by Virna DePaul
She licks her luscious lips and shakes her head. “In my experience, boys and men don’t waste time on anything that doesn’t get them what they want most. In bed or out. And when they’re done with you, they’re done. And they don’t care what state they leave you in.”
As she’s speaking, I can tell her mind has gone somewhere dark, likely to some former boyfriend who done her wrong, and I don’t want that. I reach out and press my thumb against her pouty lower lip, and she gasps. “You know, something told me those would be your feelings on the matter. You’ve definitely missed out. How about you let me take care of that for you?”
She shakes her head, then immediately nods, so used to being the good girl. But the thing is, as much as I’m attracted to Marissa’s prissy attitude, there’s something about her—maybe it’s the way she rolled her eyes at her mum without realizing it or the fact she can’t stop herself from making a biting comment now and again—that tells me she’s got a bit of bad girl in her. And I want to see more of that girl.
I smile. “Come up here.” I turn her and guide her body so that her back is against my chest. I know it’s a bold and abrupt move. After all, I haven’t even kissed her yet, but instinctively I know Marissa doesn’t need a slow and tender build up to sexual intimacy. She already wants me; in order to encourage her to act on that desire, I need to bypass the normal course of things and simply make her feel as much as possible.
“Watch what I’m doing on the screen. How I’m touching her as though I’d die rather than be ripped away from her body. That’s how I feel, right here, right now, with you.”
Her eyes are glued on the screen again, where Ava and I are going at it pretty good, her breaths coming even faster now.
“I want you to say it. Say I want you.”
“You—you want me,” she whispers.
“Not her, because that’s fantasy. But right here and now, I want you. Say it.”
“That’s fantasy. You don’t want her, you want me,” she parrots obediently.
“That’s right, my good girl. Now, I’m going to touch you. Only over your clothes. And the only thing I’m after is your pleasure, Marissa. Nothing else. May I touch you?”
She hesitates only two seconds before nodding vigorously, then she does something that makes me so hard I almost see stars—grabbing my wrist, she leads my hand between her legs, parting her thighs slightly, giving me better access.
Her skirt is already hitched up to her upper thighs, and I tug it up, being deliberately rough, which makes her moan as she leans back against my chest.
I cup her through her panties and groan. She’s so damn wet. Her tits are heaving. I stroke her clit through her underwear in time with my thrusts on the screen until she starts to abandon her sensibilities. She begins to rock against my hand.
“That good?” I ask.
She nods and lets out a “Mmmm.”
Now she’s really getting into it, closing her eyes and rubbing her hands over her tits, grinding her ass against my hardness. She bucks off of me, moaning. “Oh, God. Keep going.”
I knew there was a wild girl under the country club exterior.
She’s already close, after only a few minutes. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to taste that skin of hers, to be inside her. But right now, it’s enough to see what I can bring her to with just my hand over her clothes.
The answer to that question is that I can bring her to a trembling, screaming orgasm so quickly it kind of shocks me. She sinks her fingernails into my splayed thighs as her body shakes and she moans out her pleasure. Finally, when I’ve prolonged her orgasm as long as possible, she collapses back against me.
Slowly, I work my hand up her body, rubbing her stomach, then her tits, and then I cup her throat as I plant a kiss on her temple. Every once in a while she shivers, and I find myself feeling perilously close to tenderness for her.
Slowly, she turns her head to look up at me. To my surprise, there’s no remorse in her gaze, just satisfaction. She smiles wickedly. “That felt so good. Do you want—”
Whatever she was about to say—and I’m pretty damn sure my answer would have been HELL YES—is interrupted when her phone dings with yet another text.
Almost immediately, the playfulness in her eyes fades and dies. She bites her lip, torn between wanting to either shut out reality or face it, but ultimately, old habits prevail.
“I—I’d better see who that is,” she says before pulling away.
Reluctantly, I let her go.
Marissa
Oh my god, oh my god.
I just let Simon Dale, AKA Borg, bring me to orgasm with his magic hands.
I’m torn between mortification and wonder at my own daring.
I’d only just met him, and yet the attraction was so magnetic it had felt completely right to have his hand up my skirt, stroking my pussy. Letting off steam, not trying to live up to the Woodcrest name. Just doing what felt right for once when I haven’t allowed myself that in such a long time.
But now, what had felt right moments ago suddenly feels wrong. All because I’d gotten a damn text from my mom, and I was suddenly reminded Simon hadn’t even kissed me before he’d caressed me. Like he’d been on a mission.
To get me to come, yes.
But also to get me to agree to pose as his fake girlfriend.
It’s the only thing that makes sense, and the realization sends a myriad of emotions crashing through me.
Shame being at the forefront.
He’s just another bad boy, wanting to use me for whatever he can get before he leaves me. Okay, so he probably won’t be leaving me by fleeing from the police and leaving me in a wreck of a car to possibly die, but so what? He can still destroy me. Destroy the safe, respectable life I’ve worked so hard to build for myself over the past ten years.
I stare at my mom’s text: Shall we say 6 tomorrow? Would love to get to know that man of yours better. He I approve of.
And then I do something that shocks me even more than orgasming so quickly at Simon’s touch; I throw the phone at the far wall, where it hits with a loud thud.
“She’ll never let me forget the past,” I yell, then run my hands through my hair in frustration.
Simon frowns and suddenly pulls me into his chest for a tight hug. “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay.”
I burrow my face into his chest, relishing the sudden feeling of warmth and security. His strong fingers splay against my back, as if he really means to shelter me from harm.
The notion is so ridiculous I snort. “Easy for you to say. You get to live your own life. You aren’t constantly reminded of the mistakes you made and how if you don’t tow the line, if you aren’t good, if you aren’t careful…” I shake my head and blink rapidly to hold back my tears.
He pulls back and hooks a finger under my chin. “Believe me, Marissa, I’m constantly reminded of the mistakes I’ve made in the past. No, I don’t have a mother who’s reminding me of them, but the knowledge it there, nonetheless.”
“What mistakes have you made?”
His expression closes off. “Do you really want to play the ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ game?”
I blink. No. I certainly don’t want to share with him the mistakes I’ve made. I shake my head and he visibly relaxes.
“Look, we are both living under the weight of other people’s expectations at the moment. The difference is I’m choosing to navigate a certain path in order to ultimately get something I want. What do you want, Marissa?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Then it’s high time you figure it out, don’t you think?”
I nod, sniff, then paste on a completely false smile before pulling myself out of his arms. “Well, er…thank you for staying. And for…well…”
He grins and bows slightly. “I’m happy to be of service. I hope to be of service again. And before you say what I know you’re thinking, what just happened between us has nothing to do with me ask
ing you to pose as my girlfriend. You’re a glorious woman, even more when you’re shaking in the throes of pleasure, Marissa Woodcrest.”
“Um…thanks?”
He chuckles. “My pleasure.”
I lick my lips and we just gaze at each other for a few moments. Then I sigh with real regret. “I’ve thought about it, and I can’t do what you want, Simon. It’s best if I just tell my mom we broke up.”
Disappointment flickers in his eyes, but he just shrugs. “If that’s really what you want, I understand.”
Of course it’s not what I want. I want to see him again. I want to have his hands on me again and so much more than that. But I can barely handle my life as it is, let alone try to pretend to be something I’m not.
You’re already pretending to be something you’re not, a voice whispers inside my head. Every time you play the good girl because you don’t want to disappoint others, you’re pretending.
With the ease of practice, I shove the voice away.
“I’d like to help you, but I’m not good at lying. It just wouldn’t work—they’d see right through us.” Not to mention that I’m way too attracted to him as it is. “But good luck on getting that part.”
“Thank you, Marissa. I appreciate that. I should be going then?”
I walk to my front window and tilt the blinds. It looks all clear. Then I look back at Simon. He’s slipped on his pants and is buckling his belt. Clothed, naked…he’s so perfect. My tongue wants to give the length of his body a thorough sponge bath, but instead I will it to say, “Yes. Just go.”
He reaches for his shirt, and although I’m scared to death of what we just did, it feels like a fate worse than that to have him cover that perfect body up. “If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” Put your hand up my skirt again, though, and I totally could.
He nods, then leans down and kisses my cheek. “Too bad. It could’ve been amazing. Best of luck to you, too, Marissa.”
5
Simon
The following morning I wake on my sofa, naked and bloody hung over. After leaving Marissa, I’d gotten back to my shithole apartment over Elfie’s biker bar and felt too horny to call it a night. I’d headed into the bar and met a regular there named Suzie and tossed back a few shots. Ten minutes later, we were in the loo and Suzie was jazzed to give me a blow job, only no sooner had I reached down to unbuckle my pants than it hit me—I didn’t want her mouth on me. I wasn’t even half-hard at the prospect. The thought of Marissa and what I’d done to her in her cottage, however…
Now that was enough to have me hard and aching.
The realization had been a startling one to be sure, almost as startling as the fact I immediately left the bar to jack off in my shower.
I’d settled for thoughts of petting Marissa and my own hand over an actual blow job, and I’m still a little freaked because of it.
Marissa is beautiful, sure, but she’s more than that. She’s a mix of contradictions. I like the way she blushes. I like the way she looks at me through those heavy-lidded eyes that say “take me now” even as she utters a word that few women have ever said to me: No. I like the way she tries so hard to be a compliant daughter with her mum, but isn’t quite able to hide the part of her that would just as soon stand up for herself and tell her mom to go to hell. I like the fact she has no problem telling me that very thing. Why she can do it with me and not her mom, I’m not sure, but it’s obvious there’s something in her past that still has a hold over her.
Wiping the bleariness from my eyes, I look around. My four-hundred square foot Sawtelle apartment is a shithole, for sure, nothing like the $5 mil mansion my co-star Ava Brice just bought in Beverly Hills, but it keeps a roof over my head.
Besides, it’s luxury compared to where I grew up. Plus, it offers me the privacy I crave. Elfie’s is one place even the paparazzi won’t brave, considering knife-fights happen there quite frequently.
Marissa and her mother thought I fit in at that country club. They thought I was one of them.
Sometimes my acting skills can be so damn good I impress even myself.
But the truth is, it’s smoke and mirrors. That damned monkey suit and the Porsche are rentals (you can rent anything these days), and even when I was a sewer rat back in London, I’d been cultivating the accent to go with the place I wanted in this world. If little Miss Country Club knew of my upbringing, if she saw my home and that I’d much prefer my Harley to a $500,000 sports car, she’d have run in the other direction rather than let me drive her home. Her mother would certainly have demanded it, playboy reputation or not.
The ironic thing is, even my damn playboy reputation is about as real as my Armani suit and Porsche. Early in my career, I dated one leading lady, and it was a serious relationship. Until it wasn’t. After that, I dated here and there, still hopeful I’d find “The One.” It was only after the mess with my ex Janelle that I accepted I was meant to be single, stopped dating and kept things strictly physical with women. So it was complete bullshit (though bullshit of my own making) that I was now having to make up for a playboy past with a make-believe girlfriend.
A make-believe girlfriend I’d hoped Marissa Woodcrest would play.
With a sigh, I run a shower in the cramped bath, then find my phone in my bedroom. It has a dozen messages from Declan Kiss, my agent at Kiss Talent Agency and one of my best friends.
I jab a text in to him: I’m perfectly fine, mum. Thanks for your concern.
Although I’m not sure I am. It’s been feast-time for the past few years, but if the ratings are any indication, Alien Love is on its last legs. It had been my big break, and I’m grateful for that, but after three seasons of Ava and Borg running away from the government, never getting in touch with the mother spaceship, it’s jumped the shark into pure lunacy. If you ask me, Ava’s a damned fool for sinking all that cash into a mansion when the gravy train could run out at any moment. Such is the life of an actor. The last few auditions I’ve been on, I didn’t even garner a callback. When the script for Perfect Union landed on my lap, I thought it was fate. Here was my next move, my step up into the A-list of Hollywood. I was really hoping that I could ease any concerns Noble and Spires have about me at the upcoming dinner and seal the deal. But what are the chances of that? Less than hour before I’d met Marissa, Noble had accused me of being a spoiled playboy used to being handed everything he wants on a silver platter.
At that moment, I wished he could’ve seen me as a lad, living in that hovel in East London. I wished he could see where I live now. There sure as hell aren’t any silver platters here. Thankfully, not even the paparazzi knows those things. And in the end, even if it might garner a little sympathy from the Noble and Spires of the world, I’m still not keen on letting the fact I came from the gutters of London be common knowledge.
I take another shower, more for the opportunity to jack off thinking of Marissa Woodcrest again—this time, I imagine us fucking in the center of the dining room at La Rouge Country Club. When I’m done, I’m breathing hard and it takes me several minutes to recover. Finally, I wrap a towel around my waist and check my phone again.
Another text from Declan: Where the hell are you? Tell me you didn’t fuck things up any further.
I write back: Who me? I’ve been an angel.
I can just see him scoffing at that. The next text that comes through puts a sour feeling in my stomach: Got a hold of Noble’s secretary. She says they’re golfing and having dinner at La Rouge if you want to happen by.
If you want to.
That’s Declan. He is the king of disguising demands as suggestions. If I don’t “happen by,” then when I don’t get the part it will be all my fault.
I look at the (straight) jacket for the rental Armani, which I’d tossed on my bed last night when I’d changed into jeans before going over to Elfie’s. The idea of getting back into that suit right now makes my skin crawl.
But for Perfect Union? I’d wear that bloody suit
for the rest of my life if it meant I’d land that role.
Cursing under my breath, I reach for the trousers, then look around. I seem to be missing some pieces. The cufflinks and tie are…somewhere. Probably still in the car, since I’d lost them the second I got free of that place. Or…perhaps I left them at Marissa’s.
Now that would be funny, and a first. Me, leaving my mark in a woman’s home?
The thing is, I want her to think of me.
She’s the perfect girl to help clean up my tarnished image. I just need to get her to realize that.
A few hours later I show up at La Rouge Country Club, wearing my own slacks and jacket this time, nothing as expensive as the Armani suit but still clothes I consider a heavy business investment. I’m led to a table and surreptitiously glance around, looking for Noble and Spires. After I’m seated, Dana sets a glass of wine in front of me. My sister—younger than me by two years and who doesn’t look a thing like me, except for maybe our noses—is one of my closest friends, with the exception of Declan. Dana’s my biggest fan. Though I might not be an A-lister yet, she can’t be prouder of me than if I’d won an Oscar, a Tony, and an Emmy all in the same year.
“I told you I would text you if Noble and Spires came in,” she says.
“Declan said they’d be here today.”
She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen them.”
I let out a breath of relief. Truthfully, I’m glad I won’t be seeing them tonight. Now I can concentrate on something else entirely.
“So what happened last night with that girl? Did you get her to commit to playing house with you?”
I take a sip of the wine after swirling it in the glass. “Would you be shocked if I said she rejected my offer?”
Dana raises an eyebrow. “Truthfully, yes. But it’s good for your ego to be turned down once in a while.”
I snort. “Have you seen her? She’s supposed to be back with her family tonight.”
