Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“You’re doing this for Cross,” she says again.
“Part of it is for Cross. Doesn’t that make it even more meaningful, though?”
Suri blinks slowly. “I guess…maybe.”
“See, I’m fine.” I stand up, spreading my arms, and she hugs me, speaking into my hair. “You’re a good friend, Lizzy, a really good friend. Just remember you don’t have to do this. I don’t think Cross would want you to.”
“I want to do this. It’s an experiment for me.”
In more ways than one. A good twenty percent of this idea’s allure is in my eagerness to get rid of my V-card so I can stop saving it for Hunter. I need to be freed of that idea. Freed of my silly obsession. I hope that after spending some time at Love Inc., I never blush in the middle of a sexual encounter ever again. No Hunter West or anybody else will be able to knock me off my feet, and I like that idea.
Suri hugs me one more time and we call Albert. We’re going shopping for gowns and robes in every color of the rainbow. As we walk down the stairs to our waiting ride, I feel more peaceful than I have in weeks.
Chapter 12
Hunter
I SWEAR TO God, Priscilla is psychic. That woman knows how to find me after a bad day. The worse the day is, the more likely it is that I’ll end up rolling in the covers with her, whipping her and spanking her, pulling her long hair and pressing my hand over her mouth until her eyes are wide and I’m afraid I’m gonna kill her stupid, spray-tanned ass.
Tonight, I’m on my jet. There’s a bed and a recliner, but I’m too worked up to relax. Instead I’m sitting at the table, twirling an unlit cigarette in my fingers like a showgirl’s baton. I want the damn thing, but I quit. I keep a pack of Marlboro Reds in the freezer of every place I have, but I don’t smoke them.
I’ve got my fingers tightened around the cigarette, thinking about snapping it in half, when the intercom crackles and Frank says, “There’s something on the runway that you need to see, sir.”
I dim the lights and look out the oval window, and the cigarette snaps. Fucking Priscilla. A brisk breeze is tossing up her ass-short, blood-red skirt, and I can see her panties. There are sequins around the seams, so they sparkle in the runway lights.
I can tell by the way she steps toward the plane, waving as she moves, that she’s in high heels. I can see the red light of her cigarette’s cherry.
My head pounds, letting me know it doesn’t appreciate the handle of bourbon I gave it last night. I press the call button, sinking a hand into my hair and rubbing hard. “Let her in, Frank.”
I sweep the pieces of the cigarette into my hand and dump them in a garbage can inside a cabinet. Then I sit back down and watch her sashay into my cabin.
“Well hello there, big boy.”
I grit my teeth. I am so not in the mood for this shit.
“I’ve got a little exhibitionist fetish I’d like to indulge with you,” she purrs.
“How do you want to do that?” My gaze roams up and down her body, making her think I appreciate her so she doesn’t feel the need to make any points.
She grins, crossing the space between us to straddle me.
“I want to fuck you somewhere public, Hunter. Somewhere like this runway.”
She says it like she’s doing me a favor. Like I’ve never been fucked before and she’s the most fuckable woman on the planet.
Priscilla lowers her red mouth to mine, and I close my eyes, meeting her for a rough kiss. Sarabelle, Sarabelle, Sarabelle, I chant silently.
Today, I was questioned by the woman from the FBI, who came to my home in Napa while I packed my bags for Vegas. I’m not a formal suspect yet, and I intend to keep it that way.
I SWEEP PRISCILLA off to Beau’s, the gym I own in downtown Napa.
While she steps into the ladies’ room, I tell Harriet at the desk to kill the cameras in one of the private cardio hubs. I also send a text to Marchant, telling him to send people to both of my Vegas residences. I can’t think of another reason Priscilla would’ve dropped by just in time to stop me from departing for Vegas.
I know from our Vegas PI, Dave, that she spent yesterday at Michael Lockwood’s place there. My California PI, Todd, told me she spent most of today with the governor she claims to hate. I still don’t know how all this adds up, but I know Priscilla is using up a lot of jet fuel. I also know she’s lying to me.
When Priscilla strides out of the ladies’ room and squeezes my ass, I guide her hand around to my erection. Priscilla overestimates her appeal and expects my lust. She tries to unbutton my jeans as we step into the 3,000-square foot weight room. I push her against a wall and kiss up and down her neck, cupping her ass and grinding my cock into her hips, and she laughs that sultry laugh. I’ve always imagined she practices until she sounds as close as she can to Marilyn Monroe. Which isn’t close.