Starfire (Peaches Monroe #3)(43)
Author: Mimi Strong

“I don’t know. Can you kiss me some more?”

“Yes,” he breathed, and he moved in close again, licking and sucking my lips, then kissing me as we shared one breath, back and forth.

As the heat built, I slipped my hand down and started again, with my hand down between us, the back of my wrist bumping his body rhythmically. We kept kissing until I was gasping, close to coming. He pulled back just enough to get a glimpse down between us.

I rubbed up and down, then in a circle, desperate for release, then angry with myself for my desperation, because that’s exactly how you chase an orgasm away.

“Grr,” I said, then I pushed him away so I could cross my legs. “Stage fright.”

“Don’t be frustrated. I saw exactly what I wanted to see. Thank you for showing yourself to me.”

I snorted. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Men are disgusting. Nobody wants to see that. We’re like those horny little monkeys in a nature documentary.” He reached for the bottles of hair product near the tub. “How about I lather you up and give you a scalp massage?”

“Are you serious?”

He raised his eyebrows as he took the cap off a bottle and poured the fragrant cream into his palm. “Try me.”

I dipped my head back to fully re-wet my hair, and then I let Dalton Deangelo, TV’s sexiest vampire, play hair stylist on me.

After he washed and conditioned my hair, I did his. I told him he had gray hairs (he didn’t) and we had a few tense moments until I admitted I was joking. He told me he’d had people fired from the set for less, and I got the sense he wasn’t entirely joking. I could relate, though. During my brief stint in LA as an underwear model, I’d encountered a couple of people I would have gladly had fired.

We finally climbed out of the tub when we both developed prune fingers plus an insatiable curiosity to see what kind of goodies were in the mini-bar.

Each clad in our white hotel robe, we sprawled out on the king-sized bed and dug through the packages of candy and nuts like two kids with their Halloween treasure.

“I’m not surprised you’re hungry already,” I said as Dalton tore into a foil-wrapped bag of nuts.

“I have a fast metabolism.”

“Maybe. But I noticed when we were at the restaurant, you only ate the middle of your burrito. You peeled away most of the burrito wrapper, which is the best part.”

“I’m just not willing to do carbs,” he said with a shrug. “Do you think you can sustain a fake marriage to a guy who doesn’t eat carbs?”

“About the fake marriage… will it be an actor who does the ceremony? Or will we legally be married? Because if so, I should probably make you sign a pre-nup, to protect my assets.”

He laughed. “You think I’ll go after half your country furniture and your used book collection?”

“Yes. You’re probably broke now, after buying a cabin and an airplane, plus no sane person eats the things from the mini-bar. That tiny can of Diet Coke you treated me to probably cost you seven dollars.”

“Nothing but the best for my fiancée.”

“In that case, let’s order room service.”

He rolled over to the side of the bed and grabbed the phone. “Name your pleasure.”

“I meant for breakfast, silly.”

He put the phone down and grabbed his crotch suggestively through the thick, white robe. “I’ve got your breakfast right here.”

I chucked a bag of peanuts at him. “Gross.”

He lay back on the bed and unfastened the terry-cloth belt. Without saying a word, he began calling me over to him with just his green eyes, set in that devilishly handsome face.

And me, I was powerless to resist. I crawled over to him—awkwardly, due to the fluffy robe. I snuggled up alongside him, aware of the heat and tension building between my legs. He curled up to look around us at the mess of wrappers on the bed, then he kicked everything off with his feet.

“You’re messy,” I said.

“You make my life very messy.”

“Nothing short of a disaster.”

“Get on top of me,” he said.

“Don’t tell me you have a crushing fetish? Or you want me to smother you?”

“I want to feel every ounce of your beautiful body, on top of me. Rest your legs on mine and your arms on mine. I want to feel you.”

“Is this a fetish?”

“What does that even mean? You like my body, don’t you? I see you admire my lean, cut muscles.”

I rolled away, onto my shoulder, facing away from him. “That’s different.”

The room was so quiet, I could hear him lick his lips.

I tightened the tie on my robe as an internal argument raged in my mind. I wanted a guy who appreciated my curves, but not too much… but why? Because a fetish objectified me and made me less of a person? Or was it because I couldn’t accept his adoration? Could it be true that despite all my attitude and pride in my curves, deep down I didn’t truly believe fat was fabulous? Tits are mostly fat, and everybody loves them, so why not celebrate a round, full ass, whether you’re into spanking or not?

“You saw the photos in my wine cellar,” Dalton said.

“Yes.” I had seen the vintage framed Polaroids of his LA home’s former owner. The woman wasn’t your average housewife. From the pictures, she was always na**d at parties, and had an appetite for everything good in life, from cake to multiple lovers. Dalton had hung her pictures in his basement wine cellar, in a display that was somewhere between a shrine and a joke.

“I like those photos,” he said plainly.

“You don’t bring people down there to laugh at her?”

“Well, you do have to laugh at the clothes and the hairstyles. The giant beehives? Come on.”

Still on my side, I pulled my feet up into the robe and tugged the sleeves down over my hands.

“You’re a chubby chaser,” I said, my voice flat.

“We never talked about my childhood best friend, did we? Yours was Shayla. You two went swimming in the lake when it was full of tadpoles, and you were inseparable. If you met a girl tomorrow who reminded you of Shayla, you’d instantly feel something, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s nobody like Shayla. She’s one of a kind.”

“But you know what I mean, right?”

I stared up at the ceiling. In the dim light, with just a few lamps on, it was hard to tell if the ceiling was white, or painted a color. Trying to figure out the color of the ceiling was a good distraction from having to think about what Dalton was saying.