Chapter 17

17

Hunter

I ease the car up the short driveway of the cottage and into the garage at the back. I noticed a garage in the front of the house, but Weston mentioned it was being used for storage at the moment. I switch off the engine and quiet descends. The kind where it’s not just silent, but the type of silence where you can hear yourself breathe, sense the tension slide off of your shoulders, feel the lack of vibrations brought on by traffic, overhead flights and traffic helicopters, and the sound of eight million souls drawing breath in the metropolis called London.

A city I grew up in. A city I love, despite the ups and downs I’ve faced there, in a life which, admittedly, has been more up than down so far. Some would say a privileged life. One where I was groomed for the top position in this country. The one my dad occupied at one point, and which I’d known with certainty, I would one day, too. I never questioned that belief, was content with my choices—or the choices made for me by default, and which I adopted as my own—until I met her.

She told me she’d never forgive me if I kissed her that day in the elevator car, but I’d done it anyway. After all, the last time she’d asked me to stay away, I had, and she’d been pissed off at me. So it made sense to push aside her objections and kiss her… Or so I’d thought.

But then, I held her gaze and sensed the struggle inside her. Sensed, also, that she was going to use that kiss as an excuse to walk away from me. And that’s something I’m not going to allow. I’d kissed her to show her what she was missing out on. And I’d been right. It had been mind-blowing, earth-shaking, pulse-pounding, a balls-tightening kind of kiss. And she’d felt it too. And if I had continued kissing her I’d have taken right there in that damned elevator car. Which is the only reason I had let her go. Not because it wouldn’t have filled that dark yearning inside of me to take her right there, in a place where both of us could have been compromised any moment; for I didn’t give a damn about being discovered. But she clearly did. And I couldn’t risk hurting her like that. Indeed left to myself I’d have fucked her right there and then and walked out and told the journalists outside that she was mine... only that’d have pissed her off no-end, and while the make-up sex with Zara would be every bit as explosive as the hate-sex we’re no doubt going to indulge in soon—fact is I want her to want to be with me.

When we come together, and we will, it will be because she needs it as much as me. Because she admits to yearning for it as much as I do, and decides to throw caution to the wind and be adult enough to own up to this insane chemistry between us.

Only, it’s more than simple chemistry. It’s the kind of connection that one rarely finds with another person. That click inside that signals once you’ve been with this person, it will spoil you for anyone else.

She knew it. I knew it. But she refused to accept it. And while patience isn’t my strongest virtue, this time, I had no choice but to sit back and bide my time. And trust me, that is so against my personality, so against my natural instinct of chasing after her, that it’s been far more stressful than preparing to launch my campaign to become Prime Minister. Something I can’t put off forever, either. But I have a plan for it, and hopefully, it should all come together very soon.

Meanwhile, I needed to get out of London. I arrived at Amelie and Weston’s place to find it was packed with friends and pets and kids. And it was nice to hang out with them, and shoot the breeze with the Seven and the Sovrano brothers, and play with the babies, but seeing the waves of domestic contentment wafting off of them had made me realize, for the first time, what I was missing. And the very fact I was thinking that surprised me.

Perhaps, I was more tired than I’d realized. Perhaps, I definitely did need a break. I mentioned it to Weston, who told me he knew of the ideal place where I could unwind undisturbed. He gave me directions to the cottage a few hours outside of London, where he first hooked up with Amelie last Christmas. I was unsure about it, but he told me about the packed bar, the fact that it was stocked up so I wouldn’t have to worry about provisions, and then he mentioned the hot tub on the back deck. And that settled it.

I took the directions and the passcode to the front door, which they put in recently, then headed home to pack my bag, fielded calls from my parents, who were disappointed I wasn’t coming home for Christmas, and headed over.

Now, I push open the door of my Jaguar—my preferred make of car when I’m driving—and step out. I managed to give my security personnel the slip on my way here. It may not be my smartest move, but I needed a little time with no one breathing down my neck. Just an evening to unwind; I’m sure they’ll track me down by tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’m on my own, with my thoughts—and with thoughts of her, of course— and an entire evening, and if I’m lucky, the entire day tomorrow, with no calls, no disturbances, and no intrusions. I open the back door, reach for my duffel bag, then lock the car. I head up the steps, key in the passcode to the door, and it clicks open. I step in, switch on the lights and glance about the place.

Weston wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was renovated recently and has every convenience under one roof. The starlight pours in through the windows on the right to illuminate the space. A fireplace in the center, that dominates the space, is not yet lit. To my right, is a sectional couch. On the opposite side, is a wet bar. All the fixtures are gleaming.

I walk into the room, and my booted feet sink into plush carpeting. I reach the fireplace and throw the switch on the wall next to it. The flames instantly ignite. I round the fireplace, then head through the door and down a short hallway that leads to the kitchen. To my right, a door opens into what I assume is the bedroom. I head through, drop my bag on the carpeted floor and stretch. A drink, and then a long soak in the hot tub, sounds perfect. I strip off my tie and shirt, then kick off my shoes and socks, my pants and my boxers. I grab a towel and wrap it around my middle before I head back to the bar. I reach over to grab the bottle of whiskey—Macallan 24-year-old; the Seven wouldn’t stint on their alcohol, of course—and pour myself a drink. There’s also a cigar box. I flip it open, snip a cigar and light it, then clamp it between my teeth. I grab the glass and head back through the hallway and past the kitchen to the back porch and the hot tub.

I move toward the sliding doors at the back when the strains of music reach me. Huh? Also the glass is fogged over. Which is why I hadn’t noticed the flicker of light that gleams through. I take a step forward, and the notes grow louder. I reach the doors and ease them open.

The music resolves itself into the chords of a song that sounds familiar, but which I can’t place. I can, however, place who the person in the sunken hot tub is. Her back is to me and she has piled her dark hair on her head in a messy bun. Tendrils have escaped to stick to the slim line of her neck. Her shoulders are bare and she has an arm spread out over the edge of the tub. As I watch, she wraps the fingers of that hand around the stem of a wine glass and brings the glass up. She turns her head at the same time, so I can see the curve of her eyelashes, her upturned nose, and those lush lips as she wraps them around the rim of the glass and takes a sip.

The blood drains to my groin. I don’t need to look down to know that I’m already hard. Her throat moves as she swallows, and I wonder how it would feel to have it move around my cock. The light from the candles she’s lit about the place lends an ethereal, dreamy feel to the tableau.

The woman’s voice coming through the speaker she’s placed on the platform near the tub warbles about getting lost in translation, about asking for too much, and generally, clearly, blaming herself for the inevitable breakup that so many pop-stars seem to sing about. Still, I’ll admit, the tune is haunting.

I take a drag of my cigar and blow out smoke a second before I realize she’ll probably smell it and realize I’m here. Not that I was planning to spy on her like a creeper. Although, being able to watch her without her knowing I’m watching her is a treat. And perhaps, I’m beginning to sound like one of those pop songs I despise.

She leans her head back, and though I can’t see the rest of her, I can sense how relaxed she is. How she’s communing with herself in the moment, and how I hope she’s imagining me in whatever scenes she’s playing out in her head. I take a sip of my whiskey, and the liquor burns its way down my gullet, setting off a pleasant warmth in its wake. None of which will compare to the heat of her pussy when she clenches about my shaft. I almost groan aloud at the throb of lust that tightens my groin.

I leave the city to escape thoughts of her...and run straight into the object of my obsession.

I came so close to taking Michael’s suggestion, planting cameras on her phone and computer so I could track where she was. And if I’d done that, I’d’ve known she was here, and perhaps, not have accepted Weston’s invitation. Of course, it would’ve taken me from being in the zone of ‘morally gray’ to straight up ‘black,’ not that I have any illusions about myself. I’ve always had that streak of darkness in my center, hidden carefully from the world; and it would have stayed that way, but for the fact I met her.

She brings out that primal, animalistic side of me that I’ve tried to deny even existed, but something about her makes me want to share it with her, if only to test her response. To see if it’ll make her hate me further, or if I guess correctly, brings out a different side of her. The one I’ve sensed, but never seen unleashed in full. That sadistic, needy part of her that resonates with me, that pushes me to make her submit to me.

I blow out another puff from my cigar, then walk around the tub, drop my towel, and take the steps leading down into the hot tub. I lower myself into the bubbling water and place my glass of whiskey on the rim next to me. "Hello, Fire."