Trashed (6 page)

I shiver again, both from being cold and from his proximity, from his lips on my neck, on the curve where throat meets shoulder, clavicle, and breastbone. His hair tickles my ear, and his lips are touching, kissing, moving.
 

“You need a hot shower,” he murmurs.

I’m compliant, his lips having stolen my will with each delicate touch. He pulls me back down into the foyer, and back up into a bedroom. There’s a bed with a flower-print comforter and an elaborate purple headboard surrounded by drapes that match the bedspread. That’s all I see, and then I’m being pushed into the bathroom. He halts, spins me, pressing my back against the frame of the door, so we’re half in the bathroom, half out, our bodies crushed together. His lips touch my throat, and then my neck, and I’m tilting my head to the side with a sigh as he kisses beneath my ear.
 

I don’t know what’s happening. What I’m doing. I should stop this. Stop him. Have him get me one of the horse-drawn carriage cabs back to my dorm. If I stay here, I won’t stop him. I’ll let this happen.

He squeezes past me, into the bathroom, opens the glass door of the shower and turns on the water. In moments, steam is billowing from the spray and filling the small room. And now he’s here again, in front of me, curling a finger into a belt loop of my jeans. His hand frames one side of my face, fingers curling into my wet hair, pulling me toward him. His lips devour mine more slowly now, and his other hand deftly unbuttons my jeans, lowers my zipper.
 

Now my heart is crashing and hammering and I’m kissing him but I’m so, so scared, because I’m
letting
him do this, allowing him to undress me, even though I’m scared and know I shouldn’t be and know this can only end badly for him and for me…mostly for me.
 

God, what the actual fuck am I doing? I’m helping him, that’s what. I’m pulling my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and shrugging out of it, tugging it over my head and letting it plop to the floor at my feet, and the air is cold against my skin, even though steam is enveloping us, wreathing around us. I’m in my bra and jeans, and his hands are on my flesh, sliding up my back, smoothing beneath my bra strap and up over it, to my shoulders. My feet are toeing off my shoes and socks, and now, oh no. No. No.

Yes.

He lets me peel his shirt off.
 

Jesus, the man is perfect. I have to wrench my eyes open and gaze at him. His body is not just bulky and built, but is also incredibly, perfectly toned. Each muscle is so clearly defined they may as well be chiseled into place. His khaki shorts are heavy from being wet, and they hang low around his hips. The waistband of Polo underwear peeks out, and a wickedly deep V-cut disappears under the elastic.

My hands itch and twitch. I want to touch him so fucking bad it hurts. He’s a fantasy.
This
is a fantasy. It’s not real. I’m asleep at home in Detroit, in my bed, dreaming. There’s no way this is really happening. It feels real, but I know it’s not. It can’t be. It’s all happening so fast, meeting him in the hot sunshine of late evening, and then the storm hitting out of nowhere, and the leisurely hour of dinner, and now suddenly I’m in this extravagant hotel room being kissed and stripped by an actual god.
 

Hot, rough-skinned, massive hands slide up my sides and in, around, to my ribs. I glance at him, and see that his eyes are open and roving over me, staring at me as if he can’t get enough of me. As if I’m something he likes. Which is just crazy. I’m not stupid or self-conscious. I know I’m pretty enough. I’m in shape. But I’m not dainty or skinny. I’m just shy of six feet tall, and I’m curvy. I don’t look like Hollywood actresses, or models. I’m me, and I’m confident in myself, content with the way I look.
 

But I’m just not what a man like Adam Trenton goes for.
 

And now, with his leaf-green eyes taking in my skin and my tits and my hips, I wonder what he’s thinking. If I’m being naïve. Maybe he’s not picky and I’m just a conquest for the night.
 

“You are so fucking sexy, Des,” Adam growls, his voice a low rumble in my ear. His lips trace along the shell of my ear. “You know that? Do you know how fucking incredible you look right now?”

I can only shake my head, because that’s just the honest truth. I don’t know. I don’t feel sexy. I’m wet and cold and my hair is a tangled mess and my makeup, what little bit I put on earlier, is either smeared by the rain or washed away entirely.
 

“I’ll have to show you, then.”
 

He pivots, and my back is to the towel rack, and I can see over his shoulder to our reflection in the mirror. His back is as ripped as the rest of him, of course, and god, a man’s muscular back is a thing of beauty. His muscles shift and ripple as he leans down and his teeth nip at the delicate skin at the side of my neck. And then he pivots again, and I’m facing the mirror and he’s standing behind me. He doesn’t tower over me, but he still dwarfs me. His hands wrap around my waist, just above my jeans, and now I can see myself.
 

Black bra. It’s an old one and doesn’t fit, so my breasts spill out over the top of it, the edge of my areola peeking up from the top of one cup. My stomach isn’t entirely flat, a fact which doesn’t usually bother me, but now with his scrutiny on me like a laser, all I can see is the slightly rounded pooch of my belly. My jeans are undone, showing my green cotton underwear in the ‘V’ of my open zipper.
 

I am in no way prepared for this. I’m not even wearing a matching bra and underwear set. As a broke, orphaned college girl barely making rent and tuition, the last thing I need or have the money for is sexy lingerie. But now I’m wishing I’d bothered, because I’m in a hotel bathroom with
Adam Trenton
, in my jeans and my bra, and my bra is easily ten years old, the silk of the cups fraying at the edges, and it doesn’t fit because I’ve filled out since I bought this bra, but it’s one of three I own and the other two are in the wash. And my underwear? Well, thank god they’re not granny panties; I don’t wear those, even on period days. These are basic cotton, which isn’t really sexy, but at least they’re boy-shorts, which, considering how big my ass is, look pretty good on me.

But am I sure I want him to see my underwear? Meaning, am I sure I’m willing to let him take my jeans off and see me in just my underwear?
 

No.
 

Hell
no.

But his fingers slide down my sides and over my hips, slipping between the denim of my jeans and the cotton of my underwear. And then, somehow, I’m stepping on the cuff of one leg of my jeans and pulling my leg free, and then again, and now I’m shaking all over and his eyes are raking over my curves in the mirror, and I can feel him behind me. He’s a huge mountain behind me, his chest at my shoulders, and I can feel something hard and thick between us, and I know what it is, but can’t think about that.

“Des.” He says my name in a rumbling whisper.

“Adam.”

“You’re shaking.”
 

“I’m cold.” That’s true, but that’s not really why I’m shaking. The truth slips out of my mouth. “And scared.”

“Why are you scared, Des?”

“Because…I mean, isn’t it obvious?” The real truth behind my fear isn’t something I’d ever admit to, not even under torture.

“No.” He cups my hips, and then his hands are palming my butt, lifting the heavy weight of one cheek and then the other, playing with me, enjoying it, kneading and caressing.
 

I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to, and I don’t. I don’t want to stop him. I
like
the way his hands feel on my ass. I like being touched like this. I didn’t know it would feel so good to have a man’s hands on my bottom. But it does, it’s incredible, it’s heady and I’m shaking from how good it feels and from the ever-present fear and doubt and nerves.

I have to regain some kind of control over myself, and over the situation. “Well, let me spell it out, then. You’re a famous Hollywood movie star. You got mobbed in the hotel lobby. I’m no one. I’m a trash collector.” I have to pause to breathe, because his hands are finding the elastic waistband of my underwear and digging under to cup bare flesh and muscle, and my underwear are perilously close to coming off now, baring my core. “I’m a fucking garbage girl. A janitor. And like you said, you’re only here for the weekend, and Adam? I’m
not
this type of girl.”

“What type?” he demands, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “What do you think is happening?”

I glare at his reflection. “You’re seducing me. And I’m letting you, but I have no fucking clue why. And I don’t know why you’d want this with me. Why you’d bring me up here, when I’m nobody, when I look the way I do and you’re you and—”

“The way you look? What’s that mean?” He sounds almost angry.

“It just means I’m not a size two, okay?”

“And what? You think I somehow missed that fact?”

I’m stunned for a moment. “Wow. Okay.” I rip myself out of his arms. “Fuck you.” I push past him.
 

I don’t make two steps before he’s wrapping an arm around me and stopping me, spinning me in place and pulling me hard against him, so my bra is pressed against his chest and my breasts are actually and completely spilling out. And I can feel his cock between us, big, thick, and hard.
 

“Stop, Des.”

“Let me go.” I hate being restrained. It triggers a fight-or-flight reflex in me. Violently, if I feel threatened enough.

“Des, just listen—” His hold on me is inexorable and unbreakable, triggering rage and panic in me.

“Let me fucking go,
now
,” I growl, pushing against him with all my strength

He releases me immediately, and I’m having trouble breathing, memories flashing through me. “Des? It’s okay. It’s okay. Breathe. Breathe.” He’s got a hand on my back, and I want to both knock it away and beg him to put both hands on my back, to hold me, touch me.
 

I force my breathing to slow, and straighten. Fixing my eyes on his, I stab his bare chest with a finger. “Do not
ever
restrain me like that again.”

He holds his hands up, palms out. “I won’t. I swear, I promise. I just—”

“Damn right you won’t,” I say, and snatch my shirt off the floor. “Because I’m leaving.”

“Hold on a goddamned second,” he says, moving in front of me. “You misunderstood me. Deliberately, something tells me. You’re not a size two, and I know that. I see that. I saw that the first time I laid eyes on you. You’re here, Des. I brought you here, on purpose. Because I like you. Because you turn me on.”

He’s inching closer to me, hands outstretched, daring to reach for me after what just happened. He takes my shirt from me, and he is now standing chest to chest with me, and his eyes are palest green and knowing and kind and fierce and sharp and intelligent.
 

“Des. Hear me. I’m a man who speaks the truth, no matter the consequences. So here’s some truth for you.” His palm fits against my cheek, and his fingers tilt my face up so I’m looking at him, our lips kissing distance apart. “I’m intrigued by you. You’re fascinating. I can’t figure you out, and I like that. You’re not impressed by who I am, and I like that even more. You’re so drop-dead fucking gorgeous that I can’t stand it. You’re so sexy it’s not even right.”

I can’t move, can’t breathe. No one has ever called me beautiful before, much less gorgeous or sexy. More frighteningly, he seems to mean it. I want to pull away and run before I give in, but I’m not moving and I’m already giving in.

He’s not done, though. “And yeah, I’m only here for the weekend. And you’re not no one. You’re you. And I like you—what I’ve seen so far. I promised you I wouldn’t ask you any questions, and I won’t. But I hope you’ll trust me enough to tell me a few things about you on your own. Whatever
this
is, whatever it is that’s happening between us, I want it. Whether it’s just for tonight or tomorrow too, or something beyond that, I want it. So I’m going to go with it.” His other hand moves possessively and with intimate familiarity to the small of my back, holding me in place. “You’re scared. I can see that. I don’t know why, and I’m not going to ask because I promised I wouldn’t. But you can tell me the truth, whatever it is. If you really want to leave, I’ll take you back myself, or I’ll get you a carriage back to your dorm. But I don’t want you to leave. I hope you’ll stay.”

“Adam…I just—”

He presses his thumb over my lips to silence me. “So, as much as I’d like to finish stripping you down to skin, I won’t. As much as I’d like to have you naked, right here and right now, I’m going to back away. I’m going to let you get in the shower, and I’m going to give you time to think. Decide what you want, and I’ll go with it. I’m not going to pressure you into anything. You know what I want. I’ve made it clear, I hope.”
 

He takes three backward steps and then stops, leans in and kisses me, hard and fast, and then turns goes into the sitting room, out of sight.

I stand trembling, confused, and half-naked in the doorway of the bathroom, steam billowing around me.
 

What do I want?
 

Fuck if I know.
 

Well, that’s not true. I want Adam to kiss me. I want this dream to be real. I’m still not convinced I’m not going to wake up in my dorm room and have it all be a fever dream. I pinch the inside of my arm, and it hurts, and I’m still in The Musser Suite of the Grand Hotel, with Adam Trenton one room away, waiting for me.

Wanting me.

How is that possible?

But it seems to be true, and I have to decide what I’m going to do about it.
 

I peel my clothes off and step into the shower.

Chapter 4

It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to remain sitting on the couch, waiting for her. I want to go into the bathroom and watch her. I want to peel my shorts off and step in the shower with her.
 

I want to push her up against the tiled shower wall and take her there.