Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(28)
“Yeah…See ya.” Shrugging with defeat, he lumbers toward the bedroom door.
Once I hear my front door slam shut, I slide my jeans back off and collapse onto the bed. Under the watchful eyes of Brandon Taylor, I lean back against my headboard and bend up my knees. There’s a fire that’s been raging all night between my thighs. I slip my hand beneath my panties, and with the scarred finger I cut when I trashed the poster, I rub my clit vigorously. My eyes stay on the poster. Wetness seeps through the cotton crotch. My heartbeat accelerates and the T-shirt beneath my sweatshirt clings to my heated chest. I rub harder and faster. Oh God! Why can’t I come? Aren’t my magical hands good enough anymore? I feel pressure but no pleasure. Frustrated, I jump out of bed and scurry to my dresser. I yank open the top drawer and rummage through my underwear until I find it. The vibrator I bought at the Pleasure Chest. Sparky. It’s time to break it open. Frantically, I tear the plastic package apart. Whoof! I’m not prepared for the stench—it smells like a fifty-foot high pile of unwrapped condoms—and hurry back to my bed before it puts me into anaphylactic shock. Resuming my bent-knee position, I switch the stinky pink vibrator on and place it between my legs so the little rabbit’s ears stimulate my clit while I thrust the penis-shaped latex into my chasm. A loud buzz sounds in my ears. I feel like I’m at the dentist getting a cavity filled.
BUZZZZZZZ! I hate the buzz! I hate the way the vibrator feels. The pathetic, ticklish rabbit feels nothing like the kneading of Brandon’s long magical fingers, and the vibrating latex penis thing inside me is no substitute for the exquisite sensation of his enormous, thrusting cock of velvet. I long to hear his savage grunts and groans while feeling the heat of his weight on top of me, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart, organ to organ. Yes, savor his magnificence deep inside of me. And then hear him roar my name as I break into an epic orgasm around his explosive rock-hard length.
Screw Sparky. He’s not creating any sparks. Instead of getting turned on, I’m getting turned off. In fact, I’m numb. Impetuously, I withdraw vibrator and hurl it at the Kurt Kussler poster. It narrowly misses and lands with a clunk on the floor. Oh, God!! Why won’t that awful buzzing stop? That rabbit’s like the f*cking Energizer bunny. It keeps going and going and going. I clap my hands to my ears hoping to drown it out as a horrible reality hits me. Brandon Taylor has ruined me for all other men. For toys with benefits. And made me my own worst enemy. The unbearable ache between my legs returns with a vengeance as does the ache in my shredded heart.
“Fuck you, Brandon!” I shout at the Kurt Kussler poster, and then I cry myself to sleep.
Brandon
A cab takes me back home. My head is still killing me. I should probably take another Advil, but instead I stagger to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a Scotch. I down the shot in one gulp and then pour myself another. Outside my house, I hear a car whip into the driveway. And then shortly, I hear the front door open and slam shut with a bang so loud it hurts my head. She storms into the living room, her spiky heels clickety-clacking and likely making dents on my wood floor. Fucking Katrina.
“Where the hell were you?” she barks.
Polishing off the Scotch, I turn to face her.
Her face scrunches in disgust. I’m not sure if it’s at the sight of me or because she’s simmering mad. I have my answer on her next blazing question.
“Why the f*ck didn’t you pick up your phone? I called you a dozen times. Mommy was totally pissed off.”
Any other person in their right mind would say something like: “Oh my God! What happened to you? Are you okay?” upon seeing my mess of a face. While I haven’t yet taken a look at myself, the rawness of my skin and the excruciating pain behind my eyes are enough to clue me in that I look disastrous. A pang of sadness stabs me. For sure Zoey would care.
“Answer my question,” she hisses.
“I got into an accident. I didn’t know you called. I left my phone in my car.” Balls. It’s probably gotten towed. Something I’ll have to deal with tomorrow—all by myself since I once again don’t have an assistant. I’ll probably also have to file some kind of police report. My Zoey would have taken care of everything, including my pounding headache. Draining the Scotch, I pour myself yet another shot and chug it while Katrina rants on.
“Moron. And just look at you. We’re getting married in two days and you look like fricking Frankenstein.”
The truth: Compared to the way I must look, Frankenstein could be People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” I rub my throbbing head. My headache’s getting worse, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my injury, the Scotch, or a combination of both—or maybe just breathing in toxic Katrina—but nausea is rising in my chest like a tidal wave. I feel sweat beads cluster on my face and my breathing grows uneven. Katrina is totally oblivious.
“Well, you should know, Mommy thinks we need more security. And she also came up with a last minute brilliant idea. Everyone’s going to have a jar of butterflies on their seats. After we say our vows, they’re going to release them. All those butterflies flying in the air will be so Cinderella-ish.”
Her words drift in one ear and out the other. I could give a flying f*ck about butterflies. Right now, all I can think about is the horrific nauseous feeling that’s consuming me. I break into a cold sweat and my head starts spinning like a Disneyland teacup. I’m on the verge of throwing up. I need to get to a toilet fast! Except I’m so queasy I can’t take a step. I sway on my feet and clutch my stomach. And then BLECH! I wretch. Hot vomit pours out of my mouth like molten lava from a volcano and spreads like a puddle on the glistening floor. I hear Katrina shriek in disgust as I continue to puke my guts out. I puke until I can’t anymore and my throat is so sore it hurts to swallow. Holding on to the edge of the liquor cabinet, I straighten. Katrina glowers at me. The expression on her face is one of utter contempt.