Angela, Carla - Full Exposure (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (10 page)

Her bra had fallen off with it, so all that was left on was her matching, lacy briefs, with tiny black bows at the hips, and, of course, her high heels. Immediately, Hunter rubbed an insistent finger against the fabric between her legs, where it was already damp.

Lake gasped. Over his shoulder, beyond the glass, she could see into the dark, unblinking windows of an office building opposite, and down below, the streetlights and the now rain-slicked streets, where ant-like shapes scurried about. ‘The windows,’ she eked out, not wanting him to stop but knowing she should warn him.

He ripped down her briefs, so that they fell at her ankles, and then ran his tongue from her earlobe down to the crack of her mouth, probing his tongue in ever so slightly. ‘Who damn well cares? I want you, and I want you now.’

Then his tongue plunged fully into her mouth. It tasted exquisite, just how she’d imagined. Lake tongue-kissed him back, every part of her tingling. She could feel herself letting herself go, wreathing against him, ripping at the buttons of his white shirt, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Hunter, at last, tried to stop her hands. ‘No. Let me pleasure you first,’ his deep, velvety voice said at her ear.

‘No, I can’t bear to wait any longer,’ Lake gasped, pulling away from him momentarily. Too long they’d been playing this delicious game of cat and mouse. She wanted him inside her. ASAP.

Now poking out of his dark boxers, Hunter’s member, in the glow from the streetlight, appeared as strong and lengthy as the enlarger-produced picture had shown. There’d been no tampering with that image.

With a primal urge, Lake suddenly shook off the undies encircling her high-heel-clad feet and wrapped her legs around his waist, guiding his member inside of her, enjoying the feeling of it filling her up. Against her skin, he felt just like she’d imagined—strong and hard, in every which way. She felt herself opening up like a flower—a rose—against his touch. He smelled…
mmmm
…just like heaven.

They rocked against each other, Lake mildly aware that the window behind them was steaming up, as they moved back and forth rhythmically, as though in time to the music.

At the tipping point, Lake barely noticed Hunter sliding a finger into her buttocks and massaging her breasts with his other hand, as though wanting to be in contact with every inch of her. Then a feeling came over her like a tidal wave, with glass-shattering speed. She clung onto Hunter’s strong frame, digging her red-painted fingernails into his shoulders, and they both moaned with pleasure, wave after wave knocking their bodies about, like they were tiny ships in a fierce ocean.

Moments later they were standing next to one another, breathing heavily, their hands entwined, the curtain still encircling them. But just as quickly, Hunter released his grip on Lake, buttoning his shirt back up again and re-buckling his belt, leaving her shivering, vulnerable, and out of sorts. He turned swiftly, pressing his lips hard against her mouth. ‘Come past my house tomorrow. Around noon,’ he said solemnly.

Then, without another word, he pushed the curtain slightly ajar and slipped out, disappearing again into the night, leaving Lake all alone once more. Wanting. She hoped fervently that he hadn’t just gotten what he wanted and quickly tired of her.

Suddenly she felt back at square one, used and abused by the opposite sex, like she would have to pick up the fragments of her re-broken heart, along with her red dress. She had no one to blame but herself.

Chapter Nine

Lake drummed her fingers on her crossed arms, sighing. She was standing outside Hunter’s imposing two-storey abode, feeling like the time had been rewound to a few days ago to when they’d first met, like they were fully-fledged strangers again. She’d pressed the intercom at least three minutes ago and hadn’t even heard a peep in response.

She had been right last night. He’d gotten what he wanted from her and no longer wanted her as a plaything. She no longer served as a mild curiosity, like Cupcakes would play with a mouse before gulping it down. He’d probably even forgotten he’d told her last night to meet him at his place at noon. She’d brought the disc of photos with her in case that had really been what he’d summonsed her for. If he ever opened the door for her.

Likely, right about now, though, he was probably in bed in the 69 position, stark-naked with that raven-haired socialite from last night, tonguing her waxed private parts and massaging her ample bosoms with his free hands while she sucked his member like it was a lollipop. They’d probably been having sex for hours. Since last night even, not stopping for a breather. Hunter seemed like the type to have an insatiable sexual appetite, a need for a constant parade of women.

Lake couldn’t help from feeling a stab of jealousy in the pit of her stomach on a par with indigestion. Nope. She’d just have to be content with the memory of her and Hunter’s bodies entwined the night before, because she doubted she was going to be treated to a sequel. With Hunter, it was likely only a one-act show, not a whole theatre season.

The only bright spot so far that day had been that the gelled-haired gallery director had rung her earlier on and informed her that all her photographs had been sold. Every single last one of them. She was a bona fide artist now. She should just forget about men and concentrate on her burgeoning art career.

With a resolute toss of her russet hair, Lake finally turned to go, marching down the steps, over with Hunter’s childish games.

Suddenly she paused. Had she imagined it? Nope, there it was—a faint whooshing noise behind her, like a door quietly being opened by remote control. She turned and, all of a sudden, a flood of warmth ripped through her, from the tip of her head to her toes. The door. He’d opened it for her. He
was
there! He had to be.

Lake practically skipped back up the steps, poking her head inside to the vast, hotel-like entryway with the black, man-like, metal sculpture to her right and the ultramodern, wispy, branch-like chandelier hanging from up above.

Golden-haired Scraps, his tail wagging vigorously, barreled into her almost immediately, but this time she was ready for him. Lake knelt down to scratch the canine behind the ears and pat his back. Meanwhile, she couldn’t help from looking about around her. Hunter was still nowhere to be seen.

‘Hunter?’ she called out. ‘I’m here. It’s Lake.’ Even just saying his name caused a tingle between her thighs. A hot, juicy, wet kind of tingle. Her voice echoed off the pristine, white-painted walls, but there was not a word of reply.

Suddenly though, Scraps ran toward the foot of the floating wooden staircase and barked, as if he was beckoning her over, like Lassie or some such. Lake straightened. ‘You–you want me to follow you?’ she asked incredulously.

Scraps barked again and then began bounding up the stairs. He paused midway, looking behind him, as though saying, ‘Boy, humans are no good at following commands like us canines.’ Lake remained rooted at the foot of the stairs, so the pooch barked again.

‘Okay, okay, I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Lake said, taking a few tentative steps upwards, feeling slightly ridiculous to be following a dog, as well as slightly intrusive. ‘Hunter?’ she called out again, not wanting to catch him by surprise. ‘Are you there?’

She had a sudden thought as she made her way up the steep, narrow staircase, which was walled in and gave no clue as to what she was walking up toward, except for a view of an identical patch of white wall at the other end.

What if Hunter
did
have the socialite in bed with him and wanted her to join them? She imagined the raven-haired woman in a sheer, black negligee, without any underwear underneath, kneeling next to Hunter on a king-size bed, with his finger rhythmically sliding in and out of her nether region while she smiled widely, encouragingly, in Lake’s direction. With Hunter’s other hand, he would wiggle his fingers at Lake, beckoning her over. ‘Come join us,’ he would say.

Intoxicated by the mere sight of him, Lake imagined herself walking over to the bed zombie-like, stripping off her mohair, cream top and stepping out of her floor-length, charcoal skirt along the way. Then, with a small moan, she would fall on all fours on the bed in front of the kneeling Hunter, putting his upstanding shaft in her mouth, sucking hard as though her life depended on it, as though she could drain him of all his manly juices. At the same time, she imagined feeling the socialite’s own finger now sliding in and out of her own wet patch but not even minding, just to get a chance to taste Hunter again.

Then, unable to bear it any longer, she would have pushed the other woman aside, forcing herself on Hunter, riding him to oblivion. Reminding him that she was all that he really needed, ample bosom or not.

Oh. She was almost at the top of the stairs now. Scraps was looking back at her from the plush, cream-carpeted landing with a questioning look in his eyes, as though saying: ‘What are you waiting for, slow coach?’ Lake pulled herself up to the final step, a tad fearfully, unsure what she was about to find around the corner. Then she stepped onto the landing. And gasped.

Her hands flew up to her red-painted lips—the red being the only reminder of last night. Well, on her body, at least. Her black-and-white photos—
her
nude image from all angles—now lined the walls of Hunter’s second-floor landing, like his very own home-based, mini art gallery.

How had he got them all? Had he…no, he couldn’t have…had he bought them
all
? So she wasn’t a successful artist really. She’d just found a man obsessed with her work. Her naked image. He was the only one, aside from Fenella, who knew she was the woman behind the collection’s mysterious figure, that she’d positioned the camera for the shots herself
and
posed for the photos.

Slowly she walked along the landing, her tan ballet-flat-clad feet sinking into the plush carpet, trailing her finger along the multiple, black-framed pictures. There she was lying down, naked, with a rose decorating her bellybutton and the engagement ring left encircling her right nipple. There she was with her knees hugged up to her chest, the engagement ring now abandoned a few feet from her on the floor. There she was with a rose clutched between her teeth, a thorn piercing into her bottom lip, and the ring now on her middle finger, flipping the bird.

There was a closed, white-painted door at the end of the landing, which the line of photos seemed to be leading her toward. Scraps, ambling just a few feet in front of her, kept looking back as though trying to hurry her up. Lake stopped suddenly.

There was one photo missing, she realized—the massive display piece of her sitting cross-legged, her breasts pert, with a bouquet of roses in her hands, strategically covering her downstairs region. It was the last snap she had taken in the series. He didn’t have the full set. The complete story. The entire collection.

Lake couldn’t help from feeling mildly disappointed. She hoped at least that the picture had gone to a suitable home. An art connoisseur who would relish the final moment the camera had captured.

Scraps sat outside the closed door now, his head on his paws, just looking up at Lake with chocolate, puppy-dog eyes. He begged her to take another few steps with his eyes and open that door. Finish what she’d started.

‘Okay, okay,’ she said, nodding at the dog. ‘I’m going, I’m going.’ Leaning over Scraps’s seated frame at the foot of the door, her hand closed over the gold doorknob, and she slowly swiveled it to the right, the door making a clicking sound, releasing it. Seemingly satisfied, Scraps then got to his feet and loped away from under Lake, brushing past her legs, heading in the direction of the staircase, his job seemingly done.

The door fell wide open and, once again, Lake found herself gasping. ‘Oh, God,’ she said, barely daring to breathe.

The spacious, white-walled room had glinting candles on every spare surface. Smack bang in the middle of it was an upholstered, gilt Louis XIV king-sized bed, just like Lake had imagined, strewn with red rose petals—and, thankfully, no sign of the raven-haired socialite. Above the bed…the crème de la crème…Lake’s pièce
de
résistance. The final piece of the puzzle. The massive picture of herself, all naked like the other photographs, but for the rose bouquet covering her lady parts.

There was no Hunter, but she knew he couldn’t be far away. So, unable to help herself, Lake flung herself on the bed on her back, lying spread-eagled, sweeping her limbs back and forth in the rose petals, as though creating a snow angel impression on the bed. He’d done all this.
For her.