that happening with me. I need our long, deep talks—almost as much as I need his unwavering friendship. Besides, if we hooked up and things went wrong, Cross wouldn’t have anywhere to live.
I let my mind linger on his troubles only for a moment before I hurry past the atrium, knowing everyone standing in the glass-framed garden is probably making out or gossiping in cliques. I don’t need their eyes on me.
My destination, a replica of an old-fashioned powder room, should be just past a serving closet up here on my left. I look at the rug as I walk; it’s red, ornate, and old, and it covers most of the hardwood in this hall. My lack of sight in my left eye makes my right eye jump around, taking in the Sanskrit wall-hangings and the glittering, crystal light fixtures on the ceiling—and all the space in-between. I want to be sure I don’t run into any company.
Cross texted the directions to the powder room earlier today when I asked for an escape place if I found myself alone. Mom built the room on request, for his women, Cross told me, adding a winking smilie at the end. Cross’s mom is a well-known California architect, and this octagonal mansion in the spot where the original estate burned is one of her most recent creations.
The ‘something brass’ Cross told me would mark the powder room is a brass door-knocker in the shape of a tiger’s face. I smile when I see it. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a moan: a woman’s gaspy moan, followed by a man’s more throaty one.
I should move. I know I should, but I just can’t. My BCBGs are pasted to the rug as my whole body heats to a boil.
Hunter is in there. I know that moan.
He moans again, and I hear a strangled “no” from low down in his throat. My body slumps against the door as my pulse races. Sweat blooms over every inch of me. I can’t swallow or breathe as the woman whispers something in an enticing alto voice, and Hunter’s baritone voice purrs, “Such a bitch.”
“You’re the bitch,” she laughs, and I hear the smack of a hand on skin. She moans like she’s turned on, and I imagine Hunter’s golden hair around his tiger face, the sexy curve of his lips as another slap rings through the room and the woman laughs again, high-pitched and off-key like the whinny of a horse.
Holy crap.
His release is rough, too. I can easily imagine his hips swinging, his ass tightening as he pumps into her from behind. His moan is guttural, almost a grunt. It sounds like pain, but I know it must be pleasure.
“Jesus,” the woman pants. “You’re worth the trouble. Really, Hunter...what a fucking stud.”
I listen with my heart in my throat, but Hunter is silent as the woman makes a little mewling sound. I can hear the shuffling sound of fabric over bodies, but there are no words—just the woman’s panting.
A second later there’s heavy footfall, followed by the low squeal of a closing door.
“Christ,” the raspy, female voice whispers.
Looking down at my hand on the doorknob, I realize there’s a key hole and I peek through it, getting a fleeting glimpse of Priscilla Heat in her red taffeta gown. Hunter has left her there with swollen lips and wild hair, examining her manicure as she leans on one of the ivy-covered columns framing a sunken tub.
Hunter—well-mannered, charming Hunter—slapped her ass, bruised her lips, and then he left her there. For some reason, that does crazy things to me: the image of Hunter, pulling down his expensive trousers and taking out his cock. Quick, rough sex, and then he’s gone.
I glance behind me and, seeing no one, stumble farther down the hallway. I’m weaving like a drunk, and I am drunk: drunk on pent-up lust and yes, a pathetic, juvenile crush. I stumble past a row of dark wood doors, stopping for a breath when I reach a bend in the hall.
I lean against the burgundy wallpaper, shocked by the intensity of my arousal. Every breath only steepens my desire. I think about how long it’s been since I took care of myself. I’ve been busy studying for finals, so I guess it’s been about a week. As I stand there throbbing, I look down the remainder of the hall and notice there are no doors beyond the one I just passed. The hall turns to