Unforgettable 3 (Hollywood Love Story #3) Page 7

  A tap at the door brings me back to the present. My next client is here. My last one for the evening—it was a last-minute appointment. Scurrying over to the door, I swing it open. My heart practically stops and my knees wobble. I’m going to vomit.

  “Zoey, this is your next client…Dick Long. He’s booked for a two-hour deep tissue massage,” says my lovely Asian colleague Esther, who, though blind, possesses renowned, magical hands.

  Padding off with taps of her long white cane that can’t drown out my frantic heartbeat, she leaves me alone with him. I can’t get my mouth to move. I’m in a state of shock. All the air has left my lungs. I could possibly swoon.

  It’s Brandon. All six-feet two of his manly perfection. We’re face to face, a strangled breath apart.

  “Hi,” he says softly, fidgeting with the belt of his long white spa robe.

  A painful tangle of emotions assaults me. I blink my eyes several times, not sure if I’m going to burst into tears or explode with anger. Finally, I get my mouth to move and I do the latter.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Zoey, I had to see you.” He attempts to put his hands on my shoulders, but I hastily shove them away.

  “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  His eyes flutter. He looks taken aback. “I need a massage.”

  “How the hell did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy. Your father wouldn’t tell me nor would your brother. But I had a hunch. So I had my new assistant call every spa and massage joint in town. And then I found you.”

  “Then she’s doing a good job.” A sickening feeling fills my chest. I’ve been replaced. I was replaceable. Doormats are a dime a dozen.

  “Actually, she didn’t work out.” His violet eyes burn into mine. “Zoey, I want you back.”

  Tears threaten. “So you can use and abuse me again?”

  “Zoey, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Break my heart?” I hurl the words at him.

  “I’ve come to apologize. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Oh, it was accidental? Maybe with your amnesia, you forgot people have feelings?”

  “I do have feelings toward you.”

  “You could have fooled me. You’re some actor.”

  “I swear to God, Zoey, I wasn’t acting. Everything I said and did with you was real.”

  My eyes begin to sting. Rage is rising. “You and Katrina are two delusional peas in a pod. You belong together.”

  “I can’t leave her.” He pauses for a sharp breath. “It’s complicated.”

  That word again. A sorry excuse for an explanation.

  “I have no choice. If I don’t marry her on Saturday, she’s threatened to say some horrific things about me to the press that could have dire consequences.”

  My blood boils. His words make me sure that all the things he did to me he’s done to her. “Don’t you have all your submissives sign confidentiality agreements?”

  Brandon’s face darkens. “She’s not my sub. Far from it.”

  “Right, she’s your fiancée. Have you forgotten?” My harsh voice is dripping with sarcasm.

  “Zoey, I swear she means nothing to me. I despise her. It’s only you. I think about you every minute of the day. You’re in my blood. You’re in my dreams. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me.”

  His voice is cracking with emotion. He sounds sincere. And despair is etched on his gorgeous as ever face. I quickly remind myself he’s an actor. A great actor. Don’t fall for his bullshit, I will myself.

  Rage crescendos inside me. “Brandon, stop feeding me this crap. Did they ever teach you in acting classes that actions speak louder than words?”

  Without warning, he shoves me against a wall, pinning me against it with his hips and gripping my shoulders so tightly I wince. His body is so close to mine I feel the heat of his skin and smell the scent of his sex. My breasts compress against his iron chest, my nipples stiffening as he nuzzles my neck. I’m more aroused than a dog in heat.

  “What are you fucking doing?” I cry out.

  “Zoey, you’ve touched me everywhere, but the place you’ve touched me deepest is here.”

  Still pinning me to the wall, he cinches my right arm by the wrist and slips my hand between us, pressing it hard against his heart. I feel it pound beneath my palm. Perhaps, I should tell him to feel my heart. The shattered chambers. The shards.

  “Let me go, you asshole!” I beg instead.

  His mouth responds with a crashing, fiery kiss that blazes through me. Oh my God. I want him. No, I don’t. Yes, I do! This cruel game with a burning tightrope has no safety net. It threatens to destroy me. His rigid length singes my flesh right through his robe and my clothes. A ring of fire circles my core, and the white-hot heat radiates from my head to my toes. I succumb to the urgency of his mouth on mine with a moan.

  He bites down on my lower lip, parting it, and then plunges his warm tongue inside my mouth, sweeping across the vessel, deepening the kiss with my submission. His other hand slips beneath the waistband of my uniform and makes its way to my wetness, caressing my slick cleft and aching clit. Flames lick my skin. I wriggle beneath his weight and moan louder. Oh God! What the fuck am I doing? Why am I letting him do these things to me? Unable to resist, I squeeze my eyes shut until I’m seeing stars.

  Finally, he pulls his scorching lips away and releases my right hand. “Oh baby, I want you so fucking badly,” he breathes into my mouth. “More than anything.”

  The words on my tongue waver between “Fuck you” and “Fuck me.” Taking a deep tormented breath, I do something I’ve never done before. I slap him hard across his face, leaving my handprint on his cheek and an echo in my ear. He rubs his stubble-lined jaw while I rub my stinging palm.

  Tears scald the back of my eyes. “That’s all you’re getting from me. Whatever sick, cruel game you’re playing, Brandon, needs to end. I let you take everything. My heart. My soul. My body. My mind. But the one thing you’re not going to take is the last ounce of my dignity.”

  “I’m sorry, Zoey. I couldn’t help myself.”

  Neither could I.

  “Zo, just give me a massage. That’s all. I need to feel your beautiful hands on me.” His voice is thick with desperation. And his eyes glint with despair. “I’ve already paid for your services.”

  My heart clenches so tightly it hurts. “Oh, so, you think I’m some kind of whore?”

  “Jeez, Zoey, no!”

  “Go to hell!” I choke out the words. “I’m no longer at your command. You’re not my boss and I have the right to refuse anyone.”

  “Oh, is that in your contract?” His tone sharpening, he makes air quotes around the word “contract.” With all my willpower, I hold my own.

  “Either you leave or I leave.”

  “Zoey, please.”

  Please. Mama taught me to say that word. “Please, Brandon, I just want to forget you.”

  “Zoey—”

  “Brandon, PLEASE. I never want to see you again.” I’m a titanic mess, yet I so want my heart to go on.

  Brandon’s jaw slackens in near defeat. I need to strike like a snake while I can.

  “And just for your information, I have a real boyfriend now. Someone who’s normal…who treats me with kindness and respect.”

  That sadistic satanic expression sweeps over him. His face darkens. “I’m happy for you, Zoey. But does he fuck you the way I do?”

  “He doesn’t fuck with me the way you do.”

  Silence. His nostrils flare.

  “He loves me,” I lie.

  Tears verging, I grab my bag. I’ve got to escape. The air is suffocating me. He’s suffocating me. Drowning me, pulling me under. I’ll just tell my supervisor I fell sick. It’s way closer to the truth than a lie.

  “No, Zoey! Don’t go,” he growls, clutching my waist so tightly I yelp. I struggle to free myself like a wild animal captured by a poacher.

  “Let me go!” I cry out, writhing and fla
iling, clawing and gnawing, batting him with my bag. We exchange savage sounds. And expletives. Overpowering me with his strength, he lifts me off my feet and flings me onto the massage table face up. I bolt to a sitting position, but he shoves me flat down on my back and then straddles me. His powerful knees hold me captive while he throws off his robe. Before it hits the floor, his large bruising hands grip my shoulders, holding me down. He leans into me, so close his breath heats my cheeks and I can taste him. His face is just inches away. His jet-black hair, longer and wilder, falls into his smoldering violet eyes. They’re filled with mad lust and desire. My blood pounds in my ears with each beat of my heart as I fight back my dire need for him to possess me.

  “Give yourself to me, Zoey.”

  “Fuck you, bastard.”

  His eyes narrow. “You’re asking for it.”

  I am. I want him to fuck me so badly it hurts.

  With an angry grunt, he forcefully spreads my legs and yanks down my pants, taking my panties with them. He grabs my soaked crotch and squeezes a fistful of pussy. His eyes hold me fierce. I’m a willing prisoner of his beauty, his supreme masculinity. I drink in his broad shoulders, sculpted pecs, rippled abs, muscled limbs, and the taut bronzed flesh aglow from the scrub that ties all the parts together. My hands want to touch him everywhere.

  He squeezes my cleft harder, rolling his thumb around my throbbing nub. Moaning, I feel myself getting hotter, wetter with each powerful stroke. Pulsing electrical heat spirals through every ounce of my being until I’m burning with desire, every cell on fire. My mind fights for control, but my feverish body betrays me, craving him deep between my thighs.

  “Oh, my beautiful Zoey, you’re so fucking hot and wet for me. I have to have you.” His voice has grown demanding. The warmth of his breath against my flesh takes my breath away. My breathing grows shallow as he continues to arouse me.

  “Tell me you want me as much I want you.”

  His irresistible magnetic energy draws me to him, making it impossible to say no. Biting down on my lips to stifle a scream, I nod, wanting him as much as he wants me. Maybe more.

  “Zoey, I need to hear words.”

  “Oh, God!” It’s all I can manage.

  “You’re mine. Do you hear me? You’re mine!” With his other hand, he fists the base of his enormous cock. A bead of pre-cum dots the crown like a shimmering pearl. His rock-hard monument to mankind is as beautiful as I remember. Magnificent. A vision of incomparable virile perfection.

  “Say you want me,” he repeats, “and that you’re mine. Do it…please.”

  That very word is on the tip of my tongue, but my mouth won’t release it. Please… fuck me. Fuck me hard. Fuck me now. My chest heaves. I tremble with all the love and hate I feel for this man. The tremors ransack my melting body. I hate myself for wanting him when having him is not a reality.

  Not waiting for my response, his massive cock presses against my entrance like a hot rock massage. At the touch of it, I arch, wanting him to fill me, to take me completely with all of his sublimity. With one long, forceful thrust, he rams into me, taking me to the hilt. Oh God, yes!! I moan with the burst of exquisite pain that equals in measure to my anguish at the sensation of his raging erection inside me. Anchoring his hands on either side of me, he begins to pummel me without mercy, cursing under his ragged breaths. Meeting his thrusts with my hips, I sob for all I remember and for all I want to forget. The agony and the ecstasy. The love and the hate. As I ready to climax, a voice inside my head rises above my wails.

  STOP! No, Zoey, No. I can’t let him do this to me. Make me fall apart. Shatter an already shattered heart. I call upon all the willpower I can muster. Zoey, be strong. Mind over matter, I find my voice.

  One word. My voice so soft, it’s almost a prayer. “Mama.”

  It happens so fast. On my next heartbeat, he releases me, withdrawing without a word. His violet eyes are glazed and forlorn, like an addict who can’t get his fix. He dismounts the table. With his darkening orbs on me, I sit up and pull up both my pants and panties. My eyes stay steady on his tortured face.

  Sliding off the table, I walk away. And then run.

  Brandon

  I kissed her like it was our last kiss. And likely it was. And fucked her like a mad man as if there was no tomorrow. What the fuck was I thinking? With a red-hot mixture of rage and regret, I bang the roof of my Lamborghini so hard I’ve likely left a dent both in it and my wrist. I wince. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. She’s over me. She gave me a slap instead of her heart. And to add insult to injury, spit out her safe word. She’s moved on. Fallen in love with someone else. She must be happy. She looked so beautiful, her complexion radiant, her body fit though a little too thin.

  As if the first bang isn’t bad enough. I bang the roof again. God dammit, I totally fucked up. I couldn’t help it. The second I laid my eyes on her I grew as hard as nails and had the burning need to bury my cock deep inside her…completely possess her. Then, when she told me about her boyfriend, I went crazy with jealousy and totally lost control. With my cock raging like a bull, I tried to fuck her into submission when I should have told her what really happened in Cannes. And then told her I loved her. Never an ad libber, I suck at love unscripted. My deflated, aching cock berates me. Stupid idiot. She was right. I’m a bastard. A fucking bastard. Actually, I’m worse than that. I’m a coward. A spineless coward who’s afraid to speak his mind and fight for what he wants, no matter what the consequences of his words and actions will be.

  With my hand throbbing almost as much as my cock, I tear out of the underground parking garage and zoom down Crescent Heights. My engine roaring, I run every red light, not knowing where the fuck I’m heading. Horns blast at me from every direction, and I’m surprised a cop doesn’t pull me over. I turn on the radio as loud as it gets, and a remix of Nick Jonas’s “Jealous” booms in my ears. Yes, Zoey’s too sexy, beautiful and I’m never going to get another taste of her. If the car’s speeding at eighty miles an hour, my heart’s racing at eight hundred. My life is so fucking out of control.

  Running yet another red light, I impulsively make a sharp turn onto Wilshire, still not knowing where the hell I’m going. Screech! I lose control of the wheel and the car swerves to the right, skidding off the road. I hold my foot tight on the brake as the screeching car careens into one of those modernist condo complexes that are popping up all over town. CRASH! My head bangs against the steering wheel before the monstrous airbag detonates in my face with the explosive sound of a gunshot. The smell of smoke and gunpowder infiltrates my dazed, aching head.

  “Dude, are you okay?” An unfamiliar adolescent voice drifts into my ears.

  I can’t get my voice box to respond. I think I’ve lost consciousness. Or I’m in shock.

  “Want me to call for an ambulance?”

  With a moan, I slowly lift my head from the deflated airbag. It’s spread out like a parachute, the edges frayed and singed, the middle bloodied. My eyes half-shut, I painfully twist my neck and peer out the open window. A scruffy kid, clutching a skateboard, meets my gaze. His eyes widen and his jaw drops. He recognizes me.

  “Shit, man. Aren’t you—”

  I cut him off. “No.”

  Not convinced, the kid knits his brows. “Whoever you are, you’re bleeding. You sure you don’t want me to call 911?”

  “Please don’t,” I mumble.

  “Want me to help you out?”

  “No. Stand back.” Praying that the fancy switchblade doors haven’t jammed, I hit a button on my dashboard. To my relief, they lift up as the wide-eyed kid watches in awe. A loud “wow” flies out of his mouth.

  Using all the strength I have, I slide out of the car and stagger to my feet. My head is killing me so badly I’m dizzy. I feel warm blood trickle down my cheek.

  Holding on to the roof for balance, I survey the damage. The hood’s crushed like an accordion and the engine’s smoking like a chimney. My precious one hundred thousand dollar Lambo may be totaled. But you
know what? I don’t care.

  “Mister—”

  Ignoring the concerned kid and the cluster-fuck, I start walking. One painful step after another. There’s someone I need to see.

  It takes me forty-five long, desperate, desolate minutes to get to my destination by foot. It should have taken only twenty, but I’m unable to walk in a straight line or take strong, steady steps. Plus, I take side streets to avoid pedestrians in my pitiful state. If I pass one, I just bow my head, skirting their gaze. A nanny with a stroller comes at me from around a corner and, with one glimpse, scurries past me, her expression one of pure terror. With my swollen, blood-streaked face and stained, ragged T-shirt, I must look frightening. As the sun descends and the pink-flecked sky morphs into an orange-blue hue, fewer people take notice of me. A dog-walker ignores me. Dusk is my friend.

  Bella’s cottage is on Spaulding, a charming, palm-tree lined street in Beverly Hills south of Wilshire. It’s not the über-mansion Beverly Hills type of the rich and famous, but rather a middle-class neighborhood, filled with modest one-family stucco homes and duplexes, many built in the twenties. A rose garden and beds of colorful flowers line the verdant lawn. While not large, her beautifully lit, pink-stucco one-story house has incredible curb appeal. Taking a deep breath, I eschew the bell and knock at the wood door. Seven rapid times in succession. The way I signaled my arrival at her doorstep many years ago when I was her student.