Close

by Laurelin Paige

  “Agnes here is doing us a favor,” he explains. “Now get in there before she changes her mind.”

  I’m stunned, but he doesn’t need to tell me twice. Quickly, I go on in, making my way to the central reading room where I stand frozen as any movie frame and take it all in. Bookcases line each side of the room. Bookcases filled with so many books—books I’ve never seen. Books I’ve never read. Books I’ve never imagined before. The keys to ten thousand lives I didn’t live, but can during the span of these pages. All the same words, but so many different stories. I’m tearing up at the opportunity to try out even just a few with no one else around to intrude.

  I feel like a prisoner who has finally been let out of her cell, looking out at the freedom of possibility. I’m overwhelmed and elated, all at once.

  “How did you pull this off?” I ask Nick, my eyes threatening to well over.

  “Easy. I reached out to the branch manager and told her we wanted to come by without making a disturbance.” He’s pleased with himself, I can tell. He can’t stop grinning.

  For that matter, neither can I.

  “And she just said okay? No questions asked?”

  “Well, she might have asked for front-row tickets and backstage passes to my show tomorrow for her and her two daughters, but yeah. Pretty much no questions asked.” He wraps his hand in mine, squeezes. I squeeze back. “So where should we go first?”

  I hesitate for only the slightest of seconds. “Biographies.”

  “Good choice.”

  We follow the signs to the section of the building that’s devoted to biographies. It’s impressive and amazing, even in this building that makes those words feel hollow and small. There are so many books in this area alone that it makes my own home library seem like some sad garage sale. I run my fingers along the spines, reading the titles as I walk by them, in awe of all the notable humans documented in front of me. Roald Dahl, Dalai Lama, Ted Danson, Frank Darabont, Jessica Darlin, Charles Darwin, Howard Dean. Names of everyone famous, and a ton people I’ve never heard of.

  Nick follows close behind me. I turn suddenly and find him with his hands stuffed casually in his jean pockets. He looks sexy and edible, and I want to jump him, but even more—I want to know about the books he loves. Want to feel a part of them somehow.

  “Which one should I read?” I ask breathlessly. “Tell me one of your favorites. I’ll order it right now from Amazon.” I pull out my phone, but Nick shakes his head.

  “You can actually check one out, if you want,” he says.

  That can’t be true. “Shut up! I don’t live in New York!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he gloats as he steps closer to me. “They have a visitor’s library card you can get. Agnes said she’d help you apply for one when we’re ready to leave. You just have to, you know, return it on time. So don’t go crazy. Especially since I’m not planning on giving you much time to read.”

  I feel like jumping up and down, which seems very inappropriate considering my age. So, instead, I lean forward and kiss him. And even though I’ve forgotten once again about our arrangement to just be dirty together, his mouth tells me that he hasn’t forgotten. His kiss promises a whole night full of dirty things to come. A night that I’m looking forward to more than ever.

  But first, a book.

  “Which one?” I ask again when I pull away. “Which biography do you think I should read?”

  He takes a deep breath in, and I can tell it’s like I’ve asked him to choose between his children. I couldn’t pick my favorite either, if he asked.

  Suddenly though, he lights up. “I got it,” he says, spinning me so that we’re facing the way we just came. We pass the V’s and the U’s and the T’s. Then at the beginning of the S’s, he stops to scan the titles more thoroughly.

  When he finds the book he’s looking for, he pulls it out and hands it to me.

  “Vera,” I read from the cover, my eyes going over the subtitle silently. Mrs. Vladimir Nabokov. “She was married to the guy who wrote Lolita?”

  “Yes, and it’s one of the greatest literary love stories ever told,” Nick says passionately. “Did you know they were together for fifty-two years? He says he never would have written a word if not for her. She was his inspiration. It’s beautiful and brilliant, and once you read it, you’ll wonder why she isn’t more famous than he is.”

  Well, because patriarchy, I think, but I don’t say it because I get what he means, and his enthusiasm for the book makes me want to dig into the story right away. Because I want to understand this thing he loves. I want to devour it, the same way he devours me in the bedroom. I want it to live inside me the same way it lives inside him.

  And if that means something or if there’s supposed to be a message in the very obviously romantic book he’s chosen for me to read, I pretend not to notice. Just like I pretend the day together hasn’t brought us closer. Like I pretend he only planned the helicopter tour so he could see the city.

  Like I pretend that giving me a trip to the library is something he would have done for anyone, and that it’s not the most thoughtful, charming gift anyone’s ever given me.

  Like I pretend I have any control left at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Close Enough

  Nick

  The library was an epically good choice on my part.

  Natalia is so happy, she spends the whole ride to my hotel showing me. And showing me. And showing me.

  Our full-on naughty make-out session in the car is witnessed by no one but my driver—thank God for tinted windows and the NDA I make my employees sign. Not that I would mind word getting out about the two of us. Having grown up in the spotlight, I’ve learned to ignore most of what’s said about me, and I don’t mind contributing to public fodder when there’s something amazing going on in my life. And Nat is definitely something amazing going on in my life.

  Besides, wasn’t it Barnum that said there’s no such thing as bad publicity? Whether they’re talking you up or talking shit, they’re still talking about you.

  But it’s different for her, I know. I get it.

  As the producer of my own albums these days, I put together the teams of people that I want to work with. My name sells the product, and I have the skills and connections to get things done behind the scenes. But music is such a different story. Given enough studio time, I could record every instrumental track myself, sing, and mix it. I don’t depend on someone wanting to cast me. My reputation has very little to do with my ability to keep a job. In fact, people might have hate-listened enough based on my kid-pop rep to get me where I am now.

  Nat, on the other hand, relies on her image to get the jobs she wants. Given ten years, she still couldn’t play every part, perform the jobs of every crew member. She’s the talent, yes, but by the nature of the business, the talent has to be a team player. People love to watch her onscreen because they are delighted with her offscreen, because they’re into the persona she puts on. That persona earns her paychecks.

  Big paychecks, I might add.

  For the most part, I’ve come to learn that her true personality isn’t much different than the one she shows the world. Those smiles are real. The things she thinks are funny send her into legitimate peals of laughter, throwing her head back like the feeling couldn’t be contained if she tried. But she is also very private. Anything she thinks might cause controversy she keeps to herself. Anything she does that might cause an uproar in the press, she keeps hidden.

  She’s an open book, with certain pages written in code.

  And that includes me. A decade younger than her. A boy to her woman. Covered with tattoos while she’s pure as the driven snow. A rock star with the reputation of jumping from bed to bed, even as the press plans weddings for her serial monogamy.

  I get why I’m her secret.

  I just wish I didn’t have to be.

  When we get to the hotel, I’m mindful of her privacy. We may not be an “us” for long, but I’ll be da
mned if it’s my fault things end. I pull out my room key card from my wallet and hand it to her.

  “Room eighteen-twelve,” I tell her. “Take your bag and go in first. We’ll circle the block a couple times, and then I’ll get a new key from the desk. That should give you enough time to not be spotted with me.”

  I pick up her overnight bag from the floor where she dropped it when I first picked her up and hand it to her. “I’d carry this in for you, but it’s a little too pink for my taste.”

  “What? You don’t think you’re cool enough to pull off pastels?” she asks cheekily.

  “It would destroy my image,” I retort, making light of the situation. I actually do like pink. But a manlier shade than the one she’s using. I kiss her one more time, fiercely, as though I’m not going to see her again in ten minutes. “Be wet,” I tell her, knowing I’m going to pounce right on her the minute I walk through the door.

  She answers in a whisper, her eyes heavily lidded. “I already am.”

  Good. That means I was kissing her right.

  I watch her as she walks away in her cutoff denim shorts and plain lilac-colored T-shirt, casually tucked on just one side to accentuate those perfect hips. She has her duffel hiked up on one shoulder and the copy of Vera that she borrowed from the library tucked under her other arm, and I can’t help but think she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever known. Ever seen. Ever had the pleasure of watching do her job.

  But she’s more than just sexy. I spend the five minutes it takes to drive around the block thinking about all the other things that she is. She was never just the hot chick I thought about in my fantasies. Her personality was always part of why she was my dream girl. But did I ever realize how many facets to her there are?

  Creative. Compassionate. Funny. Wise. Guarded. Vulnerable. Smart. Sassy. Sensitive. Strong.

  Mine—temporarily.

  It doesn’t feel good to remind myself of that.

  But something hits me like a ton of bricks as I step out of the car and onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel. It hits me so hard I have to pause to take a breath. Try not to let it knock me out, or make me do something stupid. This hit is one I’ve never taken before.

  I’m in love with her.

  I am in love with Natalia Lowen.

  I’m in love with her and the thought makes me so happy that I don’t even have to fake it when I smile enthusiastically and pose for selfies with the passersby who recognize me. It makes me so happy that I don’t mind giving an autograph to the man at the front desk. It makes me happy until I’m in the elevator, headed to the eighteenth floor, and I remember that this is the last thing she wants from me—my love. If I told her, she would disappear from my life. Forever. I’m sure of it as I’m sure that she’s absolutely the woman for me.

  So I’ll just have to convince her that I am perfect for her too.

  It will take time. I can be patient. I can persist.

  More days together like this, more stolen weekends. That ought to do it.

  And until she figures it out, until she has the opportunity to decide whether she reciprocates those feelings or not, I can’t say it. I’ll have to show her how I feel with my actions. I’ll have to make her mine with my body.

  That’s all I’m thinking about when I walk into our hotel suite—thinking about taking her and marking her and dominating her. Thinking about making her mine in every way I can. Making sure she isn’t just comparing every guy to me—making sure that there is no other guy but me. Ever. My dick is already aching and hard, and I’m ready to bury myself so far inside her she’ll never be able to forget I belong there.

  Except she isn’t in the room.

  I leave the living space and go into the bedroom to see if she’s there. She’s not, and the bathroom door is open so she’s not in there either. I pull my phone from my pocket as I walk back into the living space, about to text her. Maybe she forgot the room number and stopped off at the bar. Or maybe she got discovered by fans herself. Occupational hazard.

  But then I see the pink duffel on the floor next to the couch, her flip-flops kicked off next to it. And now that I’m looking, I notice the door to the balcony is slightly ajar.

  I throw my phone down on the couch—I won’t be needing that—and head outside, shutting the doors and the curtains behind me so no light from our room escapes onto the balcony.

  She’s leaning against the wall, which comes up to the top of her breasts. It’s a scene from a movie, the lights of the city illuminating her features like an oil painting. Demonstrating her fundamental goodness in the serene expression with which she gazes out. God, I want her. When I come up behind her, she doesn’t turn, but leans her neck to one side, exposing the delicate skin, inviting my mouth to dine there.

  I do. I feast. I suck and nibble lightly, careful not to leave any mark while I grind my heart out against her perfect ass. She moans, and I dig my hands down the neck of her shirt so that I can fondle her breasts. They are heavy and perfect in my palms as I draw my fingers, thick with callouses, across her steel-pointed nipples. They’re primed and ready for my mouth, and I can’t resist turning her around to face me so I can tuck down her shirt and her bra cup and enjoy them. If her neck was my appetizer, this is my entrée.

  I bend down to suck her peak between my lips. Here I don’t have to be careful, so I use my teeth as well as my lips on her pale skin, marking her up until she’s red and purple and hot and wanting. The perfect reflection of my cock right now.

  Then I fall to my knees, pulling her shorts and panties down so that I can worship her here as well. It’s dark out, and the walls around the balcony are high, but I’m aware this is risky behavior. I just can’t seem to stop myself. I need to taste her and touch her and feel her quivering underneath my tongue.

  In other words, I’m ready for dessert.

  Nat, for the record, doesn’t stop me. She weaves her fingers through my hair, holding me to her pussy as if she thinks I might try to get away.

  I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for the long run. Although she doesn’t know that yet, I’m hoping she can feel it in the way my body treats hers.

  I tease her and please her, using every trick I’ve ever learned to make her writhe and moan. Reading her cues, I try new things, and soon she’s calling out my name, over and over, her hips bucking against my lips. I thrust two fingers inside her and cock them so I’m sure to hit the spot she likes, and just as she starts to really come, I do the dirty thing she’s wanting from me and slide one finger to her asshole, pressing it just far enough inside to make her knees buckle and fall apart.

  “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” she’s saying now, and it takes me a second to realize she’s not just cursing through her orgasm but begging for me to enter her.

  Both things can be true, it turns out. She can be satisfied and still want more.

  Just like me.

  I stand up to kiss her, leaving my fingers to play with her clit while I do. Her own hands are busy undoing my jeans. She gets my cock out, and it practically sighs in relief, oozing drops of pre-cum already glistening on my tip. I’m thick and large in her tiny hands, and if she keeps sliding that pressure up and down it like she is, I’m going to come before I’m even inside her. And that’s not an option I can live with.

  “I have to get a condom,” I whisper.

  And considering she’s standing outside, naked from the waist down, both tits exposed as she pants, I really should bring her inside to finish up what we’ve started.

  Except she shakes her head no. “Just pull out,” she says. “I don’t want to wait. I trust you. Trust me, too.”

  And there’s no way I’m arguing with her about it because she’s offering for me to fuck her bare, all naughty-like on the balcony, a scene of our very own for an anonymous audience we can never see, and that is some hot shit.

  Besides. I do trust her.

  I trusted her before I loved her. And now . . .

  I push my jeans down far enough to ma
ke things comfortable and hoist her up, leveraging her against the wall. Her arms are spread out, breasts proudly jutting toward the sky. She wraps her legs around my waist, opening up to me, and when I shove inside she’s so wet and snug. Her pussy is hot like summer, wrapped around my cock, and I swear I could live here. I could make her pussy my home and be happy for the rest of my life.

  But would she be happy?

  I’m consumed with the question, consumed with wondering if I could be everything to her the way she is to me. Consumed with wanting to show her that I know I can. I drive into her, fast and furious, as if I could make it clear to her. If I just got deeper, got closer, if I just fucked her hard enough. One word keeps repeating, pounding in my head as I pound into her body. One note playing over and over like the beginning of a song—closer, closer, closer. I need to be closer. I want to be closer. Can’t get . . . close . . . enough . . .

  My balls grow tight and the base of my spine starts to tingle. I quickly set her down and pull out, using my hand to finish the job. I stroke faster and faster, chanting under my breath, “Mine, mine, mine, mine,” until my cock is nearly ready to explode.

  And then I do explode, all over her bare pussy and the tops of her thighs. I mark her with the pearly white ropes of my cum. The sight makes me feel like a caveman, victorious, even though all I did was work myself to release and then dirty her up.

  She’s magnificent, a sex goddess. A ruler of worlds—of my world, anyway.

  And then it occurs to me she may not be into this like I am.

  She gave me permission to pull out, not to decorate her sweet little vagina in my sticky, filthy bodily secretions. She didn’t ask me to call her mine. She didn’t ask me to claim her in any way.

  I look up and meet her eyes which are big as she looks from me down to the mess I’ve made.

  I start searching for the words to apologize, but I’m still dazed and panting, and she speaks before I get a chance. “That. Was. So freaking hot.”