Say It Sexy

by Virna DePaul

  After the first round of kisses, though, their hands instantly gravitated toward my body, as though I was pure steel, and their fingers were magnets. They plucked off the buttons of my shirt, one by one, kissing each other every two buttons. I wondered what they would do by the sixth set. By then, I was half undressed, and Britney pulled my shirt open while Angela rubbed her hand over my crotch, inching closer to what had already begun to tent my jeans.

  My hands searched for their hips, thighs, and breasts. I took turns kissing one, then the other. I mean, it was only fair. They were both doing such a great job. Britney reached behind the couch to the glass display table and seized the neck of a half empty bottle of whipped vodka. Taking a swig, she leaned close to me and let the shot drop through her strawberry-glossed lips into my mouth. I swallowed the sweet liquid, the burn gone from it, and squeezed her tighter, tasting the flavor between our tongues.

  Angela sucked lightly at my neck, her mouth trailing over the curve of my jaw to my ear. “Let’s go upstairs,” she purred in her syrupy voice.

  I groaned, my body more willing than normal since it hadn’t found release with Missy earlier—we’d been going at it pretty hot and heavy when her boyfriend showed up.

  Unease and bad memories threatened to swamp me again, and for an awful second, my mind actually superimposed Rachel and Missy’s faces over Britney and Angela’s. Talk about fucked up. But then Angela’s hand slid over my groin and pressed.

  Rachel and Missy’s faces faded away. I was firmly focused on a goal now—getting the three of us off as hard and as many times as possible.

  “Upstairs?” Angela’s fluffy eyes waited hopefully.

  Breathless, blood boiling, I nodded.

  Both girls managed to shed their bras before we reached the top landing, giggling madly and tossing them over the banister onto the guests below. Whistles, hoots, and hollers echoed from downstairs.

  From somewhere, Tucker whooped triumphantly. “Get ‘em, Gar! Who wants body shots, ladies?”

  The three of us stumbled into one of the upstairs bedrooms, Angela wielding the vodka bottle by the neck, holding my hand in her free one. A couple was already in the room, but they took one look at me and excused themselves, leaving me in the room with Angela and Britney.

  Kicking the door closed, Britney hooked her finger into my belt loop and tugged me toward the bed, working those eyes and pouty lips like a fucking pro. She made quick work of my belt buckle while we walked, unbuckling it, then sliding the belt out of the loops.

  Angela clambered onto the bed, taking a pull from the bottle and purposely letting some drizzle out of her mouth, dripping over her chin, throat, and pert, plump breasts. I reached out to squeeze them even as I turned my head to crash my lips against Britney’s. Still standing next to me, her hands felt around in all four of my pockets until she found a condom. Finally, my jeans came off, pushed down around my thighs, followed by my Calvin Klein boxers.

  “Baby, you’re so big.” Her eyes danced with delight.

  Actress. It took one to know one, but at least she knew what to say, right?

  She ripped the package, removed the condom, and rolled it on me. Dropping to her knees so our profiles were to Angela, Britney enveloped my rock hard cock with the sweet, wet warmth of her mouth. My hand shot into her hair. The glorious pressure, the friction she provided, as her head bobbed back and forth, coiled around me.

  “Yeah,” I breathed hotly. “Take it all.”

  She moaned and took my cock down further, as if to demonstrate how well she could do what she was told.

  Meanwhile, Angela made a show of peeling off her panties. When she was completely naked, she crawled toward me, big bedroom blues ablaze with lust, her knees mussing up the sheets. She licked her lips, rose on her knees, and kissed me deeply. I twisted my torso toward her and slid my hands down her chest, smearing the vodka across her naked body, until my fingers found the liquid heat between her thighs.

  I bucked my hips forward, pushing my ache into Britney’s throat. She responded with a greedy moan, her nimble fingers trailing up my thighs to cup my balls and fondle to her heart’s content. I groaned my approval and gave her hair a tug.

  Angela and I went into full kissing mode as I pushed my tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweet sugary vodka with just a hint of cigarettes. She moaned while I stroked her, teased her, fingered her… She broke away from me, laid back, and opened her legs, giving me a front row view while she pleasured herself, middle finger caressing her slippery center. I watched, more aroused by the second, until Britney pulled my cock out of her mouth with a wet pop. She stood, turned around, and climbed onto the bed, positioning herself between Angela’s perfectly smooth thighs then burying her tongue inside her.

  Angela gasped and writhed.

  My cock at full mast, I hooked my fingers into Britney’s baby blue thong and dragged it over her perfectly round ass cheeks. Taking a moment to squeeze and admire what she so happily displayed for me, I licked my top teeth like a lion eyeing its next meal. With my shins touching the bed, I gripped her hips and plunged into her. Daaamn, that felt good.

  Apparently, she liked it too, since she moaned desperately. I was hoping she’d be a little tighter, considering how in shape her body was on the outside, but then again, she probably did this pretty often. No judgment on her. I mean, after all, I did too. Britney licked and sucked and fingered Angela while I fucked Britney, my release inching up my spine. She squeezed her pussy around me, opening her knees wider as if to take as much of me as she could, then she wiggled away all together.

  What was she going to do now? I could only imagine.

  Crawling over Angela’s body, she turned around and planted her knees on either side of the Angela’s face, sinking herself down. Instantly, Angela’s tongue sprang into action, and I used the backs of Angela’s knees to lift her legs so I could plunge into her.

  They both moaned in that theatrical, porn way. Britney mapped out her body with her hands, massaging her own breasts, as she gyrated her hips, gleefully surrendering to the pleasure. I have to say, it was pretty freaking hot. I took Angela’s legs and hooked them over my shoulders, the sight of her strappy heels as her only clothing even more of a turn on. Britney leaned forward, so we could kiss. We swapped positions like that, fucking for the next hour, until we all lay there in a heap of sweaty, sated flesh.

  Whew.

  It took a while for my body to cool down and to stop shaking. I felt drained. Empty. For a short time, I’d been granted relief from the sting of Missy’s betrayal and the bitterness of bad memories, but now they returned full force.

  My inner demons taunted me with my worthlessness, making me feel like shit in general. I’d been working my ass off and partying for two years in an attempt to rid myself of this feeling, and now this episode with Missy had broken through the wall and all I felt was pain.

  I stared at the textured ceiling, any remnant of physical pleasure swiftly subsiding. Next to me, the girls lay motionless, spent. Not long ago, I would have playfully slapped Britney’s ass then tickled Angela until they got up and dressed, but now, I just lay there. If they wanted to go, they could. If they wanted to stay, I didn’t care.

  I didn’t know them. I didn’t care about them. I didn’t know them enough to like them.

  Right then, I didn’t even like myself. But that wasn’t going to work.

  I was all I had. Me. My career. The partying. The booze and women. I had a life most guys would kill for. I had to remember that.

  Forcing myself to move, I turned to the girls. “Ladies, that was amazing. Thank you.”

  Angela propped herself on her elbows. “There’s more where that came from,” she purred.

  Suddenly, Tucker banged on the door. “Garrick,” he slurred. “Come take birthday shots with us. Before Liam passes out. Come on, bro…dry your dick and get out here.”

  I scrambled up to get dressed, ready to forget all that haunted me with the help of my friends and a lot o
f shots. The niggling feeling that I was pathetic pestered me, and I fought to push it out of my head. I don’t know what more I wanted, but I was inexplicably flooded with a desperate certainty that it wasn’t this.

  Chapter Two

  Gwen

  When I woke, I knew immediately by the feel of my luxurious bedding that I was in my old bedroom. Even the air was the perfect temperature, as if the universe somehow knew being too hot or too cold was unacceptable for those who were rich enough. Another clue was the smell of fresh flowers, which Matilda, my parents’ housekeeper, always replenished in the crystal vase on my nightstand. My childhood home was a lot like Cinderella’s glass slipper: It was magical and I was lucky to have it and the privileged life it represented, yet it was also an illusion. Most people couldn’t look beyond its outward beauty to see the imperfections.

  I don’t mind imperfections. They make us interesting. Stronger. They make life—and love—real because they test our mettle.

  It’s glass slippers and Prince Charming rescuing Cinderella that’s the stuff of fairytales. Cinderella would have been better off telling her evil stepmother to go fuck herself and striking out on her own.

  With a shake of my head, I giggled.

  God, it was a good thing I was an actress considering I had such a flare for the dramatic. Luckily, I didn’t have to deal with an evil stepmother. My parents loved me, and they loved each other. Yes, my dad could be majorly controlling, and sometimes exhibited a temper, but he was always there for me when I needed him.

  I stretched before getting out of bed, then brushed my teeth and, still in my pajamas, headed downstairs. Gray morning sun spilled in from the skylight, illuminating my way down the gleaming wood staircase. Yawning, my lungs made a lazy grab for clear headedness. When I reached the bottom landing, my feet found warm wood, courtesy of the heated floors.

  “Good morning, Gwendolyn,” Mom said as I rounded the corner into the gourmet kitchen. In her ruffled apron, pearls, and tidy chignon, she stood near the stove, dicing fresh strawberries and bananas. Eggs over-easy sizzled in the frying pan, which was incredibly strange. My mom didn’t cook. We had a personal chef for that.

  “Would you mind starting the espresso maker?” She pouted. “We’re out of tea packets.”

  “Sure.” Blinking through my fugue of confusion, I turned toward the counter by the sink and stared at the contraption next to it. Hadn’t there been a juicer there last night? I crossed to the machine, plucked a brewing canister from the display rack, inserted it and switched the machine on. “Dad gets back from his conference on Friday, doesn’t he?”

  “I never left,” boomed a voice from behind me.

  I spun around, confronted by the regal, hulking image of my father dressed in a tailored suit. He towered over both my mom and me. Even at fifty, he was muscular and strong, and if it weren’t for his shock of silver hair, he’d probably pass for ten years younger.

  “What are you wearing, Gwendolyn?” he demanded.

  Puzzled, since my parents had bought my floral flannel pajamas for me last Christmas, I took a gander at my attire. Shock swept through me as I realized that, instead of the pajamas I’d just been wearing, I now wore the equivalent of Cinderella’s rags before they had been transformed into a ballgown: a lilac dress, the skirt smudged with grass stains where I had knelt to help Sean to his feet. He had picked me up for prom hours ago. We had been thirty minutes late getting home and Dad had been waiting on the porch with his hands in well-prepared fists.

  “I asked what you’re wearing?” Dad repeated, his voice diving into the heavily graveled growl it took on before one of his bouts of hollering. I rounded on my mother for help. She stood unfazed and, thanks to a glossy red ribbon threaded through her lips, absolutely silent. A beeping noise swam into my ears. The espresso must be done.

  A strange tingling sensation seized my right hand.

  When I looked back at the espresso maker, it transformed into the juicer, and my hand, now a bloody crooked stump, was jammed inside.

  I screamed, pulled my hand out, and turned to flee, but I couldn’t. I was surrounded on all sides by the pulpy, noxious walls of a rotting pumpkin. Vicious nasty rats, not cute little Disney mice, crawled over my bare feet and up my limbs. Panicked, I swatted at them, but couldn’t stop them from scurrying under my dress. Ripping through my chest, the rats tore into my heart and—

  With a stifled scream, I sat up, frantically searching my surroundings. Fine linens, check. Crystal vase, check. I fumbled to turn off the beeping alarm next to my bed, but my heart continued to pound frantically as I realized I’d been dreaming but I was in my old room in my parents’ house. Why? I’d gotten my own place over two months ago.

  For several seconds I feared it had all been a dream, not just me getting my hand pulverized in a juicer and attacked by rats, but me having actually moved out on my own. Chest heaving, I tried to catch my breath.

  The more time that passed, the more my senses came back to me. Finally, I remembered that yes, I now rented my own place. I’d merely spent the night because I was leaving town in a few days to begin filming in New Mexico, and my parents had wanted to spend some extra time with me. Last night we’d had dinner at the Club then afterward Dad and I had run lines.

  But I didn’t live here anymore. Hopefully, as much as I loved my parents, I never would again. I was just beginning to get used to being free of my dad’s constant scrutiny and well-meaning lectures. To not feeling like I was going to disappoint him every time I picked out an outfit myself or talked to a boy.

  Instinctively, I glanced at my nightstand where I’d placed the five-year-old prom picture of Sean and me. I don’t know why I kept it. It was a memento of a night no one would want to remember. Not because I hadn’t had a good time at prom, but because of what had come after.

  Police had set up a DUI checkpoint along the highway, funneling traffic into two lanes, and Sean had been thirty minutes late getting me home. My father had been waiting up for us. He didn’t give us time to explain. The second Sean had stepped out of his Corvette, Dad knocked him on his ass. Sean fought back for the first few punches while I shrieked for them to stop, but I knew, even as captain of the wrestling team, he didn’t stand a chance against a man who’d once been crowned Mr. Universe.

  While Mom stayed inside, watching from the frosted foyer window with her robe clutched closed, Dad accused Sean and me of having sex and promised to sue him for every penny he possessed if a child came from our "irresponsible union." I had never been so mortified. Sean and I had dated for two years, but after that night, he broke things off. Outside of the handful of days we had left in high school, I never saw Sean again.

  That was the day I learned that I wasn’t worth fighting for, that no boy or man would ever be strong enough to stand by me—not against my father, who stood as the contemporary version of a giant and a dragon in one exceptionally intimidating human-shaped body. And not against other hardships that life was bound to throw my way.

  At least I thought I’d learned that lesson.

  Until I’d been weak and Randall Stone had taught me the lesson all over again.

  * * *

  After attending Sunday morning church service with my parents, surviving one of Dad’s well-meaning pep-talks slash lectures during brunch, and promising (again) to stay out of trouble in New Mexico, I was comfortably seated in the back of one of his Lexuses and being driven home. As ridiculous as it was that he still insisted his driver transport me to and from his house or work, I didn’t fight him. In my mind, I’d already won the most important battle, which had been convincing my father to let me move out in the first place. My winning strategy had been telling him I wanted to immerse myself in the role of Lacey on Straightlaced, the new television show that Fluidity Films was producing with Sun Studio.

  My dad was a co-owner and executive producer at Fluidity. Unfortunately, the production company had become a bit of a joke in the film industry due to some seriously unsuccessfu
l films. My dad was counting on Straightlaced—and thus, me—to turn Fluidity’s reputation around. When I’d told him moving out on my own was vital to getting into the head of my character—who had also just moved out on her own—Dad had hesitated, but had eventually given in.

  I’d been enjoying the heck out of my newfound freedom ever since. Not that I was partying every night or anything. I was serious about my career and saving the reputation of my dad’s production company. But it was nice to finally be out on my own.

  Thomas, an older gentleman who’d worked for my family since I was ten, pulled into Ventura Breezes with its towering palms and bright hibiscus landscaping. He slowed the car just enough to wave at the gate security and be let through.

  “It’s the next right,” I told him, taking in the pretty neighborhood I’d moved into just two months ago. It was a huge matter of pride for me that I was paying for my rent with my own money. I’d been a working actress long enough that I didn’t need my father to support me any longer, at least financially.

  “I know where you live, Miss Gwen,” Thomas chuckled under his breath, his dark eyes smiling at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Sorry, I know you do. Can you tell my father you walked me in but just leave me at the door, please? This is a highly secure neighborhood, and besides, my roommate will be waiting, so it’s okay. Really.”

  “Yes, Miss Gwen. But if anything happens…”

  “I’ll tell him it was my fault,” I interjected. Anything to keep Dad calm, relaxed, and believing that everything was okay, something that had become harder since he had found out about my relationship with Randall Stone six months ago, just after the fourth of July.

  Randall had been my romantic lead on the set of Diamond Eyes, and he’d been the first man I’d risked getting involved with since Sean all those years ago. It wasn’t difficult to see why I’d fallen for him—he was older, smart, sophisticated, and handsome—he’d also been a married man and had snowed me into believing he was legally separated and soon to be signing divorce papers when the truth was his wife had just gotten pregnant with baby number three. I hadn’t slept with Randall, but I’d gotten damn close, and it had almost killed me when I realized what a cliché I’d been.