Her eyes—those big, deep, unfathomable wells—look down for a split second before rising to meet mine again. “To find out what I’m missing,” she says with a smile as fake as any I’ve seen in Hollywood. She’s an expert. A real pro. A magnificent actress, which is only part of what caught my eye the first time I saw her. “Now.” The smile deepens, goes slicker. “Which way to this?” She shakes the flyer again and I go cold.
15
Twyla
“You serious about the Kidnapping?” Zion asks, his jaw hard and mean, a wild look in his eyes.
“Maybe. Or the Hunt, or the hostage thing.” Once I find out exactly what they are, obviously. Not that he needs to know how ignorant I am. “I’m interested.”
“Inthat?”
I pause and look right at him, shoving all shame and embarrassment aside, along with a good dose of the lust running through my body since that spanking. He’s not ashamed of what he does here, after all. He’s not denying his kinks. Why should I?
“Are you seriously shaming me right now, Mister? Are you judging me? I was under the impression that this was a judgment free zone. I’m just exploring my options here, digging down and learning more about who I really am. Got a problem with that?”
His lips compress, like he’s got things to say, but he’s holding them in.
Wow, he looks worked up. His brow’s crinkled, the lines carved deep. I fight the urge to smooth them with my fingers, which I’d then run through his hair, maybe grab a big handful. Maybe I’d give it a yank. Would he like that? A little pain from me? A little retaliation? Would it bring something besides irritation to those perfect features? I’d like that. A lot. Which is odd, because giving pain has never been my thing. Suddenly, though, I want to run through the gamut of what my body can take—and give. And, despite the plethora of beautiful men around me, and this deep curiosity regarding all things kinky, I want Zion. And only Zion.
My body and my mind, both, are so wrapped up in him, how can I look at anyone else?
That face, those freaking eyes, somehow lazy and piercing at once. He’s got this long nose, straight and perfect, except for this little bump I want to test with my finger. And his lips, pressed flat right now, are usually just the right amount of plump for the cameras. And for other things.
God, he’s beautiful. And it’s not just the aquatic transparency of his eyes or the flawless line of his jaw, glinting with a fine layer of growth beneath his mask, or the somehow sexual heft of his shoulders, or the sprinkling of hair on that chest. Nor is it the ridiculous amount of talent he walks around with every single day, embodying each role without apparent effort, although that’s a part of it, I guess. What I know about Zion now that we’ve spent a bit of time together, is that he doesn’t just embody the roles, he understands them. Naturally gets the characters, inhabits them, makes them a part of him and vice-versa. And that’s not just talent, it’s empathy, pure and simple.
Which, in a way, makes what he did to me so much worse. He knows how it feels to be in someone else’s skin. He knows how it feels to hurt.
And, yes, the issue is my career, but it’s more than that, dammit. Way more. I can see that now. I can admit it. No, he didn’t promise love or anything close to it. The fact that I started to develop feelings, well, that’s on me.
I blink up at him, then let my attention slide down to the words on the paper:
Kidnapping, Hostage Party, Big Hunt.
A shiver makes its way up my spine. A little fear, a little curiosity, a lot of anticipation. What did he ask? If I’m truly interested in those scenarios?
I am. Almost as much as they scare me.
With a firm, “yes,” I turn a full circle, look back down, and finally squint out toward the faint glimmer of the pool. “The clubhouse is that way, isn’t it? Pretty sure C Tent’s by the Clubhouse.” I set off without awaiting his reply.
After a few seconds, he appears beside me. “You don’t want to do those. Any of them.”
All the lingering heat whooshes from my body and, without looking his way, I hiss, “Don’t youfuckingtell me what I want, Zed.” I feel him stiffen at my coarse language. He’s not used to it, obviously. Probably doesn’t like it, either.
Yeah? Well welcome to your new reality, motherfucker.
That little sign of shock makes me want to push him harder, to get a rise out of him, to see what he does when he’s really upset. “You think a little marriage license lets you decide where I go, what I do, who I damn well do it with?”
He doesn’t reply, which is a wise choice, given how much rage is washing through me. It’s pricking my nipples up, hard and aching, it’s coiling tight and low in my belly, turning everything inside out. “You think you know me at all? You think what we were doing was real? It was a goddamn business deal, you asshole. A deal you went and broke within twofuckingweeks of the wedding.”
He opens his mouth, but I plow on, quickening my pace down the grassy hill toward the paved path to the pool and the clubhouse and, beyond it, C Tent.
“Thank you, though, for giving me this.” I force a lightness to my tone that I don’t feel in the slightest. “I mean, where else can a person get their freak on without shame? Without fear of getting caught? God, if I’d known this was here, I’d have—”
“You’d havenothing. You don’t belong here. You’re not doing this because you want to, you’re doing it to piss me—”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, my voice hard and loud enough that a few faces turn our way. “You know nothing about what I want…clearly.”
“Nothing?” He steps closer, edges me to the side, away from the path. “That’s bullshit.”
