"Let me get you off," he purrs. I feel a throb between my legs, followed by a rush of needy warmth.
Oh God.
Somehow, I manage to nod, and his hand is fishing in my gown. I can barely stand to watch him. I'm already panting, and my eyes want to squeeze shut. I won't let them. Fate has given me this gift, and I intend to experience it. I inhale deeply, trying to hold off my release.
Hunter's eyes glow as he strokes my calves and traces up my thigh, across my hip. He looks dazed as he lifts my panties with his finger, stroking oh so gently over me.
I whimper and he moves to straddle me, the fingers of his free hand tangling with mine, guiding my fingers, stroking me lightly, making me want to burst as he positions my finger, wraps his palm around my hand, and gently urges me inside myself.
His fingers are working my clit, and I'm wet...so wet. I am gasping, clenching and unclenching. My legs are locked, my feet dancing. All my blood has rushed under our joined fingers.
"You like it," he rasps, and then my finger is joined by his.
This is the most I've ever had, and I moan with the fullness of it. As I reach for him, clutching at his golden hair, he tugs away, ducking under my gown. I feel the soft heat of his tongue and shriek. My thighs clamp down around his head and it's like the universe is ripped apart. I groan and push his head down, nearly coming off the bed as he works me into what must be nirvana.
Holy shit.
I've never had an orgasm like this.
I'm bereft and shaking, gasping; humiliated and sated. I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself, feeling like the child I clearly am. But as I peek shyly up at him, he grins, surprising me by stretching his gorgeous body over mine, hovering for a moment just above me before he dips down, kissing me lightly, even sweetly, on the lips. I can taste the salt of him. His breath smells like bourbon and when he tickles his damp mouth down my neck, I shudder so hard I think that I might burst.
And then I do—again. He cups me over my gown and strokes and— Oh my God.
From somewhere far away, I see him moving off the bed, standing wide-eyed at the foot of it. He's tugging at his golden hair, rubbing his eyes. Something is wrong, I think. He looks upset. I have the drowsy urge to hold him close and soothe the stress etched on that handsome face. But he is gone before I fall back down to Earth.
*
Did that really just happen? Christ in Heaven, I have stumbled into Fifty Shades of Grey. My legs are still shaking when I stand forever later. I grip the green duvet and set my gaze on the open door through which Hunter West disappeared; apparently this room has an attached bathroom.
I rub my temples, wondering if he's in there, or if the bathroom attaches to another room as well. Where did he go? Did that really just happen? I feel slightly sick about this. I feel gleeful. Hunter West! I picture him in the black button-up and Stetson he wears for poker tournaments. I picture his lazy smile as he waves at paparazzi from the red carpet at the premier of a movie his production company financed, his strong arm locked around a starlet's waist.
I shut my eyes and he is there above me. His eyes on my face are gentle as he leans to kiss my lips.
Still clinging to the duvet, I make my way around the bed and toward the open bathroom door, pausing to examine something on the floor, where Hunter was sitting when I came into the room. It looks like a cravat. On a whim, I scoop it up and bring it to my nose. It smells like Hunter. I tuck it in my clutch and turn back around to see the bedroom one more time. With a clearer head, it looks more damaged than it did before. The broken mirror and strewn pillows remind me of the carnage left after one of Mom's breakdowns.
I do a quick sweep of the furniture and walls, looking for any tell-tale trinkets, but other than Hunter's scent, there is no evidence that this room is his. I notice something blue glowing in the fireplace and step back toward it. It's a broken wine glass, cracked and glowing with the heat.
It gives me an uneasy feeling, which intensifies when I remember what Hunter was doing just before I saw him—or rather, who he was doing. It's not Priscilla's profession that bothers me. I don't think there's anything shameful about a woman who has sex in front of a camera. It's the memory of Hunter's footsteps on the bathroom floor that bothers me. The way he left her there, even if sex was the only thing between them. Also bothering me is the proximity of that encounter to the one he had with me. I want to be okay with it, to just not care, but Hunter is still my crush, and care I do.
Why did he leave the room without saying anything? Is he some kind of sex fiend? A bedroom Batman?
I can't decide if I'm amazed that this just happened, or if I'm angry that he treated me just like Priscilla Heat. He just left.
I gather my gown in one hand and step through the door to the bathroom, holding my breath in preparation for seeing Hunter. But I don't. I glance around the empty room. The walls are decked with heavy, gold mirrors; the floors, the massive tub, the even more massive shower, are brown and gold marble; there's a glass-encased painting on the wall between the pool-tub and the shower; it looks like Dali and I wonder if it's real.
I'm looking in the mirror, giving my body a rare critique and trying to put things with Hunter in perspective, when someone enters from the other end of the bathroom.
My stomach dips like I'm riding a roller coaster and when the figure steps into the light, I feel ill.
Not Hunter. Another woman.
I notice she's wearing a prim black dress and a crisp white apron. Not another lover. She gives me a shy smile and as she steps forward, I can see that her dark brown hair is tucked into a tidy bun.
"Miss DeVille?" she says softly.
"That's me," I say, hands on my hips.
She nods at the largest of the two tubs. "Would you like a bathe?" she asks me in a French accent.
"A bath?" I correct her automatically, then feel guilty; it's the soon-to-be professor in me.
"Yes." She nods vigorously. "Would you like to get into the bath?"
I narrow my eyes at the massive, square pool. "Um, that's not necessary." I stare at her and fold my arms. I'm not sure what to say.
I decide to be blunt. "Where is Hunter?"
"Mister West, he is tending to some business."
Oh, I just bet he is.
"Did he send you to offer me a bath?" I ask.
The girl hesitates, then nods.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'll take a few minutes in here by myself and I'll be gone."
The girl starts to go, and I put a hand over my br**sts. I feel like someone's shoved a steel plate into my chest, and I tell myself that's what I get.
Who do you think he is, Lizzy? He's a freakin' man whore, and he found me in one of his bedrooms, funking the fuzzy franny. What the hell do I expect? That he'll rush back in and get down on one knee?