Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5) (3 page)

So, I retrieve my shoes from the steps and trudge after Mason Sinclair.

I reach the pool house door and knock. He doesn’t answer for several minutes. I curse under my breath and start to turn away.

The door opens, and he fills the space. Larger than life and wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. In the brighter light I see that his hair is a dark chocolate brown, and his eyes are indeed a golden hazel. His mouth is both sensual and cruel, as if he’s seen things in life he’s loved and hated at the same time.

And his body. God, I don’t even bother to hide my interest in his body.

Lean but muscular in a way only a seasoned athlete can achieve, there’s a tensile strength in him, a latent energy pulsing through him that reeks of danger and the not so civilized.

My scrutiny reaches his very masculine feet, and I try not to smirk at the size of them. But my gaze travels back up and lingers at his groin. The thickness outlined against the black cotton is impressive, but I wish I have x-ray vision right then. I want to see the real thing. I want—

“If you’re looking for the bathroom, it’s this way,” he interrupts my porny thoughts, and a flush crawls up my face as I lift my gaze from his crotch.

“I...thanks.” I avoid his probing stare as I slide past him and enter the large living room. As with the main house, the pool house has been designed with luxurious comfort in mind. Heated floors warm my feet as I walk through the cream and black decorated room. Expensive landscapes adorn the walls, and a couple of sculptures on pedestals complement the thick sofas and entertainment center arranged in front of a large, already lit stone fireplace.

I go past the two master bedrooms to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. I shut the door on the eyes I feel boring into my back and breathe a sigh of relief.

I avoid my reflection in the mirror, quickly disrobe and shrug on the smaller of the two guest bathrobes hanging at the back of the door. Opening a drawer in the vanity, I find a new hairbrush, and run it through my shoulder length hair, all without meeting my eyes in the mirror. I know what I’ll see. Weariness. Bitterness. Guilt. But I’m too exhausted to deal with it tonight.

So I put away the hairbrush, tighten the robe belt and open the door.

Mason is leaning against the wall right outside the bathroom. He’s dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, but he’s barefoot.

And his gaze is locked on mine.

The dark and dangerous hunger lurking in his eyes is unmistakable.

My breath catches.

“So...what now?” I ask.

“You come and have a drink with me. You can tell me what’s wrong with you or we discuss how quickly we dance around each other before you let me fuck you.”

mason

I
watch the battle on her face with a removed fascination. She’s debating whether to come at me all guns blazing, or pretend I don’t exist.

I don’t really mind which option she chooses. She can walk out of here, and all I’ll feel is a modicum of disappointment. Maybe more than a modicum. There’s something...compelling about her. Something I should probably walk away from. Maybe I’m drawn to her turmoil because I have the same storm raging inside me. The need to smash, destroy, roar is a never-ending buzz beneath my skin.

I’ve learned the mechanics of letting it out. The Amazon jungle has heard it a few times in the last six months. It was in the rage-soaked sweat from my skin that mixed with the straw and mud as I built the school and shelters in Roraima. I let it bleed out through the asphalt of the Pacific Coast Highway at two a.m. when the demons got too loud and I slid behind the wheel of my Koenigsegg. Or in the converted basement of my LA house.

When all else fails...I fuck.

Normally, it takes about a year for the guilt and rage to come to a head. This time, I’ve barely lasted six months. I can feel the tempest gathering ever closer. Hani, my facilitator at the exclusive service I use has been put on standby earlier this evening. All it’ll take is a single phone call, and I can calm the storm. But I choose not to. Not just yet.

I watch the woman in front of me in silence. She has a brash strength about her that almost camouflages the gaping vortex of pain flowing from her. Her goddess-like beauty perfects that disguise, until you choose to look beneath the surface. I’m certainly finding it a little challenging to not gape at the wet tumble of caramel blonde hair that hangs in ropes about her face and shoulders, or the wide, sensual mouth that vacillates between a pout and a typical New Yorker’s sneer.

She’s stunning enough to stop any clear-thinking man in his tracks. For murkier-minded men like me, the allure and intrigue that shroud her is a siren call that howls its rapturous destruction.

And yet, I cannot look away. Not yet.

“I’ll take a drink minus the talking,” Keely finally responds, her chin raised in pointed defiance that I almost find amusing.

I nod and head to the kitchen. Her soft footsteps follow. “Hot or cold?” I ask when I walk past the center island.

She pauses. “Excuse me?”

“Coffee, water or club soda?” I look over my shoulder and that glare is back.

“I don’t want coffee,” she growls and I’m once again fascinated. By the rich, dominatrix quality of her voice, the no-nonsense way she ends every sentence, like she’s impatient with the words coming out of her mouth. “Or water.”

I open the fully stocked double fridge and take out two cans of soda. “Soda it is, then.”

She watches the can I slide across the island like it’s an IED. I suppress laughter as she snaps, “Is this a joke?”

“What’s wrong? Did you think I was going to top up your already high alcohol intake with more booze?”

“What are you, the fucking booze monitor?” she throws back at me.

As I lift my own can to take a long swig, my hands itch with the need to teach her a lesson about her foul mouth. I don’t plan to stick around after my meeting with Zach tomorrow. But between now and then, if she continues to pique my interest, I might just grant her the spanking she richly deserves.

“I don’t keep any booze here.”

One sleekly outlined brow lifts. “Afraid you’ll fall off the wagon?” she taunts.

“Yes,” I answer truthfully.

Again, surprise and intrigue slide across her face. “Oh...okay.” Slowly, she reaches out and picks up the soda. One perfectly manicured finger toys with the rim and something awakens inside me as I watch that finger.

“How long have you been sober?” she asks after a few minutes of silence.

“Ten years, two months, three weeks and five days.”

Her forehead creases for all of three seconds. “You stopped drinking on Christmas Day?” she says, confirming my initial impression of her quick wit. Why she chooses to hide her intelligence behind foul language and an abrasive manner isn’t a subject that particularly interests me. But I find the whole package intriguing nonetheless.

“Yes.”

Her lips twitch and I can tell she’s dying to ask me more.

The phone I’d left on the island earlier buzzes and I step closer as her gaze drops. We both see the message clearly displayed on the screen.

Welcome back, Mr. S. Your usual selection is available when you are.

“Let me guess, that’s your dealer?” she jibes, without excusing herself for reading my message.

I shrug. “Of sorts.”

Her sea-green eyes widen and I’m thrilled to have surprised her again. She doesn’t seem the sort to be easily shocked. “You don’t drink, but you do drugs?” she asks, condemnation brimming her tone. “Isn’t that swapping one addiction for another?”

“It is if you consider sex an addiction.”

Her mouth drops open, and she flicks a glance at the now dark screen. “So that was your...your...”

“It’s a service I use, yes.” I drain the last of the soda, my eyes tracing the color washing up her neck. “You’re blushing. Does that embarrass you?”

She cracks the top of the soda and pulls back the lid. “That you get your sex through an escort service? Hell no. Maybe I’m a little embarrassed
for
you.” She gulps in the soda a little too fast, and several drops trickle down the side of her mouth. She wipes it with the back of her hand and her color rises higher.

I smile. “Save your sympathy, Keely. I use the service for expediency. And because I detest the mindless games that society has imposed on an act that should have no frivolities.”

Her head tilts to one side, and she slams me with a speaking look. “That your fancy way of saying you don’t want to buy a girl dinner before you fuck her?”

“She can have all the dinner she wants. I just don’t see the need for tedious mores or the need to display false affection before the act.”

“So why not just club her over the head and drag her to your cave?”

“Why do it myself when my service more than meets those particular urges?”

She studies my face to see if I mean it literally. When she looks away I can’t decide whether she’s satisfied with what she reads in my expression or not. “So you gonna call them back?” she asks after another minute of thick silence.

“Do you want me to?” I ask.

Her breath catches. “Why the hell should I care?”

My gaze drops to the escalated rise and fall of her chest, then the belt of the robe that emphasizes her trim waist. Her excitement is as obvious as the condensation dripping down the soda can.

A touch of ennui seeps into my blood. “And you wonder why I find all this tedious?”

She frowns. “Perhaps if you took your time to make yourself clearer—”

I crush my empty soda can in my fist, and she jumps at the sound. “You’re intelligent enough to know what’s going on between us, and yet you want me to spell out my feelings before you feel comfortable with admitting you want what you want. Isn’t that right?”

“Umm, no, wrong. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your feelings. And just because two people happen to find each other mildly attractive doesn’t mean they have to strip and fuck on the nearest flat surface.”

“Why not?” I counter.

“Because that would make them nothing more than base animals.”

“But I am a base animal. And so are you.”

“Keep your fucking insults to yourself, Rusty.” She glares hard enough to drill holes in me.

I take a deep breath to reel myself in. I remind myself that I’ve been out of the land of meaningless conversation and talking just for the sake of talking for over a year. She’s ironically right in calling me
Rusty
. I’m rusty when it comes to fitting back into society. But I still want to teach her a lesson for that dirty mouth. For making me want to see more of that saucy body she’s hiding under the robe.

And as long as I remain this close to her, exchanging
words
when I want to do something else entirely, that temptation will only grow.

I stalk toward the living room. “I need to get out of here.”

“You’re going back to the party?” she asks, trailing after me.

“God, no. If I have to smile and answer another question about my status on social media, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” I snarl.

“Wow, someone really went to town on your social skills, didn’t they?”

I don’t answer. I’ve reached the limit of my tolerance. I need to get out into some clean, clear air before it’s too late. I grab my leather jacket and punch my arms into it, wishing for the dead silence and the simple existence of Roraima.

My loafers are by the front entrance and I shove my feet into them before I yank open the door.

“What the hell’s so urgent?” Keely asks, trailing after me. “It can’t be your escort service situation since you left your phone back there.”

I suck in a breath and tunnel my fingers through my hair. “I just need to get some air, okay?” I step out and start to shut the door.

“Can I come with?”

I turn slowly, catch her gaze. “Are you sure you want to?” I don’t disguise the echoes of my turmoil.

She licks her lips and slowly nods. “Yes.”

My breath shudders out. I take in the short robe she’s wearing and the v-shaped gap at the front that shows a hint of her breasts. “I don’t have time to wait for you to change.” My gaze drops to her feet. “Or put on shoes.”

She replies with a shrug. “We’re not going far, are we?”

I don’t answer. I turn and skirt the pool. After a moment, I hear her behind me. The ennui evaporates from my veins, replaced by another equally dangerous drug.

Lust.

The unsettling kind. The kind that means I have to pay Hani double when I’m done with one of her girls. I quicken my steps and round the back of Zach’s house. Or the front, depending on how you viewed the property. I key in the code and the quadruple garage doors roll upward.

“You’re going out?” Keely asks.

I head for the indigo and black Mclaren P1 GTR and slide behind the wheel. Throwing open the passenger door, I start counting silently. I reach eight before she slides into the seat.

I almost wish she hadn’t. The moment she shuts the door and her scent engulfs me, I know I’m going to fuck her.

“Seatbelt,” I growl.

She complies.

I step on the gas, reversing in an expert arc that throws her against me.

“Whoa, easy there, Rusty,” she admonishes as she rights herself.

My jaw clenches, and my fingers curl around the cold steering wheel. “I’m keeping tally, Keely. For every time you call me that name.”

She laughs and fiddles with the temperate modulator until warm air flows into the car. “And how exactly do you intend to get me back, seeing as you’re leaving tomorrow?”

The smile barely twitches on my lips. “The night is still young.”

“Umm, no it kinda isn’t. It’s almost one a.m.” Her voice holds a cautious delivery, as if she’s realizing just what she’s let herself in for.

I don’t respond as I quickly navigate the quiet streets on the outskirts of Montauk, letting the powerful engine beneath me growl and fly. I drive fast and aggressively, and every now and then I hear her breath catch when I take a corner too quickly. After about ten miles, the turmoil in my chest starts to feel calmer. In direct proportion, the turbulence in my pants is growing. My cock has been hardening since she slid in barefoot beside me. Seeing one fist clenched around the door handle and the other gripping the center console is not doing my libido any good either. Nor is the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and the very visible outline of one breast playing peekaboo with the gaping robe.