Matched (10 page)

Five minutes later, we’re both flat on our stomachs on tables maybe five inches apart, towels pulled down to the tops of our butts.

“Where you hurt?” Simone asks me.

“Nowhere specific. Just tight all over,” I answer in time with Cruz’s brash snort. I’d shoot him a stink eye if my face wasn’t stuck down in a hole.

“You hurt where?” Laloni asks him.

“Well, I have severe swelling in my biggest muscle from time to time,” he replies as calmly as if he was asked the time.

I cringe—twice, actually, because Laloni doesn’t catch on and needs further clarification. “Which muscle? You show me?”

“Cruz!” I yelp, my head flying up. I throw a warning scowl his way. “Don’t even
think
about it.”

He looks up as well, his cocky grin antagonizing me further. “Doesn’t lying like this smash your tits? I find it makes my—”

“I’m serious!” I wail, embarrassed. “Stop it!”

“You’re the one hell bent on me having fun. So I’m having fun.” He laughs, then finally drops his head back down.

I do the same, getting as comfortable as possible considering his herculean efforts to make me as
un
comfortable as possible. “You know what? Never mind—be miserable. Just do it with your mouth shut. I don’t care anymore. Simone, may we have some music please?”

She puts on relaxing melodies of an island sound, and Cruz doesn’t make another peep aside from the occasional groan of approval. And when I’m all but asleep, we’re asked to turn over onto our backs.

I’m extremely careful to clasp the towel in an optimal coverage position as I flip, averting my eyes as far from Cruz’s as they’ll go…except for the one, itsy-bitsy accidental peek his way, which he of
course
catches.

“I go too fast, or did you get
another
good look?” he asks with the smirk of a thousand smug men. Yes, if they all got together and bombarded me with their most infuriating smiles, Cruz alone would have them beat.

I’m unarmed. I have no such expression in my arsenal, or depthless eyes that dance and, at the same time, breach one’s every security. So I perform the only trick my own mundane eyes are capable of—rolling—before beginning my second, even more mystifying act of ignoring him and getting resettled.

“Wonder how Oakley would feel about that?” he goads again. My prayers go even farther into unanswered territory as he adds in a bass timbre, “Or about the other night?”

“Laloni?” She looks at me. “The biggest, swelling muscle he needs help with? It’s his ego. Do you have any special treatments or oils for
that
?”

He chuckles, and about twenty seconds later murmurs a barely audible, “Good one.”

“Thank you,” I boast; it
was
a good one. “And just for the record, Oakley is very secure in his manhood, and place in my life. He’d understand someone watching, for a few seconds, something so shocking it couldn’t be helped. I don’t enjoy car wrecks—they’re awful—but I still look. Which is the sane and
only
reason for my totally out-of-character behavior the other night. And just now? I saw nothing.”

“Not for lack of trying,” he dishes right back. “Harlow, you want a nice, long look? Just say the word.”

My head flops to the side, my mouth falling open momentarily as I gawk at him. “What would Callie have to say about
that
?” I throw his words at him, aiming right between his eyes.

He rolls his head to face me as slowly as possible, those cobalt eyes of his more calculating than usual. “I imagine not a whole helluva lot, seeing as how she and I are just old acquaintances.”

“Do you always let
old acquaintances
suck your dick?”

Oh, shit.
I slap my hand over my mouth and hide behind my eyelids. I can’t believe I just said that out loud—or the surge of adrenaline currently powering through me.

“If they offer, and we’re both single?” He laughs. “Yeah, I do.”

My retort is coated in condescending sarcasm. “Lovely. You must be so proud. And they must feel super special. Lucky ladies.”

“You wanna make this personal, Harlow? All right.”

I hear the shuffle of him sitting up and look in his direction idiotically, without any regard for the myriad of instincts telling me it’s a very bad idea. I was right, and my face heats at his blatant effort to only just cover himself with the towel. Poor Laloni backs away from him slowly, having given up on relaxing this broody storm of a man.

“Let’s do it then.” His cutting snarl hauls my eyes quickly up his body to his own eyes. “How many episodes does Oakley
have
to appear on to appease his PR team?”

I don’t know, and I assume my ignorant silence tells him as much.

“You should ask him. ’Cause I, for one, am curious as hell why you’d
try
to stick around a house full of sneaky bitches and give up the pleasure of touching the woman you’re
sure
is your one and only if you don’t have to.” His patronizing stare bores into me, unnerving but not unkind. And definitely not unseeing. “Or why he chose this show to begin with.”

I’m speechless. My gaze is fixed on his, unable to conceal my hurt at his bluntness. He’s not completely wrong—it’s crazy that Oakley brought his girlfriend on a show to find love—but then again, I understand his reasons, career and charity.

My eyes close, head dipping. I want to support Oakley more than anything, but out of all the television shows he could’ve landed, why this one?

My weary contemplation is interrupted by the heavy sigh I hear Cruz release.

“I’m sorry, Harlow. Shit. I shouldn’t be a dick to you.” I look up to find his expression has softened. “You’re not the one who deserves any anger. I just…hate watching it.” When I don’t respond, his head slants to the side. His face is pensive for a bit before he finally continues.

“It’s none of my business. Forget I said anything.”

On a roll today, he’s right again—it’s
not
any of his business. Just like the dynamics between him and Emma, or him and Callie, aren’t any of mine. Seems you become quite interested, quite quickly, in the people you live with every day.

I bet a mouthful of crow is easier to swallow with something to drink. Sure wish I had something to drink.

When you’re unable to recognize the current version of yourself, it’s probably best to remain silent. So I do, and he seems content to follow my lead through the rest of our awkward massages and the ride back to the house. I use the quiet time—something I haven’t had since Oakley reentered my life—to try and sort through the continuum of thoughts circling in my head, my brain hamster spinning the damn wheel into dust.

I’m undecided yet if I’ll still be talking to Jasmine about things—clearly, that would fall into the none-of-my-business category—but I absolutely have some questions for Oakley.

Confessional: Cruz McCall

“They said I have to do a confessional. If I don’t, I guess I get sent home? And that’d be a bad thing how?

“‘Emma.’ Dickhead on the Spot literally just held up a cue card that said ‘Emma.’ Thank you—I needed reminding that this is all for my little sister, ya fucking nutlick.

“But yeah, she wanted to come on this ‘once-in-a-lifetime adventure’—her words, not mine. So here we are, the McCalls, in all their glory. No lie, I do hope Emma has a great time…as long as ‘great time’ doesn’t mean any of the assholes in this house think about laying a finger on her. My sister deserves more than every guy here combined could ever even think about offering her.

“Same goes for a few of the other ladies. ‘Like Callie?’ Reading the cue card again. Yeah, exactly like Callie. She’s a cool chick, and deserves to be treated well. And you can shove that next card square up your ass. Jesus, is anyone not going to ask me about that today? Callie and I met a couple years ago at a charity event. She was cool then, she’s cool now, that’s it. No big story, no torrid affairs. No interest like that whatsoever.

“Am I done?”

Chapter 7

I’m heading to the shower the next morning when a large, determined hand reaches out and drags me inside. The opaque door slams behind us.

Oakley turns on the hot water, and fog instantly helps shroud us. Then he whispers in my ear, “They
cannot
film past the glass, per contract. Arms up.”

I comply easily, needing this as much as he does, desperate to feel connected to him. He slides my sleepshirt up over my head, bowing his own to suck an aching nipple into his mouth with a hungry moan. His thumbs hook inside the waist of my shorts, and they’re gone with my panties in one smooth tug.

Anticipation, separation, and a starving libido have me greedier than usual, so I don’t fight it. I yank his shorts off, my eyes raking over his naked body that’s large, chiseled, and defined. His engorged dick is so hard it looks painful; the head’s a deep purple, veins pulsating along the entire length.

“I love how you look at me, Harlow.” He guides my chin up to capture my full attention.

“How’s that?” It escapes raspy and indolent. I can’t concentrate on enunciation right now.

“Like mine’s the only body you’ll ever want—that I’m your whole world. Now hop on this dick before I explode.”

He grasps me by the backs of my thighs and draws me closer, his cock begging for entry. “Been way too long. God, I’ve fuckin’ missed you.” He sounds truly agonized, a desperate famine in his gruff voice.

Oakley’s aware I am on the pill and have never been with anyone else, but I’m silently grateful when he maneuvers back to roll on a condom. He’s a football star, and we were broken up for so long…groupies…I don’t want to know.

He shifts me higher, always making me feel weightless and protected, and lines his bulbous head with my core as he walks us forward. My back hits the tile.

He tries with one urgent, impatient thrust, but is denied, and I yelp in pain. “That’s my tight girl. No one’s ever been in this sweet cunt but me, huh baby?” he grunts around my breast, which is buried in his mouth. He tries again, and with short, shallow ease drives partially into me. “Reach down and play it, babe. Need you wetter so I can get in there.”

I seek out my clit with one hand and circle it, closing my eyes, my body and muscles relaxing with each deep breath. “It’s too—”

“You can take all of me. You always do. Relax.” He bites my nipple, and I rest my head back on the wall as he grips my ass in both hands and changes my position. “Fuck, you feel good, Har. So tight and warm, for only me. Incredible.”

Soon, he’s fully inside me. There’s still a sting to it, but he keeps his momentum gentle, absorbing the ecstasy of each constricted glide of our union. I love it—the intimacy and emotional connection—but I don’t think I can come with the hint of discomfort.

“What’s my Harlow need? Tell me…anything…want you to come with me,” he pants.

Before I can formulate an answer, Oakley takes care of it, pulling out and setting me on my feet. “Turn around, baby. Brace your hands on the wall and bend over for me.”

I do as he says and he pushes down on my back, bowing me further. My ass pops higher into the air. “Look at this.” He gropes both cheeks in his hands, humming his approval deep in his throat. “You’re my perfect girl.”

He slips inside me again, languid and tender, reaching around to work my clit like only he can. “Better, baby?”

“Uh-huh.” My head drops forward, a gasp escaping every time he bumps that extraordinary spot inside me. His fingers stroke frantically, his breathing growing faster and louder as his soft plunges turn into vigorous poundings.

“Yeah. Damn, Har, there you go. Come for me. Fuck yeah. Squeeze it out of me…take it.”

His dirty, grunted plea tips me over the edge. I bite down on my lip to stifle the screams clawing their way out as every muscle in my pussy and entire body thrums in and out with the prolonged release I’ve been needing. Oakley drops his head against my back. His mouth is open, releasing a muffled roar against my skin.

After a few moments of catching our breath, he helps me stand and turn. He curls his arms around my waist, giving me a sated smile. “Even better than last time, and I waited a long time for that. Fucking unbelievable.” He kisses me, dragging me closer.

When our mouths break apart, I grin. “I love you, Oakley. Now go get me some clothes while I actually bathe, ’cause mine are…” I look to the floor and laugh. “…a little wet. And then I wanna ask you something.”

Cruz and I returned from our massages last night to find an almost empty house. Emma and Court were the only ones here, playing two-handed Spades at the breakfast table. They opted out of going to a club with the others. Emma complained of a headache—which I translated to mean her brother would’ve gone postal if she went—and Court said, “I hate clubs…loud and obnoxious.”

Cruz was unconvinced—which I know because I translated the frown etched on his face to mean, “Just cards? Then you won’t mind if I join. No hanky-panky on my watch.” So he took to guard duty and plopped down in a chair, complete with a cranky, “Deal me in.”

I, on the other hand, went to bed, wondering why Oakley hadn’t waited for me. And now I’m going to get my answer.

When he returns with something for me to wear, I keep my focus on the convenient task of drying off before finally clearing my throat. “So…what time did you get back last night?”

“Not sure. Wasn’t too late. I came to check on you, but you were making a sweet little noise, seemed like you were sleeping really good, so I figured I let you be. I went to bed too. Why?”

“Just curious.” I wrap the towel around my hair and pull on my panties and bra. “My massage was great. How was the club?”

Do I think he did anything over-the-top wrong besides not waiting for me? No. If I did, I wouldn’t have just had sex with him. But would he be upset if I went traipsing around the club scene with six guys who weren’t him? Absolutely. And I’m not about to let double standards slide long enough to become habit.