It takes me a long time to go to sleep, and I remember the last thought I have before I shut my eyes is I hope I sleep through some of the awkwardness of tomorrow, followed by I don’t want to miss a thing with Cross.
So when I find myself staring at a pitch-black bedroom sometime in the wee hours, I feel confused and ill at ease. The curtains are deep green with gold accents. They’re thick, so they stand out as black against the creamy wall. I can still hear the air whooshing through the noisy vent somewhere near my head, and I wonder if anyone’s ever had the balls to tell Hunter it’s annoying.
Hunter...
I’m at Hunter’s house. And I’m still a virgin.
I feel so disarmed, I push myself up on my elbow, reaching for the bottle of DeVille bottled water on my nightstand. I take a deep chug, and then I sit, still as a portrait, listening to the sounds of the house and wondering what woke me. Is it something with Cross? Maybe I got a text.
I’m reaching for my phone when I hear it: a moan. I can tell it comes from inside his chest, and it reminds me of the way he sounded with Priscilla.
It isn’t long before shame, anger, and hurt are pounding through me. I feel sick. Disgusted—with myself or him? As I slide from the bed, I wonder why he’s doing this. Is he really so awful that he would bring me to his house and then screw someone else in the room next door?
I clutch my chest as I step closer to the door where I can hear another moan. I’m devastated, certain someone’s in there with him, when I hear another moan. Only this time it’s more groan than moan. There’s no mistaking: this is pain, not pleasure.
I pause at the door, but only for a moment. I’m here, and I have nothing to lose. I lean against the cool, wood door, listening for Priscilla’s breathing or her voice, but all I hear is Hunter.
I try the handle. I’m shocked when it turns. I hesitate again, but then my legs are moving, carrying me into a den of darkness—so dark, I can’t even make out shadows. I’m tense, listening, and just as my eyes start to adjust I hear another low moan.
My eyes fly to a chair on the other side of the room, and there’s a person. Hunter...alone. He’s hunched over, clutching his head, breathing like someone on the verge of hyperventilating. He’s naked except for a pair of boxer-briefs, and my eyes can’t help appraising him. He’s so damn gorgeous. I glide closer, arms stretched out, and when I get within leaping distance of him, I smell liquor.
Oh no.
I remember how rough he looked earlier today, and at the bar the other night, and fear twists my gut. Is he an alcoholic?
“Hunter?” His massive shoulders rise and fall and I can hear his labored breathing, but otherwise he doesn’t stir. I glide my palm along his beautiful, thick shoulder, stroking lightly near his nape. “Hunter?” I murmur again. “Are you okay?”
He curls over more tightly, clutching his hair—too hard. On instinct, I grab his fingers to loosen their grip. He puts a hand over his face and moans again, his body twisting.
“Hunter?”
I feel lost. What do I do for him? Did he drink himself into this state? I can’t believe he’d do that with me here.
“Hunter? Are you sick?” He continues breathing hard, almost like he’s struggling, and I wonder about the drugs he’s said he doesn’t do. For some reason, the thought of Hunter using drugs makes me feel devastated.
He shifts so he’s lying back against the chair, so when I step in front of him, I have full view of his glorious, ripped chest. The way his abs and hips taper down to... Oh, no, Liz. Don’t look there.
With all my self-control, I pull my gaze back to his face. He’s got it covered with his hand, but I can see his nose and mouth between his fingers. His lips are parted. Like he’s having a nightmare. His body still seems...asleep.
Moving hesitantly, I reach for the arm that’s resting on his leg to see if I can rouse him, but when I touch his forearm, he jerks back. He moans, and it’s an awful sound.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. The only thing I can think of is to take his hand in mine. I do it quickly, grasping and then squeezing. I sandwich his hand between both of mine, and he leans forward a little. His shoulders relax some, but he’s still covering his face with his free hand.
“Hunter. It’s okay.” I trace his bruised and scraped knuckles. My mind is racing. Maybe he’s feverish, but his hand feels cool.