Tousle Me Page 10

  Archer takes one look at him and begins to bang his head against the nearest wall. Which is weird. I sure hope he isn’t having a seizure.

  “Are you here to place a bid, Mr von Styles?” asks Butch.

  He strides down the aisle toward me, his firm but soft but large hand outstretched. He strides with purpose and conviction. He strides with a smile. He walks like he talks, and he talks like he’s wild. “One million dollars for my gosling.”

  “Oh, Hunter!” I gasp as he takes my hand, squeezing gently but also hard.

  Butch gapes at him. “A million?”

  “She’s worth a lot more,” Hunter murmurs, “but your dumb charity isn’t.”

  Just like that, we’re having a McMoment, right there on the stage. I stare into his green eyes, stroke his designer stubble and know that in years to come, I’ll tell our grandchildren that I knew Hunter was the one for me when he prioritized our love over starving third world children.

  “Gosling,” he says gruffly, “I missed you so much, I made a Pinterest board about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He fiddles about with his phone. “I mean, it’s mostly me and Ryan Gosling posed with macabre expressions, but I feel it conveys the intent rather well.”

  I smile despite myself. “Your lovely snake?”

  “Oh no. Actual Ryan Gosling.” He shows me the Pinterest board on his phone. “We were like, hey girl. I really miss you.”

  I stare at the beautifully edited images of Hunter and Ryan: looking sad on a carnival ride, looking miserable beside a Smurfs 2 poster at a movie theater. Looking forlorn in flat caps on a farm.

  Then I remember exactly what Hunter did to me, and my face falls. “I—I can’t do this.”

  He tugs me off stage by the hand. “Of course you can. Labron’s waiting for us, so get a move on.”

  “I said no, Hunter!”

  “Tough shit. You’re bought and paid for,” he says with a deviously sexy glint in his eye.

  Oh God. I want him, but I don’t. I need him, but I don’t want to. My body says yes and my heart says no; with the SlaveAuc, the choice has been conveniently removed so I can validly go against common sense. Frankly, that’s all a bit deep for an English major, and I stand in the middle of the aisle with one hand in Hunter’s and the other waving frantically as if it will help me think.

  “You don’t have to do this,” says Archer, striding toward me with his own hand outstretched. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Hunter chortles. “Nice try, Archery Dick, but she’s mine.”

  “She doesn’t belong to anyone—least of all, you!” Archer turns to me, his big blue eyes pleading. “Cam-Cam, why are you here? How is this thing even feminist?”

  I shrug. “It’s got a lesbian.”

  He looks pained. “Please, just come home with me.”

  “Too late for that, Archery Dick. Gosling—you’ll come home with me, and that’s a direct order.” Hunter gives my hand a very firm squeeze and begins to pull me forward.

  “Goddamn you British guys,” Archer seethes. “What do you have that I don’t?”

  Hunter snorts. “A foreskin?”

  We’re almost at the end of the aisle when I turn on my heel. “Archer?”

  He looks up, his eyebrow still wonky. “Yeah, Cam-Cam?”

  “Could you take my bag? It’s huge, and I’m kinda tired of carrying it,” I say.

  “Sure,” he replies softly. There’s an air of defeat to the way he balances the massive tote on his shoulder. “If it will make you happy.”

  “Thanks!” I call as Hunter drags me up the stairs and into the murky grey uncertainty of my contractual obligations. I can’t believe he actually owns me for the night—I’m simultaneously furious and aroused by the idea.

  “This isn’t forgiveness,” I hiss as we climb into the limo. “This is me doing the starving third world kids a big favor. Do you understand?”

  “Of course I do.” Hunter grins The Grin while he steeples his thick fingers. “You just keep thinking that.”

  Ugh. He’s so patronizing. I’d forgotten how strangely alluring Mean Hunter could be.

  He sniffs the air with a twitch of his upper lip. “What smells like piss in here?”

  My Uggs, probably. Crap. “You can talk,” I mutter, “Mr I Accessorize with Shredded Weasel.”

  “My stylist happened to think that was a serendipitous fashion win.”

  “Let me guess,” I retort, “it was primal?”

  “Ooh. Your balls have dropped, haven’t they, gosling?”

  “You’re actually getting off on teasing me. Oh my God.”

  He shuffles closer, taking my chin in his hand. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my collar bone. “You know how I like to…teas—”

  I can’t help it. I don’t know what’s come over me but before Hunter can even finish his last word, I’ve plastered my lips over his. My tongue shoves into his mouth and my nails dig into his back. If he thinks he’s primal, he ain’t seen nothing yet.

  “Bloody hell.” He draws back, touching his bruised lips and staring at me. “You really have missed me.”

  “I…I need to know you aren’t gay,” I whisper, shocked at my own bold urges.

  “Gay?” He gapes, incredulous. “What the hell gave you that idea? Is—is this why you ran out on me?”

  “Why else would I?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs, looks down. “Thought maybe you might’ve found something out about my tortured past, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, we’ll get to the metrosexual floating rose later—don’t you worry. But you can start with why Labron was sucking you off,” I snap.

  “Sucking me? Oh, gosling.” He takes my shoulders for a firm squeeze. “Is that what you thought we were doing?”

  “You didn’t see how it looked!”

  Hunter sighs, shaking his head. “Cammie, I was just getting changed. When I take my shirt off, we like to see how many quarters Labron can bounce off my abs.”

  I take a deep breath, remembering not to sigh inwardly. “Seriously?”

  “Well yeah. Have you seen my abs?”

  “I have, but…” I blush. Of course I’ve seen them—they’re branded on to my eyeballs, and without him this past twenty four hours, I’ve been looking through prison bars. Of abs. “Just seems rather convenient that I walked in and thought, you know…”

  “It was bound to happen. You and I, we were getting so deep, so fast; a dramatic split has the comforting air of predictability that readers love so much. We should have anticipated it.”

  “Thank God there was a forced seduction scenario to bring us back together.” I smile, relieved. “You’re so right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  “Except for grammar,” I add sagely.

  “You and your grammar can fuck right off, gosling. And then fuck off some more. When you get to the corner of fucked off, please take a right into more fucking off, cross the fucking road, and keep walking until you’re too fucked off to go any further.”

  I giggle. “Ooh, someone’s got a sore point!”

  He glances at his crotch. “I get that a lot.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Oh God. We’re going to have make up sex. In fact we’re going to have sex, full stop. Visions of cupboards fill my head and I take ten tiny breaths, trying desperately not to panic. For a moment, I contemplate calling Captain Purity; surely he’s the only one with the power to get me out of this now. But I left his card in my super large tote bag, and besides, he’s probably still boning Enid.

  Labron opens the door for us and greets me with a playful salute. I return it, feeling ever so slightly like a Nazi. Wait…wrong salute. Well that was awkward.

  “Let’s go straight up to bed,” Hunter whispers, leading me up the stairs.

  “Okay,” I manage.

  “It’s not a request, sweet thing. It’s an order.”

  He’s so wonderfully bossy. Perhaps I should just
let my submissive urges take over, strip and let him do what he wants with my untouched fanjita. Then I cast my mind back to the advance chocolate review copy of his monster cock, and my fanjita snaps shut. I may be naïve when it comes to sex but I’m pretty sure there’s a difference between losing your virginity and being obliterated to Mound Zero.

  “You k-know,” I stammer as we enter his bedroom, “I remember you saying that you were cool if we waited.”

  “That was like…” He counts on his fingers. “Three chapters ago.”

  “It was yesterday,” I point out.

  “Twenty-four hours is a long time for any man to wait for gorgeous you.” He wraps strong arms around my waist and presses me against his huge erection. “This has been incubating for at least twenty hours of that time. Now be a good girl and don’t let it grow any bigger.”

  Penises have to incubate? Wow. Every day’s a school day.

  Hunter kisses me furiously, his breath ragged and hard. “I’ve never had a million dollar fuck before.”

  “Best make sure we’re safe then.” I snicker. “We don’t want a million dollar baby.”

  I’m too busy feeling smug over my witty one-liner to notice him rip his shirt off, so when I open my eyes and see him topless, my heart thumps in my mouth.

  “Oh, Hunter,” I gasp.

  “You’re on the pill, right?” he mumbles into my neck. “You virgins are always on the pill or something.”

  “Yeah. And what with me being a virgin and all, I’m clean of the icky diseases.”

  “I was conveniently tested last week,” he grunts. “I’m clean too.”

  He’s so thoughtful. He even pauses to check if I’m okay after he literally throws me at the bed. I mean, I’ve had comfier landings, but who cares? Hunter is almost naked and I’m actually controlling my anxiety—all I can think about is his luscious bod.

  He lands on top of me and begins to peel off my clothes. “Do you like to talk dirty, gosling?”

  “I…uh…maybe.”

  “Because when I start besmirching, things get dirty.”

  Oh, sweet Lord—we’re getting all besmirchy. I think I’m going to wet myself, but in the sexy way.

  Hunter yanks off my leggings, socks and damp Uggs. He’s in his tight Calvins—his warning: choking hazard tat on show—and I’m in my best panties from Target, the ones that say Kermit for President. My nipples are swollen up like Cap’n’ Crunch, and my warm pink tunnel is like a freshly toasted Pop Tart—crunchy on the outside, smooth on the inside.

  “Cammie,” says Hunter, his cheeks flush and his eyes glassy, “I want to lick your magic daffodil.”

  “Um…is that a British thing?”

  He doesn’t answer; he just starts yanking off my panties. Farewell, Kermit. Farewell, hymen. But no time to dwell on the sheer horror of that association—Hunter just started sucking my jelly bean!

  “Ooooooooh!” I sound like a melting snowman. I’m dripping like one too.

  “Mmnphgh,” he mumbles, his mouth full of taco meat. “Tastes like plum jam and kittens.”

  My knees keep jerking, my hips keep bucking. I put my hand on Hunter’s tousled head. It’s like that force-feeding scene in Se7en, except for the part where he doesn’t suffer a horrendous death and shit himself.

  “Oh Hunter,” I moan. “I’m going to…”

  “Not so fast.” He wriggles back up, pulling his Calvins down in the process.

  His beast baton thumps against my inner thigh. Jesus—it’s even heavier than the chocolate version.

  “Hunter,” I whimper, “you’re so big. I’m scared.”

  “I get that a lot.” He pauses to toss his hair, and then climbs back up over me, kissing me gently. Then he takes my hand and guides it down to touch him. “Gosling, I’d like to introduce you to my WOMOC.”

  I curve my trembling fingers around his substantial length. “W…whuh?”

  “Weapon of mass orgasm construction,” he quips, grinning.

  “Oh.”

  “What did you think of the advance review copy? Five stars?”

  “Five…uh…five something…”

  “Five minutes of pure pleasure, more like.” He pauses to stroke my hair sympathetically. “Or should I say, five and a half. Would you like a Xanax first?”

  “I’m good,” I whisper. “Hunter, you’re all the Xanax I need.”

  “Oh baby.”

  We’re kissing and rubbing up on each other, his WOMOC bouncing around between my legs and bashing out a jungle beat on my tuna garden. Our passion is epic; our heartbeats dance in erotic mayhem. And just when I think he’s going to push into me…he stops.

  “You know how you said you were clean,” he pants. “Did you check for thrush?”

  My mind races. I’m too aroused to function properly. “What?”

  “Candida, yeast infection. Discharge o’clock. Did you check for that?”

  I frown. “I guess I didn’t.” WHO CHECKS FOR THRUSH?

  “Huh.” He gets up a little, lies next to me instead. “How about oral thrush?”

  “Is that even a thing?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He wipes his sweaty brow. “We can’t go any further until you’re thoroughly examined.”

  My girlcore throbs with disappointment. “Maybe…you could examine me?” I say hopefully.

  “Gosling. I’m a man of many talents, but I’m not a gynaecologist.” He pauses. “Yet. Now.” He pats my naked inner thigh. “Let’s get you to the late night VD clinic before my cock goes back down.”

  * * *

  The clinic is held in a back room at Gabriel’s Wrapture, which is handy because it’s right on campus. It’s clearly signposted, but no matter—whichever entrance you use, turns out you can still find a taco smothered in sour cream.

  “So how do these tests work, exactly?” I ask as we wait by the clinic door.

  Hunter shrugs. “I dunno. You’ll have to ask Dr Emuson.”

  A few seconds after we ring the doorbell, a nurse welcomes us into a poky little waiting room complete with plastic chairs, a PC from the early 1990s and tinny Lighthouse Family music on the stereo. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she says in a high-pitched voice.

  Hunter gestures for me to sit down, and I comply.

  “Why do I feel like I’m waiting for a backstreet abortion?” I mutter.

  “There is no shame in thrush, gosling,” Hunter says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and rubbing gently. “In sickness and in health, and all that.”

  “Oh, Hunter,” I whisper, turning to him. “Really?”

  “You know how much you mean to me.”

  A shadow falls over us, and I look up to see a handsome man in a white coat. “Cammibelle Hicks?” he reads from a clipboard in a soft Mexican accent. “Right this way, mi pequeno conejo.”

  “How come we’re not testing you for thrush?” I hiss at Hunter as we follow the doctor.

  He scowls at me. “Because, ew.”

  Dr Emuson opens the door to the examination room and ushers us both in. Inside, there are more plastic seats, posters of genital diagrams, posters of the Gabriel’s Wrapture $3 Meal Deal, and a bed with what appears to be a selection of medieval torture instruments.

  I freeze on the spot.

  “Now now,” says Dr Emuson with a sympathetic smile. “There’s really no need to be nervous.”

  “She’s just being silly,” Hunter explains. “You know how women get sometimes.”

  The doctor nods. “Ah yes. Silly…and quite often, confused.”

  I feel myself blush. “How did you guys guess?”

  Hunter grins The Grin. “Just a little cock-led intuition.”

  He knows me so well, and it makes me feel safe. Protected. What more could you ask for than a guy who’s actively concerned for your gynaecological health?

  As we take our seats, Dr Emuson joins us at his desk. “So what can I do for you two lovebirds this evening?”

  “Cammie may have thrush—up above and
down below,” Hunter announces. “Obviously, being the responsible hero I am, I think it’s important to beast the yeast before I ram the ham, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Dr Emuson gives an understanding smile. “Absolutely.”

  “So…uh…what happens now?” I ask, glancing nervously at the bed and the table of…implements.

  “Thrush is generally diagnosed with an examination,” the doctor explains. “I’ll have a look inside your mouth, and then you’ll need to pop off your panties so I can have a peek at your flower.”

  I suppose flower is better than Vaj Mahal, huh. And the good doctor is kind of hot, so maybe he’ll make my petals blossom.

  “I’m just going to the loo,” says Hunter in his delightfully British way. “Back in a few minutes. Just carry on, get it all sorted.”

  The door closes with a click, and Dr Emuson and I are alone.

  “Do you mind if I put on a little Chopin?” he asks, motioning to his iPod dock. “It helps to relax my patients.”

  “Uh…sure. Why not?”

  “Wonderful.” He presses something on the remote, and a melancholy piano piece begins to play. “Now let’s check your mouth first, shall we?”

  He scoots over on his office chair, cups my chin, and shines a bright light down my throat. Good thing I refrained from garlic this evening.

  “Okay…turn a little to the left…say aaaaaaaaah.”

  “Aaaaaaamppphhhggghhh,” I say obediently.

  “Well done, conejo.”

  I wonder if conejo is the Spanish word for snatch?

  “Now I’ll need you to take off your pants and lie on the bed, with your feet in the stirrups,” he instructs.

  I gulp. I mean, sure, girls get pelvic exams all the time, but I never got around to it and that bed looks like something from SAW.

  Still—Hunter needs me to do this. And who am I to say no to two educated and experienced men? The gentle lull of the Chopin track seeps into my ears…pliiiiinky plinky plinky…and I find myself walking toward the bed.

  “Just pull the curtain around while you get undressed,” says the doctor. “I’ll do my best not to look, but hell knows, I’m only a man.”