The pressure of his lips intensifies, and I can feel his hands going round to my back, and he’s oh-so-warm, and he’s groping for something on my back.
(it’s my uniform’s zipper.)
(Oh my G – )
Without missing a beat, he unzips my maid’s uniform – a plain black dress with white trimmings. And all this while, he doesn’t stop kissing me. And he’s parting his lips and his tongue is darting out, and they are parting mine, and I’m letting him roam inside my mouth – that lovely warm wet sweetness of his mouth – and he smells like mints and aftershave and expensive everything. And oh, oh, he’s removing his mouth from my lips and placing little wet kisses on my chin, and neck, and down my neck . . . and throat . . . and his hands are parting the two halves of my dress at the back –
And he’s pushing me into the stall I just cleaned
(why is he doing this? What can he possibly want with me?)
But now I’m fully engaged. My hormones are running berserk and I’m really into this now. I’m lusting as I’ve never lusted before, and by all accounts, so is he. He’s rougher now with my clothes, and he tears my dress off, and it catches on my hips, but he rips it down anyway.
Before I can step out of it, he’s on my brassiere – the cheap one I got from Target – and he rips that off easily too. He’s shrugging out of his jacket, dropping that expensive woolen thing on the floor (clean, thank God!), and I’m reaching for his shirt buttons, and undoing them one by one while he kisses my mouth, throat, everything –
And he’s clawing at my underwear – from JC Penney’s, and I’m clawing at his shirt and ripping it off his shoulders and arms. Oh – his naked skin – how glorious that tight body is under his clothes. (I was right.) His skin is a rich golden cream under the yellow light, and it’s so silky, and his muscles are so smooth and sculptured under that silken skin that I can roam upon forever.
I’m suddenly naked, and so he’s unbuckling his belt and kissing me and shrugging off his pants. I can’t even tell if he’s dropped his underwear (which is sure not to be from Target’s, I’ll bet), but he’s so heated up now that he presses me against the wall – that cold tiled wall with the cerise borders – and he grips both my thighs so that my feet are off the floor. My shoes have come off without me knowing it. His flesh is all around me – hard and soft and sweet and smooth – and he’s leveraging me against the wall, and I can feel his hardness poking me down there . . .
And finding me . . .
“I’ve never done this before,” I want to say, but I don’t because I’m too caught up with his sweet, swollen kisses.
And oh!
A sharp pain expands me, and pricks me, and there’s the rush of his warm cock into my pulsing and very ready sex, and his lips have not left my mouth.
We lock mouths and tongues – twisting and entwining – as he moves inside me. His cock gushes in and out of my soft and very wet virgin passage. Because that’s what I wanted to warn him about. Through high school and half of college, I’ve remained a virgin. (No time to have a boyfriend and have sex.) And I’ve never caught on to what the hoopla is about, and so I have always been a little afraid of this –
This all-consuming, wonderfully warm and invasive penetration.
This sharing and melding of bodies, this grinding of hips against hips, this marvelous sweet melty sticky merging of flesh and fluids. And he’s pounding so hard into me that I don’t feel any pain at all, merely the sweeping of a rushing vortex, and bliss, and the glorious moist velvet expansion of his flesh within mine. And it’s a cocoon that I want to dwell in forever, and oh –
Oh
Oh!!!
Ohhhhhhhhh!
I cry against his lips, and he holds me even tighter as my body shudders and contorts into a helpless mess, and I can hear him cry out against my neck as well – an explosion of sound within his chest – and the vibration of his chest wall against my breasts. His molten liquid semen geysers suddenly into me, and it’s –
Oh no
Neither of us has used any protection.
But my mind is running too much of a marathon to care, and I’m still riding on the crest of some infinitesimal heavenly wave, and I’m imploding, and exploding, and fusing, and defusing . . . and I’m collapsing against him, and he’s allowing me to collapse against him, and he’s holding me so tightly as he pumps out the last of his hot semen into me.
We are both panting and descending as he withdraws his cock from me. And I look down at his organ for the first time – that wonderful rod that has been inside me – and see that it’s large and red and dripping with white cum. And there’s a streak of my dark blood amid all that goo, and my heart quails and simultaneously swells at the sight of it.
His underwear and pants are not even off. They drape around his ankles, and he’s letting me down on the floor now. At least, my feet are touching it. But he still holds my waist to support me, as if he’s not sure he can let me go yet.
A funny look comes over his blue-green eyes as he looks at me, and he’s suddenly embarrassed. Like he’s looking into the eyes of a stranger.
Which I essentially am.
As he is to me.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, bending down to pull up his pants. “I don’t know what came over me.”
I can only pant in reply. I’m still not grounded, I think. I’m still floating in that eyrie of consciousness between orgasm and its slow aftermath.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. There’s a hint of regret (oh no) in his eyes as he zips up his pants and gathers his clothes from the floor. “I should have used a condom.”
I can only watch all this in a vague haze. I get the impression that this is a man not used to regrets, or helplessness, or anything he would consider ‘weak’. Indeed, even as I gaze upon his features, they rearrange and recompose themselves.
He puts his shirt and jacket back on and he’s a mask again. His shoulders are straightened, and now fully clothed, he’s a portrait of Adonis. Virile. Studly. In control.
“I should get going now,” he says. That hint of uncertainty that he has only momentarily revealed to me is gone. “Thank you . . . it was nice.”
He doesn’t look at me. Without another word, he hurries out of the stall.
I can only stare helplessly at the open door as his footsteps pad away. The handle of the main restroom door wrenches open and the door shuts with a firm thud.
That’s the last I will ever see of him.
I lost my virginity to a gorgeous stranger.
Was it worth it?
Hell, yes.
The strength drains out of me in torrents, and I slowly sink to the floor on my naked haunches, shivering.
What have I just done?
2
I had a one night stand, that’s it.
So I’ll never see him again. Guys like him would never be seen with a girl like me out in the open. I get that. I’m totally all right with that.
I’m back to reality.
I’m cleaning toilets again, and this time, I have Cassandra Pelicano with me, making sure I don’t stray and accidentally make love to another gorgeous young man in a public restroom. To make fully sure, I put up not one but TWO ‘Cleaning in Progress’ yellow barricades in the doorway.
As if that’s ever stopped anyone.
“Did you hear?” Cassandra says.
“Hear what?”
“The Presidential suite is swarming with security.”
“Why? Is the President coming?” Again? He must really like the restrooms in this hotel.
“Nah. There’s some European royalty, like a king of some small but rich European principality or someone important.”
“A king. Oh really?”
I’m not really paying attention to Cassandra. She has a tendency to shoot her mouth off about the most trivial of things – especially concerning the guests, which I don’t think is that appropriate. I mean, you don’t want to crab about your customers, right? Word mig
ht get around.
“Yeah, and he’s got his entire entourage with him. They are holding a party in the Grand Ballroom on the Mezzanine tomorrow night. Mangorean says we might have to get involved if banqueting’s short.”
“Overtime?” That mightn’t be such a bad idea.
“Yeah.”
I’m thinking of the tips. European royalty, huh? I wonder if they tip in Euros.
“Only if banqueting’s short,” Cassandra warns, “so don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“I’m not.” Besides, I really have to study.
If I only knew how Cassandra’s ‘panties’ remark would come back to haunt me.
3
I’m changing out of my maid’s wear in the locker room when Mangorean barges through the door.
I squeal as I duck behind the open locker door. I’m in my bra and panties. No – not the same bra and panties that got so casually ripped off by Gorgeous Stranger. I’m not the type to save soiled panties as a memento or anything (the thought is icky to me.), so I put those in the washing machine and let the grime and my blood wash away.
Oh yes. I bled after that. For minutes, I think. He must have ripped my hymen up good. I don’t feel any pain, but I still bled.
It’s a good kind of bleeding, I convince myself. It was time I got laid anyway.
Anyhow, Mangorean has no notions whatsoever of laying me (ugh, that’s another icky thought) as he points his finger at me behind the door and barks, “Anna called in sick. You’re on.”
“On what?” I grab my T-shirt and quickly bulldoze my head through one of its holes. (I’m not even sure which one, but my head seems to fit.)
“Banqueting. In the ballroom. Now.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Do I get overtime?”
Mangorean rolls his eyes. He doesn’t seem to think that barging in on one of his employees half-naked necessitates an apology.
“Of course you’ll get overtime. You’re not gonna quibble over this with a man in desperate need, are you, Turner?”
“No,” I say in a small voice.
He makes to go and I make to pick up my maid’s uniform again, and then he turns. “Oh, one more thing, Turner. You’re required to be in costume. It’s one of those themed parties.”
“Costume?” I squeak.
4
I enter the ballroom through one of the back doors, feeling self-conscious. Elizabeth Turner, I tell myself sternly, you’re not going to go far holding your breath all the time this way. So breathe in and out and act natural.
But it’s difficult to be natural when you are wearing a skimpy Arabian harem costume. Yes, one complete with a diaphanous veil and gold threaded pantaloons and all. My bustier is a fake jewel-and- sequin studded number that must have taken a season to sew, so they are not skimping on the help’s costumes, you can be sure of that.
I have a fairly good body, though nothing spectacular. My breasts – recently crushed against Mysterious Stranger’s well-muscled chest – are medium-sized. Thank goodness my abs are flat, even though I don’t technically have ‘abs’ in the physical fitness sense. My hips are just right. I would like to think my hips are the best part of me.
I think what I’m trying to say is that I carry the harem costume fairly well . . . in the sense that I won’t send anyone in the ballroom running and screaming for the exit.
The ballroom is decorated with dazzling swaths of purple and vermillion cloth on the walls and all the way up to the ceiling – the effect is to evoke a pleasure tent, I suppose. The tablecloths are all decked in similar fashion.
I’m carrying a tray of canapés and circling around the guests, who are all dressed in gorgeous designer gowns I will never be able to afford on three years’ salary. It’s like an Oscar party, only the guests are not as TV beautiful. The guest of honor has not arrived yet, and I think it says on the invitation card that all the other guests have to arrive well before the man who is currently occupying the Presidential suite.
“Hello, little lady,” says a man with a Texan drawl as he filches a canapé off my tray. He tries to pat my rump, but I dart away in time. “Not very friendly, are you?”
“Please, sir, I’m just here to do my work.”
I vanish behind a trio of matronly ladies who resemble the Queen of England. (Yes, all three of them are probably sisters. To each other. Not the Queen.)
A chorus of trumpets sound. How quaint. I didn’t think they did that anymore. The guests all troop excitedly to the sides to line the red carpet that divides the center of the ballroom. We waitresses and maids who are doubling as waitresses stay well behind the lines.
The King of Moldovia arrives. He’s dressed in his state robes with more medals and pins than Colin Powell. I have since learned from Cassandra Pelicano that:
Moldovia is a city state in Southern Europe with a very historical monarchy and very abundant casinos.
I’m a doofus for not knowing that (OK, I have heard of Moldovia, but I haven’t necessarily registered it in my brain).
I’m a doofus for not knowing anything exists outside America. (Not true. I do know about Prince William and Kate.)
I can’t catch a glimpse of the King amid all those heads in front of me, and anyway, I’m not supposed to. I’m supposed to stand back with my tray with all the other servers and look demure. Or interested. Or attentive. Or all three.
The King goes down the ranks, greeting the guests. The men bow and the women curtsey. I didn’t know people still curtsied, and so I find that extremely amusing, like royalty is supposed to be a class above us. (I don’t think I would have made it in medieval times, I’m so egalitarian.)
Once the fanfare is over with, the guests disperse and we servers swarm to mingle with them. Tray after tray of canapés is emptied, and I’m tired of serving canapés after a while, and so I swap to a tray of champagne glasses. These require even more handling care, and so I have to weave my way very slowly though the guests.
Now and then, I catch a glimpse of the King, a handsome silver-haired man who is a cross between Jay Leno and Prince Philip, the English consort to the Queen. (Or maybe it’s because I’ve got royalty on my mind.) He seems very stern, forbidding and displeased about something. Or maybe that’s his usual expression.
I hear snatches of conversation amongst the guests:
“And where is – ?”
“Carousing, no doubt, what a disappointment.”
“Ssssh, he’ll hear you.”
“He’s no doubt thinking the same thing. Such a scandal that is causing.”
“It’s no scandal, darling. The young man isn’t even married!”
“Yes, but it’s due to be announced any time.”
“Where’s his wife, the Queen?”
“Back in Moldovia, I hear, in the summer palace.”
A commotion ripples through the throng of people near the entrance. Heads turn. Obviously someone new has entered. I’m preoccupied with balancing my champagne tray, especially since people have started to put their empty glasses back upon it, and so I don’t notice.
I go back and forth, replenishing my tray. When I return to the ballroom for the tenth time, an extremely beautiful woman sweeps down my path, stopping me in my tracks. She doesn’t acknowledge me, of course. I can’t help noticing the red ringlets that run down her bared back and the gorgeous green gown she wears. Large emerald earrings the size of pigeon eggs droop from her earlobes, which are unfortunately not egg-shaped.
Ok. I’m being mean. But she’s so graceful and gorgeous and everything I’m not that I can’t totally dispel my pang of envy.
She makes a beeline for a crowd of people. Or rather, someone within the crowd, seeing as they part for her to enter.
“Darling,” I hear her gush.
The gowns swirl to reveal her target. And I almost drop the tray of fluted glasses.
There he is. My Gorgeous Stranger.
He’s wearing a white tuxedo, and he’s so handsom
e that I positively have to grab on to the tray for fear of smashing it onto the floor. The beautiful woman goes up and gives him a kiss. Or at least, she attempts to kiss him on the lips, but he averts her mouth in time. She catches him on the cheek instead and leaves her red imprint.
Uck. I hate women who do that.
Apparently, my gorgeous stranger does too. He wipes off her kiss with obvious distaste.
“Tatiana, you know I don’t do PDA.”
I can’t help overhearing their conversation, being as close as I am.
“PDA, darling? What is that?” Her accent is decidedly European.
“Public Display of Affection.”
“You’ve gone so American, darling, with your abbreviations that I can’t keep up.” She takes his arm and steers him away from the smiling throng. “It would seem that your father is displeased.”
“What? That I got sidetracked from his party?”
Wait a minute. Something is clicking in my head, only I’m a bit slow on the catch. I have no time to make the instant connection that I should be making, however, because he suddenly sees me.
We both freeze.
Does he recognize me in this outfit? Obviously, because his eyes are shocked and staring at me in the way of an apparition. A dozen conflicting emotions flit across his face, and I’m amazed – because I’m sure I have been nothing more for him than a fifteen-minute fling. Yes, it was passionate and exciting . . . for me, but I thought this kind of thing would be commonplace for someone like him.
Because he’s a player, I’m sure of it. That kind of chance sexual encounter doesn’t happen for an average Joe. He does this all the time, and I just happen to be conveniently there for whatever sexual demons he’s trying to exorcise. Maybe he got frustrated by redheaded goddess over here. Maybe he was just having a hormone overload.
I don’t know. I will never know. I’m just a maid/waitress struggling to get through college.
Tangled: A New Adult Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle of Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Royalty) Page 110
