Unforgettable 2 (Hollywood Love Story #2) (9 page)

She pets the little monster, strumming her exquisite fingers on his head. Gucci’s in seventh heaven.

“Well, Zoey?”

She squirms. “I don’t know.”

I flick the tip of her nose. “Well, I do. I’m your boss, and if you want to keep your job, I’d be marching to my bedroom.”

We’re in bed. My bed.

The three of us. Me, Zoey, and The Gooch.

Each of us in some form of pajamas. Each of us on our backs. I have to admit, it’s a pretty comical sight. Especially Gucci between us, clad in his pink Hello Kitty PJs, with all four paws in the air.

There’s only one problem. I can’t sleep on my back.

“Zoey, roll over.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Fine.” She hurls the word at me, and as she rolls over, so do I. Before getting squished in the middle, Gucci scuttles and curls up on Zoey’s pillow. I draw Zoey in close to me until I’m spooning her. Every luscious curve of her body hugs me in all the right places. She feels warm and smells delicious. A heady blend of lavender and honey. One of my arms wraps around her supple breasts while her firm ample ass grazes the crown of my cock. I can’t help it. My cock blissfully swells and brushes against her backside.

“Mmmm,” I moan.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” More than okay. I don’t think I’ve ever snuggled with a girl in bed. This is not something Katrina and I do. We haven’t even spent a night together since my release from the hospital and I’ve had no desire. Katrina’s body is taut, all sharp bones and angles, while Zoey’s is soft, curvy, and inviting. You’d think I’d like to bury my hard cock inside her, but right now, cuddling trumps fucking. Cocooning her with my body, I feel a oneness with her. Something I’ve never felt with Katrina. Or perhaps any human being. Zoey’s made me feel a lot of things I’ve never felt before with anyone. And it’s the little everyday things. Be it watching TV, sharing a sandwich, or taking a walk. I’m the happiest I’ve been since my accident. Maybe the happiest I’ve
ever
been. She’s made me realize the feelings that are in your heart are there forever. Even when the memory forgets. I kiss her scalp lightly.

Zoey’s soft raspy voice sounds in the darkness. “Sweet dreams, Brandon.”

“Same to you.” I shut my eyes and hope I’m in them. Sleep overtakes me before dark thoughts of Donatelli vanquish the delicious sensation I feel.

Zoey

T
he following Thursday rolls around quickly. Both Brandon and I are up at the crack of dawn. He’s got an eight o’clock flight to catch from Van Nuys Airport. The Conquest Broadcasting corporate jet is flying him to New York. It’ll land at four p.m. at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey where he’ll be met by a helicopter that will take him into Manhattan. Once the helicopter lands, a limo will take him directly to the Ed Sullivan Theater where David Letterman tapes his show. Brandon and Katrina are his first guests.

“I’m all ready,” he says meeting me in his bedroom where I’ve been packing his clothes.

I drink him in. He looks devastating. Sexy as sin. All fresh and showered, he’s wearing perfectly ripped jeans and his vintage leather bomber jacket along with a cashmere scarf that matches the color of his eyes. The faded jeans and jacket are sexy enough, but there’s something about the way his luxurious scarf is looped around his neck that makes him even more swoon-worthy. He looks like he’s just stepped out of
GQ
. My heart pounds madly.

With a heavy sigh, I zip up his bag. Gucci, dressed in a spanking new blue sweater with a new red collar and leash, is on the bed curled up beside it. The truth is I don’t want either of them to leave, especially Brandon. Aside from the Donatelli incident, the last week and a half has been the best one of my life.

While I was well enough to move back into my guesthouse by the end of last week, Brandon demanded I stay with him. That night I spent with him in his bed, though fully clothed, was amazing. He held me in his strong arms and blanketed me with his manliness, his warm breath dusting the nape of my neck and his hardness pressed against me. I fell asleep to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the lull of his soft snoring. Gucci slept like a baby and so did I. Brandon made me feel safe and protected. Terrifying dreams of Frank Donatelli didn’t stand a chance.

Gucci’s wet kisses all over our faces woke us up early the next morning. And we giggled. Then, a phone call from Katrina checking up on her “baby boy” brought me back to reality. While he seemed aloof with her, I told Brandon I couldn’t sleep with him again and that Gucci biting off his balls was no excuse. The real excuse: I didn’t think I’d be able to keep my pajama bottoms on.

I cannot deny my intense physical attraction to my boss Brandon Taylor,
People Magazine’s
“Sexiest Man Alive.” Just one look at him sends my body into a tailspin. And the fact that I’ve gotten to know him this week has complicated things. It’s brought me closer to him in ways I never imagined. I genuinely like him. He’s smart, funny, and caring. And we seem to have so much in common even beyond Donatelli. My heart constantly thuds at the sight of him while my sex pulses with hot desire. Plain and simple, Pops is right. I’m head over heels in love with him. I’m just not sure if the feeling is mutual. He could have easily had me the other night, but except for holding me, he was totally hands off. Sleeping with him again, even platonically, will only taunt me.

Brandon protested my refusal to sleep in his bed, but I quickly played the boyfriend card. My one and only defense mechanism. It worked again like a charm, silencing him with a grim expression that bordered on a frown. And then I reminded him he’s engaged to Katrina. The mere mention of her name on my tongue was like a taste of atomic sour candy. It made my mouth pucker and I wanted to barf.

This morning, he’s wearing the same dour expression on his face as he nears me. With each step, my heartbeat speeds up and my knees grow weak. A shiver vibrates through me, down my spine to my toes. And there’s a palpable ache between my thighs. Part of me wishes that he’d stop with whatever Mr. Nice game he’s been playing with me. That he’d treat me again like his slave girl at his beck and call. The sadistic slave driver. It was easier that way.

“I’ve packed everything you need including your wool cap, Timberlake boots, and leather gloves.” I pause, reflecting on how abnormally long it took me to pack a weekend’s worth of clothes. “I’ve also packed Katrina’s birthday present.” Brandon had a PA from the show pick up my car from The Farmer’s Market. Unfortunately, everything was intact. It pained me to pack the diamond necklace; I almost didn’t.

“Thanks,” he replies without an ounce of enthusiasm.

“I also packed the stuff you asked me to pick up at the Pleasure Chest.”

Brandon flushes. “Oh, I forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.” I still don’t know why he needs a cock ring. Maybe he and Katrina are into kinky sex. The thought of that possibility kindles a flame beneath my feet like gas in a burner. I’m simmering with a mix of jealousy and lust. Even the remote possibility that there’s a sexual problem between the Hollywood “It Couple” doesn’t tame my agitated state.

“Oh, and I’ve also packed Gucci’s bag. It’s next to the bed.”

A faint smile plays on Brandon’s kissable lips. “I like the new outfit you bought him.”

“Thanks. I picked it up at Petco while running some errands. I thought he should look more manly.”

While the happy little dog wags his tail as if in agreement, a buzzer sounds. Brandon’s intercom. My breath hitches. Gucci barks and runs in circles. The precious pup doesn’t cheer me up.

“That must be your limo.” I retrieve a folder from Brandon’s dresser. “Here’s your itinerary and the final set of questions Letterman will be asking you. Your publicist says he may surprise you with something spontaneous.”

“Thanks.” Brandon takes it from me and shoves it into the front pocket of his suitcase.

“I’ll go open the gate. Come on, Gooch.” Tucking him in one arm, I take hold of his roll away bag with my free hand and slog to the front door. Brandon trails behind me, wheeling his bag. Balancing Gucci’s bag, I press a button on the wall panel by the door to open the front gate. In no time, the limo’s uniformed chauffeur is at the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Taylor. I’ll take your bags,” says the driver, hauling both of them away.

After planting a little kiss on his head, I hand Gucci over to Brandon. God, there’s something so damn sexy about the little furball in his arms. Tingles swarm me as he sets the dog down on the floor and then holds him by his leash.

“Take good care of him,” I say, trying to mask my arousal and my gloom.

“I will. Are you going to be okay?”

My heart stutters. “Yeah. I’m going to move back into the guesthouse.”

“Be careful.” He holds me in his gaze, his violet eyes penetrating mine.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m worried about Donatelli.”

“Don’t be. He doesn’t know what I look like or where I live.” I also remind him there’s a patrol car stationed outside the house 24/7.

He flashes a fleeting, semi-relieved smile. “Take the weekend off.”

“Thanks.” I glimpse the driver holding open the passenger door. “You better go.” The words are so hard for me to say.

“Yeah, right.”

We share an awkward stretch of silence. Though it’s short, it feels like an eternity. The early morning air chills me.

“Watch me tonight on
Letterman.
”

I force a half-smile. “I will.”

I long for him to hold me in his arms. To feel his touch. The ache in my chest is so great I may break.

“Go.”

With a flick of my nose, he says goodbye.

Shivering, I shut the front door and hear the limo take off.

I move back into the guesthouse and spend the day taking care of mostly personal things. Bills, laundry, emails. My pampered life is over. My gloomy mood never lifts, and as the day goes on, I fall into a deep depression. I’ve always enjoyed the privacy of my small living quarters, but today, without Brandon, the space feels empty and lifeless. I miss him. I fucking miss him. And that little dog too. Every menial task I attempt takes me twice as long as it should. That’s because my mind is on him. I keep checking the time, hoping he’ll call me when he lands. But he doesn’t. Of course not. He’s back with Katrina. They must be taping
Letterman.
And then, I’m sure they’ll go out for dinner at some romantic Manhattan restaurant and fuck their brains out in their luxurious suite at The Four Seasons.

Perhaps due to my state of mind and concussion, I fatigue quickly. After a lame, lazy dinner of ramen noodles, I take a nap. When I awaken, I jolt. Shit. It’s eleven forty-five. I hope I haven’t missed Brandon on
Letterman.
I hastily reach for my remote and turn the TV on to Channel 2.

“And now give a warm welcome to our first guests, Golden Globe winner Brandon Taylor and America’s It Girl, Katrina Moore. Better known as the Hollywood power couple…Bratrina.”

Phew! Just in time. Raucous applause, cheers, and whistles erupt from the audience as Brandon and Katrina breeze onto the talk show set hand in hand. Katrina is clutching Gucci, back in one of his frou-frou pink outfits. She looks positively stunning, clad in a tight sparkling black mini dress that makes her mile-high legs look even longer in her fierce six-inch high ankle boots. Brandon, wearing the outfit he wore this morning minus the scarf, flashes his dazzling smile and waves to the audience. My heart is melting.