by MV Ellis
“I said sit, and shhh.”
I put my fingers to his lips, and this time he does as he is told. This is turning me on even more than I thought possible. Maybe the power is going to my head.
I push him gently so he’s leaning back in the chair, legs apart, and get straight down to business. As I reach down and undo his fly, his dick springs free, standing to attention. Clearly I’m not the only one going commando today. I take one of his hands and wrap it around his cock, moving it slowly back and forth, making it clear that I want him to jerk himself off. He seems more than happy to oblige.
Now that I have him where I want him, I take full advantage, stepping just out of his reach, turning toward the center of the room. I start to slowly move to the piped music. I’m gyrating, grinding, swiveling my hips and jiggling my butt like nobody can see, even though Arlo can.
Although I have my back to him, so I can’t see his face, his appreciative groans tell me that he likes what he sees. I haven’t danced much since the tour started, so although very brief, the private dance for Arlo feeds my soul, as well as my libido.
When I’m done, Arlo wastes no time in quickly slipping on the condom he pulls from his wallet. As soon as it’s on, I take a few steps backward toward him until I’m standing between his legs, still with my back to him. I bend over very slowly, as though picking up something from the floor, thankful for my flexibility. I know that Arlo will be getting a spectacular view, especially as I’m in heels. More groans confirm my suspicion.
Just when think I can’t get any hornier, Arlo reaches out and slaps one of my buttocks, not too hard, but enough for the slight sting to make me catch my breath. I like it. A lot. The sensation sends a shockwave through my body and straight between my legs. I’m so wet that he must be able to see my pussy glistening. As though reading my thoughts, he speaks.
“You’re dripping wet. I love that you’re always so hot for me.”
Without warning, he slips a finger inside me and starts turning it, moving it in and out deliciously slowly. He’s killing me. I get such a blood rush to the head that my knees give out a little, but Arlo steadies me with both hands. He was right—he is always there to catch me.
Now that his finger is no longer inside me, I lower myself onto his waiting dick, my back pressed his chest. Holy. Fucking. Cow. I brace myself, resting my hands on his thighs, making it easier to lift and lower myself up and down him, and control the pace and depth as I ride him. I go faster and deeper with every rise and fall. I know it’s going to be a fast ride, but then again, we’re supposed to be eating dinner, so we haven’t got time for a slow and sensual screw, anyway. I ramp up the pace, knowing we’re both close, and I can’t believe how good it feels.
I look in the mirror above the dresser opposite us and see that Arlo has his head leaning back against the wall, lost in his own pleasure. He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The veins on his neck and at his temple throb rapidly, and his grip on my thighs is so tight that his knuckles are white. I’ve never thought of myself as a white-knuckle ride before. I’m sure there will be bruises tomorrow, but tonight the deliciousness of the pleasure-pain is worth it. I don’t have long to contemplate the idea, as moments later we’re both spiraling into orgasm. I try to make mine quiet, given we’re in a semipublic place. Arlo has no such reservations, it would seem, and loudly shouts his release.
“FUCK ME!” He slumps back against the wall, spent and panting.
Punch-drunk on pleasure, I can’t resist a little joke.
“I believe I just did, Mr. Jones.”
Once we’ve collected ourselves, we dress and return to the table, where the waiter has left our first dish. Thankfully it’s a ceviche, so it hasn’t been ruined by the delay. I try not to think too much about the fact that our server probably heard us screwing each other’s brains out just meters away—hopefully we’re not the first or last to do it. The dish looks amazing, but I seem to have lost my appetite. For food, anyway.
Eighteen
The final gig in Paris is the last of the entire tour, and there’s a perceptible shift in mood amongst the band, crew, and hangers-on like me. We’re all exhausted, and the air is thick with tension, elation, and nervous hysteria. It feels like everyone’s relieved that we made it to the end relatively unscathed, especially after what happened with Stevie last time around. The end of a huge tour is always a great excuse for a major blowout—not that any of the guys or the crew really need an excuse—and this one is being billed as the party to end all parties.
Personally, I’m completely drained—it’s a combination of how hard I’ve been working, the extensive travel, the hideous number of time zones we’ve crossed, and everything that’s happened with Arlo. Between surviving on not enough sleep, worrying about the photos, and battling with my feelings, I’m physically, emotionally, and mentally spent, and in no mood to party. I want to head back to my room to pack, then get an early night ahead of our journey home tomorrow.
When the band goes on stage that night, the crowd seems more riled up and excited than normal, which hardly seems possible, but it’s true. Maybe it’s a last night thing. I’m not sure, but I know that the atmosphere is electric. The boys are wired too, and when Arlo makes his entrance, the tension, excitement, and sexual energy go through the roof.
Not that I should be surprised—I don’t know how he has managed it, but Arlo is looking even more fuckable than usual. He’s dressed head-to-toe in black as standard, but instead of his usual tight jeans and distressed T-shirt combination, he’s wearing a black shirt, open to the navel. The sight of his chest makes me want to do stupid things. I’m definitely not the only one who feels that way—the audience is literally losing their minds.
There’s something different about him tonight that I can’t quite put my finger on. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I’d almost say it was nerves, but that doesn’t make any sense. He’s tightly wound, as always, but it doesn’t come with his usual swagger. He was also ruder and surlier backstage before the gig than normal. Everyone—band and crew alike, knew to give him a wide path, in case he tore them a new one.
Now he stalks across the stage and stares menacingly into the crowd, like a tiger sizing up its prey, an almost imperceptible smile curling at the corners of his lips. As he approaches the microphone, he cracks his neck the way he does when he’s tense, or riled up. Uh-oh. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes momentarily. What’s going on? Normally by this point in the show, he has launched into the first song of the set—an up-tempo crowd pleaser that was the band’s first big hit. It never fails to whip the audience into a frenzy.
I stand in the wings, camera poised, watching, intrigued and unmoving, as Arlo brings his head forward and slowly opens his eyes. Our gazes lock instantly, and hold. I’m now so tense, I don’t dare breathe. Arlo grabs the mic, but instead of starting the first verse of the song, as we’re all expecting, he turns his gaze slowly from me to address the crowd. They also seem to be waiting with baited breath—eyes bright, and eager for whatever he has to give. His voice is sexily husky, and my pussy clenches instinctively.
“Hello, beautiful Paris! So here we are. We made it to the end of the Cold, Hard, & Heartless Tour. It’s been a long and wild ride, but we’ve loved every minute, and know that you guys have too.” The crowd just about loses their shit. When the noise calms to a dull roar, Arlo continues.
“As it’s the last night, I want to change things up a bit and do something a little special. I want to play you a brand-new song. It’s something I wrote recently—in fact, it’s so new that the other boys haven’t even heard it yet, so this is a world first, a first for you and for them, too.”
I briefly glance away from Arlo to the rest of the band. Sure enough, they’re shifting uncomfortably. They clearly have no clue what’s going on. The weight of Arlo’s stare forces me to lock my gaze back to his. Once I do, he continues.
“I wrote this song from the heart, for someone very special in my life, and now I’m just goi
ng to shut up and play it, before I change my mind.”
He continues to look deep into my eyes as a guitar tech strides across the stage and swaps Arlo’s usual electric guitar for an acoustic one. Seconds later, I recognize the melody of the song that he was playing the day we first gave in to our mutual attraction. When he starts singing, still staring meaningfully at me, my heart is in my mouth.
Things make more sense to me, suddenly
Since you walked in through the door
The world looks good to me, so good to me
So much better, so much more
My heart beats forcefully, and quickly
I feel alive and now I’m sure
That you were sent to me, to be with me
For me to worship and adore
You feel so good to me, when you touch me
You leave me wanting more
You mean so much to me, that I can’t see
How my life has been before
Soft as a feather, but as strong as a stone,
Whenever I’m near you, baby, I am home
Soft as a feather, but never are you weak,
You're the one, baby, who can make me meek
If you want me, baby, I don’t know
If you want me, can’t you let it show?
Your touch it haunts me, it moves me,
It rocks me to my core
I feel things so deeply, when you look at me
My heart is on the floor
You came to me, you changed me
Nothing is the same,
I see so clearly, that it can’t be
Won’t ever be again
As the final note of the song rings out, a reverential hush descends on the huge room. I think everyone is trying to work out what they just witnessed, the rest of the band included. Personally, it’s pretty clear—if I previously had questions about Arlo’s feelings for me, that song, the expression on his face, and look in his eyes when he sang it directly to me, answers them. Fuck.
I want to run backstage and then keep on going, but I know that if I don’t keep my promise about staying in Arlo’s line of sight, all hell will break loose, so I remain rooted to the spot. The rest of the gig passes in a complete blur. The guys give the performance of a lifetime—especially Arlo, who is in top rock-god form, owning the stage and every woman (and some men) in the room. I, on the other hand, get through it on autopilot. I’m not even sure if the shots I capture are any good, but I’m not worried—I know I’ve got great material in the bag from every other night. Right now my biggest concern is what just went down on stage, and what it means for me.
My head is spinning as I retreat to my dressing room after the show, and start packing up my gear. Once I have the majority done, I hurry down to the communal greenroom, where no doubt the boys and a legion of hangers-on will be well on their way to being “merry” already. As I round the corner, I hear the sounds of a heaving party spilling out of the room, as predicted. It’s very well-deserved, everyone has worked their butts off over the past three months. It’s just too bad I’m not feeling the party vibe. If I was a little jaded before the gig, I’m completely out of sorts now, and definitely not in the right frame of mind for socializing.
Despite the no-smoking laws, the air in the band room is thick with cigarette smoke. My eyes automatically zero in on Arlo amongst the heaving throng, as he reclines topless on one of the sofas. It’s as though we have some kind of sixth sense for each other, because he looks up at the exact moment that my gaze alights on his face. Our eyes lock just as a young blonde climbs onto his lap.
Once I realize that Arlo is “otherwise engaged,” I decide to back out of the room, and retreat to the hotel, as planned. I know he’s already seen me though. Damn it! I scurry away, hoping that he didn’t properly register my presence, or that he doesn’t care—after all, he’s clearly got his hands full.
I hurry back to my dressing room, and shove the remaining bits of camera gear and random spare items of clothing into my bag, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. I’ve pretty much got everything packed as I spin around, ready to head out the door, only to run into the wall of muscle that is Arlo Jones. How long has he been standing there?
“Ouch! Arlo… what the fuck? Why did you sneak up on me like that? You scared me shitless.”
“I didn’t sneak up on you, I just walked into the room,” he replies firmly.
“Without knocking or otherwise making your presence known? That’s the definition of sneaking.”
“Semantics. Anyway, the bigger question is why you just stormed out of the party.” He sounds genuinely perplexed.
“I didn’t storm out. I left. I was only there to tell you that I don’t feel like a party tonight. I saw that you were busy, so I came back to get my shit together, and head on out. I’m going back to the hotel to pack and get an early night, so I’ll see you in the morning. No biggie.”
I look anywhere but at him, not wanting to get caught in the vortex of his stare right now.
“So why can’t you look me in the eye? Listen, I’m sorry about that chick. I was minding my own business—she took that as an open invitation to sit on my dick. You’ve seen it enough times in the clubs and bars on this tour to know how it goes. Chicks just seem to think they have “access all areas” when it comes to me, whether I do anything to encourage it, or not.”
He’s right. I have thousands of photos of him being mounted, groped, and mauled—largely uninvited—by women all over the world. He continues.
“I didn’t even register what was going on at first, I was too distracted watching you. But as soon as I did, I got rid of her. You didn’t stick around to see that bit.”
“Look, Arlo, like I said, my leaving the party has got nothing to do with that girl in your lap. I mean it. Like you say, she’s hardly the first chick I’ve seen draped all over you, and she probably won’t be the last. I realize it’s none of my business who sits in your lap, or does anything to you, for that matter, so you don’t owe me an explanation.”
I can’t even summon the courage to reveal my true feelings for him, so I’d be a fool to expect that a guy with Arlo’s attention span and reputation would sit around forever waiting for me to get my shit together. I don’t have to like it, but it is what it is. I forge on.
“I was always intending to hit the hay early. It’s been a big few months, huge, in fact, and I’m literally dead on my feet. I just need some sleep. Don’t let me keep you, I’ll catch you tomorrow, at lobby call, okay?” I smile noncommittally, and fiddle around with my bags, pretending to secure them.
“FOR FUCK'S SAKE, LONDON—NO IT’S NOT OKAY! WHAT THE FUCK?”
His booming voice takes me completely by surprise, as does the clatter of a chair as he shoves it across the room. It hits the full-length mirror on the wall, which shatters. I gasp in shock as Arlo starts pacing the room. Tension emanates from every pore.
“Jesus, Arlo! What the hell is wrong with you?” I spit the words at him.
“Ha! What’s wrong with me? Is that some kind of sick fucking joke?” Huh?
“I don’t know, London. What the hell could possibly be wrong with me? Let’s see…. Maybe I’m just a born asshole. Or maybe I’m the guy who fell for a girl so fucking hard that it almost took him out. Maybe I’m the guy who went from screwing anything in a skirt, to having eyes for only one woman for the first time in his entire life. Or maybe I’m that lame guy who lost his fucking shit for a woman who thinks of him as nothing more than a walking hard-on, which, let’s face it, I am when I’m around you.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and then twists it from side to side, cracking it loudly. A vein in his temple throbs.
“Maybe I’m the fucking idiot chump who has been wearing his heart on his sleeve for the past few months, only to get stonewalled in return. Or I’m the guy who, undeterred by all of that, wrote a song for this woman and then spilled his guts performing it to her in front of thousands of strangers, even though s
he clearly couldn’t care less. Maybe I’m that fucking sorry-ass guy. Or maybe I just really want you to give a fuck who sits in my lap.” Well, shit.
“Oh wait, it turns out that I’m all of the above.” He laughs bitterly. “So yeah, excuse me if I lost my shit, but you know, I’ve got a lot on my fucking mind right now.”
I guess he’s got a point. I should probably cut him some slack. He’s gone out of his way to demonstrate his feelings for me in so many ways—big and small, and I’ve given him almost nothing in return. It’s not fair. I’m the first to admit that my reluctance would have sent many guys running in the opposite direction by now—especially guys like Arlo, who could trip over in a room and land on a woman willing to have sex with him. Yet he’s been patiently hanging on in there with me.
I’m sure if the tables were turned, I would have told him where to go by now, and it would not have been pretty. I know I’m skating on thin ice—there’s only so much anyone can take and still come back for more. Arlo is clearly approaching his limit, and I can’t blame him, I just don’t know what I can do about it right now. As much as my heart is drawing me closer to him every day, my crippling fear of being hurt again after what happened with Danny is propelling me in the opposite direction, compelling me to push him away.
Arlo takes a deep breath and sighs heavily. “I’m sorry about the mirror, I shouldn’t have lost it like that. I know you don’t believe me, or care, but honestly, I told you that I haven’t laid a finger on anyone since you, and it’s true. You’ve seen me leave the clubs and bars alone—you must know that there’s been no action, except with you.” He stops and fixes me with that intense stare of his, raking his hands through his hair.
“Listen, I told you that’s not the problem. In fact, there’s no problem at all. I’m honestly just exhausted, so I’m just not feeling very sociable. I’m gonna cut my losses, and catch an early night like I planned. I’ll see you tomorrow. No hard feelings, I swear.”
