Home > Trashed (Stripped #2)(11)

Trashed (Stripped #2)(11)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

My panic is momentarily subsumed by shock. The Musser Suite is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s…overwhelming.

As you walk in, there’s a large foyer that also functions as a kitchen, with a sink, a wine refrigerator, and a stainless steel microwave drawer and a dishwasher, beside which is a rack containing half a dozen bottles of wine. The foyer floor is a dark parquet wood, with a round green, white, and black rug with an elaborate ‘M’ in the middle. Three steps up lead to the sitting area. The floor here is plaid carpeting, a white background with blue and red stripes in a squared-off pattern. The ceiling is painted a pale mint green with white beams meeting in a starburst pattern, from the center of which hangs an ornate gold chandelier. There is a violently purple satin couch against one wall, and the opposite wall, above the white mantel fireplace, is covered in the same intensely purple satin. There’s a flat-screen TV mounted to the purple wall, which seems poignantly out of place in the otherwise archaically decorated room. The curtains framing the window are a sheer turquoise, and centered beneath the window is glass tabletop mounted on a white spindle. The matching chairs have crimson satin cushions. There’s another table and two chairs set in front of the fireplace, but these are large overstuffed armchairs done in a busy floral pattern. Behind the couch is a matching set of four oil paintings, but I don’t know enough about art to say what style they’re in.

I take two steps into the sitting area, staring at the room.

“Something else, right?” Adam says.

“I don’t even know what to say.” I take a few steps in, leaving puddles on the floor, keeping my hands tucked against my stomach. “It feels like I’m not supposed to touch anything. Like it’s a museum or something.”

He grins. “Well, it’s not how I’d personally decorate anything, but I’m a typical macho dude, so what do I know?”

I roll my eyes at him. “You’re anything but a typical macho dude, Adam,” I say.

Somehow he’s behind me, and I can hear his breath in my ear, feel his chest expanding at my back. His hands come to rest on my hips. “Oh yeah? So what am I, then?”

I swallow hard and fight the urge to lean back into him. “I—um. You’re Adam Trenton.”

“Cop-out,” he murmurs.

Teeth nip at my earlobe, and I can’t breathe, and my eyes are sliding closed against my will, and somehow I’m losing strength, my spine melting inside me, leaving me no choice but to fall back against him. His hands trace the waist of my jeans, pausing on my stomach, his hands covering mine.

I shiver again, both from being cold and from his proximity, from his lips on my neck, on the curve where throat meets shoulder, clavicle, and breastbone. His hair tickles my ear, and his lips are touching, kissing, moving.

“You need a hot shower,” he murmurs.

I’m compliant, his lips having stolen my will with each delicate touch. He pulls me back down into the foyer, and back up into a bedroom. There’s a bed with a flower-print comforter and an elaborate purple headboard surrounded by drapes that match the bedspread. That’s all I see, and then I’m being pushed into the bathroom. He halts, spins me, pressing my back against the frame of the door, so we’re half in the bathroom, half out, our bodies crushed together. His lips touch my throat, and then my neck, and I’m tilting my head to the side with a sigh as he kisses beneath my ear.

I don’t know what’s happening. What I’m doing. I should stop this. Stop him. Have him get me one of the horse-drawn carriage cabs back to my dorm. If I stay here, I won’t stop him. I’ll let this happen.

He squeezes past me, into the bathroom, opens the glass door of the shower and turns on the water. In moments, steam is billowing from the spray and filling the small room. And now he’s here again, in front of me, curling a finger into a belt loop of my jeans. His hand frames one side of my face, fingers curling into my wet hair, pulling me toward him. His lips devour mine more slowly now, and his other hand deftly unbuttons my jeans, lowers my zipper.

Now my heart is crashing and hammering and I’m kissing him but I’m so, so scared, because I’m letting him do this, allowing him to undress me, even though I’m scared and know I shouldn’t be and know this can only end badly for him and for me…mostly for me.

God, what the actual fuck am I doing? I’m helping him, that’s what. I’m pulling my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and shrugging out of it, tugging it over my head and letting it plop to the floor at my feet, and the air is cold against my skin, even though steam is enveloping us, wreathing around us. I’m in my bra and jeans, and his hands are on my flesh, sliding up my back, smoothing beneath my bra strap and up over it, to my shoulders. My feet are toeing off my shoes and socks, and now, oh no. No. No.


He lets me peel his shirt off.

Jesus, the man is perfect. I have to wrench my eyes open and gaze at him. His body is not just bulky and built, but is also incredibly, perfectly toned. Each muscle is so clearly defined they may as well be chiseled into place. His khaki shorts are heavy from being wet, and they hang low around his hips. The waistband of Polo underwear peeks out, and a wickedly deep V-cut disappears under the elastic.

My hands itch and twitch. I want to touch him so fucking bad it hurts. He’s a fantasy. This is a fantasy. It’s not real. I’m asleep at home in Detroit, in my bed, dreaming. There’s no way this is really happening. It feels real, but I know it’s not. It can’t be. It’s all happening so fast, meeting him in the hot sunshine of late evening, and then the storm hitting out of nowhere, and the leisurely hour of dinner, and now suddenly I’m in this extravagant hotel room being kissed and stripped by an actual god.

Hot, rough-skinned, massive hands slide up my sides and in, around, to my ribs. I glance at him, and see that his eyes are open and roving over me, staring at me as if he can’t get enough of me. As if I’m something he likes. Which is just crazy. I’m not stupid or self-conscious. I know I’m pretty enough. I’m in shape. But I’m not dainty or skinny. I’m just shy of six feet tall, and I’m curvy. I don’t look like Hollywood actresses, or models. I’m me, and I’m confident in myself, content with the way I look.

But I’m just not what a man like Adam Trenton goes for.

And now, with his leaf-green eyes taking in my skin and my tits and my hips, I wonder what he’s thinking. If I’m being naïve. Maybe he’s not picky and I’m just a conquest for the night.

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