“Drop it, Ry,” he warns quietly. “Yeah, Sammy?”
“ETA two minutes.”
He lowers the privacy partition dividing us. Sammy turns his head toward Colton. “Sammy, please get Sex here. I feel like driving tonight.”
Sex? Driving? What the fuck is he talking about?
“Sure thing,” Sammy says, a crooked smile lighting up his face before the partition slides back up.
“Sex?” I look at him like he’s crazy, glad for the change of topic to add some levity to the sudden heaviness of our conversation.
“Yeah. My F12. My baby. That’s her name.” He shrugs as if it’s the most perfectly normal thing in the world, but he lost me at F12, baby, and sex.
“Ummm, can you explain that in a language for those of us with dual X chromosomes?” I laugh bewildered.
He gives me a boyish grin that would melt my panties if I had any on. “F12 is my favorite of all of my collection. She’s a Berlinetta Ferrari. The first time Beckett drove her he told me that the feeling was equivalent to the best sex he’s ever had. It was a joke at first, but the name stuck. So…” he shrugs his shoulders, and I just shake my head at him “...Sex.”
“Collection?”
“Women have shoes. Men have cars.” It’s the only explanation he gives. I’m about to ask more when he announces, “We’re here.” He shifts in his seat so that he’s closer to the door and butterflies take flight in my stomach. “Show time.”
Before I can mentally prepare myself any further, the door to the limo opens. Even though Colton’s body standing in the doorway partially blocks the flash of cameras, I am temporarily blinded by their intensity.
Colton calls out a casual laid-back greeting to the paparazzi as he buttons up his jacket before turning to help me. I take a deep breath as I take his hand and scoot out of the limo. I exit the car and look up at him, a reassuring smile on his face. Gone is the brooding guy in the car from moments before. Hello Hollywood playboy.
“You okay?” he mouths to me and I nod my head subtly, overwhelmed by the onslaught of people yelling at us along with the repeated camera flashes. He pulls me toward him, his mouth resting against my ear. “Remember to smile and follow my lead,” he murmurs. “You look stunning tonight.” He pulls back, squeezing my hand and graces me with one of his panty wetting smiles before turning to walk the carpet.
And the only thought that breaks through the buzz surrounding us is that from this point forward, I am no longer anonymous to the press.
My eyes still have bright white spots in my field of vision, but I survived the red carpet. I feel so disoriented and oddly taken advantage of by the press’ invasive questions and incessant picture taking. I have no idea how Colton can be so relaxed in such a situation. Maybe years of practice. He was calm and polite, and avoided answering the questions thrown at him—were we an item, how long had we been together, what was my name?—and deflected them with the flash of his smile, giving them the perfect picture for their cover page instead.
Colton squeezes my hand in sympathy. “Sometimes I forget how nerve wracking that can be to someone who’s never done it before.” He gives me a quick, chaste kiss on the lips before directing me toward the ballroom. “Forgive me. I should have prepped you for it before hand.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, relaxing at the warmth of his hand on my back. “I’m fine.”
The red carpet is one thing, but I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what I’d feel entering a room with Colton. It seems as if every head in the room turns when we walk through the doorway, all of their attention focused on the man beside me. The man is just simply magnetic in every sense of the word: looks, attitude, charisma, and personality. I falter at the sudden attention. Colton feels my hesitancy and pulls me closer against his side, a not so subtle demonstration of ownership and possession to the assessing stares. The unexpected action both surprises me and warms my heart. He leans his mouth to my ear. “Breathe baby,” he murmurs, “you’re doing just fine. And I can’t wait to fuck you later.” My eyes flash up to his and the smirk he gives me tames the nerves.
The next hour or so goes by in a flash. Colton and I mingle throughout the crowd, and I’m in awe of the number of people that he knows or is acquainted with. He is so unpretentious that I find myself forgetting the circumstances in which he grew up—where celebrities are family friends and tuxedos are everyday wear.
He’s really quite charming, always knowing the right comment to make or when to add a little levity to the conversation with a light joke. He subtly works the sponsorship program into each conversation and patiently answers questions about it in a laid-back fashion that has people committing to the cause without feeling propositioned or badgered.
And he wears my panties as a pocket square—a constant reminder to me of our little interlude in the limo and the seductive promises he made.
I glance around the room and notice several women talking together and stealing glances our way. At first I assume that they’re looking at Colton because let’s face it, it’s hard not to gawk at him. And then when I take a second look, I realize that their gazes are not in admiration of Colton but rather in judgment of his date—me. They eye me cattily, sneers on their faces before turning back to each other to carry on. Criticizing me, no doubt. I try to not let it bother me or to let my insecurity get the best of me, but I know what they’re thinking. I see Tawny’s observations echoed in their looks.