by Star Jones
Channing cracked up at her dead-on impression. “Wow, that was damn good!”
Lizette laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been working on it for a few years now. Maybe if I get fired, I can try out for Saturday Night Live.”
“Aw, baby, you’re not going anywhere,” Channing said. “But I’ll let you get back to your work. And I’ll call you right away if I find out anything.”
After she hung up, Lizette sat still for several minutes, imagining for about the thousandth time what designer she would pick for her wedding dress. She had been coming across some fabulous dresses by Amsale, the talented Ethiopian designer. She wondered how much an Amsale cost.
Just then, her cell phone rang. She looked down. It was Clare, one of her best friends from Yale. While Clare, an art history professor at NYU, was about as far as you could get from a publishing-industry insider, Lizette had called her earlier just to vent.
“Hey, I just thought of something,” Clare said without a hello. “Have you tried Tim Stratton?”
“What do you mean?” Tim Stratton was one of Lizette’s old college boyfriends. She hadn’t thought about him in years.
“Well, I ran into him a few months back. I forgot to tell you. Actually, I didn’t forget to tell you. I decided not to tell you. He looked gorgeous and he’s still single and for a split second I wondered how you would feel if I went out with him. After I came to my senses, I decided to keep all of this to myself. After all, even though you went out with him like a million years ago, there really was no need for you to know all of this. And anyway, you’re so happy with Channing. I mean, who wouldn’t be happy with Prince Channing? He’s so, like . . . perfect!” Not for the first time, Lizette wondered how Clare managed to give a college lecture without wandering off on a thousand tangents. She had a hard time conjuring a mental image of Clare commanding a big lecture hall, all waving hands and giggles and big-eyed wonderment. On second thought, the students would probably love it.
“Clare!” Lizette barked into the phone.
“Yes?” she said, somewhat meekly. “Too much?”
“Yes, too much. Why did you ask if I had tried Tim?”
“Oh, right! I guess you didn’t know that Tim Stratton is an attorney for one of the big publishers, huh? So I’m thinking that he may know someone over at Patterson and White. At least it’s worth a shot, right?”
It took Lizette only about five minutes to get Tim Stratton on the phone.
“Wow, Lizette Bradley!” he said right away. “It’s been way too long. How have you been?”
As soon as she heard his deep, sexy voice, a flood of memories came rushing back. Very good memories.
AS SHE CLIMBED INTO the second taxi, Whitney Harlington felt as silly as she usually did when she was trying to pretend she was James Bond. But she was certain the destination at the end of her journey would be worth every cloak-and-dagger detail. It always was. He claimed that the secrecy was necessary, crucial. And Whitney had to admit that the secrecy and danger of their assignations were sometimes just as thrilling as the meetings themselves.
When the taxi pulled up in front of the building, Whitney could feel the commotion in her stomach. These meetings still managed to get her so excited that they gave her an upset stomach, like the gripping nervousness she’d feel in the early days of her career in the moments just before she went on the air. But she knew that the minute she stepped into the room, the nerves would disappear, replaced by more intense passion than her body had ever known. She was almost starting to feel like she was addicted to the passion, that she couldn’t stay away even if she tried. After all, the revelation that Heather Hope had just made on The Lunch Club couch, that Missy Adams was publishing a tell-all memoir that would possibly include scandalous dirt on all the Lunch Club ladies, should have given her reason to reconsider these liaisons. If Missy outed their affair, it could be disastrous for Whitney and for him. But knowing all this, Whitney still ran headlong into his strong arms, almost as if she were racing toward her own self-destruction. If she were ordered to sit down on a therapist’s couch and explain her actions, Whitney would be speechless. How could she justify this? She knew it was wrong and she knew it was dangerous, but she also knew that she couldn’t stay away. She needed him—seemingly now more than ever.
It didn’t hurt that the setting for her “dangerous liaisons” was sexy as hell and straight out of a romance novel. Everything about the Inn at Minetta Lane was intended to signify class and privacy. It was located a few blocks from Washington Square Park in a brownstone originally constructed in 1834 that had been restored, so you truly felt like you were stepping into the nineteenth century when you crossed its ornate threshold. The place had only twelve guest rooms, each more elaborate and detailed than the last, from the four-poster beds and Frette linens to the marble fireplaces and plush upholstered sofas. Whitney loved its charm and also its furtiveness. She raced up the narrow carpeted staircase to their usual room. She was already starting to feel flush and warm inside. She couldn’t get to the room fast enough. She was out of breath when she reached the top, but that didn’t slow her down. She lunged toward the door and knocked five times, their signal. The door opened and Whitney was greeted by the wide smile of her lover, Riley Dufrane. The president of NBN.
“Welcome to Fantasy Island,” Riley said, doing his best Ricardo Montalban impersonation.
Whitney laughed and practically jumped into Riley’s arms. They brought their mouths together in a frantic kiss, as if they were trying to devour each other. They shed their clothes in seconds as they laughed and giggled their way to the bed. At age fifty-four, Whitney still couldn’t believe how horny she got when she was with Riley. After so many years of marriage to Eric, the last several of which had become nearly sexless, she had been thrilled to discover that this intensely passionate side of her still existed. And she didn’t want to give it up. Riley was seven years younger than she was and had the trim, buff body of a man at least fifteen years his junior. Whitney had grown accustomed to her lovemaking sessions lasting about ten minutes at the most, so she was still amazed at how long he could go. The first time they were together several years back, after months of panting indecision about whether they should cross the adultery line, Riley had stayed hard inside of her for more than an hour, moving and alternating the speed and tempo of his thrusts in a long, powerful dance that was almost agonizing. Whitney had lost count of how many orgasms she’d had, probably more than the total she’d had in the previous five years with Eric. Because of his staying power, she had jokingly started calling Riley “Sting” in honor of the tantric-sex-practicing rock musician.
“My God, I can’t get enough of you, my darling,” Riley said as they fell on the bed. As she tugged at her skirt, Whitney was pleased to see that Riley had remembered to turn down the comforter. They might be ridiculously expensive and beautiful Frette linens, but Whitney knew that the amount of bodily juices spilled on them over the years probably could impregnate an entire college campus. When they were both naked, Riley flipped her around so that they could feast on each other at the same time. It was one of their favorite positions—one that she and Eric hadn’t even bothered to try since W’s first term in the White House. With his head and mouth squirming between her legs and spasms of intense pleasure flowing up and down her torso, Whitney had to summon reserves of concentration to give the proper attention to Riley’s manhood, which stood at full attention. This was another thing that had been transformed with Riley, her new love of giving. She had to admit that up to this point, she primarily had been a receiver in bed. Especially when a man knew what he was doing. Her first husband knew what he was doing. Eric, not so much. Riley most definitely knew what he was doing. His lips and tongue and teeth in and around the folds of her most intimate areas could actually make her scream in pleasure. Whitney had never been a screamer. She now even got regular Brazilian bikini waxes to give Riley better access. Eric didn’t even seem to notice the “landing strip” she now sported d
own there. But her time with Riley had slowly turned Whitney into a lover who took pride in being a giver. Ever the journalist, she had even done some investigating on it. She had bought a book and accompanying DVD called The Art of Giving and, in the privacy of her bedroom, when Eric was away on one of his trips and the twins were at one of their many sleepovers, she had watched the DVD with rapt intensity, replaying the good parts over and over until she had it all down. That weekend she had wanted to rush to the Inn as soon as possible to try out her new skills, but Riley had been away with his wife. The next time they were together, as she took him more deeply inside her mouth than ever before, Riley’s eyes grew wide. He couldn’t stop complimenting her on her newly acquired skills. She was now good enough to make a DVD herself.
After several minutes of Whitney and Riley pleasuring each other, Riley actually had to reach down and move her head away.
“Damn, you’re good!” he said. “I don’t want to come yet.”
“So much for Sting!” Whitney said with a teasing laugh.
With that said, Whitney swung her body around and quickly sat down on top of him, impaling herself on him so hard that their thighs met with a loud smack. Whitney bounced up and down on top of Riley with pleasure, with vigor, like it could save her life. Riley gazed up at her with a wide smile. Whitney moaned loudly, probably too loudly. But she knew there was no chance that management would come knocking on the door. Several months back, to ensure the cooperation of everyone employed at the Inn, Riley had handed over a very large stack of cash to the Inn’s manager, a very nice gay man named Reinhardt. Every day, Reinhardt would hold this room for them until three o’clock. If he had not heard from Riley, only then would he give the room to another guest. Whitney had promptly bestowed the room with a name, one that they now both used. They called it Voluptas, which was the name of the Roman goddess of sensual pleasure, who also happened to be the daughter of Cupid. Whitney adored these little gestures of intimacy. They made her feel incredibly close to her lover, like they inhabited their own secluded world. It was a world that made her feel young and desirable and alive. Whenever they wanted to signal to each other their availability for a rendezvous, they would send a simple text that said “Voluptas” with a time, like “Voluptas 1 pm.” The other would either respond “Yes” or “No” or suggest an alternate time. In this way, they usually got together at least three times a week, which was remarkable considering how busy they both were, especially the network president.
Riley flipped Whitney around and took her from behind. He grasped her hips and pulled her onto him, hard, again and again. A big smile crossed his face as he looked down and watched her cheeks bounce and jiggle every time they met his thighs. Riley reached up and grabbed a handful of Whitney’s hair. He knew she liked this, when he got a little rough. Whitney moaned loudly as he tugged. She started making her high-pitched mewling sounds, indicating that she was about to have another orgasm. Riley decided that he would join her.
“Okay, I’m going to come with you, baby!” he said. “I’m coming with you!”
Riley felt the rush of the orgasm start at his toes and race up his legs. He held nothing back as he let go inside of her. When the spasms were over, he leaned forward and rested his head on her smooth, naked back while still inside of her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and they fell sideways onto the bed. He felt himself slowly shrinking inside of her. They both wore contented smiles as they lay in the post-sex glow, their thoughts focused on the pleasure they found in each other. Fuck Missy Adams, fuck Heather and her bombshell. In the back of her mind, Whitney knew she wasn’t going anywhere.
Dara had spent most of the day doing her own fretting about what was in Missy’s book and what it might do to her career, so she was relieved when her lover, Rain Sommers, finally got home and they could begin one of their favorite activities, cooking together. Dara purposely avoided telling Rain about Missy and the book because she knew what Rain would say—she’d say the possibility of Missy outing her in a book was all the more reason why Dara needed to come out of the closet. Dara did not want to go down that road on this night, so she welcomed Rain with open arms and led her by the hand into the kitchen so they could start the cooking ritual.
They both had their own separate reasons for enjoying the cooking process as much as they did. For Dara, who was convinced that her lover was easily the funniest woman in the country, their time together in the kitchen became like an impromptu Rain Sommers stand-up routine. She would take Dara through her day, mocking everyone who had crossed her path, trying out new routines, changing old ones, all with the purpose of thrilling her most important audience of one, Dara Cruz. And Rain got her own thrills from the process. She loved to watch Dara every minute of every day, still dismayed that this unbelievably beautiful creature was the love of her life. Dara knew that their time in the kitchen had become like a show of sorts for Rain, so she played it up to the hilt. She preferred tight jeans or clingy sweatpants, but sometimes, if she was in an especially generous mood, she would wear just an apron over some frilly bra and panties, her fleshy round Latin ass protruding from the rear of the apron like a back porch. Rain would tell her that her ass was like a work of art, like a gorgeous Modigliani taken down from the museum walls and brought out into the world for the regular folks to admire.
In fact, it was Dara’s ass that had brought them together. They were both at a party celebrating the release of one of Molly McCarthy Stein’s albums, but they had never met. As two of the most successful and best-known female entertainers in the country, Molly and Rain had been best friends for almost twenty years, since their days struggling together on the circuit. They had even roomed together for a time. Rain was a well-known lesbian, though her sexual partners hadn’t drawn as much attention as those of Ellen DeGeneres, her main rival in the comedy world, probably because Rain tried to stay away from anything having to do with a Hollywood actress. The women Rain preferred to bring into her bed were a bit more normal, lawyers and accountants and bartenders. At the time of Molly’s party, Dara had only recently been added to The Lunch Club couch, so she was still a bit starstruck at these gatherings, trying hard to keep her jaw from dropping as she was introduced to major stars left and right. Dara had gone back to a coffee table to retrieve the white wine and crackers she had left there a few minutes earlier. Wearing skintight jeans that hugged her curves like a Ferrari, Dara wasn’t paying much attention to what was behind her as she bent over.
“Okay, while this has to be the most perfect ass I have ever seen, I suggest you remove it from my face if you don’t want it to come back with bite marks,” said a female voice behind her. Still bent over, Dara swiveled her head and realized that her ass was almost smacking Rain Sommers in the face. She stood up abruptly and tried to hide her embarrassment, though she knew that her face had probably turned purple.
“Oh my God, excuse me!” Dara said. “That was so incredibly rude of me. I can’t believe I did that.”
Rain smiled and stuck out her hand. Dara thought her smile was much warmer and prettier than it looked on television.
“I’m Rain Sommers. And I know who you are. You are the brilliant new cohost on The Lunch Club. Molly has told me all about you. I’ve seen you in action a few times and, I must admit, you’re a damn smart bitch. You used some words that I couldn’t spell even if I swallowed a dictionary.” Rain smiled even more broadly and leaned in closer to Dara. “And one more thing. You are even more beautiful in person than you are on television.”
Dara blushed. “I have to say the same thing about you,” Dara said. “You’re much prettier in person than you are on television.”
“See! I knew you were brilliant!” Rain said. Then she stood up. They were exactly the same height, but Dara’s heels were a lot higher than Rain’s. Rain was a bit stocky, fleshy around the middle. Dara had always preferred to have something to hold on to, in her men and in her women. Dara looked deeply into Rain’s eyes and felt a slight tug somew
here down around her midsection. Already she could tell that something was happening between them. There had been a lot more men than women in Dara’s sexual history, but most of her recent lovers had been women and she had started to come to the realization that perhaps she wasn’t bisexual, as she had previously believed, but actually a full-fledged lesbian.
Rain made some room for Dara on the couch. Dara snuggled in next to her, aware that her thigh was pressed against Rain’s and her breasts were just inches from Rain’s right shoulder. The two of them began talking and completely forgot about everybody else in the room. By the time Molly made her way over to them an hour later, both Dara and Rain knew that something special was occurring. Within two weeks, they both had professed their love for each other. Within a month, Dara had moved into Rain’s gorgeous Jamie Drake–designed condo loft with the sixteen-foot ceilings down in Tribeca.
Dara absolutely treasured their life together. Rain was an incredibly tender lover, and they had become increasingly adventurous in bed. And of course Rain made her laugh so hard that sometimes Dara would tell her to stop because her stomach hurt. Dara found that she didn’t mind at all Rain’s obsessive focus on her looks and her body. It felt different with her than with the men she had been with, more natural, like an appreciation of one of God’s masterworks rather than a sexualized lusting and coveting. And she knew Rain loved her mind because Rain told her all the time and told everyone who would listen about all of Dara’s degrees and her impressive Ivy League background. One magazine profile, noting Dara’s medical and law degrees from Columbia, said she was “Sonia Sotomayor trapped in J.Lo’s body.” Rain had cut out that line from the magazine and she carried it around in her purse, much to Dara’s embarrassment. Theirs was like a match made in heaven. The only problem they had was the closet.
