Oh no.
I remember how rough he looked earlier today, and at the bar the other night, and fear and worry twist my gut. Is he an alcoholic?
"Hunter?" His massive shoulders rise and fall and I can hear his labored breathing, but otherwise he doesn't stir. I glide my palm along his beautiful, thick shoulder, stroking lightly near his nape. "Hunter?" I try again. "Are you okay?"
He curls over more tightly, clutching his golden hair—too hard. On instinct, I brag his fingers to loosen their grip. He puts a hand over his face and moans again, his body twisting.
"Hunter?"
I feel lost. What do I do for him? Did he drink himself into this state? I can't believe he'd do that. On TV, at least, he always seems so in control. Even those times with me, when he'd caved to his desires, he seemed at the wheel. Nothing like this.
Except something else is going on here. I know a head-screwed drunk when I see one. This seems like something else.
"Hunter? Are you sick?" He continues breathing hard, almost like he's struggling, and I wonder about the drugs he's said he doesn't do. For some reason, the thought of Hunter doing drugs makes me feel ill.
Moving slowly, I step closer to him, so I'm standing directly over him. He's still lying back against the chair, so I have full view of his glorious, ripped chest. The way his abs and hips taper down to... Oh, no, Liz. Don't look there.
With all my self-control, I pull my gaze back to his face. He's got it covered with his hand, but I can see his nose and mouth between his fingers. His lips are twisted. Like he's having a nightmare. His body still seems...asleep.
Moving hesitantly, I reach for the arm that's lying on his leg to see if I can rouse him, but when I touch his forearm, he jerks back. He moans, and it's an awful sound.
"It's okay," I whisper. I stand there, aching to comfort him, and the only thing I can think of is to take his hand in mine. I do it quickly, grasping and then squeezing. I sandwich his hand between both of mine, and he leans forward a little. His shoulders relax some, but he's still covering his face with his free hand like whatever's going on inside his mind is more than he can bear.
"Hunter. It's okay." I trace the surface of his hand, his bruised and scraped knuckles. My mind is racing. Maybe he's feverish, but his hand feels cool.
"Come to bed," I murmur. I stand, tugging on his hand, and I'm surprised when he rises. The way he walks over to his bed—the dazed look in his eyes and the stiff movements of his body—lets me know he's somewhere else. Not here. He stops beside the beside and I touch the small of his back, where he doesn't have any fresh cuts. When he climbs into bed, I try to get a clear view of his back, but he rolls and collapses, face-up. His eyes are shut, his body slack.
I rub his shoulder. "Turn onto your side."
He shifts his hips, and I get full view of his back. It still looks bad, striped with pinkish marks and painful for sure, but not infected. A shudder rolls through him and I put my hand on the firm skin of his side.
"It's okay, Hunter. Go to sleep."
I step up, near his head, and find his eyes are open. I'm shocked when they roll over my face. "Libby?" He sounds strangled.
I nod and whisper, "Go to sleep." His eyes drift shut, and I am brave enough to stroke his golden hair. It's soft, so soft and pretty, like his creamy tanned neck and his cute little ear.
"Go to sleep, Hunter. Everything's okay."
Finally he's breathing evenly, his body relaxed.
I bring him the bottle of water from my bedside, and fish some crackers and Advil from my purse. I leave them on the table beside his bed and stroke his hair once more before I go.
Chapter Thirty-One
~ELIZABETH~
I open my eyes to streams of golden light peeking through the edges of the curtains over a massive, wall-long window. The first thing I think is something important happened, but for that first minute, I can't remember what. All I know is that I feel rested, and my huge oak bed, with its sheer, flowing canopy and satin duvet, makes me feel like a princess.
Holy crabcakes. I'm at Hunter's house. And...what the fudge was that last night? There's no reason my memory of the previous night should make me nervous, but suddenly that's what I am. I can't move from the bed. I can hardly even breathe as I think about the man who slept next door to me. Is he okay? Still sleeping?
What the hell am I doing here, in this bedroom that connects to his? I feel almost crushed by a wave of surreality. I sold my V-card. For ten million dollars. To Hunter West.
How am I ever going to pull this off? Have sex with Hunter? I imagine a fully awake and fully erect hunter, naked and lying over me...
Dear God.
I hop off the bed and fly through my morning preparations. Since I showered the night before, I consider skipping, but considering what might be on today's agenda, I shower one more time. I dress in a pair of brown leggings and a long, sexy red sweater that dips down just a little low in front. I pull on some ankle-length boots I borrowed from Suri and put on just a dash of makeup. If Hunter might be seeing me up close, I don't want to look phony, but I don’t want him to see the sprinkling of freckles on my nose, either.
But will he be seeing me up close?
I feel silly for over-thinking things when I've messed around with Hunter before, but those times were different. Spontaneous. This… despite what I thought going into the sex business, it is kind of weird.
I send a quick text to Suri, telling her to text me updates about Cross. I want so badly to tell her what’s going on, but I don’t. I do enjoy a moment of glee, where I want to fall down on my knees and thank the heavens that Cross is awake. Then I tuck my purse and phone under the bed, give myself one more glance in the mirror, and step out into the hall.
The first thing I'll do after reassuring myself that Hunter is okay is let him know I'm not cool with our plan. I don't want to initiate sex. I've never done it before and he is, after all, the winning bidder. He should chose the moment. If he doesn't want to… I won't be offended.
Slowly—so slowly that I'm almost not moving at all—I step to the door beside mine and raise my fist to knock. My knuckles connect with the cold cherry wood, and I hold my breath as I listen for his footsteps. Nothing. I knock twice more, trying not to worry when he doesn't answer. Then I tuck my hair behind my ears and head for the stairs. Maybe I'll find him in his study.
My pulse is pounding by the time I reach the bottom of the curling staircase. With sunlight streaming through the windows, I can fully appreciate the beauty of the foyer, with its glossy marble floors and sleek wood walls. The chandelier hanging from the high ceiling is made of what looks like an old-school wagon wheel and some kind of copper. It's just the right blend of eclectic and classic.