Stripped (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

Emelie

Ooooohhhh… so many intense, rowdy, and resounding cheers for the most—like I didn’t even think it was humanly possible—number of BIG O’s ever experienced in one night

(And Stone was right, I totally lost count)

(And I so want to do it again)

I wake up next to the sexiest man alive.

Oh Lord, am I in trouble.
Shit! I already said that!

I roll over and check my phone. There are like… a
million
texts from Vi. Most of them seem to consist of all caps—clamoring for details. I scroll through. After a while of not being responded to, she and Raphael began leaving video messages together while fighting for the most facetime on the tiny screen. They’re literally shoving each other out of the way.

I peek at Mr. Sexy. Sleeping like a baby. He deserves it. He worked
very hard
for it. Dedicated himself wholly to the cause.

He most certainly resuscitated the kitten.

Once in the kitchen, I pour myself a drink of water from his filter pitcher in the fridge then fumble about, making a pot of coffee.

I listen to a few of the video messages on the lowest volume setting possible.

Vi wants to know how big it really is. Raphael wants to know how long he was able to keep it up. Vi demands info on how many times. Raph asks if he has a gay brother. They go on and on like this for a while.

When I hear Stone coming down the hall, I almost drop the phone trying to turn my nosy roommates off before he can hear them! I set it to the side, just in time.

He pads into the kitchen, gazing at me lustfully through still-sleepy eyes. “Come back to bed,” he says gruffly as he grabs my hand and puts it over the top of his raging morning behemoth.

Oh fuck!

“Stone… we had a deal.” I don’t even sound convincing to myself.

He snorts a laugh. “Yeah right.” Then he lifts me onto the kitchen counter next to the coffeepot and phone and takes me right there.

Yep, fucks me delirious.

I don’t protest. Not one little bit. In fact, I’m pretty sure my pleading moans for more completely achieve the opposite effect.

When he walks away, leaving me there sprawled and disheveled on the countertop he says, “Oh, Em, by the way, that’s what I think of your stipulations.”

With me wearing last night’s clothes, Stone and I part ways—he to work and me to the apartment in an attempt to screw my head on straight before we meet tonight at the studio for our first work session.

I’ll admit I’m happy both Vi and Raph have jobs so they’re not home when I get back and I don’t have to relive every delightfully dirty detail right away.

I do need to keep myself guarded, for God’s sake. I can’t let myself get too emotionally involved with Stone. But, having had only one boyfriend and sexual partner under my belt, I’ve never been a get in and get out kind of girl. This is all new territory for me. And Stone is…

Oh, he was
so
good. No, not good,
outstanding.
Euphoric.

My ex was the three-minute wonder. Maybe I’d get kissed, maybe I wouldn’t. He’d brush against my boob, consider that enough foreplay, then after his three minutes of action, would be spent. It happened like clockwork every week. I kinda thought that was the way sex was. Boring, right?

Memories of Stone’s hands, tongue, lips, abs…
magicwand
. Sigh.

No comparison. ZERO!

My kitten was knocked senseless. For hours! She probably has a concussion. She’s never seen that kind of action before. Maybe I should get her checked out by a doctor?

Christina Aguilera’s song “Candyman”—about the hottest guy ever making her panties drop—broadcasts loudly through my phone speaker.

What the…?

I snatch it up, and there’s his gorgeous face with an after-sex smile. I can tell because he’s giving me a cheers by holding up the coffee cup he used this morning. He must have done this when I was in the bathroom.

Stone!

“Hey.”
Oh my God, be professional,

“Hey, beautiful, what do you say we beat out of town for the day? Head down to the coast?”

The very idea makes me lightheaded. “Don’t you have to work?”

“Yeah, well, about that…” His tone deepens as he talks with a rough, gravelly voice into the receiver. “I can’t stop thinking about you
Emelie Cartier
. Especially how incredibly sexy you were last night squirming against my tongue and then in every position thereafter—not to mention us christening the Corian this morning. By the way, I’ll never be able to think of anything but you naked every time I try to prepare something on it—so I’m walking about with a perpetual two by four. I figured it was best to tell them I was feeling like hell.”

“More like
hellion
.”

“True.”

“What about dancing?”

“I know just the place to stop on the way.”

This goes against every possible rule. “Okay.”

“Excellent.” He sounds like he hit the jackpot. “I’m caught in traffic but should be there in about twenty-five.”

“
Twenty-five?”
I squeak, shocked he means minutes!

“Yup, already on my way.”

“How did you know I’d say yes?” I counter.

“I’m bloody persuasive.”

Yeah he is. “Okaygottagoseeyathen!”

I hang up and break the world record for fastest shower ever, then blow dry my hair and decide what I should wear.

Violet and Raph decided I was no longer allowed to live out of my suitcases and hung everything in the guestroom closet or folded it neatly into the chest of drawers.

Choosing a little all white, stretchy cotton dance dress—straps like a sundress, breathable second-skin leotard-fitting top with a flirty above-my-knee skirt that’s easy to move in—I peel it up over my legs and torso then top it off with a tiny white lacy shrug. It wraps around the shoulders with baby-doll sleeves and is only long enough to encase my shoulder blades while it exposes my collarbone and breasts. It’s designed to accentuate the body.

Usually I’d look at this sort of outfit purely for the dance-ability. I’ll admit, I’m not thinking about dancing. Whatsoever. Instead I’m picturing Stone’s mouth on said breast.

Oh shit!
Time?!

I check my phone. Five minutes left, based on his estimate.

After I slip my feet into a pair of red silk flats I bought, I whisk on some mascara, eyeliner, and a little bit of sparkly light-blue shadow, and then roll on some Jasmine Intoxication essential oil perfume.

Christina croons about getting her cherry popped by the candyman.

I swoop my phone up. “You close?”

“Out front,” he says. “Want me to come… up?”

I can hear his sex-dripping inflection. I have to stand strong. I made a sensible decision last night, and I’m
going
to stick with it. Even if it kills me. And the kitten.

“I’ll be right down.” See—self-control.

“Can’t wait to see you.” A second after that he exclaims, “Are you down those stairs yet?”

“I’m coming.”

“You’re not yet, but if I have my way you will be.”

He hangs up, leaving me breathless. This is not a good start. How in hell am I going to resist this man?

When I get out the door, he’s standing in front of what I assume is his car—a metallic black convertible Jeep built for off-roading—complete with roll-bars, a row of lighting across the top and more on the bar in front of the grill.

“Jesus, Em, you’re a knockout!” His gaze travels up and down the skimpy little outfit.

“Thanks.” I feel my cheeks grow hot.

“Come on.” Stone smiles, takes my hand, maneuvers so he can check out my ass, and then leads me ’round to the driver’s side. He opens the door and says, “Mmm… I’m going to need you to drive.” He passes off the keys, shuts the Jeep door after I get in, then slides himself into the passenger side.

I regard him quizzically as I turn the key then pull onto the street. “Why am I driving?”

“I told you, you’re scorching hot in that skimpy little next-to-nothing dance dress.”

He melts me. “But how does that make me driver?”

“Because I can’t pay attention to the road with you in
that
! I need my eyes and
hands
free.”

I’m too stunned by that statement—and the many erotic visions it puts into my head—to argue.

“Where am I going?”

“Take the 110 South and stop when you hit the Pacific.”

I’m sure my expression registers all kinds of happy as I get on the highway.

The warm wind breezing through the windows, throwing my hair around my face, and Stone’s presence next to me is utterly heady.

The LA XM radio station is playing “Good to Be Alive (Hallelujah),” and I’m feeling totally in agreement with Mr. Grammar.

“Em…?” Stone’s voice floats lazily over me.

“Yes?”

“I want you to know, I love that you chose this dress especially for
me
.” He strokes his fingers down my shoulder to my elbow, setting my skin ablaze.

Oh man. How does he know?

“The fabric hugs every dangerous curve so smoothly.” His fingers fall off my hand and find traction at my waist then sail south until he’s wrapping the loose ripples of skirt around his index finger.

Deftly, he teases the stitching at the inside of my thigh, sliding his fingertips only inches away from my dampening center. I don’t ask him to stop.
Yet
. I’m totally going to stop him before this goes too far. Any second now I’m going to—

“Ruby red slippers. Did you bring these things from New York?” he baits.

His touch acts like a truth serum. “New job, new clothes.”

“You went out and bought these to work with me?”

I can’t answer—his hand is making love to the inside of my sensitive thighs, and it renders my brain nearly useless. Plus it would feel more like an embarrassing confession than a simple statement.

He exhales on a moan. “Holy hell! That makes me so fucking hot!”

My legs fall open as his fingers close in on their destination.

“WAIT!” I trap his hand between my legs like a vise. “Stop!” Somehow I get a grip on my runaway kitten. “I really need to watch the road.”

“I know, baby, that’s why you’re driving.” He leans closer, and suddenly his free hand is taking a short trip up my ribs toward the swell of my breast.

“Stone!”

“Come on! Honestly, how am I supposed to keep my hands off you, Em?!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in happy frustration.

“You’ll have to think of something, stud.”

A second later, Stone’s movement catches my eye.

“You’re taking off your pants!” I exclaim.

“Oh, and it feels so good to release the behemoth.”

He really likes the title I dubbed his more than hefty tool last night. But…

“You can’t…”

Now he’s stripping away his shirt too.

“Stone!
Clothes
!” It seems the only amount of coherent language I can handle at the moment.

“Am I
distracting
you?”

“Yes!”

He laughs. “Good.”

I can’t help myself, I peer over. He’s in nothing but silver silk briefs.

“Eyes on the road, Sunshine,” he reminds.

I turn my head, feeling my mouth open and close. I realize no sound is coming out. I’m like… dumbstruck.

Or fuckstruck!

“Why?” I pant out.

“Silly question,” he croons. “Do you like this? I’d like it with you on top.”

Stone leans his back against the bucket seat, anchors his arms, bends his knees, squeezes his ass tight and lifts his hips with his legs spread as wide as he can get them in the front seat and starts jacking his hips! A sexy hip hop move that imitates what he’d do if I was on top of him naked.

I smile wide and mock scold, “You’re going to cause an accident.”

“What if I add this?” In a fluid gesture, he sweeps his hand methodically from his head down his neck, chest, and stomach, right to his rocket
while he rolls his hips in a seductive wave. He grabs his balls and grinds against his hand.

“You’re going to kill us.” I laugh uncontrollably.

A VW van with surfboards on the roof starts to pass us, but when the two stunning long haired blonde surfer girls get an eye load of Stone, they buddy up to the Jeep.

Of course his window is open.

Catcalls and whistles—like we’re at Foreplay—are so loud they reach us despite the highway noise.