by Tina Donahue
“Good point. Does your cut hurt?”
“Stings a little.”
“I’ll make the bad go away.” She slipped her tongue into his mouth and pumped her pussy over his shaft.
Someone groaned. Maybe him. Lost in her mouth, scent, and extraordinary heat, he jerked his hips and thrust crazily, wanting them to come before the damn ride ended. The limo zoomed along faster.
He rubbed her clit.
She gripped his shoulders and moaned.
They climaxed together, faster than they ever had, chests bumping from their ragged breaths.
Clover kissed him longingly. He gave her everything he had, too. Their tongues waltzed, the moment tender and magical.
At last they relaxed, lips parting.
She stroked his cheek, her gaze blurred.
He couldn’t recall another moment as joyous. “Thanks.”
The limo slowed and made a turn. A small crackle sounded, followed by the driver’s voice. “We’ll be at the front door in a moment.”
Van Gogh suppressed a groan.
Chapter Fifteen
Clover slipped her arm around Van Gogh’s waist, grateful he’d indulged in sex and booze. With him limp from screwing and relaxed from his beer, he couldn’t possibly bolt back to the limo.
She guided him toward the front steps.
“We there yet?” He rested his head against hers and yawned. “Should I open my eyes?”
“Definitely. You have to see this place. Way better than what the Google Earth map showed.”
Towering palms rustled in the sticky breeze. Plump bushes and flowers in every color flanked the blindingly white structure. It stretched forever horizontally and vertically, the windows reaching from floor to ceiling, lights blazing everywhere. Thunderous music pounded inside.
Van Gogh lifted his face and teetered.
She tightened her arm, bracing him. “Easy. Don’t want you to fall and break anything. You’d probably get only a couple of billion from the lawsuit.”
“More like million.” He smacked his lips and glanced around. “This place is nice but I’ve seen better.”
“Where? In near-death experiences?”
He touched his nose to hers. “Gatherings my parents forced me to attend and those we had at our place.”
“Your home, that is, their home is bigger than this?”
“One is, if they haven’t sold it since I last spoke to them.”
A piercing squeal rang out, interrupted by laughter. A naked young woman streaked across the lawn, pursued by a bare-chested guy who lowered his cargo shorts and boxer briefs while running. Bad move. He tripped over his clothes and rolled across the thick grass.
“Oh no.” Bouncing in place, the young woman flapped her hands. “Are you all right?”
“Yep.” After ditching his cargos and underwear he chased her, stiffened cock swinging, legs pumping.
Clover bumped her hip against Van Gogh’s. “Told you we’d be wearing more than anyone else.”
He craned his neck and pushed to his toes, watching the fleeing couple. They rounded an area taken up by sleek sports cars then disappeared into heavy foliage. “If my parents’ or their friends’ bashes had been like this, I might have enjoyed them.”
“With your wife, Mrs. Gekko, on your arm?”
He cupped Clover’s chin and kissed her tenderly. “More like several Hollywood actresses in varying stages of undress. This looks like their kind of party.”
“Let’s make it ours.”
“I’m not chasing you around naked or screwing in front of an audience.”
She pushed out her bottom lip. “Bastard. Now what will we do for fun?”
He suckled her neck then pressed his mouth to her ear. “Sell your stuff. Make Clover the biggest name in jewelry. Put the other designers out of business.”
“World domination.” She turned her face to his. Their cheeks touched, his freshly shaved skin smooth and hot. “Sounds like a plan. Let’s go.”
They passed through humongous rooms, the furniture scant. Partygoers streamed in and out, drinks, cigars, cigs, and possibly joints in their hands. No one glanced at her and Van Gogh, too drunk or in their own worlds to notice anyone else.
That alone should have helped him relax.
However, the deeper they journeyed into the mansion and the thicker the crowd grew, the more his arm tensed around Clover’s waist. He kept his eyes front, his expression a mask. She’d done the same in school when running the gauntlet between classes, cool kids filling the halls, their barbs sharpened, nasty comments poised on their perfectly sculpted lips.
If anyone said anything bad to him tonight, she’d slug them then ram her spike heel into their throats.
They reached the performance. The band rocked on a makeshift stage at the far end of a banquet room longer than a football field. Five gargantuan chandeliers flashed on and off like strobes. The zillion crystals on them trembled from the deafening bass. Spotlights swept the darkened areas. Women in glittery tops and microscopic short-shorts danced wildly, their hair flying. Guys bobbed with apelike grace and flailed their arms.
Van Gogh stiffened and said something.
Clover shouted, “What?”
He leaned down to her ear. “We don’t have to dance, do we?”
“I don’t see how you could do worse than the dudes here. No one’s making fun of them.”
“Oh no?” He inclined his head toward a group.
The girls huddled together and laughed at a poor guy who was moonwalking really badly. He slid right and left rather than dancing backward. Could be he was drunk or high and forgot how to do the moves correctly.
“Oh. My. Freaking. God!”
At the screech, Clover turned.
A young woman in a gold tube top, leather mini shorts, and gladiator high heels rushed toward Clover and Van Gogh. Rather than zipping past them, she stopped in front of him, gripped his shirt, and yanked it open.
The spotlight swept past, revealing his chest tat in full living color.
His arm fell away from Clover. He stepped back.
Ready to run, she guessed.
The young woman followed him and shrieked, “Is this real?” She swept his pecs, abs, and lower with more enthusiasm than an X-rated masseuse.
Clover grabbed the girl’s wrist before she touched anything too intimate. “Hey, hey, hey.” She shouted loud enough for those in the adjoining county to hear. “No touching V unless you want a lawsuit for damaging priceless property. You want to talk to him, you go through me, his agent.”
Ms. Touchy-Feely bared her teeth. “Do you know who I am?”
“Barbie on acid?”
The fake eyelash on the woman’s left eye was peeling off.
Clover lifted her chin. “Shouldn’t you be looking for Ken?”
Bass boomed and drums pounded then the music died, leaving nothing except ringing in Clover’s ears.
The chandeliers stopped flickering and burned steadily, illuminating the room better than the midday sun.
The band’s frontman held up his hands and shouted into his mic, “Taking a break. Back in a few.”
Groupies rushed the stage, him, and his band members.
Several young women sauntered to Van Gogh, hips swinging, boobs bouncing. Given their identical noses, high cheekbones, pouty lips, and flawless bods, they’d invested more in plastic surgery than the mansion’s owner had in a year’s mortgage on this place.
Ms. Touchy-Feely elbowed a brunette away and crowded Van Gogh. “Hey, I’m Peaches. Your name’s V? What’s that stand for?”
He looked at Clover, eyes panicked and pleading.
As if she’d betray him to these goons. He should know better. She squared her shoulders, behaving like the talent agent she wasn’t. “That’s a secret no one will ever know, not even V’s countrymen.”
Looking intrigued, Peaches faced him. “You’re not from Palm Beach then?”
A redhead sporting a fake beauty mark leaned in. “Miami?”
Clover rolled her eyes. “If I said V’s countrymen don’t know his real name that means he’s not from this country.” Duh.
More young women gathered. Peaches and the redhead frowned.
Peaches spoke first to Van Gogh. “You’re from Jupiter Island then, or maybe Star?”
The others chimed in, naming every exclusive isle in this vicinity rather than countries outside the United States.
Van Gogh glanced at Clover for new assistance. She lifted her shoulders. No way could she help this group understand geography.
A young woman who was Amazon tall pushed through the crowd and pointed at his tat. “I want my boyfriend to get one of those. Who did it?”
“V.” Clover spoke with fierce pride. “On himself. By himself.”
“Get out.” Peaches batted her still-intact eyelash at him. “Seriously?”
He hesitated then shrugged. “It’s not that hard.”
“Says you. Didn’t it hurt?”
Uncertainty crossed his features, like he expected her to challenge or laugh at his answer. “Sure. Why?”
“Because I’d faint even thinking about doing that to myself.” Admiration shone in her eyes. “How bad was it? Did you barf?”
“No.” He scratched his neck. “I felt it, of course, since you have to use a needle to get the ink beneath your skin, but not enough to moan or anything, though I did bleed. After a while, you get used to the blood and pain.”
“You’re a real Spartacus, huh? Those dudes in 300 have nothing on you.” Wonder filled her face. She touched his heart image gingerly and stroked his nipple.
His lids fluttered.
Clover frowned.
Peaches let out a breathy sigh. “How long did it take? How’d you do it with your face up there and everything else upside down?”
Van Gogh shook his head. “Excuse me?”
Clover jumped in. “I think she means when you look down at yourself, you’re seeing things from the wrong angle. How’d you manage to get the design right-side up?”
“Oh. Used a mirror.” He glanced tentatively at Peaches, the way he’d been with Clover when he hadn’t been sure about her feelings for him. “Nothing more complicated than that.”
“Are you joking?” Peaches pressed her hand against her ample chest. “No guy I know would be able to do that, not even the brainy ones. Course, that’s all they have, not awesome muscles like yours. You’re something.”
“Yeah?” He smiled, loosening up.
Exactly as he’d done with Clover when she’d praised his designs at the parlor the first day they’d talked. It had taken her nearly a year to find the secret to gain his interest and trust. Peaches had discovered it in four seconds.
“Look at his arms.” The redhead touched both. “You did these bloody things, too?”
“Uh-huh. They’re bullet holes.”
Ms. Amazon sniffed derisively. “Impossible.”
His caution returned, eyes narrowed. “I think I know what I inked on myself, Miss…”
“They call me Trinity.”
She spoke like she was a secret agent or something. Clover held back a groan.
Van Gogh pushed out his arms. “If you look closely, Trinity, you’ll see they are bullet holes.”
Several others edged nearer, checking them out.
Trinity brushed back her platinum hair. “That’s not what I meant. They look like mirror images. If you’re right-handed, you would have screwed up that arm. If you’re left-handed, the same goes for that one. Don’t tell me that’s not true.”
“I won’t.” He fingered his shirt.
Clover noticed he didn’t button it.
He spoke to Trinity. “However, if I’m ambidextrous, which I am, the tats come out exactly the same on both arms and did.”
A brunette sporting Cleopatra bangs stared, awe glittering in her eyes. “You’re too cool.”
Trinity tapped her foot. “I want you doing my boyfriend’s chest and arms. No bullet holes there, though. Something else. I’ll let you know what when I decide.”
Van Gogh shook his head. “I don’t ink anyone unless the person agrees. It’s their body and their right.”
“Is that so?” She looked down her nose at him. “Let me put it this way, price is no object.”
“I’m sure it’s not, but I ink who I want when I want. No exceptions.” He pinned her with his gaze. “No arguments.”
Clover gaped. Talk about macho man.
Trinity caved faster than a plain Jane would to 007. All soft and feminine now, she gave Van Gogh a gentle smile. “Sure. What’s your number?”
“Wait.” Clover held out her hand. She was the agent here and called the shots.
Van Gogh glanced at her. “Thanks, but I have it.” He rattled off Wicked Brand’s number. “Ask for Jasmina. She’ll take care of you.”
Trinity stored the information in her smartphone. “Better take my number in case I get a busy signal. I don’t like to wait.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I guessed that.”
Clover stepped between them before too much information passed, he loosened up more than he already had, and they started flirting. She’d wanted him to have a good time, but hadn’t expected this adoration.
The same as she’d always offered him, though not because he was outside her regular group and she found him intriguing. To her, no one matched his talent, intelligence, or personality. For that worship, she’d hoped she was special to him in ways no other woman could match and had to believe she was. He was a good guy.
Trinity rounded her and told him the number.
Van Gogh stored it in his smartphone. “Got it.”
Peaches waved her hand. “Take mine, too.” She provided three with different area codes. “The first is my cell. The second is my housekeeper’s number, just in case you can’t reach me directly. The third is my assistant’s number. If I’m busy, she’ll take a message. Call anytime. Twenty-four/seven if you have to. I pay her to be awake.”
Unfazed, he saved the info then glanced up. “Anyone else?”
Several other women shouted, “Me!”
A curvy blonde spoke louder than the rest. “Hi, I’m Shell. Do you tattoo women?”
He grinned. “All the time, Shell. Whatever you want, I can ink it. Show me a design you like, it’s yours. Can’t make up your mind? Not a prob. I’ll come up with something special just for you.”
Clover couldn’t believe he’d just offered that. He still hadn’t come up with her one-of-a-kind design yet. Hadn’t even mentioned it for days.
He didn’t notice her disappointment.
“How about this?” Shell plucked her floral-print sheath, the watercolor images hazy, as if Monet or Renoir had painted them.
Van Gogh rocked on his heels. “No biggie. The tat will look exactly the same.”
“Can you put it on my calf or ankle? Nothing too big.”
“Of course not. No way would I mess up such pretty skin.”
She giggled.
Clover tried to recall what she’d done when he’d said her complexion was flawless. Gawd. She hoped she hadn’t behaved as stupidly as Shell just had.
Another woman snaked her arm through his. “My brother’s by the pool. You and he should talk. I’m sure his friends would love to see your work.”
“Happy to show it to them.”
He wiggled his eyebrows at Clover, inclined his head for her to follow, then allowed himself to be led away.
She tried to accompany him, but a new group blocked her.
Trinity, Peaches, Shell, and the others drifted past, not bothering to look in her direction. Treating her as if she were invisible, as she’d explained to Van Gogh earlier.
At last she caught up with him, or rather fell behind him and the other girl, fulfilling her promise to serve as his agent and protector. She guessed.
He and the girl reached their destination. Introductions flew back and forth. Everyone shook hands with him. A few times Van Gogh glance
d Clover’s way, a wordless acknowledgment of her presence and maybe an invitation to join him.
No one would let her get close.
After a while, he got into the others’ questions and focused on them, not her.
Not as he had the first night they’d made love, or when he’d been worried about coming here, and during their ride in the limo.
Chapter Sixteen
A zillion stars twinkled above. The moist breeze caressed then whispered past. Van Gogh lounged in the supersized hot tub, a Tutankhamun ale in hand. At seventy-five bucks a bottle, the beer wasn’t half bad. The jet-propelled bubbles swirling around him were damn good, and the conversation priceless. For once, he held center stage. Not as the punching bag but as someone admired.
He unwound. Hell, he savored as he’d never done in his life. He pointed his bottle at Zeke, Portia’s twin, with her being the one who’d led Van Gogh here. “Check out the balls and cock tats. Go past the inked tongues you’re looking at now.”
Zeke and his friends huddled together in the tub, staring at pictures on Van Gogh’s smartphone. Work he’d done for Wicked Brand clients.
The guys’ eyes bulged. They chuckled nervously then groaned but kept checking out men’s equipment inked to resemble faces, the shaft serving as a nose, the balls becoming cheeks. One image showed a famous cartoon character who couldn’t lie because his nose always grew too long. Or in this case, the guy’s four-inch rod had lengthened to six inches. Another tat had turned a man’s cock into a snake. Other popular designs were schlongs made to look like fire hoses, pens, pencils, whatever captured the client’s fancy. NRA enthusiasts loved having their precious cargo inked to look like a gun barrel and cylinder.
Zeke showed that picture to Van Gogh. “This is what I want. Talk about shooting your cum.”
His friends laughed.
Van Gogh sipped his beer. “Portia has the number where you can reach me. Leave a message. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Bellowed oaths rang out. Four guys sprinted across the concrete, whooped, and cannonballed into the pool. A tsunami flew up and rained down on Van Gogh and the others. Women joined the men. A water volleyball game broke out, the guys holding the girls on their shoulders.
“Hey, V.” Zeke scrolled through more photos. “There’s a party next week at Taylor’s. Think you can come?”
