Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
“I don’t know how you get by out here without me. Why don’t you come with me back home to Vegas?”
Wrapping one arm around her waist, I guide her through the weight room, where a handful of men and women are working out. “You already know I’m going to Vegas for a tournament. I thought you were the one who wasn’t going to be there.”
I wait for her answer, curious to know if she’ll go back on the tale she told me the other day—about how she’ll be out of town while I’m in Vegas—but she just makes a sour face and acts as if she’s just remembered her plans.
“Such a pity.”
Priscilla has led me to believe she’ll be filming in Vancouver for the next six days. But Dave says her personal chef in Vegas has prepared a menu for the rest of the week.
As we walk through the back doorway of the weight room, Priscilla’s fingertips graze my wrist, and I feel a strange ache behind my breastbone. I know why—and I wish I didn’t. I want Priscilla to be someone else. Someone I have no business thinking about, especially considering what kind of black cloud I’ve got over my head at the moment.
I push that out of my mind, vowing to try harder to keep it out in the future.
Our little space, known to the Beau’s security system as Cardio Hub 4, is a glass-walled room just behind 2,000 square feet of weights space. It’s got six elliptical machines, three treadmills, and an adjoining sauna and massage suite. The room is almost always used by members with personal trainers, and since it’s almost 9 p.m., no one is around.
I pull Priscilla inside, and when I reach behind me to flip the lock on my glass prison, she shakes her head.
“I want it unlocked.” She smiles, straight blonde hair falling around her face as she cups me through my jeans. “Part of the thrill, Hunter.”
Her palm against my dick makes me lose some of my steam, but I imagine she’s Libby and I’m stiff as steel. I grab Priscilla by the wrists and lay her over the deck of one of the treadmills, buns up. I jerk her red skirt up and use the cord that goes to the machine’s heart monitor to whip her ass, and she starts panting.
I still haven’t puzzled out why Priscilla wanted me that night at Love Inc.—or why she hasn’t gotten bored with me yet. We hadn’t met before that night.
I still don’t know what happened after she drugged me, either. She says she fucked my brains out, but I didn’t feel like I’d had my brains fucked out. I’m sure if Lisa from FBI knew Priscilla claimed to have roofied me and fucked me, she’d be looking at Priscilla with a magnifying glass, but I didn’t tell her that. Not yet.
Because the more I think about Priscilla leaking the news that Rita wasn’t my biological mother, the more I worry about what could come out next. I don’t think I could get prosecuted for what happened, but the awfulness of the whole world knowing… The horror of being pitied by the number of people who know me from TV… It makes me ill.
So I’m letting fear dictate the vile things I do with Priscilla. Letting fear keep me in this trap until Marchant and I figure out who really kidnapped Sarabelle—or till Lisa, from the FBI, does. I wonder how long that will take, being certain, as I am, that Josh Smith from the LVPD is covering Priscilla’s ass.
I feel a pang of regret for not being completely straightforward with FBI Lisa about Priscilla and the roofie and Priscilla’s covert fucking of lead detective Josh Smith. But the FBI hasn’t taken over the case yet, and Lisa told me they likely wouldn’t unless another girl went missing. So, for right now, Josh Smith is the top dog responsible for finding Sarabelle—and if Priscilla is one of the guilty parties, Sarabelle’s only hope is Dave, Marchant, and me. At least, that’s what I tell my guilty conscience when it starts howling.
Speaking of howling…
It doesn’t take Priscilla long to grow tired of the hair-pulling and whipping. I can’t appease her by slapping her pussy, either, and I don’t have the right kind of condom to do her in the ass.
“A condom’s a condom, Hunter.” She twists her red lips into a pout.
“You know damn well that’s not true.” We both know a thicker, tougher condom is required for anal; the thin ones we’ve been using tend to tear on me, due to…size issues.
I can see it in her eyes when she decides she’s pissed off. She shoves my chest, and when I just stand there, she slaps my face. I haven’t been slapped since I was fourteen, and the fierce sting sends me reeling back into the past.