That burst of optimism fades quickly. It feels great when he pushes his way inside me, but as he continues to gently slide in and out, I squirm a little, trying to goad him into being rougher.
I didn’t bring this man here to make love to me. I want him to take charge, to have his way with me. I want him to ignore my no-talking ban and say horribly dirty things to me and call me filthy names. I want him to feel compelled to take advantage of my hospitality by exploring every orifice I have. Most of all, I want him to pound me with that hard cock until I scream in ecstasy, then to pull out when he’s ready and come on whatever part of my body appeals to him.
I don’t just want sex. I want to be ravaged.
Unfortunately, no matter how I try to coax Bobby in that direction, it doesn’t happen. Maybe it’s just not in his nature. It’s been quite a while since I was with a man who did that for me. I sigh to myself, understanding it’s not in the cards tonight, and try to make the best of what I’m working with.
Bobby picks up the pace, but he’s still far too gentle and I’m nowhere in the vicinity of an orgasm. He seems to be getting close, though, and I try to make it as good as possible for him, stroking his hair and looking into his eyes as his thrusts quicken. It actually feels pretty good. He’s pounding me — kind of — and I begin to feel the nascent stirrings of an orgasm. Then he suddenly grunts, thrusts a few more times, and comes to a stop.
So much for that. Since I’m not a total bitch, I continue to stroke his back as he catches his breath. He cautiously pulls out, removes the condom, and heads to the bathroom to dispose of it. I remain prostrate on the bed, hoping there might be a round two now that he’s had an orgasm to settle him down. When he returns a moment later with a smile and an already limp cock, I know I need to change my plans.
Bobby eases beside me on the bed. In no mood to cuddle, I grab him gently by that thick hair and guide him downward.
“It’s my turn,” I say. “I need your tongue now.”
Bless his heart, Bobby gives it all he’s got, but he’s simply not a very skilled lover and spends more than half his time nowhere near my clit. It’s frustrating because he lands on it occasionally and I start to get into it, then his tongue drifts away before much can happen.
For a second, I mentally berate myself for bringing him into my bed in the first place. Couldn’t I have just given myself an orgasm? Why did I need a man at all?
That’s when I think of Mason Stark again. When Bobby arrived at my house, I’d pushed him out of my mind, but as Bobby’s tongue miraculously locates my clit and stays there, I imagine losing my bet to Stark and being forced to have sex with him. Unlike what I’m currently experiencing, Stark is aggressive and determined, fucking me hard with his surprisingly large cock. Hey, it’s my imagination — I can have whatever I want. He’s on top of me, looking me straight in the eye as he pummels me mercilessly.
I submit to the little fantasy and am surprised to feel my orgasm rapidly approaching, seemingly out of nowhere. Bobby gently licks away while Stark practically assaults me. My body begins to quiver. In my mind, Stark flips me over, then pulls me up by my waist until I’m on my hands and knees. He grabs my hips and rams his cock into me, then pounds away, and for a split second it actually seems real. Then my brain seems to explode as I momentarily lose all sense of which man I’m actually with. I cry out loudly and grab Bobby’s head with both hands, pressing his mouth tightly against me as wave after massive wave crashes over me.
The orgasm seems to last forever and my body is left tingling all over in ecstasy. I eventually release Bobby and he slides up the sheets till he’s next to me. We lie there for maybe thirty seconds before I climb out of bed and hand him his underwear and pants.
“Have I earned the right to talk?” he asks with a grin.
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile. “But it’s time to go home. Get dressed.”
I slip my robe on and wait while he dresses.
“That was pretty intense,” he says as he fumbles with his socks.
“Maybe you shouldn’t talk after all, Bobby. Let’s both keep quiet for now.”
When he’s finished dressing, I walk him to the door. He takes me in his arms and hugs me, then presses his lips to mine. His face smells like my juices, and I make sure the kiss is quick and doesn’t involve tongues. Still abiding by my no-talk rule, he holds his hand to his ear, indicating he’ll give me a call. I smile and nod, trying not to look overly enthusiastic about it.
Returning to my bedroom, I’m still wondering how on earth I reached the point where I felt such an urgent desire to enlist Bobby’s carnal assistance. What came over me? Could it really have been my interaction with Stark? That’s just plain weird.
I climb under the covers and turn off my lamp. My body feels blissfully relaxed from that huge orgasm. I think about Bobby’s mediocre oral sex skills and am absolutely shocked that he was able to get me off like that. He somehow managed to guide me to an exceptional orgasm.
Then I remember the thoughts that were playing in my head while Bobby tried to locate my clit. Out of nowhere, I again feel Stark’s hands on my hips, his cock hammering inside of me from behind. When I feel that familiar warmth between my legs, I realize Bobby had very little to do with it.
Mason Stark gave me that orgasm.
Sex with Stark might not be the worst thing in the world. After all, he’s a very sexy man. But the idea of being his sex slave – whatever that entails — for a week is more than a little disturbing.
Luckily, I won’t have to, because there’s no way I lose that bet.
7
Mason
Another week passes and I don’t hear shit from Claire. I sit in my office, the afternoon light filtering through the window, and for the billionth time think about our bet. Although I’m confident in my position, something about this is bugging me.
Why would Claire agree to such a bet if she weren’t equally confident about her chances of winning?
We may have had a hot little unspoken moment there at Pastiche, but it was likely due to the excitement of a face-to-face business confrontation. All that talk about fucking each other led us to a weird place, but that definitely wasn’t real. Claire and I have never even shared a meal, much less shown any romantic or sexual interest in each other. We’re business rivals, for fuck’s sake.
That said, I chose my terms of the bet because I honestly would love fucking her. She’s gorgeous and has a tight little body, and something tells me she would be great in bed. Sure, I get that same feeling about many women, but based on the chemistry we had the night we made the bet, I’m guessing we’d both have an amazing week.
Regardless, I’m sure Claire only made that bet because she’s convinced she can win. If she wanted to have sex with me, she could have just asked, without committing to an entire week of being ordered around. She’s a very shrewd woman who wouldn’t have taken such an outlandish bet unless she knows something I don’t, and that worries me. She’s bound to have an ace up her sleeve.
My thoughts are interrupted by the intercom.
“Mona Simmons for you on line three.”
Only half a month after our little restroom fling and she’s already calling. I just hope she’s asking for a favor and not a repeat performance. Either way, I’m going to see what she knows about Claire and the Cheyenne situation.
“Mona, so nice to hear from you,” I say with facetious cheer.
“Mason, we need to talk.”
Hardly a desired conversation opener, and her voice has a strange tone. I’m guessing whatever Claire’s up to has already affected Mona. If Claire used her knowledge of the Melrose Star thing to screw with Mona, I’m going to be very pissed.
“What’s up? You sound upset.”
“Listen, we have a problem…”
When the pause reaches a too-dramatic length, I ask, “And what is this problem?”
“I’m pregnant.”
My brain spins immediately and I can’t help but t
hink about how utterly fucked I might be. Then I remember a crucial detail about our tryst.
“I was wearing a condom,” I say. The subtext, which I am prepared to spell out if need be, being that I can’t possibly be the father.
There’s more silence on the line, then I hear snickering.
“Gotcha!”
She’s laughing now, but I don’t see the humor.
“What the fuck?” I try to remain calm.
“Oh, come on. It was funny and you know it.”
My breathing slowly resumes, but she’s trying my patience. “What do you need?”
“Lighten up, Mason, it was just a joke,” she says. “Don’t get pissy.” When I don’t say anything, she continues, “I need to talk to Sidney Blomfield. Do you know him?”
She wants to talk to the head of Warner Brothers? Good luck with that.
“Yeah, I know Sidney.”
“Can you send him word that I have a project I’d like to discuss with him? And that you know me?”
“Mona, here’s what I’ll do instead. I’ll put you in touch with Michael Turner at Warner. He’s a little further down the food chain, but he’s got Sidney’s ear. That’s your best bet.”
“Not good enough. I want to talk to Blomfield himself.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Well you can’t. It’s pointless for me to try to put you in touch with him, trust me.”
“I did trust you,” Mona says. “I let you fuck me, in a men’s room no less, because in return you promised to occasionally help me with things like this. Surely that hasn’t slipped your mind?”
“I haven’t forgotten. It was a memorable ten minutes,” I reply. “But here’s the thing: What I actually promised was that I would help your career as best I could. And my best advice regarding you ever getting a meeting with Sidney Blomfield is that you meet Michael Turner first. He’s an executive VP at Warner, and if Michaels’s impressed by whatever it is you’re pushing, Sidney will find out about it. But if I send you directly to Sidney, he won’t talk to you and he’ll be pissed at me for wasting his time. I know these things.”
She mulls it over, then says, “Okay, Michael Turner then.”
I give Mona Michael’s number. “I’ll give him a call so he’ll be expecting to hear from you. Don’t make me look bad.”
“I understand. Don’t worry.”
She probably gets that the first time she puts me in a bad light will be the last time I help her, restroom fuck notwithstanding.
Now it’s time to pry a little. “Hey, I have a question for you: Has Claire Jarrett said anything to you about Texas Flood since the meeting?”
“No,” she says. “Not a peep. I never dropped Cheyenne’s demand, though. It still stands.”
“Obviously, but don’t get her hopes up. Anyway, I was just curious if Claire had contacted you.”
“Nope. And Mason, you haven’t told anybody what happened at the Melrose Star, have you?”
“Of course not, that was our business,” I assure her.
“Good. That’s strictly between us. If word leaks, we’ll both look like idiots, but I’ll be the idiot slut.”
Apart from me and Mona, only three people know, and all of them know better than to share it with anyone else. That’s good enough for me.
So Claire hasn’t said a word to Mona about this equal pay thing. That scares me a little.
After I get rid of Mona, I decide to poke Claire directly to see what happens, so I send a text.
Been thinking about what happens when you lose? I sure have.
It doesn’t take long before a reply arrives.
You’d like for me to think about that, wouldn’t you?
A second later, my phone dings again.
But no, I haven’t. Because I won’t lose.
My reply is succinct.
Keep dreaming.
Her quick response:
You too. Because only in your dreams will you ever have sex with me.
I receive a final text from her.
Btw, your fantasizing about me is kinda cute. Kinda pathetic, too. :)
I stare at my phone. The taunting is expected and kind of hot, to be honest, but the obnoxious smiley face gets to me. What the fuck is she plotting?
8
Claire
The waiter at Katto in West Hollywood brings two waters and asks if I’d like anything else to drink. I order a bottle of their best Cabernet Sauvignon. My dining companion, who hasn’t arrived yet, is actor T.J. Holland, who has a crucial supporting role in Texas Flood. He’s also one of Mason Stark’s clients. Getting his cell phone number was easy; Cheyenne is a world-class networker and has nearly every actor of any importance in her contact list.
T.J. agreed to meet me for lunch, but it took some convincing. He was hesitant to meet with another agent because Stark has done pretty well for him. His part in Texas Flood was pursued by dozens of actors, but a good audition, combined with the strong recommendation of Drake Manning, persuaded the producers to go with T.J.
“I’m not inclined to change agencies right now, Claire,” T.J. told me when I called him. “My father once told me never to jump off a ship that’s on course.”
“What if another ship comes by that’s going twice as fast on a better course?” I asked
That intrigued him enough to meet me over lunch. “Just to get to know each other a bit,” he said
Though it’s extravagantly expensive, I chose Katto for the meeting not only because Cheyenne told me T.J. loves a good steak, but also because the owner is a friend and I knew he would let me use the semi-secret back dining room. The space is large enough to seat a dozen people at a large table, but right now there’s just a table for two. That was my idea. It has a cinematic effect; that lone table in the middle of the big room looks like something from a Tarantino movie.
Though most people enter Katto through the main entrance on busy Robertson Boulevard, a side door off the rear service entrance leads to this room. T.J. and I can both park in the back and nobody will know we had this meeting.
I take another sip of wine, then check the time on my phone. I double-check my outfit, smoothing my white silk tank top and checking my red blazer. This is a big moment and there’s a lot riding on it. If I can’t convince T.J. Holland to sign with me, I will likely lose the bet with Stark. On the other hand, if I do my job properly, he’ll see that changing agencies is by far his best option.
After a couple of slow, deep breaths to relax, I sit back in my chair. Just as I do, the door opens and in he walks.
I greet him with a confident handshake and marvel at how handsome this man is. T.J. is twenty-eight years old and six-four with a weightlifter’s body. He’s got a tanned face with a square jaw and striking pale green eyes. His dark blond hair is down to his shoulders, and he’s growing a beard that will have to come off before the Texas Flood shoot. In faded jeans and a T-shirt with the long sleeves pushed back to his elbows, T.J. simply oozes charisma. More than Stark’s abilities as an agent, that charisma is responsible for his career being on an upward trajectory. A tattoo of a large spider with a dagger through its torso decorates his muscular left forearm. I’ve seen him on-screen, but had no idea how seriously hot this man is in person.
We make small talk until the waiter comes to take our order. As expected, T.J. goes for the Wagyu ribeye, a smidge under two hundred bucks for an eight-ounce steak. Exactly what I was hoping for when he told me he’d never been to Katto before. It’s the restaurant’s showpiece steak, and steak lovers have described it as “orgasmic.”
I steer the conversation toward things like his background and our mutual friends in the industry for a while. When our salads arrive, I move to more substantial topics.
“Let’s talk about your career, T.J. Are you happy with your representation?”
“Quite happy,” he says. “MAU has been great for me.”
“Who’s your agent there?”
“Ron Fetterman,” he says, unaware that I alre
ady know this.
I raise an eyebrow. “Not Mason Stark?”
“No, I started with Ron very early. He got me a season on Dallas Rescue and I’ve been with him ever since.” The popular television series about an EMT crew is what put T.J. on the map.
I set down my fork and say, “That’s surprising.”
“What’s surprising about it?” he asks, eyeing me warily.
“I was in a meeting with Jackie Hightower recently at Trident in which Mason said you were his client.”
T.J. smiles and loads up a forkful of salad greens. “I’m sure he meant his agency, MAU. It’s all the same.”
“You’re probably right,” I say. “It’s not like he can personally represent his entire roster, so he probably concentrates on the clients he deems most important and lets his agents handle the others.”
Not as subtle as I would have liked, but I made my point so I move on. “Did Ron tell you that Cheyenne is demanding equal pay as Drake for Texas Flood?”
“No. Seriously?”
“That’s what the meeting at Trident was about,” I say. “Cheyenne and her manager decided they weren’t going forward with the movie until their demand was met. When Jackie suggested Mason ask Drake to give up some of his pay for Cheyenne, he threatened to pull both you and Drake out of the film.”
“What?” T.J. is visibly agitated.
“Yep. Then he made a snide comment about Jackie blowing her way to the top and she stormed out of the room.”
He’s caught completely off-guard by the news. I can sense his blood pressure rising. T.J. knows that role in Texas Flood is crucial for his career.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 2: Mason Page 5
