AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I've already called Richard back and asked him not to reveal my true identity to anyone, even—especially—Marchant Radcliffe, Hunter's friend. Marchant owns Love Inc., where the deed is getting done.
Suri's eyes are swimming with tears, and I feel a spark of annoyance.
"I know you're just showing me you care, and I appreciate it, Sur, I really do. But I'll be back in a month, just the same as I am now, but a little more experienced. I'm having one sexual encounter with a man who'll likely be very nice to me, and I'll have more protection than the Pope. I'm okay with this. It's my choice."
"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 nods slowly. "I guess so.”
"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 crush. 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 Thirteen
~HUNTER~
I swear to God, Priscilla is psychic. That woman knows how to find me after a bad day. And 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 pissed to relax. Instead I'm sitting at the table, twirling an unlit cigarette around in my fingers like a showgirl's baton. I want the damn thing, but I'm not a smoker anymore. 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 you need to see, Mr. West."
I dim the lights and look out the oval window, and the cigarette snaps. Of course it's 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 her bullshit.
“I've got a little exhibitionist fetish I'd like to indulge with you,” she purrs.
"How the hell 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 pull her claws out any earlier than necessary.
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 sexiest 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—Lisa—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 cut 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 leaving town.
