Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  Glamorous stuff, our conversation. I nodded and stepped into the cab, double-checking my wallet for the tickets.

  “I should probably warn you about Presa…” Carter glanced out the window, and I looked up at him, suddenly alert.

  “What about?”

  “She can be territorial. Aggressive,” he corrected himself. “Unfriendly.”

  I blinked, surprised at the string of adjectives, none of which matched the worldly ambassador I had pictured. “Territorial? Over what?”

  “She’s known me a long time. With girls I’ve dated in the past … she can come on a little strong. Protective.”

  “Like a momma bear with her cub?” I tried to follow his train of thought.

  He grimaced. “No. Like…”

  Our conversation was interrupted by an accident, two cars ahead of us colliding, our cab slamming on the brakes, throwing us both forward. Carter’s hand reached out to protect me, my eyes rolling as he took advantage, his fingers caressing me through my dress. I swatted his hand and reached for the handle.

  By the time we stepped out, there was already a full-fledged New York City argument going on between the drivers over what looked, to my untrained eye, like a big scratch. He slipped the cabbie a ten and we decided to walk the remaining four blocks to the gallery.

  When we approached, there was a crowd outside, paparazzi clustered, a few looks shot our way and then we were ignored, his hand in mine as we entered the already crowded show. Inside was pure eye candy, brilliantly lit canvases everywhere, my eyes jumping from one to another as we moved deeper inside. “Want a drink?” Carter offered.

  “Yes please. Champagne.”

  “Wait here so I don’t lose you.” He pressed a gentle kiss on my neck and I smiled.

  I was studying Peace of Heart—a red and pink wonder, tiny veins flowing through the large abstract, when I was bumped from behind and turned. Across the room, my eyes caught sight of Carter, his hand resting on the bar, his head tilted down toward the woman who stood close by his side. Presa Little. I recognized her immediately, her jet-black hair pulled back and pinned up, her stance strong and in control. The woman once had a lion as a pet. I still remember the 2005 Vogue cover where she stretched naked over its back. As I watched, she ran a hand over Carter’s arm and my gaze narrowed.

  I knew nothing about love and less about succeeding in life. But I knew what a woman on the prowl looked like. Presa Little angled her head up to Carter, and I saw the history in every ounce of their interaction. A friend of his parents? Bullshit.

  Carter moved his arm away, but it was too late. When he glanced over, our eyes met, and I raised my eyebrows. I ignored Carter’s directive to stay put and walked through the crowd, watching as her head turned to me, a smile crossing her face.

  I hoped, when I approached fifty, to look like this woman. Even through jealousy, I saw her beauty. The woman was worldly, sophisticated, and utterly comfortable in her own skin. When she shook my hand, her shake was strong and confident, and I felt incredibly young and naïve.

  “Presa, this is my girlfriend.” Carter ran his hand down my back and cupped my waist. “Chloe.”

  Girlfriend. It was such an unexpected title that I mentally stuttered. I tried my best to smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work … have been for a long time.”

  “Thank you, Chloe.” She smiled at Carter. “It’s so great to see my Carter settling. I thought it would never happen.”

  Her accent was full of rolled Rs and elongated vowels. I could tell that she wasn’t a native English speaker, but she was adept enough to know the difference between “settling down” and “settling.” Oh, and my Carter. I caught the possession. Saw it in the way her eyes sharpened as she looked at him, verbal claws of ownership digging in and taking hold. It pissed me off and I swallowed a retort, mentally counting to three before I responded.

  “How do you two know each other?” I smiled when I asked the question but it still came out a little sharp. She turned to me, her eyes lighting, feeding on my insecurity.

  “God, I met Carter when he was … what? Nineteen?” She glanced at him and he nodded warily. “His parents were some of my most loyal clients. Carter worked at my studio, assembling canvases and packaging up my sales. He’s always been good with his hands.” She smiled at me. “But I’m sure you know that.”

  My face blushed hot, and I felt off balance. If I were Benta, I’d snap off a witty comeback. Cammie would simply smile, with eyes that killed. Me? I wasn’t qualified, not to spar with the likes of Presa Little. Not to fight over a man I didn’t really have ownership of. I returned her smile weakly.

  “Ms. Little?” A tall man in a suit appeared at her right. “We are ready for you at the podium.”

  Presa nodded and turned to Carter. “I’ve got to run. It was wonderful to see you and to get a chance to meet you, Chloe.” She hugged Carter, a hug that lasted a few seconds too long. She smiled sweetly and, in a swish of fabrics, left.

  I looked up at Carter. “Well?” I asked.

  He groaned and reached for my hand. “Let’s find someplace to talk.”

  56. Mrs. Robinson is a Bitch.

  We stepped outside, navigating around the incoming stream of people and walked west. Aside from the gallery, we were in the industrial part of Chelsea, an area virtually abandoned at night. We didn’t have to go far to be alone, stopping at a bare spot alongside a wall. I leaned against the rough brick and he faced me, his hands tucked into his front pockets, his eyes glancing back to the event before focusing on me.

  “When I started working for Presa, I was pretty much just hormones and attitude.” He shrugged. “I was nineteen and she was … I don’t know. Thirty-five? Forty? One night, I worked late and…” His shoulders lifted, and he looked at me like he wasn’t going to finish the sentence, like that dangling morsel was all I was going to get.

  “You worked late and?” I pressed.

  He ran a hand roughly through his hair. “And she came into the back room in nothing but her underwear, and I fucked her over a crate of paintings.”

  I blinked. “Had you had sex before?”

  He raised his eyebrow at me. “Yeah. I’d had sex with a few different girls. But Presa…” His hand moved up, rubbing his neck. “Presa was different. Sex with her was different. She taught me a lot, about women, what they like. And about relationships.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “So … she was your sexual mentor?”

  He pursed his lips. “If you want to call her that.”

  “For how long?”

  “About a year. Give or take.”

  I sorted through my feelings. “Did you love her?”

  Before he even answered, I found the root of my unease. It wasn’t because he’d been nineteen, and she’d been two decades older. It was because she was PRESA LITTLE and I was little ol’ broke Chloe. They’d probably had a sophisticated, sex-filled, worldly affair, while I spent Saturday nights in my apartment crying over gifts from my ex-boyfriend. In the back of my mind, an insecure part of me suggested that Carter only brought me there as a way to rekindle his romance with Presa.

  He nodded. “I did.”

  “Do you love her now?”

  Another response, without pause. “No.”

  It was a good answer but I would have loved a few sentences of clarification. Preferably a few lines about how much my killer bedroom skills trumped hers. That would have been a good response.

  I bit my bottom lip and looked away. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not the first time a girl has wanted to know.”

  Girl. Not girlfriend. I wanted to chase down the distinction and stab it with the heel of my Tom Ford stilettos. Had he called me his girlfriend because that was what he wanted, or was it to ward off Presa? And at the same time, did I want to be his girlfriend? Was I ready for that step?

  I liked him—a lot. Almos
t too much. There was still so much I didn’t know about him, and so much he didn’t know about me.

  “Want to go home?”

  He held out his hand and I took it, thinking about how I hadn’t yet seen Nicole. I didn’t want to, couldn’t stomach her hanging on Clarke, playing the part of loving wife. Not tonight. And even though we’d only been there fifteen minutes, the thought of seeing any more of Presa made me gag. I smiled up at him. “Yeah.”

  Home. I liked the sound of that.

  57. Getting Clean Never Felt So Dirty

  He stripped me in the bedroom, taking his time, his fingers skimming off my dress, then my bra. I covered myself with my hands, and he smirked, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. Then he dropped to his knees, pulling my thong over my hips and down to the floor, my hands holding his shoulders as he pulled off one of my heels, then the other. “Get in the shower.” He turned me toward his bathroom and grabbed my ass, then growled and smacked it. It was just hard enough to make me jump, just hard enough to make me wet. I glanced over my shoulder as I headed to the bathroom, his eyes on me as he loosened his tie, his belt already undone, dress shoes being kicked off.

  I came to a stop at the entrance to his bathroom. My last visit, I had found the bathroom half asleep in the middle of the night with an urgent need to pee. Now, I saw everything I had missed. The shower, big enough for two, a bench on one side, a rain head and a wide window that looked out on the city. Much fancier than mine.

  He stepped behind me, reaching past and twisting the shower nozzles, his mouth nipping at my neck as the water came on in a rush. “Wait.” He stopped me from stepping in, his hand testing it, his other hand taking delicious liberties between my legs. I was panting by the time he nudged me forward, under the spray.

  It wasn’t fair to compare two men, but Vic and Carter were there, in my mind, almost constantly. And Vic never made love to me like this. Carter worshiped me in that shower. He took his time, his fingers gentle, running over every bit of me, his mouth constantly on mine, or on my skin. He sat me down on the bench and knelt before me, his hot mouth settling in between my legs, his total attention on me.

  I was close to coming when he stood up, and HARD was not enough of a description for his cock. Good Lord. Talk about absolute beauty. It stuck straight out and I reached for it, missing. “Wait,” he breathed, his hand yanking the handheld attachment off the wall and rolling the control left, adjusting the spray until it gently pulsed and then he knelt, holding it in between my legs, adjusting the angle and the setting until I gasped. “Right there?” he asked, his eyes on mine, concentration lining his face.

  “Yes.” The word hiccupped out of me, the water pulsing on my clit, a drumming patter of liquid that already had my thighs tightening. My eyes followed Carter as he stood back up and put his hands on the back of my head, his cock at a perfect level for what was next.

  “Please,” he asked and, really, it was a waste of a word. I grabbed at his waist, pulling him forward and, for the first time, put him in my mouth.

  I saw a video once on giving a grapefruit blowjob. It was mind-blowing. Quite possibly the best thing I had ever seen. I didn’t have a grapefruit in Carter’s shower but if I had, I’d have squeegeed the hell out of his perfect, delicious dick with that grapefruit.

  So, I had no grapefruit, and I was a little distracted by the water’s stream, a mind-blowing orgasm lifting me off the bench mid-blowjob. But I don’t think Carter minded. In fact, right after I came, he pulled out of my mouth, his breath hard, a moment of pause between us, before he offered it back. “I don’t want to come,” he swore, “but fuck you give amazing head.”

  That’s right, bitches. I couldn’t balance my checkbook and didn’t know the capital of Iowa but I apparently gave amazing head. I could die a happy sexpot. I contained my pride and resumed my incredible blowjob skills. And a few minutes later, he knelt back down, pulling me to the edge of the bench, and put that gorgeous cock inside of me. I wrapped my legs around him but he pulled them off. Lifted my feet and put them flat on the bench, so I looked like some squatting catcher but when he pushed back in, I understood the change in position. I also understood that he was a sexual freak of nature, and I should never ever ever ever let him go.

  “Can I—?” he gasped out the words and I understood the question.

  “Yes.” I grabbed him, held him close, suddenly frantic for him to come inside me. He pushed deeper, groaning when he came, his grip almost painful on my skin. When he finished, he sank against the wall and turned to me, his eyes heavy, his hand reaching out and he pulled me to my feet and against his chest. “Fuck,” he mumbled, pressing his mouth to the top of my wet head. “That was insane.”

  I didn’t have enough intelligent thought to form a response, just smiled against his chest, placing a kiss on his skin. We moved out of the shower and he dried me off, then lifted me, carrying me to his bed and dropping me onto the covers. I rolled over, keeping the towel with me, and watched him, studiously avoiding the giant canvas stretched above my head. Now that I knew his connection to Presa Little, his art collection was no longer impressive. Now, it was just a reminder of their relationship.

  It wasn’t my place to ask him to take it down. I knew that. Especially not at this stage of whatever we were. Still, the thought of it being the first and last thing he saw every day irked me. “Have you ever thought about selling these?” I waved a hand in the general direction of the masterpiece above the bed.

  Carter chuckled, pulling open a dresser drawer and taking out a white T-shirt, tossing it my way. “No.”

  Short. Concise. I started to follow up the answer with a follow up question, but right then, at 10:49 PM, his doorbell rang. And any questions I had stalled.

  58. Late Night Booty Call

  I stayed in place on his bed, still naked, the sheet clutched to my chest, and listened. The one good thing about a New York apartment’s tiny size: ease in eavesdropping. I heard clearly the moment when he opened the door, and I heard the surprise in his voice when he said her name.

  “Presa?”

  I didn’t know why he was surprised. I saw the way she looked at him. More importantly, I saw the way she looked at me. Like I was an annoyance, something to squash just for the fun of it. I stood up and quietly walked to the door, my hand on the doorknob. I peeked through the crack and saw Carter, his boxer briefs and nothing else on. All I could see of Presa was the elaborate skirt of her dress.

  “It’s not a good time,” Carter spoke quietly. “Which I’m sure you know.”

  “Don’t be silly. I came by for a drink. It was so nice to see you tonight.”

  “Chloe is here. My girlfriend? You met her tonight.”

  The girlfriend reference again.

  “Oh. The little blonde.”

  That irritated me. Even more than the middle-of-the-night booty call. I looked for my dress but it was on the other side of the bedroom, hanging off a chair.

  “You should go. It’s inappropriate, you being here.” He moved a little, as if to usher her out.

  “I thought you liked a party.” Her voice sounded as if she hadn’t moved an inch. “She doesn’t like to share?”

  “I don’t want to share. Or be shared. I’m not going back into that world with you, Presa.” He sounded tired. Poor guy. Discussing threesomes was probably exhausting. “Please leave.”

  Yes Presa, I thought. Please leave before I run out of this room, completely naked, and smack that entitled smirk off your face. They were into threesomes? Any sexual confidence from our shower faded.

  “Stop,” Carter spoke, and the word was muffled. I stuck my head out of the door to try and see what was happening, could hear the sounds of feet scuffling across the floor, and as I craned my neck, I could see Carter trying to push her through the door. With a yelp of indignation, Presa finally reached the hall, his hand shutting the door quickly, the latch flapped shut, and when he turned to me, I stared in shock at her li
pstick, bright red on his mouth.

  As a woman, I didn’t always act rationally, especially when it was a week before my period, my brain was still strung out from orgasms, and I was looking at another woman’s lipstick on my man.

  And yes, Carter was my man. That was the first order of business that I was determined, right there in the middle of the night, to set straight.

  “You told her I was your girlfriend.” The words came out like an accusation, and I could see the wariness in his eyes when he responded.

  “Yes.”

  “Am I?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “Yes!” I snarled the words and he looked confused. I didn’t really blame the man. Most discussions of commitment came after champagne and roses and hot sex. And usually the person asking about the commitment didn’t sound like she was ready to join the WWE. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I stepped forward, my hands clenched at my side and his eyes dropped, for a minute, from my face. It hadn’t been my plan to have this fight while naked; in fact, it hadn’t been my plan to have a fight at all, but I didn’t bother to cover up. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I repeated, my words all but a threat.

  “Yes?” The answer was a question, a healthy amount of fear in his eyes.

  “Good.” I turned and stalked back to the bedroom, and it was around the time that I slammed the door, my bare feet stomping over to the bed, that I realized how mental I was acting. Had I really just gained a relationship? Or had I just beaten a distracted man into submission?

  I crawled into his bed and heard the sink come on in the bathroom, some splashing. He was probably washing off her lipstick. I heard the sound of teeth brushing, and I felt relieved and irritated, all at the same time.

  I realized, staring up at the ceiling, that my feelings were a little irrational. I couldn’t be pissed at him for Presa Little showing up at midnight. Not when Vic would have done the exact same thing. In fact, Vic had done the same thing, in Joey Plazen’s trailer, and I’d let him take it so much further. Granted, Carter couldn’t have had sex with her, not with me watching. I guess the real question was—if he’d been alone, would he have still pushed her out of his door?