Ripped
Page 43
“What are you doing?” I ask when Mackenna slips into the car after me. He says nothing as we drive away, the cameraman nicely slipping into the front of the car and aiming back at us, silent. Thankfully, Kenna doesn’t press the issue with him here, and neither do I.
Silence surrounds us the entire journey, following the three of us up the elevator, and silence remains even as Mackenna follows me to my room. “Mackenna, what are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
Alarm, anticipation, burn in me as I open my door.
Always . . .
He flicks his middle finger at the cameraman, then slams the door in his face and turns around to look at me.
“Your room is that way.” I point at the door behind him.
“Tonight, my room is here,” he says with a cocky smile. He also watches my reaction.
Which is to stutter.
“N-n-no. No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
Suddenly, he scoops me up in his arms and grunts, saying, “You’re heavy, babe.”
“Put me down or get a fucking hernia! God!”
He laughs. “Hernia it is.” He carries me to the bed with ease—the fucking clown isn’t even struggling to carry heavy ol’ me. Then he eases me down on the bed, tugs off my heels, and tosses them to the floor. I bolt, alarmed when I realize where this is going again. Danger!
“Don’t! This isn’t happening again, Mackenna.”
“It’s happening,” he contradicts. “I’m spending the night, Pandora.”
“But I don’t want this!”
He takes my foot in one hand and slides his fingers up my bare leg, a white wolf-smile on his sexy mouth. “Give me ten minutes to prove you wrong. To prove to you how much you do want this.”
I look at his bare chest, feeling his fingers at the arch of my foot, my voice shaky as I say, “I don’t want you here.”
He falls silent, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave, and it fills me with an unexpected panic that only confuses me more.
He doesn’t leave, though.
He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Ten minutes and you’ll be singing a different tune.”
“I don’t sing—you do.”
“You’ll sing like a fucking canary, baby. Lie down,” he says, and the intensity in his gaze goes perfectly with his devil’s smile and attitude.
“Okay. I’ll give you ten minutes. But with clothes on,” I say. “And if you can’t seduce me in ten, you leave.”
He lifts his hands innocently. “I’m not touching your clothes. And consider yourself seduced.”
I relax. Somewhat.
My heart is still beating like a drum.
The bed embraces me as I settle back down, and I don’t know why I don’t protest, except I don’t have energy to do anything but breathe. I have never been more aware of my breath.
In, out. In, out.
When his touch returns to one of my arms, starting at the back of my hands, it makes me tense up. I exhale in a rush as he trails his fingers upward, his touch familiar, delicious. Oh, god, it feels delicious. Soft as a feather, but with the voltage of a gazillion kilowatts.
My eyes want to drift shut as I remember the first time Mackenna touched me. I remember his face, how his sexy mouth would form this perfect smile, and I swear his eyes said that he loved me like Romeo loved that stupid Juliet. I felt his gaze in my heart. Now his eyes are dark and hooded and he’s not smiling, his expression grave and intent as ever as he runs two fingers up my bare arm. My heart can no longer feel his gaze, but I feel his gaze between my legs. In my nipples. My fucking ovaries. I could get pregnant with this gaze.
He slides his fingertips under the sleeve of my top, then runs them back down my arm. “Relax, Pink,” he coos.
His voice has gained a roughness that makes the hairs on my arms prick pleasurably. “My name . . . is Pandora.”
“I happen to know your name very well and I remember you didn’t like it, but you liked it when I called you gorgeous. It made your eyes dark and made you bite your lip, just like you’re doing now, because you wanted me to kiss you. Do you remember that, gorgeous girl?”
I scoff, but the sound is feeble. I bite my lip, but now it feels wet, and he’s looking intently at it as if expecting me to invite him to kiss me. He keeps touching me with those long musician’s fingers.
Never, ever date a musician. Other men will never compare.
Lithe fingers trace my arms and elbows. My wrists and fingers. Then up my legs. Those fingers brush over me and my tummy caves in from the pleasure.
I’m breathing in, out. In, out.
My tense muscles feel bunched up as he strokes his fingers up my throat. Gah, how to resist? Resist the only guy I’ve ever kissed. Ever loved, ever made love to. I start squirming as his fingers skim over my skin.
“Relax. I wanted ten minutes to change your mind, it’s only been two.”
“Seriously? Only two?” I whine.
He leans over and kisses my collarbone, his breath warm on my body as he starts kissing up my throat, and I remember it all.
Fingers touching me. Perfect Pandora . . .
My fingers curling awkwardly around his cock. How do I . . . ?
Babe, I swear, you move that hand and I’m going to go off.
My heart racing, my body trembling with nerves and the excitement of having Mackenna hot, long, and thick in my hand, looking down at me like a hungry sex fiend. The tip is wet, can I taste . . .
Fuck, don’t move that hand!
Silence surrounds us the entire journey, following the three of us up the elevator, and silence remains even as Mackenna follows me to my room. “Mackenna, what are you doing?” I whisper-hiss.
Alarm, anticipation, burn in me as I open my door.
Always . . .
He flicks his middle finger at the cameraman, then slams the door in his face and turns around to look at me.
“Your room is that way.” I point at the door behind him.
“Tonight, my room is here,” he says with a cocky smile. He also watches my reaction.
Which is to stutter.
“N-n-no. No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
Suddenly, he scoops me up in his arms and grunts, saying, “You’re heavy, babe.”
“Put me down or get a fucking hernia! God!”
He laughs. “Hernia it is.” He carries me to the bed with ease—the fucking clown isn’t even struggling to carry heavy ol’ me. Then he eases me down on the bed, tugs off my heels, and tosses them to the floor. I bolt, alarmed when I realize where this is going again. Danger!
“Don’t! This isn’t happening again, Mackenna.”
“It’s happening,” he contradicts. “I’m spending the night, Pandora.”
“But I don’t want this!”
He takes my foot in one hand and slides his fingers up my bare leg, a white wolf-smile on his sexy mouth. “Give me ten minutes to prove you wrong. To prove to you how much you do want this.”
I look at his bare chest, feeling his fingers at the arch of my foot, my voice shaky as I say, “I don’t want you here.”
He falls silent, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave, and it fills me with an unexpected panic that only confuses me more.
He doesn’t leave, though.
He shoots me a lopsided grin. “Ten minutes and you’ll be singing a different tune.”
“I don’t sing—you do.”
“You’ll sing like a fucking canary, baby. Lie down,” he says, and the intensity in his gaze goes perfectly with his devil’s smile and attitude.
“Okay. I’ll give you ten minutes. But with clothes on,” I say. “And if you can’t seduce me in ten, you leave.”
He lifts his hands innocently. “I’m not touching your clothes. And consider yourself seduced.”
I relax. Somewhat.
My heart is still beating like a drum.
The bed embraces me as I settle back down, and I don’t know why I don’t protest, except I don’t have energy to do anything but breathe. I have never been more aware of my breath.
In, out. In, out.
When his touch returns to one of my arms, starting at the back of my hands, it makes me tense up. I exhale in a rush as he trails his fingers upward, his touch familiar, delicious. Oh, god, it feels delicious. Soft as a feather, but with the voltage of a gazillion kilowatts.
My eyes want to drift shut as I remember the first time Mackenna touched me. I remember his face, how his sexy mouth would form this perfect smile, and I swear his eyes said that he loved me like Romeo loved that stupid Juliet. I felt his gaze in my heart. Now his eyes are dark and hooded and he’s not smiling, his expression grave and intent as ever as he runs two fingers up my bare arm. My heart can no longer feel his gaze, but I feel his gaze between my legs. In my nipples. My fucking ovaries. I could get pregnant with this gaze.
He slides his fingertips under the sleeve of my top, then runs them back down my arm. “Relax, Pink,” he coos.
His voice has gained a roughness that makes the hairs on my arms prick pleasurably. “My name . . . is Pandora.”
“I happen to know your name very well and I remember you didn’t like it, but you liked it when I called you gorgeous. It made your eyes dark and made you bite your lip, just like you’re doing now, because you wanted me to kiss you. Do you remember that, gorgeous girl?”
I scoff, but the sound is feeble. I bite my lip, but now it feels wet, and he’s looking intently at it as if expecting me to invite him to kiss me. He keeps touching me with those long musician’s fingers.
Never, ever date a musician. Other men will never compare.
Lithe fingers trace my arms and elbows. My wrists and fingers. Then up my legs. Those fingers brush over me and my tummy caves in from the pleasure.
I’m breathing in, out. In, out.
My tense muscles feel bunched up as he strokes his fingers up my throat. Gah, how to resist? Resist the only guy I’ve ever kissed. Ever loved, ever made love to. I start squirming as his fingers skim over my skin.
“Relax. I wanted ten minutes to change your mind, it’s only been two.”
“Seriously? Only two?” I whine.
He leans over and kisses my collarbone, his breath warm on my body as he starts kissing up my throat, and I remember it all.
Fingers touching me. Perfect Pandora . . .
My fingers curling awkwardly around his cock. How do I . . . ?
Babe, I swear, you move that hand and I’m going to go off.
My heart racing, my body trembling with nerves and the excitement of having Mackenna hot, long, and thick in my hand, looking down at me like a hungry sex fiend. The tip is wet, can I taste . . .
Fuck, don’t move that hand!
