The paparazzi are parasites.
I guess the cat is out of the bag -- well, not the real secret, the one Katherine's so terrified I'm going to spill. As if I want everyone knowing anyway.
I go back in the house, momentarily considering the fact that I don't have to do this whole summer thing. I could say fuck it, and blow the whole thing off.
Of course, my trust fund is in jeopardy. So I make the deal with my mother. It's like that guy, Faust, the one who sells his soul to the devil. Ella made me an offer I couldn't refuse. So I'm going to play along, join my new family for the summer.
Besides, how can I resist the thought of getting under Katherine's skin all summer long?
I run my fingers down his chest, tracing the ridge between his pectoral muscles and down over his nipple. He makes this sound like something you'd hear from an animal, deep and low in his throat, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. It's primal, like he's a predator and I'm the prey. Except that he's the one lying on his back, and I'm the one straddling him, my knees on either side of his body. His cock is bare, warm between my legs, and when I push down on his shaft, he groans my name.
"Kate."
He repeats the word again, and I don't wait for him to say it a third time. I just guide him inside, aided by my wetness. I savor the feeling of his thickness filling me up. Riding him, skin to skin, his cock bare inside me, I fuck him. It feels familiar, like I've done this a million times before. But it's a thousand times better now than it was the first time.
His hands slide up the sides of my waist to my chest, and he palms my breasts, his thumbs grazing my hard nipples. I begin to let go, abandoning myself to the sensation of being with him, riding him as he brings me higher and higher.
I'm so close, and he grabs my waist tighter, his hands pushing me down hard on his cock, his thrusts shorter and more frequent.
"Kate," he says. "I want you to fucking come on me." I'm on the edge, so close, about to crash over.
I jolt upright in bed, the pounding in my chest mimicking the throbbing between my legs. A sex dream about Caulter? It's like my brain is practicing mutiny. My nipples press against the fabric of my bra. Shit, I'm wearing a bra. And my jeans and t-shirt from yesterday. My mouth tastes like crap.
Silver morning sunlight streams through the bedroom window, and I can't believe I've slept through the night. The last thing I remember is putting my head down on the pillow so I could just close my eyes for a moment, figuring it was only a matter of time until my father came upstairs to have some kind of chat about the engagement. I can't believe they let me sleep.
I slide out of bed, wincing at the cotton mouth I've developed, and pad lightly down the hallway to the bathroom. I feel like I'm doing the walk of shame or something, still dressed in my clothes from the night before, and I'm immediately reminded of that night with Caulter.
As if my brain needs another reminder. The sex dream has me on edge; I can't quite tell if I'm irritated or horny.
Peeling off my t-shirt, I wince at the damp spot on the back where I've sweat through it. Surely I must be feverish; at least that would explain the sex dream. I drop it on the floor and step out of my jeans. Toothbrush. I need a toothbrush. I dig through the medicine cabinet over the sink, looking for a toothbrush, and then bend over, yanking the handle on the cabinet below.
The cool rush of air hits me before my ears even register the sound of the bathroom door opening, and I jump up immediately.
"Nice panties."
I whirl around to see Caulter in the doorway, his hair -- shaved on the sides, the longer part mussed -- standing up in every direction. Shirtless. He's wearing these pajama pants, grey cotton, the fabric so thin it clings to every part of him. Every part of him. The way they drape makes it worse than if he were standing here in front of me buck naked. The way he looks just screams sex, especially given the fact that his dick is hard. Like, rock hard.
And I can't stop looking at it.
Caulter notices and smirks. "Do you like what you see?" he asks. "You can give it another try if you want. I'm up for it."
"You're vulgar," I hiss. "You're in my bathroom. And the door is wide open." And I'm standing here in my underwear, I realize immediately; it's like my brain is slow this morning. I cover my chest with my arm and reach for the pile of clothes on the floor, shielding my crotch. Oh my God, I'm wearing granny panties.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him. "Better?"
"That wasn't an invitation," I say. "What's wrong with you? Get out of my bathroom. Don't you have any boundaries?"
"You're the one who was griping that the door was open," he says. "I wouldn't want anyone to walk in on you staring at my cock like it's a piece of steak and you're a starving animal."
"You're delusional," I say, gritting my teeth. "Thinking I'm staring at your cock. And turn around, so I can put some clothes on."
I'm almost surprised when he actually does, and I scramble to slide my legs back in my jeans.
"Sure you want to bother putting those jeans on?" he asks. "It's not like I haven't seen it already. Besides, those panties aren't exactly… revealing."
Cringing at the fact that he's just seen me in panties that are practically the size of a bed sheet, I slip my shirt over my head. "I thought we agreed to never speak about the incident again. Why are you still in here, anyway? I told you to leave."