Stripped (Stripped #1)(28)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

“Grey, I—” For the first time since I met him, Dawson sounds unsure. I almost turn over to look at him, but don’t.

Then the cocky voice is back. “Be there tomorrow. Drive the car.”

He leaves then, and the clamor as he emerges from my room is deafening. There are screams and squeals. I hear one female voice tell Dawson that she wants to have his babies. Another asks him to marry her. A chorus of voices asks for autographs and pictures, and I hear Dawson saying that he’ll sign autographs for ten minutes, and then he has to go. The noise quiets, and I can hear the murmur of Dawson’s voice as he talks to the women he’s signing for.

Eventually the noise dies away, and in the distance I hear the throaty purr of his car. Lizzie comes in after a few minutes.

“Holy shit, Grey!” She climbs up and hangs on the ladder. “Do you know who that was? Why was he here? Did you f**k him?”

I want to ignore her, but I can’t, because she’s too loud, too in my space and obnoxious.

I roll over, and I don’t have to fake the tormented expression on my face. “He’s my boss, Lizzie. He’s my assignment for my internship. So yes, I know who he is. And no, we didn’t—I mean, I—no.”

“Omigod, why not?” She grabs my arm and shakes me. “He’s the hottest piece of man-ass on the entire f**king planet! How could you not!”

I don’t know what to say. I just shrug. “I work for him. I couldn’t…I mean, my grade, my internship, my career, it’s all riding on this.” It’s the bald truth and why I can’t let anything happen. Why I have to resist the hypnotic pull.

“Jesus, Grey. He’s Dawson f**king Kellor. He’s Cain Riley, for god’s sake! It’s a crime against all straight women to not get a piece of that. And you can’t tell me he’s not interested. I saw the way he held you.”

I snap, just a little. “God, Lizzie, do you hear yourself? He’s not a slab of beef. He’s not an object for me to ‘get a piece of.’ He’s a man. A person. And I…he didn’t hold me any kind of way. He carried me in because I fainted. That’s it.” I don’t know why I’m lying to her. I know better.

Lizzie frowns at my outburst. “You’re dumber than I thought. Send him my way, if you’re not interested.” She vanishes back out the door then, and I’m finally alone.

I try to fall asleep, and fail for the longest time. When I do fall asleep, I dream of Dawson. They’re erotic dreams, torturous dreams, in which he touches me in places that make me sweat and squirm and pant. He kisses me in the dreams, and I let him, and I kiss him back, and it becomes more than a kiss. It becomes something that makes me ache between my legs.

I wake in a sweaty tangle of sheets and stare at the ceiling, unable to forget the dreams. I fall back asleep, and immediately the dreams begin again. Dawson’s hands on my waist, sliding down my hips. Curving over to cup my backside. Grazing beneath my br**sts. Delving down and down and down between my legs to touch me in the most sinful way.

I see his eyes, blue-shot gray, like lightning-laced storm clouds, and I hear his voice whispering to me: “You can’t resist me, Grey. You are mine, Grey.”

I wake again at dawn, hearing his dream-whispered words, and torn between wishing they were true and being terrified that they are.

Chapter 9

I make great money at the club, but financially, I’m still barely making it. My tips just cover tuition, room and board, and books. Barely. I have to scrimp to eat and buy new outfits for the internship. If I leave the campus at all, I walk as much as possible. Even bus fare is too expensive and I need every penny. I hate it though, because USC is in a bad neighborhood, and a girl on her own—even in broad daylight—isn’t safe.

I stand in the parking lot outside my dorm room, staring at a brand-new Range Rover. It’s white with black-tinted windows. The keys are in my hand, and I’m warring with myself. I have my driver’s license, but I haven’t driven since leaving Georgia. I Googled Range Rovers, and this model in front of me starts at $137,000. I simply cannot fathom that amount of money. And he just left it here in this university parking lot, on a whim, for me to drive. And then claimed he could buy a dozen of them if he wanted to. Reading about or hearing about twenty-million-dollar movie deals is one thing, but understanding the reality of a man actually having that kind of money, seeing the evidence of it, is another thing. This Range Rover, this $137,000 SUV, is pennies to him. Even the Bugatti, which probably cost somewhere near two million dollars, is nothing. Dawson made four million on the first Mark of Hell and sixteen more between the other two. He’s done four other big-budget films since then, none of which were salaried at less than ten million dollars each.

It’s unusually hot outside today, and I’m sweating just standing here, debating with myself. It would be prudent to drive the Rover. I click the “unlock” button and open the door. I slide into the driver’s seat, gasping at the blistering heat of the tan leather under my legs and against my back. I start the engine, which hums to life with a low and powerful purr. Within seconds, the A/C is blasting cool air. I breathe in and then out, carefully. I’m terrified of this car. I’m terrified of what it means, that I’m actually doing what he told me to do. I’m going to finish the internship, and I’m going to spend the next few months working with Dawson professionally.

He’s seen me naked. He’s touched my bare skin. He’s kissed me, twice. My body responds to him in a way I don’t begin to understand.

Delaying the moment of actually having to drive this vehicle, I fiddle with the infotainment center until it turns on. Heavy metal blasts so loud the car shakes. I scramble to turn it down, then manage to turn it to the radio. I flip stations until I find 102.7 FM, the pop station. “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore comes on, and I turn it up a little. Not anywhere near as loud as Dawson had it, but enough to give me confidence, dance in my seat. I take a deep breath and put the SUV into reverse, backing out of the spot slowly.

The drive to the office is horrifying. I’m a terrible driver. I’m either going too slow and being honked at, or I’m forgetting how powerful the Rover is and going twenty over the limit. When I change lanes, I cut several people off and then I nearly miss my turn, forcing me to cut across several lanes of traffic. I nearly cause two accidents. By the time I’m sitting in a parking spot outside the office building, my nerves are shot, leaving me trembling and near tears.