Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) (7 page)

But that was insane,
all of this was.

“That was…um…”
I brought a hand to his chest. Double-edged sword, that. I’d meant
to push away, but now I could feel his heart beating, how fast it
pounded, how aroused he’d become bringing me pleasure. That was a
pretty great trait in a man. It made me think of some of the L.A.
boys I’d been with, the way I’d catch them watching themselves in
the mirror while they were supposedly making love to me. Hard to make
love to someone else when what you loved most was your own image.

“Are you all right?”
he murmured into my ear in the darkness of his truck. So solicitous
to my needs. I had a long, long list of needs I’d like to share
with him. But somehow I felt like I wouldn’t even have to, he’d
discover them, draw them out, fulfilling needs even I didn’t know I
had.

But, wait, what was
happening? Was I sitting there mostly naked in the lap of a stranger
pulled over on the side of a woodland road in the middle of nowhere?

“Where are we?” I
asked, finally managing to push away from him. It felt like leaving
the hearth of a roaring fire to head into the barren cold. But that
was melodramatic, and I didn’t do melodrama. I did what needed to
be done. I found my panties.

Torn clean in half. I
held up the scrap of lace that used to be my underwear.

“I should say I’m
sorry about that.” He spoke in such a deep, rumbling voice, just
the sound of it made me breathless. “But I’m not sorry.” I had
to close my eyes for a second. He wasn’t sorry that he’d been so
wild he’d ripped my panties right off of me, torn them in two in
his demanding need to get to me. It nearly made me swoon. But I’d
done enough swooning for one night. Now, I needed to get on my jeans.

Finding them by my
feet, I turned them right side out, blushing at the evidence of my
own eagerness. I must have set a record for getting out of those
jeans. They were tight, too, and I didn’t exactly have a lot of
room in the cab of this truck. But motivation could work wonders. It
took about three times as long to work myself back into them. I
wasn’t as excited about this flip side.

He watched me, then
handed me my shirt. Such a gentleman. Only he wasn’t a gentleman.
What we’d done didn’t make itself into any etiquette book
anywhere. It didn’t make its way into any Fame! location scouting
handbooks, either.

Damn it. I shouldn’t
have done that with him, let him touch me like that. I was supposed
to spend at least the next few weeks in this town checking out the
setting, making inroads with local power brokers, scouting for talent
and possibly paving the way to film a show there. And now I’d let
the local hottie finger-fuck me in his truck. Holy hell. Word would
probably be all around town by tomorrow morning. So much for
maintaining a relatively low-profile while I cased out the situation.
I might as well hang a neon sign around my neck “Slutty L.A.
Chick.” She’ll let any mountain man she meets at a bar get her
off!

“I should go.” I
put my hand on the door.

“Let me get you
closer.” He started the engine and pulled us up 50 feet. Then he
got out, crunched around and opened my door for me. He wasn’t
asking me to stay. He wasn’t even asking for my number. But he was
opening the door for me and in my post-orgasmic endorphin-flooded
brain that felt nice. I needed to get a grip, which I did on him as I
exited the cab of the truck and held onto his giant arm as we walked
up to the front door.

Gary was home. He had
the key to my condo waiting for me. And if he was surprised that I’d
gotten an escort from Heath, he didn’t show it.

“Let me give you a
lift over to the condo,” he offered, shrugging into his jacket. I
did notice that my parka far outsized anything I’d seen a local
wearing. But I was a lot colder than them. My L.A. blood ran thin.

“I’ve got some
luggage.” I gestured toward Heath’s truck.

“I’ll follow you
guys.” Hands dug into his jacket pockets, Heath turned back to his
truck. Without me. I watched his back for a second, wishing
momentarily that I was with him heading back to his beat-up pickup.
But I shook that off. This was nothing more than temporary insanity.
Maybe I’d caught a local fever from a mosquito bite. Or there’d
been something in that hard cider, some pheromones. Only I’d been
wild for him since the second I saw him.

“This way.” Gary
cleared his throat, politely reminding me that we were standing
outside in the snow late at night. I followed him to his truck and we
drove all of two minutes to a nondescript two-story building. I had
no idea how our network’s travel people had found the place. I was
used to being put up in chic boutique hotels, the hottest spots to
see and be seen. Maybe this was Watson, Vermont’s equivalent.

The whole transaction
was over in five minutes. Gary opened the door and showed me around a
tidy little place that at least looked recently updated. Heath
brought my bags up and into the entryway. My luggage was so heavy it
had made the people at United grimace and charge me extra weight
fees. Heath carried them like they were postage stamps. Both men said
goodnight at the same time, and I thanked them both. The only
difference was one of them had given me a mind-numbingly intense
orgasm a few minutes earlier. Thanks for that.

“Good meeting you,
Violet.” Heath reached out and took my hand in his. I guess it was
just a hand shake, but at the feel of my hand enveloped in his warm,
rough palm, the broad manliness of it, I felt a tingle run down my
spine all over again. His eyes were so dark and intense. There seemed
to be so much behind that gaze. I couldn’t help but wonder about
him, who he was, what was his story.

But that would have to
unfold for the viewers of the reality series I was pushing. Because
tonight Heath turned and left, no digits in his cell phone, no offer
to show me around town tomorrow. Like what we’d just done in the
cab of his truck was no big deal, already forgotten.

Only it hadn’t felt
like that. It had felt like so much more, like he’d been as caught
up as me, as overwhelmed and bewildered at our connection. The way
he’d buried his face in my hair and breathed me in. The way he’d
whispered my name, as if discovering a rare treasure.

It gave me a lot to
think about. Good thing I had four large suitcases filled with stuff
that needed to be unpacked. It would keep me busy and hopefully
provide enough distraction that eventually I’d fall asleep.

§

The next day I didn’t
wake up until after noon. I was still on California time. The skies
were dreary and dark and the curtains were drawn. Plus, I’d been
through a lot the night before. The harrowing drive. The blistering
orgasm. These things required sleep the next day.

Yawning, stretching
like a cat, I took a moment before getting out of bed. I loved going
out on location, but I hadn’t done it too often. Most of the shows
I’d worked on were filmed either in L.A. or NYC and I felt like
both cities were home. But traveling somewhere new, it took you out
of your daily routine. You could sleep in, explore, try some new food
you’d never had before, step outside of yourself.

I liked going to
farmer’s markets in new places. Not so much because I liked to
cook—cooking was on the long list of things I’d never had time to
attempt but had the desire to try one day—but because it was such
great people-watching. You learned a lot about a place from the
people who came to farmer’s markets. Of course, there would be some
crunchy granola types in Birkenstocks and dreadlocks. There would
always be hipsters, and moms with kids in one of two modes—eager or
whining. And then there’d be the older, more dedicated foodies
scrutinizing their eggplants as if selecting a diamond. I could flit
around, choosing some fruit and a locally brewed organic coffee, and
soak in the local culture to my heart’s content.

Watson supposedly had a
thriving farmer’s market. It opened in May. With any luck, we’d
be up and filming by then, capturing the local action just as the
birds and bees got busy.

Speaking of. I felt my
face flush and I brought my hands to my warm cheeks. What had
happened last night? I didn’t know what I felt most shocked about.
There was a long list of shocking things vying for my attention.
First, there was the fact that I’d climbed into a rusty old pickup
truck with a random, strange mountain guy. Bad idea number one. Then,
how about the fact that I’d climbed onto his lap and basically
tried to hump him through his clothes like a wild maniac in heat? And
then there was the big
O
.

What an orgasm. Mmm. I
felt all warm and tingly at the memory and I couldn’t help it, I
knew I should feel scandalized and appalled at myself, but wasn’t
an orgasm like that a gift? In my experience—and I had had some
experience—those kinds of orgasms didn’t happen every day. They
might not ever happen at all to some pour souls. But last night I’d
had one, the toe-curling, mind-evacuating, full-throttle kind of
orgasm you read about in books, the kind that made you whimper and
pant until you got what you wanted and then you screamed, your head
thrown back, your mouth open in complete ecstasy.

That kind of an orgasm.

With a deep exhale,
trying to dispel my thoughts, I rolled to the side and grabbed my
phone. I read a text from Sam letting me know he would be getting on
the road once he nursed his hangover for another hour. A slew of
emails from work. An email from my mom, hoping I’d arrived safely
and asking me to call her today to let her know.

Mom. Sundays were busy
days for her. She owned and operated her own hair salon. I’d grown
up surrounded by the hustle and bustle of hair driers and gossip, the
rhythm and promise of beauty in a bottle. And with my mom, she really
delivered. She knew how to work wonders, making fairy magic happen
for weddings and prom nights and then every day magic for little old
ladies coming in to chat and get their hair fluffed just so. I loved
all of it, from the dull, dreary entrances to the smiling farewells
as they exited the salon with a spring in their step and a twinkle in
their eye.

I kept waiting to have
that feeling from my work. I was an assistant producer, so shouldn’t
I feel as if I’d produced something? Done something tangible?
Created something that made people’s lives better even for a
moment?

So far, I mostly felt
like I was an extra in the movie
The
Devil Wears Prada
, working in an office where skinny
bitches—male and female—did their best to claw each other’s
eyes out. And most of the shows we produced were a lot like a bikini
mud wrestling contest, a whole lot of bad behavior with the
occasional boob flash.

But it was a means to
an end, I kept telling myself. Everyone had to make their way up in
the world. I’d been given a great opportunity working at the Fame!
Network. I knew people, or at least knew people who knew people, and
in a field based on who-knew-who, relationships were gold. At least
they’d better be, because I wasn’t paid all that much. And what I
did earn I spent on things like lingerie.

Like the panties Heath
had ripped clean off me last night.

OK, time to force
myself out of bed. Otherwise, I’d spend the entire day lounging
around dreaming about the Scottish highlands warrior I’d met
masquerading as a Vermont local in a dive bar. My fantasy life knew
no bounds, particularly when given such delicious fuel.

Padding into the main
room of the condo, I noticed an envelope on the floor by the front
door. It looked like it had been pushed through the mail slot. Was
Gary already billing me for the condo? Opening it up, I discovered a
car rental agreement and a set of keys. To an SUV.

I opened the door and immediately
closed it. Rookie mistake! I was wearing a T-shirt that ended
mid-thigh and it had to be about 70 degrees below zero out there with
a vicious, blustery wind. Choosing more wisely, I peeked out the
kitchen window. Parked right in front of the door was a huge SUV, the
kind of behemoth you could probably enter in a monster truck rally
and win. Inside the envelope was a short note:

Got you an upgrade. The circus
needed its clown car back.

That was all. No
signature, but no signature was required. Who else would have done
such a thing? Against my better judgment, a smile snuck its way along
my lips, tugging at my indignation and pulling it along into a little
laughter and, honestly, relief. That tiny convertible had been a
disaster. In an SUV like the one sitting outside, I’d be golden. I
could knock right into a tree and the tree would probably apologize
before it fell right over.

But Heath shouldn’t
have done it. And how had he done it? Had he called the rental agency
and pretended to be me? I should probably refuse the gesture.

But I didn’t have his
phone number. He hadn’t even signed the note, so there was no way
of actually pinning it to him. He’d made it practically impossible
to refuse.

Even with the SUV, I
didn’t leave the condo the entire day. It was too cold, and I
needed to catch up on my reading. Relying on a protein bar and an
apple from my purse, I settled on the couch and learned all the facts
and figures and local history of Watson, Vermont. I had to admit, I
got more into it than I would have guessed, and soon dusk was
settling and my co-worker Sam arrived.

“Where the hell are
we!?!” He burst through my door, pushing in before I’d even had
time to fully open it myself. He looked pale and shaken, like he’d
just seen a ghost.

“It’s so cold
outside!” I shut the door with perhaps more force than required,
but I didn’t like the looks of things out there. No one had proven
the existence of Bigfoot yet, but if the creature were real he’d
surely be living in the woods surrounding this condo. Actually, if we
could get Bigfoot on tape? Could you say ratings through the roof?