him believe that he’s not alone. But wouldn’t that be another lie?
“You’re not sorry for that.”
He lifts his gaze to mine and I see just a glimpse of that vulnerability now. It’s the same look he had in his hotel room. The same one he wore inside the tiny airplane lavatory. But just as quickly as I catch it, it’s gone. “No. I’m not. Do you want me to be?”
I tell him what he needs to hear because I don’t want to hurt him. I tell him the truth.
“No.”
Strained silence crawls all over our midnight-drenched skin like sleepy, little spiders. We stare at each other, waiting for the other to break the trance with a blink, but it never comes. Finally, Ransom releases me by looking away. But he hasn’t retreated. No. In the shallowest of breaths, he’s in front of me, leaning over me, pinning my body between his bare chest and the high back of the chair.
“Ransom . . .” It’s not even a whisper or a moan. It’s a sigh. Something done out of reflex.
“I’m not touching you,” he drawls, fanning warm mint-flavored breath over my face. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Smelling you. Seeing you. Trying to let my other senses do what my hands can’t.”
He lifts a hand from the chair and slowly brings the back of it just mere centimeters from the bust of my nightgown. I open my mouth to protest, and he shushes me.
“I won’t touch you. Trust me.”
With that, he runs his hand up to my collarbone, so close that I can feel the sun on his skin. With maddening patience and restraint, he lets it travel down down down, until it stops at my breasts. I can almost feel him there, grazing my nipples with his knuckles, running his thumbs over them, pinching them between his fingers so that heat collects in my belly and slithers like wet paint between my thighs.
“Look at you. Look how you respond to me . . . not touching you.”
I peer down to see that my nipples are hard and straining through two layers of satin, staring at him with pleading eyes. He chuckles lightly and his hand is on the move again, this time roaming over the expanse of my belly. Then he sits on his knees and leans back on his feet, letting both his palms hover over the tops of my thighs.
“I promise you, I won’t touch you. Even if you beg me to. I want to prove to you that I can do this, that I can kick this habit. I want to prove it to myself.”
His hands move down to my knees, and he makes a slow sweeping motion, willing them to part. And dammit, they do. I do. I open this door. I unlatch Pandora’s Box. He gave me the power to reject him, offered it to me from the tips of those massive, callused fingers, and I didn’t do it. I gave it back to him. I relinquished my willpower, my body, my soul to him, even without his asking.
I’m a bad wife. And an even worse publicist. But with my sex opening to him like delicate cherry blossom petals at full bloom, I am neither.
I am his.
At first, his hands just hover over my thighs, trailing a slow, languid path from my kneecaps to the fabric that covers my swollen clit. Over, between, even under, he teases me with his phantom touch, haunting me with his heat. I need him to touch me, but I can’t bring myself to beg. And even if I did, I know he won’t anyway. He’s enjoying this too much, dark mirth flickering in his heavy-lidded gaze. He’s showing me that he could drive me crazy without even touching me. That even if I never give myself to him again—and I won’t—he can still affect me. He can still fuck me whenever he wants.
“Lift your nightgown,” he commands, his voice gruff.
I tell myself that I won’t but my hands are already sliding down my hips and bunching the soft fabric. I fist the satin until the hem disappears inside my palms and cool air meets the heat of my sex.
Ransom looks down at it—at me—and sucks in a strangled breath. I watch him as he bites his lip so hard that it turns white under the pressure of his teeth. His fingers skim the air over my mound, trembling, pleading. Maybe he’s not as strong as he thinks he is.
“I won’t touch you,” he rasps, persuading me and himself. Yet, his hands come dangerously close to making contact. So close that I can feel him brush my short, soft hair at the very center, causing me to gasp.
“I won’t touch you.” He says it like he’s a dying man and this is his final plea. He repeats it again and again, making it his personal mantra. And while he denounces his carnal needs, he begins to shift. Down. His body is moving down between my thighs until his face is aligned with my pussy.
I’m afraid to move, afraid to speak. Just the barest flinch, and my clit will be against his mouth, my lips on his, falling into an unintended kiss. So I watch him watch me, not breathing, waiting for him to decide if he’s going to be a liar tonight.
He inhales. Deeply. He sparks me up, takes a hard drag, sucks me inside his body. The perfume of my slickness coats his nose and throat before he consumes the tiny molecules of my arousal. We moan together, pulling on a double-ended joint of lust and loneliness, letting it take us higher than high. We see the ceiling, know we should stop, but we’re going too fast. And there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to break through and survive the impact.
He scents my sex a half dozen more times, his reaction to my fragrance growing more vehement with every lungful. I’m so wet, so potent, that I can smell myself too, which only makes me ache more. That coupled with his hot breaths on my even hotter clit and the illicit sounds he makes in the back of his throat, and I know it won’t be much longer. I just need a little more . . . just a little more.
His moans morph into whispered words, and I still my own whimpers and the beating of my heart to try to make sense of it. Even through the pounding of blood in my ears, I hear him loud and clear.
She’s an angel without wings
Sent down to earth to destroy me
Fucking me so religiously
Take me to hell, you lovely, damaged thing
I thought I may have imagined it before.
That night we spent together in his suite, me flat on my stomach, him inside me, his belly pressed to my ass and his lips on my ear.
Ransom sang to me . . . is singing to me. Fucking me crazy with the magic of his tongue without physically touching me at all. I won’t make it . . . I won’t last like this. And if I give in to the stinging current this time, if I let him own yet another of my orgasms, will I ever be able to find my way back to the surface? To my marriage? To Tucker?
I know I look as ridiculous as I feel as I push his face back with trembling hands and scramble from the chair, careful not to touch him any more than I have to.
“Heidi . . . I’m sorry,” he stammers from the floor, but I just shake my head, unable to hear it. Because I’m not sorry. Not in the least. But I know I should be.
“It’s ok. I . . . I just need to go.” I pull my robe around me tighter, the move only adding more friction against my already tingling body. “I have to go,” I repeat. But it takes nearly twenty seconds before I regain the function to even move.
I run away from the scene of the crime and nearly barrel through the door of the Reflection room. I catch Tucker stirring on the bed out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t stop to acknowledge him. That would only make this worse.
I slam the bathroom door behind me and lock it before falling into it in exasperation. The very second my fingertips meet my slick, swollen clit, the silken flesh quivers. I dip inside to wet my fingers, I stroke the hardened knot that pulses with its own heartbeat, and I fuck myself so violently and desperately that I don’t even hear someone approaching the door until a knock nearly makes me yelp.
“Babe? Are you ok?” His voice is groggy, concerned, but not skeptical.
“Yeah,” I manage to whine. I bury two fingers deep inside me as far as they will go. I thrust so hard and fast that it almost hurts. I bite my own lip until I taste blood, ensuring that it does.
“Something wrong?”
“Not feeling well. Be there in a sec.”
I feel it coiling inside me like a deadly snake, its venom trickling down my hand and sliding down my thighs. So wet I add another finger. So wet I feel like I could drown myself.
“Ok. Well, hurry back to bed so I can take care of you.”
There it is, pulsing wildly as it swells so much that it pushes my fingers from my body. I fight for control, needing that pressure, needing to burst that bubble with the blunt tips of my nails. It’s so full and slick that I can’t keep a steady rhythm. Yet, I can’t . . . I can’t . . . stop.
“Ok . . . ok. I’m coming.”
And I do.
