by L. A. Rose
Marie gathers her laundry up off the floor. “You know, you could just go have sex with someone else. College students do that.”
I think back to David’s religious revelation when he saw my boobs. “It’s more like…I’m horny for one person. Anything else would be like—like eating pizza when what you want is sex. No offense.”
“None taken.” She takes a bite. “So this person you’re horny for. His name starts with an A and ends with Drian?”
“No, I’m horny for Chef fucking Boyardee. Obviously.”
“Oh. I guess I’ll have to give this to someone interested in Adrian then.” She plucks an envelope from her purse and taps it.
I sit up. “What’s that?”
“Read it yourself.” She hands it to me.
I open it. It’s an invitation, printed on creamy rich-person stationary. An invitation to a dinner, this Friday. Underneath the silvery printed writing, there’s Adrian’s handwritten scrawl. I experience a moment of surprise that I know him well enough to recognize his handwriting.
White Steel is throwing this thing. I don’t think I can face it without you. Be my personal escort?
I resist the urge to clutch it to my chest like an army wife in a fifties movie. I don’t think I understood until now how much I believed that he wouldn’t be interested in me anymore, now that he’s famous. And how happy I am that I was wrong.
Marie reads it over my shoulder. “Whoa, Cleo. The Verge? That’s a serious venue.”
I barely noticed anything about the letter except for the fact that Adrian can’t face something without me.
“You’ll need a pretty hardcore dress,” she continues. “Luckily he tucked a thousand bucks into the envelope.”
“Very funny.”
She waves ten hundred-dollar bills in my face, which all the color drains from. Rapidly.
“I can’t accept that.”
“Which is what I told him you’d say. To which he promised that, in the future, if you’re ever uncomfortable with any of the lavish gifts he is sure to bestow on you, just say the word and he’ll take them back. But he thinks he should get in at least one lavish gift before then. And if you send it back, he’ll just donate it to the people who made ______.”
“I hate that show,” I gasp.
“He knows.”
“God damn it,” I say, grabbing the fistful of cash. “Marie, we’re going shopping.”
One pair of Michael Kors shoes, one Versace dress, and one Miu Miu handbag later, I stand outside my apartment, hoping Adrian comes quick before a mugger notices that I am his wet dream.
Adrian comes quick.
In a limo.
I guess I underestimated what famous really means, because I’m gaping when the sleek black car pulls up and then when Adrian steps out, my eyeballs explode, sending meteors shooting twenty feet and exterminating the dinosaurs.
His suit is impeccably black, cut perfectly to the contours of his muscular body. His hair sweeps low over his forehead, highlighting his cheekbones and jaw. There’s a look in his green eyes that sends a shiver all over my body. And then I realize that look is because he’s looking at me.
“I’m not a fashion expert,” I say in a rush. “Once this is over I’m returning it all and donating the money to charity.”
“You’re telling me that I’ll never see you in that dress again, after tonight.” He takes a step closer and I catch his scent and oh, God, I would throw this dress in the nearest trash can if I could pounce on him right here and now.
But I keep my composure. “That’s what I’m saying.”
He slips his arm around my back, cupping the skin exposed by the cutouts in the fabric. “Then I’ll have to make sure tonight never ends.”
“How will you do that?” I ask, mostly to find out whether or not I’m still capable of speech.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “How about I fuck you so hard that time stops for us?”
A noise escapes me, one I didn’t know I could produce. It sounds like something that should be in the trailer for Fifty Shades of Grey. I’m wet immediately, and I want him to know. Trembling a little, I guide his hand to it.
His body goes rigid with restraint as his lips graze my forehead.
I want to hack away his restraints with a machete like a jungle traveler.
The limo door, as if sensing his need for a dark, enclosed space, pops open. Adrian takes my hand and guides me inside, never once removing his eyes from mine.
I’ve never been in the back of a limo before. The divider from the driver is up and there’s an ocean of smooth leather seats. The fresh car small mingles with Adrian’s, intoxicating me.
The door closes, and in less than a second he has me pushed up against the seat, his hand on my thigh, his mouth at my neck.
“Fuck, Adrian,” I gasp. “Now. Now. I want you now.”
He cups my hip, that wicked smile playing around his lips. “Is that a fact?”
That’s it. Red explodes behind my eyes and I snap. I twist out from under him and suddenly I’m on top, straddling him, my dress hiked high over my thighs. “You have been making me insane. Do you realize that? You’re torturing me.”
Something flashes in his expression and he surges forward. My back lands against the door. He’s pressed against me, both of us upright now, my legs wrapped around his strong waist and his arms holding me close.
“You need to realize something,” he says fiercely. “You need to know how much I’ve been wanting you. Craving you. Thinking about you every fucking second, Cleo. Torturing you? I’ve been torturing myself. It feels like setting myself on fire whenever I stop from doing exactly what I want to you. You’ve only wanted me for weeks. I’ve wanted you for years. Think about that.”
“You have me, so take me.” I grind against his hip. His breath turns ragged. “I’m right here.”
“I will not let—” He pants heavily. “Your first time—” I grip his straining hardness and he groans. “Be in the back—” He rests his head against my shoulder. “Of a car.”
“A limo! I am so okay with my first time being in the back of a limo! Limos are classy! There’s nothing wrong with losing your virginity in a limo!” My words dissolve into insensible mumbling as his hand sneaks to the inside of my thigh, rubbing my skin.
“A car is a car,” he says, and then kisses me until I’m not sure if we’re still in the limo or if we’ve been transported to a spaceship.
“We could be in a gas station bathroom right now and I would still want you to fuck me senseless.” I bury my fingers in his hair.
In response, he uses his mouth to do terrible and wonderful things to the breast that has fallen out of my low-cut dress. I let my head fall back, drowning in this feeling.
“You want to know what I’m waiting for?” he says in a low voice, finding my wetness again, slipping inside, and my body reacts on its own, grinding against his hand.
“For me to completely lose my goddamn mind?” I say hoarsely.
He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and then releases it. I shudder.
“I’m waiting for you to realize you’re in love with me,” he whispers, and I freeze with the shock of it, but before I can respond, the limo is pulling to a stop.
I hastily disentangle myself, rearranging my dress and popping the errand boob back in. He smooths his hair and we both look down at the massive tent in his pants.
He closes his eyes, and after a few seconds, it’s gone.
“How?” I gasp.
“I picture Mrs. Dorian, from homeroom.”
That makes sense. She bore a remarkable resemblance to a bowl of stewed prunes left in the sun.
I open my mouth, intending to tell him I’m entirely not in love with him, but the words won’t come.
“I’m not…aghblagh.” Hmm. “Adrian, you should know that I’m definitely not hngghgrrf.”
What the heck?
But he’s not looking at me. He’s gazing out the window, and judging by his e
xpression, at something utterly displeasing. I lean next to him to squint out the darkened limo windows.
He’s frowning at a red carpet.
And flashing lights.
And ten billion reporters.
“They said this wouldn’t be a big deal,” he mutters.
“Not a big deal?” I choke. “That’s CNN out there.”
He gives a vaguely annoyed shrug. ‘Vaguely annoyed shrug’ is not in my range of expressions at the moment. I’m currently vacillating between lemur wide-eyed-ness and toddler-about-to-vomit.
Then he stretches out his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
And I take it.
The moment we step out of the limo, a million camera flashes go off, and it’s sort of like being in the middle of a firework.
“Hello, hi there,” I nod to each reporter. “Lovely weather we’re having. I like your tie. Are you from Boston? You look like a West Coast fellow.”
They ignore me and shout questions at Adrian.
“Mr. King, when is your next shoot with White Steel? Will you be modeling for their winter season as well? How does it feel to follow in your mother’s footsteps?”
He stares straight ahead, an irritated slant to his brow that I’ve never seen before, but his grip tightens on my hand. More than a few gazes shift curiously to me before we head inside, the security guard not bothering to check our names.
The inside of the venue is dazzling. Everything’s sleek and chrome-looking. I resist the urge to leave fingerprints on the nearest perfectly-polished table, just for the sake of it. What I do not resist the urge to do is zoom to the appetizers table.
Bacon-wrapped scallops, seared tuna slices, the fanciest of the fancy cheese, sliced tomatoes with balsamic vinegar…
“Since when do models eat like this?” I gasp, experimenting to see how many tuna slices I can stuff in my mouth at once. Results: five.
“They puke it up afterwards,” says Adrian, still with that unfamiliar frown. It bothers me. I swallow massively and poke his arm.
“This is kind of fun. Good food and a bunch of nerds who think you’re the hottest thing to ever be a hot thing. Cheer up.”
“I guess it’s not so bad,” he says after a minute, and I’ve earned myself an Adrian smile.
Just then, though, it becomes so bad.
So Bad arrives in the form of a gorgeous girl with legs for miles and an endless waterfall of dark, dark hair. She latches onto Adrian like the world’s sexiest leech and plants a kiss on his cheek, dangerously close to the lips.
“I knew you’d come! Have you tried the champagne? It’s vintage,” she purrs, paying as much attention to me as the wall.
“Cleo, this is Naomi. Naomi, this is Cleo,” he says, gently sliding free. “My…”
He’s looking at me, and he’s asking for permission.
Naomi’s looking at me too, and she’s got her claws out, ready for a reason to sink them in.
“His girlfriend,” I say confidently, wrapping my arm around his waist and leaning into his hip.
What I actually say is “I’m, uh, you know, his, uh, you know,” and try to sexily bump hips with him, but end up shoving him into the waiter behind him, who spills champagne all over the floor.
But I think I get the point across!
“His chiropractor?” asks Naomi, raising an eyebrow. God damn it. Do I look like a chiropractor to you, sister?
“His girlfriend,” I finally manage, so proud of myself for getting the two syllables straight that for a second I don’t notice the expression on Adrian’s face.
And then I’m really glad I do notice, because it’s worth seeing.
Although I don’t know if I want to see it too many more times, because of the things it does to my heart.
“Ah,” she laughs, all breeze and air. “Of course you are.” And then she floats away.
I’m left turning redder than the tomatoes, and markedly less delicious. “You’re probably too cool for the word girlfriend, being a famous model now or whatever—” I mutter at the floor.
And then I’m drawn into his arms so desperately, held with such feeling, that I lose sense of where he ends and I begin.
“There is nobody on this planet who’s too cool to call Cleo Reynolds his girlfriend,” he says softly. “But I hope to God nobody else ever will.”
And in that moment, I’m hoping too.
There’s a click, and when I tip my face away from his chest, I see that we’re being photographed.
I fully expect Adrian to snap at the guy, or shove him away with a scowl, as per his apparent allergy to the press, but instead he looks straight at the lens with his arm around me. “Make sure you get her name,” he tells the reporter. “Cleo Reynolds. The most important person in the world to me.”
The photo preserves the awesome moment: him with his characteristic Adrian triumph grin, and me with my mouth hanging open like the hatch of a World War II submarine.
The party keeps going for another couple hours. Nobody seems very interested in talking to me and everyone seems very interested in talking to Adrian, which gives me a great excuse to spend some quality time with the grilled shrimp. And the flutes of bubbly champagne. And the rich crabmeat dip. And the chocolate fountain.
You heard that right.
Chocolate fountain.
And then I discover the oysters.
I’ve never had an oyster before, but after the first two I begin to understand what the big deal is.
They make you really, really horny.
And the oysters plus chocolate plus champagne plus the fact that I haven’t had sex in months plus the fact that Adrian has driven me to the edge of orgasm more times than I can count…
Equals a flat-out insane Cleo.
This flat-out insane Cleo goes up to the ring of people surrounding Adrian, busts into the center, and pulls him into a long, hard kiss.
Wolf-whistles erupt all around me, from male models who are mostly drunk. “Where do I get one,” the nearest guy whines. But I barely hear him, because I’m lost in the sweet, dark drug of Adrian’s lips.
When we break apart, I’m so starving for his body that I’m shaking.
He looks me over. Then he pulls aside the head security guard and whispers something in his ear.
“What did you say to him?” I ask, when I recover my ability to say words that aren’t RIP OFF MY CLOTHES RIGHT NOW.
His sculpted face is so gorgeously wicked. “I told him that if he can clear this place out in the next ten minutes, I’ll give him twenty thousand dollars.”
I open my mouth, but before I can laugh at his hilarious joke, an announcement comes on.
“Attention, patrons. Due to an emergency gas leak, this venue will now be evacuated. The situation is not life-threatening, but immediate repairs are in order. Attendees are invited to the next-door Charleston for the after party. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I stare at Adrian, waiting for him to join the throngs of exasperated rich people headed for the door. But his grin just grows wider.
“You were serious!” I hiss. “You just faked an emergency!”
“The way you kissed me just now, Cleo, that was an emergency.” He pulls me down to duck with him behind a nearby piano as everyone streams past us.
My heart is pounding. “You said you weren’t going to have sex with me until I realized I was in love with you.”
“Whether you know it or not, that kiss you just gave me was your realization.”
His voice is rich and deep as burgundy wine, and I want to sink into it, but I have to argue on principal. “That is so arrogant. You can’t assume I’m feeling a certain way just because I happened to kiss you like my life depended on it.”
He runs a thumb under my lower lip, his eyes glinting. “You love me.”
I splutter. “I love…Tina Fey.”
“You love me,” he repeats, tracing a delicate pattern on the back of my neck as the room around us slowly empties.
> “I love…Sleepless in Seattle.”
The room is now completely empty. He stares into my eyes for a long electric moment. Then he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. I shriek, pounding his back playfully, as he carries me to the main table with its pristine white silk tablecloth and its crystal glasses and its silver plates.
He sweeps it all onto the floor.
The clatter is so deafening that I scream.
“That’s for later,” he says darkly, holding a finger to my lips.
Jesus.
He drops me on the table, my back sliding against the fabric of the tablecloth, and dives down on top of me, his mouth working feverishly over my collarbone, my jaw, finally my lips. This is Adrian unleashed, and all of his passion is sweeping me away like a tide. His tongue surges into my mouth and mine reciprocates eagerly. I grip him around the waist with my legs, yanking him close, until our bodies mesh together in all the right places.
“You love me,” he breathes into my mouth.
Adrian. Adrian. Adrian. His name pulses in my head. “I love—this dress.”
“Is that so?” he says. “I love it too.”
And then he rips it off my body, tearing it away like it’s the world’s most offensive piece of fabric simply by being between him and my skin. I’m inclined to agree. He tosses it to the side.
“But I love it much better when it’s over there.”
His eyes rake over my body. I’ve never felt sexier in my life, flat on my back on the expensive tablecloth, everything exposed—and I mean everything. It wasn’t a panties kind of night.
“You,” he says, “are unbelievably, completely, utterly fucking beautiful.”
“I know.” I’m not lying.
“And,” he says, leaning over me and raining kisses on my stomach, “you love me.”
The sensation bubbles up into my chest and I gasp. “I love—chocolate.”
He pauses thoughtfully. “Is that so?”
Then he glances at the chocolate fountain.
“Don’t you dare!” I yelp, but he’s already dipped his hands into the sweet molten pool, and then he’s pouring chocolate all over me—my chest and everything below.
He sucks chocolate off my nipples, leaving a clean patch and electric tingles on each, and licks his lips. “Turns out I love chocolate too.”
