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“It’s all good.”
“So, hey, I saw the news about the movie. Congrats, man!”
“Thanks.”
“When does filming begin?”
“What, precisely, did Amy say to you that was so ‘direct’ and ‘straightforward’ and ‘refreshing’?”
Kendrick blinks like I’ve slapped him. “Uh . . . I think that should probably stay between Amy and me—out of respect for her privacy.”
Fucking hell. In a huff, I throw back the rest of my drink, hold up my empty to Kendrick like I’m in need of a refill, and take off to find Amy. When I find her, she’s talking to a group of women—Aloha, Violet, Alessandra, and Laila—outside one of the bathrooms.
I march to the group of women, my audacity fueled by booze and jealousy, and touch Amy’s shoulder. “I need to talk to you. Right fucking now.”
Everyone stops talking and looks at me, shocked.
“You’ll have to wait,” Amy says calmly, ignoring the smoke coming out my ears. “Aloha is in the middle of telling a story.”
“It’s okay,” Aloha says, looking between Amy and me.
“Yeah, this is urgent,” I say, before grabbing Amy’s arm and physically dragging her away.
Sixteen
Amy
Colin grabs my arm and pulls me down a short hallway and into a nearby bedroom, where he slams the door behind us and practically tosses me into the room like a rag doll.
“What the fuck?” I shout.
Colin’s dark eyes are glinting in the moonlight that’s streaming through a nearby window. As he approaches me, he looks feral. Primal. And hot as hell. “Did you dye your hair to catch Kendrick Cook’s eye?” he shouts.
Well, that took a turn. “Yes. Partly.”
“Jesus Christ, Amy!”
I put my hands on my hips. “So, let me get this straight: you don’t want me, but nobody else can have me? Is that how this works in the world according to Colin Beretta?” He’s positively seething. And I love it. I scoff. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my hairdresser in Seattle has tried for years to convince me to go red. So I figured—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Amy.”
“I’m not! Yes, I admit when I found out Kendrick has a thing for redheads, and I figured I’d probably meet him tonight, that gave me the little push I needed to finally do it. But I’d been thinking about going red for a while.”
He’s fit to be tied. “What ‘direct’ and ‘refreshing’ thing did you say to Kendrick out there?”
“That’s what Kendrick said? That I’m refreshing? How sweet!”
“What’d you say to him?” He’s shouting. Losing his mind.
“It’s none of your goddamned business.”
Colin takes a step forward, his dark eyes burning like hot coals. “You asked him to fuck you, didn’t you?”
“What if I did? Kendrick is a handsome, sweet guy who’s obviously got zero issues with fucking Logan O’Brien’s little sister, unlike you. Our conversation was fun and easy. He smells good and made me laugh. Oh, and he’s got the most gorgeous lips and teeth and eyes. So, yes, I told Kendrick about my sexual history and asked him if he’d be willing to be my teacher this week, every night after I get off work with you, no strings attached. And Kendrick said he’d be ‘honored and thrilled’ to do that with me.” My lip twitches as I try not to smirk too wickedly. “Not that any of that is of your concern, brother. If Logan were here, I certainly wouldn’t tell him any of that. So, I don’t see how—"
Colin’s lips crash into mine. His tongue finds mine as his muscled arms snake around my waist and pull me to him. And just like that, every atom inside me explodes with relief and excitement and white-hot lust. Out of nowhere, Colin leans back and holds my face, firmly in his palms. “I’m gonna be your teacher every night this week—no strings. I want the same deal you offered to Kendrick, Amy.”
I nod effusively. “Yes.”
“This is gonna be no strings.”
“Yes. Whatever you say.”
Colin drags me to the nearby bed, throws me down on my back, pulls up my dress, all the way, revealing my bra. In a frenzy of excitement, he pulls my bra off my breasts, and begins devouring me like a beast—like his very life depends on getting my nipples and flesh into his mouth. He’s groaning as he kisses, licks, and caresses me. Losing every ounce of his sane mind.
“I guess Kendrick’s not the only boob man,” I mutter to myself, just as the song blaring in the distant party becomes “Hate Sex High,” which provokes a tidal wave of cheers and shrieks in the other room.
“Fuck me to this song,” I beg, writhing on the bed. “Do The Sure Thing to me while this song is playing.” It’s a depraved request, considering Kendrick is the one making those sexy drumbeats on the recording, and I just ditched that gorgeous man—and the arrangement I made with him—to come in here with Colin and make the same arrangement with him, mere moments later. Even so, Colin is the only man I truly wanted. The only man I’ve ever wanted. Surely, Colin knows that.
