Trashed (Stripped 2)

“You are so fucking sexy, Des,” Adam growls, his voice a low rumble in my ear. His lips trace along the shell of my ear. “You know that? Do you know how fucking incredible you look right now?”

I can only shake my head, because that’s just the honest truth. I don’t know. I don’t feel sexy. I’m wet and cold and my hair is a tangled mess and my makeup, what little bit I put on earlier, is either smeared by the rain or washed away entirely.

“I’ll have to show you, then.”

He pivots, and my back is to the towel rack, and I can see over his shoulder to our reflection in the mirror. His back is as ripped as the rest of him, of course, and god, a man’s muscular back is a thing of beauty. His muscles shift and ripple as he leans down and his teeth nip at the delicate skin at the side of my neck. And then he pivots again, and I’m facing the mirror and he’s standing behind me. He doesn’t tower over me, but he still dwarfs me. His hands wrap around my waist, just above my jeans, and now I can see myself.

Black bra. It’s an old one and doesn’t fit, so my breasts spill out over the top of it, the edge of my areola peeking up from the top of one cup. My stomach isn’t entirely flat, a fact which doesn’t usually bother me, but now with his scrutiny on me like a laser, all I can see is the slightly rounded pooch of my belly. My jeans are undone, showing my green cotton underwear in the ‘V’ of my open zipper.

I am in no way prepared for this. I’m not even wearing a matching bra and underwear set. As a broke, orphaned college girl barely making rent and tuition, the last thing I need or have the money for is sexy lingerie. But now I’m wishing I’d bothered, because I’m in a hotel bathroom with Adam Trenton, in my jeans and my bra, and my bra is easily ten years old, the silk of the cups fraying at the edges, and it doesn’t fit because I’ve filled out since I bought this bra, but it’s one of three I own and the other two are in the wash. And my underwear? Well, thank god they’re not granny panties; I don’t wear those, even on period days. These are basic cotton, which isn’t really sexy, but at least they’re boy-shorts, which, considering how big my ass is, look pretty good on me.

But am I sure I want him to see my underwear? Meaning, am I sure I’m willing to let him take my jeans off and see me in just my underwear?

No.

Hell no.

But his fingers slide down my sides and over my hips, slipping between the denim of my jeans and the cotton of my underwear. And then, somehow, I’m stepping on the cuff of one leg of my jeans and pulling my leg free, and then again, and now I’m shaking all over and his eyes are raking over my curves in the mirror, and I can feel him behind me. He’s a huge mountain behind me, his chest at my shoulders, and I can feel something hard and thick between us, and I know what it is, but can’t think about that.

“Des.” He says my name in a rumbling whisper.

“Adam.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.” That’s true, but that’s not really why I’m shaking. The truth slips out of my mouth. “And scared.”

“Why are you scared, Des?”

“Because…I mean, isn’t it obvious?” The real truth behind my fear isn’t something I’d ever admit to, not even under torture.

“No.” He cups my hips, and then his hands are palming my butt, lifting the heavy weight of one cheek and then the other, playing with me, enjoying it, kneading and caressing.

I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to, and I don’t. I don’t want to stop him. I like the way his hands feel on my ass. I like being touched like this. I didn’t know it would feel so good to have a man’s hands on my bottom. But it does, it’s incredible, it’s heady and I’m shaking from how good it feels and from the ever-present fear and doubt and nerves.

I have to regain some kind of control over myself, and over the situation. “Well, let me spell it out, then. You’re a famous Hollywood movie star. You got mobbed in the hotel lobby. I’m no one. I’m a trash collector.” I have to pause to breathe, because his hands are finding the elastic waistband of my underwear and digging under to cup bare flesh and muscle, and my underwear are perilously close to coming off now, baring my core. “I’m a fucking garbage girl. A janitor. And like you said, you’re only here for the weekend, and Adam? I’m not this type of girl.”

“What type?” he demands, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “What do you think is happening?”

I glare at his reflection. “You’re seducing me. And I’m letting you, but I have no fucking clue why. And I don’t know why you’d want this with me. Why you’d bring me up here, when I’m nobody, when I look the way I do and you’re you and—”

“The way you look? What’s that mean?” He sounds almost angry.

“It just means I’m not a size two, okay?”

“And what? You think I somehow missed that fact?”

I’m stunned for a moment. “Wow. Okay.” I rip myself out of his arms. “Fuck you.” I push past him.

I don’t make two steps before he’s wrapping an arm around me and stopping me, spinning me in place and pulling me hard against him, so my bra is pressed against his chest and my breasts are actually and completely spilling out. And I can feel his cock between us, big, thick, and hard.

“Stop, Des.”

“Let me go.” I hate being restrained. It triggers a fight-or-flight reflex in me. Violently, if I feel threatened enough.

“Des, just listen—” His hold on me is inexorable and unbreakable, triggering rage and panic in me.

“Let me fucking go, now,” I growl, pushing against him with all my strength

He releases me immediately, and I’m having trouble breathing, memories flashing through me. “Des? It’s okay. It’s okay. Breathe. Breathe.” He’s got a hand on my back, and I want to both knock it away and beg him to put both hands on my back, to hold me, touch me.

I force my breathing to slow, and straighten. Fixing my eyes on his, I stab his bare chest with a finger. “Do not ever restrain me like that again.”

He holds his hands up, palms out. “I won’t. I swear, I promise. I just—”

“Damn right you won’t,” I say, and snatch my shirt off the floor. “Because I’m leaving.”

“Hold on a goddamned second,” he says, moving in front of me. “You misunderstood me. Deliberately, something tells me. You’re not a size two, and I know that. I see that. I saw that the first time I laid eyes on you. You’re here, Des. I brought you here, on purpose. Because I like you. Because you turn me on.”