Doc Showmance, page 17
I was tipsy, maybe beyond tipsy, but I wished Ian had been seated next to me. The few times I checked on him up front he had on his perma-smile, but his eyes looked stressed. Maybe I should go save him?
One more beer and I’d brave his table.
“Who wants to watch the game?” I waved Ian’s phone. “Bet I can find it.”
A half hour later, we had three cell phones showing football and several more pitchers of beer. We’d also collected a few more people who were apparently more interested in the game than their tables.
A waiter placed dessert in front of me and whispered, “Mrs. Todd requests that you lower the noise back here. It’s disturbing the guests.”
“What is this dessert? Where’s the pie?”
The waiter scowled. “It’s a fruit salad to keep it light with the heavy meal.”
What heavy meal?
“That’s so thoughtful of the chef,” I said sarcastically.
Our whole meal was fucking “light.” For once, I wished I didn’t live in California. I needed Thanksgiving with sweet potatoes and macaroni and cheese. I needed pie with homemade whipped cream.
At least I could drink my calories. I poured myself another glass of beer.
“You’re irritating the hell out of my mom by being so rowdy,” Ian whispered into my ear.
I looked up into his intense gray gaze, enjoying my buzz and the relief of him here. I put my hand against his cheek and stroked my finger against the roughness.
Jesus, I might be falling for him. Or maybe I was just horny and tired of this whole mess. Or maybe I’d had too much to drink. Yep, that was it.
“Your parents’ food offerings suck. No turkey. No stuffing. No pie. What kind of Thanksgiving feast is this?”
A few snickers from around the table alerted me I was speaking too loudly.
“It’s P.C. Thanksgiving with a nod to organic, gluten-free, tree-hugging vegans,” Ian said.
“It’s no wonder your family is the way they are. They don’t know how to eat. It’s a holiday. Loosen up and live.”
“I’m not disagreeing. How much have you had to drink?” His regard took in the pitchers of beer.
“You advised I do at least a wine or two an hour, but I moved on to beer.” I lifted my half-filled glass of beer. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
He scooped me up into his arms to put me in his lap. I didn’t even have time to formulate a proper complaint. Guess my reaction time was off. I hadn’t realized he’d dwarf me and make such a comfortable chair. The camera’s recording this. Screw it.
My inner voice said, You drank too much.
A corner of my mind realized the sigh that just came out of me was all about the buzz and losing inhibition, I leaned against him and buried my nose into his neck. To inhale. To pick up that hint of remaining aftershave. “You smell so good. I could just sit here and breathe.”
He chuckled, the rumble coming from deep in his chest and vibrating through me. “All I had to do to tame the feisty was give you a few beers?”
“Or maybe just feed me a healthy Thanksgiving meal. Seriously, Ian, I needed my turkey and stuffing with a side of artery-clogging potatoes.” I wrapped a curling strand of his hair around my forefinger and marveled at its softness.
Even though we were surrounded by at least fifteen people at this point, it felt like we were in our own bubble. Ian’s body was flush against mine. I felt every hardened ridge of him perfectly fitting against me. His fingers slid along my arm, inducing a path of goose bumps. He looked down at me, his perma-smile gone. The glittering gray of his eyes stared at my mouth.
“Have we stayed long enough?” I asked. “Can we go? Maybe do something more fun?” I kissed the side of his cheek. Then whispered into his ear, “If we’re stuck in this fake suckfest, can we at least enjoy it?”
He tucked a few stray hairs behind my ear and leaned in to whisper, “You’re drunk.”
“Maybe tipsy. I hold alcohol well. It’s one of my gifts. I’m also curious about this sex beast the twins mentioned. If you’ve grown a conscience, maybe we can just get each other off?”
His eyes were fully dilated, and his breaths came hard. “You’re so beautiful. This dress is amazing. Don’t tease me.”
I ran a finger along his lips. “I’m not playing. But I want to… Do we have to go to your parents’ place? Can’t we get a hotel or something?” I touched along his collarbones. “Love to have a hot tub and time without a camera in our face.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit with me.”
“Neither do I.” I traced a finger along the depression between his collarbones. “You better get me out of here unless you want to put on more of a show for the camera.”
He snatched his phone off the table, eliciting a few groans of complaint to lose one of the three viewing screens of the game and helped me to my feet. He typed into his phone. “Let’s see if we can escape without the cameraman. I know a secret way out of this house.”
In the back of the car going who knows where, but at least it was away from the party without being filmed, he didn’t ask if he could kiss me. He just did, bending to test the texture of my lips with a swipe of his tongue. Then another. He probed, seeking what I wanted to give. I opened and took him completely in, tasting the last glass of wine he must’ve had.
God, him.
My hands roamed his shoulders and his thick hair while I gave him as much access as I could with my mouth. The kiss was the sound of our muted breaths and sighs. It tasted of hunger and desperation. Of years of longing on my part. With bites and growls and soothing whimpers, the kiss served hefty portions of sweet and scorching.
I shifted to ride his thighs, and before I realized it, my hips took up a rhythm of their own. He held my head still to try to get control, not that he won. He cupped one of my breasts, teasing the tip through the thin fabric of the dress. I broke the kiss to cry out, my back arching to give him better access. I rubbed against him over and over, seeking the abrasion of his pants against my panties.
“Shit, Amber.” He rested his forehead against mine. “Let’s try to wait until we get to the house.”
I didn’t realize it’d be like this with him. A frantic push and pull between the blinding haze of want and the fear of it crashing into destruction in the end. Fear of humiliation strangled me. Would he use me and dump me? Would he take us to the edge and then not go the full mile? Was this even real?
I panted into the side of his neck, hiding my face, which I’m sure was flushed and abraded by his scruff. His broad shoulders heaved with the force of his breath. I gave him one last kiss before disentangling myself and settling into my side of the back seat.
His face was shadowed by the darkness outside, occasionally lit by passing streetlights.
“This is…unexpected. So fast.” I stared at my hands, which I had clasped in my lap.
“Yes.” His hands were back on me, one cupping my face and one on my waist. “I’m sorry that it was a lot.”
For a moment I couldn’t figure out what was “a lot.” Did it refer to the event or to what happened only now? Thinking he meant the latter. “I wanted to… I want it. I’m just not sure we should.”
He leaned in and kissed me again, this time without the madness. Simply a soft brush of his lips before pulling away to peer down at me. “I’m glad we stopped.”
“You are?”
“I want us both clear-headed and alert if this happens. I won’t pretend I don’t want you.”
“We’re only faking this, right?”
“Are we, Amber? That felt pretty real to me. This thing between us, which has always been there, doesn’t feel forced.”
“I don’t know anymore.” I stared out the window. “You know ditching Martin will only stop him for maybe an hour.”
“A lot can happen in an hour.”
A butler who Ian knew by first name greeted us upon arrival at what had to be his parents’ house. He confirmed Ian had his “regular” room, then showed me to mine at the extreme opposite end of the mansion. It took a solid couple of minutes to walk from one end of the place to the other. The house was situated across the bridge into Sausalito with a direct view of the ocean. Guessing based on the acreage of wooded area, this place listed at the highest end on a sale list.
Ian had walked with me to my room, where I found my suitcase waiting. He stood at the door while I explored the suite.
“There’s a huge sunken tub in here. I’ve only seen something like that in movies.” I moved in close to him and slid my hand around his waist to his back. “Want to come in?”
“It’s a bad idea.”
“In the long list of bad ideas we’re living, how is us potentially having fun any worse?”
His head dropped forward. “Amber…this is complicated. We both drank a lot.”
“You saying you can’t make it happen if we tried?” I moved my hand to the front of his pants, but could feel he was already turned on. “Seems like everything’s working.”
“You’ll regret this tomorrow.”
“I only regret sex if my partner sucks in bed. Being optimistic here, but I hope that won’t be the case.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
I put his face between my hands and pulled him to look at me. “Get out of your head. We’re not on camera for one freaking second. How about you kiss me again and then we make decisions?”
He tensed.
I moved my hands to link them behind his head and gently pulled. With a groan, he met me more than halfway, his lips crashing onto mine. Neither of us breathed as he plundered my mouth and moved us inside the room, kicking the door shut.
Needing my hands on his skin, I untucked his shirt and worked my hands from the underside up to glide over his hot, smooth skin. He pulled away for a moment to undo the first few buttons and tug the shirt over his head. This man worked out. Not saying he was like the triathlete who had sat next to me, but what I’d seen on Ian’s show when he got his shirt off to swim with dolphins was real. I stroked along the smooth skin of his back around to his front. Meanwhile, he didn’t stop kissing.
My dress fell to the floor in a heap. I glanced down at the abandoned fabric, surprised. I hadn’t realized his fingers had been at work.
He picked me up as if I weighed nothing, which isn’t true. I’m solid. But he lifted and carried me to the bed.
“I’d prove to you I can do wall sex magic, but I drank too much to organize it. I don’t want to fall over and validate your past experiences.” He touched one breast and then the other, his mouth kissing down to one peak and working my nipple with his tongue. “These are perfect.”
Breaths came hard and rough.
Reality crashed in. After too many beers to count and a few glasses of wine…
“I…um…can you excuse me for a moment to…restroom?”
He leaned back against the headboard and waved at the bathroom.
By the time I returned, which couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, he lay prone on the bed. I pushed at him gently. “Ian?”
Intermittent rumbly snores came out.
With a sigh, I excavated my flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt from my suitcase, brushed my teeth, and managed to push Ian a bit off the center of the bed to claim a space.
Twenty-Four
Amber
I couldn’t move.
I blinked into immediate alertness. Whose expensive drapes were those? Whose sheets were these?
The light from the window… I felt like one of my eyes was about to explode from the inside out. With a groan, I tried to roll away from the light but couldn’t.
Something wrapped around me. I forced my eyelids open to find Ian’s arm slung over my shoulder and a heavy leg draped over mine. For a half a moment I appreciated the strength in his arm and the heat radiating off his naked skin. But I allowed myself only one moment. His arm was heavy, so I pushed it off me.
What happened last night?
I covered my face with a hand to shield from the daylight, which did nothing to assuage the hammering inside my skull. I remembered Seth and agreeing to see the senator’s dog at work. I got seated at the loser table and drank a lot.
My stomach rolled with a red alarm warning. Head pain fell into the background as I wiggled free and ran for the bathroom, barely making it before my stomach emptied.
I backed up with trembling legs until I hit the bathroom wall and slid to the floor, cradling my head. I was dying. Why had I done this? I always overestimated how much alcohol I could handle. Reality always caught up to me. Maybe I could function okay the night of drinking, but the morning after sucked.
What happened last night? I vaguely recalled kissing Ian in the car and liking it.
Oh my God.
I buried my face in my hands as I tried to remember everything without success. So I made a mistake? I kissed him. I might’ve wanted more, but by some miracle we hadn’t done more, a conclusion I based on him being half dressed and me wearing my pajamas. Vaguely, I remembered it’d been him who held back. He who had a conscience and didn’t want to do drunken sex.
How humiliating.
I forced myself up to find my makeup kit in my suitcase, which had several emergency ibuprofen. My cell phone had sixteen texts from my siblings. One text from Marianna with a dire warning to let Martin follow us. And three angry texts from Martin for ditching him.
Did I feel guilt? Not even a twinge.
I sat on the edge of the bed and texted Bruno to assure him I hadn’t died and confirm I’d be home by noon on Saturday. Had to. We had important plans I couldn’t miss.
Ian didn’t stir.
I took a shower. With my hair damp and air drying after a shower, a quick check found Ian in the same position. I went in search of the kitchen. A cup of coffee to help the second ibuprofen go down would be nice.
It took a while to locate the kitchen in the maze of hallways, but when I did the only other occupant was Brock. With his slicked-over dark hair, he looked ready to enter a high-powered boardroom meeting in his dark suit, although he’d slung the jacket over a nearby chair. I was limited on the patience necessary to deal with judgmental jerks this morning.
He glanced up from his phone, coffee cup in hand. “Is Ian in your room?”
I nodded.
“Figured. Mom went apeshit when you two left early. Then she texted me that he wasn’t in his room. She likes to think this is a PG house, but so much more goes on here, especially with her guests.”
I managed to pour myself a cup of coffee without spilling and kept my tone even. “Nothing happened.”
“Sure. He’s in your room. You have scruff burn on your face. And you’re a novel piece of ass. If the two of you didn’t fuck last night… If he’s decided he’s gay… Well, I’m not, and if you’re in the market for a good time, then…” His eyebrows rose.
I stood there, coffee cup halfway to my mouth. I blinked at him as my brain slowly processed what he’d said.
I took a sip of the coffee to force the bile burning my throat back down. “I’m here with Ian.”
“So? Not like he hasn’t shared before.”
“Uh, hell to the fuck no. Aside from that being disgusting, there’s not a single thing about you that I find attractive.” My filter was way off this morning, and thank God I wasn’t on camera.
“Your loss.” He shrugged.
“Is this entire family crazy? Besides, aren’t you married?”
Brock shrugged. “My wife and I have an understanding. If there’s an itch, we’re both free to scratch it.”
“You’re saying you see me as an itch?”
“Sure. For me. For Ian. I get it. We all deserve a decent time in the sack once in a while outside the box of cookie-cutter debutantes. My wife knows her job and shows up when I need her.”
I squinty eyed him, unsure if I could even quantify my level of revulsion.
How did Ian emerge from this place with any sense of compassion?
The need to escape this house, his brother, and everything about the insanity of my life ate at me from the inside.
As if on cue, Martin appeared with his camera on his shoulder. “Last night… You’re not allowed to ditch me like that.”
I didn’t have enough shits to give to dignify his outrage. I stared at the contents of the coffee cup. Grounds floated in it. Nothing grossed me out more than grounds in my coffee. These guys could afford a ten-thousand-dollar refrigerator—I recognized that model because I’d laughed at the outrageous price when I shopped for a new fridge a few months ago—but couldn’t make coffee?
“I’m going out to get a decent cup of coffee.” To Martin, I said, “You’ll have to decide if you follow me or Ian.”
“He awake?” Martin asked.
“Nope.”
“Then I’ll go with you. I could use coffee.”
“I’m not buying but I’ll get the Uber.” I ordered a car to pick me up and figured I’d wing it. Anywhere but here sounded good.
Twenty-Five
Ian
“Where’s Amber?” I demanded of Brock. In the recesses of my mind, I remembered her showering. She couldn’t have been gone for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Of course, I couldn’t be sure since I had a headache from hell.
Brock made a face from where he was refilling his coffee cup.
I knew that face. He’d said something crude or suggestive, maybe hurtful.
I center chested him with my palm and slammed him against the refrigerator. His coffee cup hit the ground, shattering. “What the hell did you say to her?”
“She left.” He stared at the broken mug on the ground, probably calculating how upset Mom would get over the mess.
