by Piper Rayne
I’ve heard Andres’ music and love it, but I’ve never had the chance to attend one of his shows. I sip my water and watch as his band starts playing behind him. His eyes are closed as he grips the microphone and stands tall in a vintage gray t-shirt and dark, blue jeans. When he starts singing, he opens his eyes and looks at me. Well, not me in particular, but he looked out at the crowd and I happen to be front row.
There’s no doubt in my mind why Andres was named sexiest man alive last year by multiple magazines. He’s absolutely mouth-watering with his dark hair, smoldering eyes, and muscular brown skin. He has the most sultry singing voice—in Spanish and English—which he switches between during the song.
I have to remind myself not to stare, but he has that all-consuming charisma lead singers have. I may need a cold shower after this one.
When Andres is finished I let out a breath, Sandra Latham, Director of Product Development at Sierra, walks up to the microphone stand located next to a white wall covered with a black curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank everyone for being here for the grand reveal of our newest fragrance. We at Sierra are so grateful to Katya Novikova, two-time tennis Grand Slam champion, for signing on to be the face of this fragrance. Thank you, Katya, for giving us so much for your time and for working tirelessly on this project.” Sandra stops and holds her arms out. I step into them, embracing her as the crowd applauds.
She releases me and continues, “When we set out to create this fragrance, we were so inspired by Katya. We wanted to capture her essence in a scent. We needed something fresh and sexy. Sporty yet feminine. Graceful, but strong. And so, without further ado, I’m proud to introduce, Katya by Sierra!”
As soon as she finishes, the curtain drops, revealing a huge poster of me in a white tennis dress next to a net at center court. The fragrance sits in the bottom right. I heard her say my name, but I didn’t quite understand until I read the bold type on the top of the advertisement. “Katya” by Sierra. “Katya” is the name of the fragrance.
I’m so struck by surprise, my knees almost buckle. My heart races, and my knees shake as I turn around and throw my arms around Sandra again.
“I had no idea!” I tell her.
“Now you see why we wanted this pop up to be a surprise for you.”
“It’s amazing. Thank you!”
Once the initial surprise wears off, I flip the nervous energy into playing it up for the crowd. I stand in front of the poster, smiling brightly as flashbulbs go off every few seconds.
Sandra, who’s still at the microphone, clears her throat. “Katya has a huge heart and is very involved with charities. Knowing that, and wanting to capture her generous spirit, we decided that a portion of the proceeds of this fragrance will go to a national network of children’s hospitals who provide free medical care for patients.” She pauses, allowing the crowd to cheer and applaud again. “So, please, eat, drink, enjoy! Let’s celebrate a wonderful woman and this wonderful moment.”
I can’t believe my ears. Tying the product to any of the charities I work with wasn’t something I knew about at all. In casual conversation, people at Sierra had asked me questions about organizations, but they never went into depth. I didn’t think anything of it. It’s absolutely amazing to have this moment. When Sandra steps away from the podium, I hug her again. She’s probably going to file a restraining order on me, but I can’t help it. I’m so overwhelmed by emotion.
After shaking hands and thanking a line of people form Sierra with Jill at my side, she pulls me away to mix and mingle again. Thankfully, she takes me to a group where Charlie has been chatting happily.
“Congratulations, my dear,” he kisses me on the cheeks.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” I spin around, taking in every sight and sound of the party. I stumble a bit when I turn back to him. “Charlie, I had no idea!”
“It’s a very special moment. Enjoy it.” He takes the drink from my hand and replaces it with water. I appreciate that he looks out for me. I didn’t how much alcohol I’d had in a short period of time.
I’ve only been talking to Charlie for a moment, when suddenly, Jill barrels back in and grabs my arm. I hadn’t even realized she left.
“You will never guess who I just talked to,” she says.
“Who?” I’m hanging on every word.
“Andres Martinez’s agent,” she responds. “Andres wants you to be in his next video.”
“What?” I shake my head in disbelief. “Me?”
“Yes. Are you interested?”
“Am I interested? Of course!” I hop up, which isn’t a good idea in five-inch heels, as I waver a bit. Charlie holds my arm to steady me.
“I thought you’d say that. We exchanged numbers. I’ll figure out the details and run it by as soon as I know what’s going on,” she says. She touches my shoulder. “Honey, you have been such a rock star tonight. Let’s go say goodbye to the Sierra folks and get you and Charlie in a cab.”
“Charlie, I’m never going to m-make it on a flight.” I say, trying to stand upright, but my wobbly legs know Charlie’s doing most of the work.
“Don’t worry, Katya. We missed that flight, anyway.”
“Vanya. What about—” I lean forward, until my forehead hits the door. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Hold on, now,” he says, unlocking the door and ushering me inside. He leads me straight to the bathroom. Immediately, my legs buckle and I crumple onto the floor next to the toilet. I lean my elbow on the rim and prop up my head.
“Katya,” he scolds, gathering my hair in his hands and securing it with an elastic band.
“I know, I know.” I wave him off, and lay my cheek down on the rim of the bowl. The cold porcelain feels good on my flushed face.
“Do you need me to stay?” he winces as if it’s the last thing he wants to do. I don’t blame him. The smell of vomit makes me sick, so I never hang around when someone else is doing it.
“I’m okay.”
He leaves the room for a moment, and comes back with a glass of ice, which he sets on the floor next to me. “It might help to chew on those. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
“Charlie!” I call out meekly, barely able to find my voice. When he turns, I continue, “Thank you.”
“Get some rest, Katya.”
When I wake up, I’m lying on the bathroom floor with a fluffy white towel pulled over me like a blanket. My hand flies to my pounding forehead, as I sit up. Slowly, I reach forward and start crawling. The hotel room is completely dark, but I find my way to the bed, climb into it, and curl up under the covers.
Before I close my eyes, I pop my head out and check the time. 3:27 a.m.
I missed my flight to Detroit last night, missed the chance to get to Vanya, and had far too much champagne. I groan and bury my head again before drifting off.
“Katya!” Charlie pounds on my door seconds later.
Well, it felt like seconds, but when I throw the blanket off my head, a glance at the clock tells me it’s ten after seven.
“Katya! You’ve gotta to get up. You’ve got a flight to Detroit at ten.”
His announcement makes me scramble out of bed. I’m still wearing last night’s dress, and probably have last night’s eye makeup running down my cheeks. I rush to the door and let him in.
“Your bag is packed from yesterday, right?” Charlie asks, kindly ignoring my appearance as he sets a cup of coffee on my dresser.
I nod.
“Jump in the shower. We’ve got to get a move on.”
Without delay, I scramble out of bed, hightail it to the bathroom, and take the fastest shower ever.
12
Vanya
“Katya,” I whisper, smiling and pushing her head toward my cock. I tense in anticipation as her warm breath sends chills through me. Just as she’s about to cover me with her mouth, a loud, annoying buzzing fills the air.
My eyes pop open and I realize I’m alone in my
bed holding a pillow over my dick. The alarm blares in my ear, until I reach over and slap it. Normally, I never press snooze, but I really want to get back into that dream. Especially being interrupted at such a pivotal moment.
But my body is so used to waking up at the same time almost every day, it doesn’t allow me to fall back asleep.
Out of all the things that quickly run through my head, it’s the thought of her that lingers. Since I have a minute, I lean over and grab the latest issue of MX men’s magazine, where my girlfriend graces the cover in nothing but a black leather bikini. If I can’t have her in my dreams, I can rub one out while looking at her—like millions of other men around the world. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, it turns me on even more. One of the most lusted after women in the world is mine.
I turn to the center, where there’s a photo of her kneeing on the beach, legs spread with one hand behind her head, and the other with her thumb hooked into the front of the practically non-existent swim suit pulling it down slightly in front. She’s wet, with her blonde hair slicked back and sand glittering on her bronzed skin.
I spit in my hand and grab hold of my cock, imagining my face between her legs, mouth directly over the prized spot. With every lick, I rub my cock up and down which feels amazing in my current state. I allow myself to drift into the moment, remembering how soft her skin felt under my fingers and her intoxicating scent. There’s no stopping now. I’m licking, sucking, lapping at her, making sure I coat every inch of my tongue in her juices.
The thought of her cum dripping off my chin is what brings me to my peak. My cock throbs and pulses in my hand, and I swear I see stars when I squirt. I drop the magazine, saying, “Oh yes! Fuck yes!” through an exhale.
The release is absolute ecstasy. Though, I’d rather be doing it inside Katya than on my bed.
I let myself enjoy the moment, zoning out and catching my breath before squeezing out every last drop.
I add changing and washing my sheets to the list of things I have to do today before I pick Katya up from the airport tonight. She’s spending a few days with me in Detroit and I couldn’t be more excited. The Chargers have a three-game home stand, so I’m home for over a week, which rarely happens.
The last few months feel like I’ve been living in a dream—which is how I expect life with Katya will always be as long as we’re both working. Our relationship has felt like a series of mini-vacations since we’ve been together. Imagine getting to have all your dates in different cities across the US and Canada? That’s gotta go down as one of the coolest courtships in dating history. But we do what we have to in order to see each other when we can.
Katya usually travels to where I am, because I don’t have many free days in my schedule. She doesn’t either, but she can train from whatever city she’s in, while I have to stay with my team.
I never expected her to show up after my game in Florida. I knew she lived in Miami, but I didn’t expect her to visit. Not after how we’d left things in New York.
I thought about calling her a million times over the month we didn’t communicate. But I wanted to give her space. Plus, I don’t believe in chasing women. Pursuing them? Yes. But chasing after she’s told me she’s not interested? No. If she doesn’t want to be with me, I respect the decision, no matter how much it might sting.
I don’t have time for any more games than the eighty already on my schedule.
Not to say I won’t give someone another chance. I know Katya is young and scared. She’s affected by what the press reports. Their stories—truth or not—weigh on her heavily, rightfully so as they’ve turned her into a sex symbol and marketing machine. I don’t understand how she can even focus on her tennis career with what she has to put up with.
But I knew, if she was going to come back to me, she’d wait until after she’d turned eighteen.
Maybe that’s what was going through my subconscious when I sent a massive bouquet of roses to her home for her birthday.
I spent longer than usual in front of the mirror checking my freshly-shaved face to see if I missed any spots. When I’m satisfied with my look, I get dressed. I check the time as I strap on my silver Tag Heuer. It’ll only take me twenty minutes to get to the airport, but I want to stop and get Katya something on the way.
By five fifteen, I’m in my Mercedes heading to the only flower shop I know of, a local place not far from my house. I’ve never been in there, only passed it, but it’ll serve the purpose.
Upon opening the door of the dimly lit store, I see multiple people mulling around, sniffing flowers or running their fingers along them. When I step in, various pungent scents assault my nose, making me feel slightly sick for a moment. I stand there, taking a second to let the nausea pass, when a woman calls out to me.
“You need help or are you just gonna stand there?” Her accent is thick, but I can’t tell what nationality. It’s definitely not Eastern European. Maybe Spanish or Italian?
A few people look up, but most keep their head down, which means they don’t want to embarrass me, or this woman is like this all the time and it’s not something to bat an eyelash at. I’ll bet my car it’s the latter.
“I look at these flowers for my girlfriend,” I reply, remembering to smile, as Americans do.
“What’s your girlfriend’s favorite kind of flower?” she asks, showing a set of tobacco-stained teeth while she speaks.
“No clue,” I say, running my fingers through my dark blond hair knowing this lady’s not going to be happy about my answer.
“What kind of man doesn’t know his girlfriend’s favorite flower?” She gives me a disgusted look, as if she just wiped me off the bottom of her shoe.
“We just start dating. This I do not know.” I keep my cool. A crotchety old lady in a flower shop isn’t going to make me blink twice. I actually like her. Her direct demeanor reminds me of old woman back home.
She pauses, sizing me up from underneath thick dark eyebrows. At first, I think she’s going to kick me out of the shop empty-handed. Still, I stand my ground, showing I’m unaffected by her scrutiny.
“Alright, follow me,” she finally says and leads me to a different section of the store. “Don’t suppose you know her favorite color either, eh?” she asks as we stop in front of a wall of flowers, all grouped together in large buckets.
“Nope,” I tell her, shaking my head and crossing my arms over my chest. I haven’t asked a woman what her favorite color was since I was in primary school.
“I like you,” she says abruptly, which surprises the shit out of me. “I’ll pick you something she’ll love.”
She smiles then rubs her forefinger over her chin as she scans the wall of flowers. “I’ve been selling flowers for over forty years. Right here in this store.” She points to the ground. I follow her finger as if there’s a historical marker under her feet. “I can tell you what every flower symbolizes.”
“Red roses do not work for every time?”
She rubs her lower back as if it’s stiff, while dismissing a bucket of red roses with a wave of her other hand. “Red roses are beautiful, but cliché.”
“I think they are love, yes?”
“Yes. Boring, plain old love.”
The woman moves to the next bucket and plucks out a yellow rose. She brings it to her nose, closes her eyes, and inhales before returning it. Yellow roses are a symbol of friendship.”
I watch closely as she handles the flowers. She loves this—both the flowers and a captive audience. I appreciate that because I love a captive audience when I’m doing what I do best as well.
She stops in front of another red flower, krasnyy tyul'pan in my language.
“But red tulips!” She lifts one of them and brings it to her nose as she did the yellow rose. “Red tulips symbolize passion. And that’s what I see in you.” She winks as if we’ve shared a special moment. “Give her these,” she says, grabbing a new bundle and shoving the flowers at me.
I accept the bouquet and count t
hem quickly. Twelve beautiful red tulips. “I need twenty-three of these.”
“What are you, a wise guy?” she asks, tilting her head as if I’m playing a joke on her. A joke she’s not amused with.
“Is my tradition to give odd number.”
The woman folds her arms across her chest. “Where?”
“In Russia. We only give even number flowers at funerals.”
“Really?”
I nod.
“I guess we both learned something today,” she says, smiling as she hands me the bouquet where she’d removed a flower to smell, making it a bundle of eleven. “Head to the front and my daughter will check you out.”
“Thank you for your help. I appreciate this.” I smile back as I collect the flowers.
I arrive at the airport at exactly 5:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before Katya is scheduled to land. I wait outside the gate where her flight is due, shifting on my feet as I look out the window. When I see the plane pull up to the gate, I can’t help but smile. I can’t wait to hold her in my arms and bring her to my bed.
Waiting for people to deplane seems to take forever. I watch with baited breath as passengers exit. There’s a large group, then a gap, followed by more people. I thought Katya traveled first class and would have been one of the first people off the plane, but she’s not in any of the early groups.
When she still doesn’t come through the door with the last stragglers, I can’t help but wonder if I got the flight time wrong. Maybe she departed at 6:00 p.m. instead of arriving at that time. My thoughts have been so scattered recently trying to remember her schedule and my schedule that I totally could have made that mistake.
