by Lauren Rowe
I open my eyes groggily and look at the clock. It’s just after four in the morning. God, my internal clock is totally wacked out these days.
For a long moment, I lie on my back, stretch my body out, and think about the filthy and fantastic sex Lucas treated me to earlier. Damn, that was fun. Raw. Primal. Dirty as hell. The kind of sex I’ve always dreamed of having with a boyfriend but haven’t been able to achieve because nobody’s ever been confident enough to take me as far as I want to go. But Lucas sure did. In fact, he didn’t hold back one bit. God, we were totally in synch, the two of us—no boundaries or limits. And it was unbelievably amazing.
To start things off tonight, Lucas and I had a nice little three-way with my vibrating dildo—and lots of lube—with Lucas claiming my ass while the dildo filled up my cooch. Holy hell, did I have a monster of a gushing orgasm that time. Delicious. Especially when Lucas licked it up like it was whipped cream.
After that—and after Lucas had fastened an itty-bitty vibrating clamp onto my clit—he titty- and face-fucked me like a blow-up doll, demanding I call him “sir” and that I beg him to come all over my breasts—which he kindly did.
But Lucas my master wasn’t finished with me yet, even though he’d already given me the night of my life. While his body recharged, he tied me up again, blindfolded me, and proceeded to drive me wild with his lips and tongue and teeth, not to mention my bag full of toys. Holy mother of God, that was divine.
And, finally, the pièce de résistance… When my slack body was finally spent and my head lolling to the side from complete sexual exhaustion, Lucas untied me and removed my blindfold and took me tenderly into his arms and kissed me like I was the great love of his life. And then he whispered something into my ear no man but Lucas has ever said to me, but which he keeps saying to me like it’s an objective fact. “You’re perfect, Abby.”
Sweet Baby Jesus, I’ve never experienced a more blissful moment than that.
The sound of Lucas singing softly in the living room of the suite draws me out of my memories of last night and back to the present moment.
With a huge smile on my face, I stretch myself out on the bed and listen to Lucas singing. He’s a musical genius, that man. There’s simply no other way to accurately describe him.
I slide off the bed and pad into the darkened living room.
Lucas is sitting on the couch in the moonlight, naked and playing his guitar, his muscles and tattoos on glorious display. Wow, he looks so damned beautiful right now, I want to drop to my knees and blurt every last thing on my mind to him. I want to tell him he’s perfect—my idea of perfect. I want to tell him everything I’ve done. Who I am. I want to confess I’ve destroyed lives in the past and that I’m sorry about it. I want to tell him I haven’t had a problem in years, but that I’m so damned lonely these days, it’s hard to get too excited about measuring “progress” in terms of “the absence of problems.”
I want to tell Lucas it sometimes feels like my life is empty. Like I’m headed toward a pointless, joyless oblivion, followed by death. I want to tell him when I’m with him I feel alive in a way I’ve never felt before. Adored. Loveable. I want to tell him when I’m with him I feel hopeful. Like maybe there is a point to all this craziness, after all.
I want to tell Lucas I’m falling head over heels in love with him. For real, and not as part of an “extended role-play.”
And, most of all, I want to beg Lucas to take me with him to Los Angeles because I’m pretty sure I’m going to fall apart after he leaves me, despite my best efforts to keep it together.
But of course I don’t say any of it. Because I know full well none of it is part of our deal. And because I know this particular man needs to be free a lot more than he needs a doting girlfriend, especially an emotionally damaged one.
I settle myself next to Lucas on the couch and listen to him playing his latest song, my heart panging almost painfully. He’s singing about a girl who’s become a “supernatural addiction” for him. A girl who somehow knows exactly what to do to “bring him to his knees” and “conquer” him.
As I listen, my stomach drops further and further into my toes. Damn. If only he hadn’t hired his “supernatural addiction” to crush him at the end of this week, it’d be a truly lovely song.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When Lucas finishes singing “Addiction” for me, he smiles at me, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the room. “What do you think?”
“I love it.”
“Wait ’til you hear it when I record it with the full band. I’ve already got the entire arrangement figured out in my head. It’s gonna have a bass-heavy beat—an addicting beat.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
Lucas puts his guitar down. “Come here, baby. You’re too far away. My skin aches for you.”
I slide onto his lap, nuzzle my nose into his cheek, and inhale his masculine scent. I skim my lips over his and run my hands through his hair, reveling in him. “You’re a genius,” I whisper. “Mark my words. This is going to be your biggest album yet.”
Lucas kisses my lips. “You’re the secret sauce.”
My heart skips a beat. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing more than you know.”
“Lucas?”
“What?”
I sigh. “Nothing. Never mind.”
He brushes my hair out of my eyes and skims his lips over mine. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I like being here inside this little bubble with you. It’s nice taking a break from being ‘Lucas Ford’ for a while.”
“It’s nice taking a break from being ‘Abby Medford’ for a while, too.”
Lucas brushes his fingertips down the curve of my neck. “The paparazzi were getting to you, too?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Damned paparazzi.”
Lucas chuckles and touches my hair again. “Who would you be if you could be anyone you wanted?” He strokes the back of my neck, gently massaging my tired muscles. “Would you quit law school?”
I nod.
“And then what would you do? Tell me, baby. Assume you had no student loans and didn’t give a fuck what your parents wanted. Who would you be?”
“I’d be a writer living in New York City.”
“Wow, you had that answer right on the tip of your tongue.”
I nod.
“You wouldn’t be a kindergarten teacher?”
I chuckle. “No. Although, standing offer, I’d be happy to read you a bedtime story any time you like.”
“Why, thank you.” He continues stroking the muscles of my neck. “What kind of writer would you be?”
I close my eyes at his glorious touch. “I’d work for a magazine. Not a fashion magazine, more like an edgy men’s magazine. Something like Maxim.”
“Always full of surprises. What would you write?”
“Articles for men from a female perspective. It’d be sexy stuff about what women really want and how to please them. Insight into what makes women tick. But I’d also write observations about life and sex in general. The same kinds of things I write about in this anonymous blog I write.”
He looks surprised. “You write a blog?”
“Just for fun—to blow off steam.”
“What’s it called?”
“Penelope Pleasure, Miss Pleasure to You!”
Lucas chuckles. “Show me.”
“Really?”
“Hell yeah.”
I slide excitedly off his lap and he grabs his laptop.
I navigate to my blog and he begins to read. To my surprise, he doesn’t give my writing a cursory glance. He reads my three most recent entries like he’s studying them for an exam. Finally, he looks up from his screen. “Abby, this is great. Well written. Sexy as hell. Your voice is totally original. And holy shit, woman, you’re hilarious, too—way more so in writing than in person. No offense.”
“I’m deeply offended.”
“I
can’t believe I’ve been fucking a genius writer this whole time. And here I thought you were just a semi-funny-ish kindergarten teacher. Who knew?”
“Why is it I’m not sure if you’re complimenting or insulting me?”
He laughs. “I just mean you’re a badass of epic proportions but you don’t let down your guard enough to broadcast that. It’s like you’re hiding Superman underneath Clark Kent. I knew you were smart and funny, but I had no idea you were this smart and funny.”
Every square inch of my skin is covered in goose bumps. “Thank you,” I say softly. “That means so much, coming from a genius like you.”
Lucas grabs my face in his large palms, bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Why the fuck do you play your cards so close to your vest when you’ve got this amazingness bouncing around in your head?” He motions to his laptop. “Why not be that girl all the time? Forget conquering men. Let Penelope Pleasure conquer the world.”
I scoff. “I can’t be Penelope all the time. She’s nothing but a fantasy. Abby’s got to live in reality and pay her bills and function and not, you know, bring shame to her family. That’s why I do the blog anonymously. If my parents ever found out about it they’d disown me.”
“So what? You’re a grown-ass woman. Fuck ’em. They’ll survive.”
“It’s not that simple, Lucas. I’ve already put my parents through hell.”
“Here we go again. How did you put them through hell? You still haven’t told me what went down.”
I don’t reply.
Lucas puts his fingertip underneath my chin. “I guarantee you, whatever you did back then, you’re way overcompensating for it now.”
I remain mute.
“Abby, you’re not the same girl you were at seventeen, any more than I’m the same seventeen-year-old dumbfuck who sold his soul to the devil.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “We live and learn, baby. That’s how it works. After a while, we figure out everybody else is imperfect, too, and we forgive ourselves for our sins. Live and fucking learn.”
Tears prick my eyes.
“What happened when you were a train wreck?” he coos. “Tell me what happened, baby.”
“Which time?”
He smiles. “All the times.”
I sigh. “That would take too long. Suffice it to say, if there was a man I couldn’t or shouldn’t have, he was the one I wanted. And if there was something a man didn’t want to do, that’s the thing I wanted him to do for me. I could tell you a bunch of stories, but the two biggies were that I gave my AP English teacher a blowjob in his classroom during my senior year of high school, not realizing there was a security camera capturing the whole thing. And then I followed up that fiasco a year later by having an affair with my Art History professor at Brown. It turned out he was married with a newborn baby—facts I unfortunately only discovered a month into our illicit relationship. His wife found out about us and shamed me all over social media—a lovely experience that led me to get the hell out of Brown and transfer to the University of Denver just to get away from all the gossip and scandal. And so, here I am. I came to Denver to start a new life—plus a whole lot of therapy—and I wound up staying for law school.”
“How long ago was that thing with the professor in college?”
“Five years.”
“And you haven’t had what you’d consider a problem since?”
“Nope. I mean, don’t get me wrong, when I first moved here, I continued making horrible choices in men for about two years. I kept choosing losers and ‘bad boys’ who were all too happy to have a girl like me in their bed but not in their life. But it was pretty standard she’s-got-no-self-respect kind of stuff. No scandals or major issues for the past five years. Actually, for the past two years—ever since I started law school—I’ve been so squeaky clean and ‘healthy,’ I’m practically a born-again virgin. All my dirty thoughts get aired in my blog and nowhere else, and certainly not acted upon.”
Lucas shakes his head sympathetically. “Come here,” he whispers. He wraps his arms around me and kisses me, and soon he’s got me on my back on the couch and he’s on top of me, entering me, moving inside me, kissing me, whispering into my ear that I’m beautiful and perfect and fuck my parents and fuck trying to be anyone I’m not.
I grab his face and kiss him passionately, emotion welling up inside me. “I’ve been so ashamed of myself for so long,” I whisper, barely able to keep myself from crying. “They said I was ‘aberrant.’ They said I was ‘abnormal.’ That nice girls don’t have the kinds of urges I do.”
“Fuck ’em,” he whispers. “You’re awesome.”
“I’ve made so many mistakes,” I say.
“Live and learn, baby,” he says softly, his heart pressed against mine as he moves inside me. “One day you’ll figure out how to be you out there in the real world and not just with me. And that’s when you’ll conquer the world.”
The movement of his body inside mine is sending me to heaven. I know we’re not supposed to break character or talk about the role-play, but I’ve got to tell him I can’t bear the thought of rejecting him. That I’m falling in love with him and don’t want to be without him when this is all over.
“Lucas,” I whisper. “Please.”
But before I can utter another word, Lucas slams his hips into me, penetrating me as deeply as a man can go. He kisses my mouth with breathtaking fervor, and much to my shock, comes like a bullet train inside me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lucas is chuckling between my legs as he eats me out. It’s actually quite strange, to be honest. What’s so damned funny? A bit more laughter and my brain suddenly clicks into consciousness. Oh, I’m dreaming. I open my eyes to find Lucas sitting next to me in the fluffy bed, laughing his gorgeous ass off while staring at his laptop.
I look at the clock. 6:34 a.m. “What are you laughing at?” I ask.
“Sorry to wake you. I’ve been reading all your blog posts, starting from the very beginning, and they’re hilarious.”
I snuggle up to him, lay my cheek on his broad chest, and peek at the screen as he continues to read, my heart soaring.
“I feel like I know you inside and out now,” he says. “You really let it all hang out here, don’t you? You’re fearless.”
“Penelope’s fearless. Abby’s a coward.”
“Then be Penelope. She’s a rock star.”
I look up at him, smiling at his word choice, and he kisses my forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.
“Speaking of fearless rock stars,” I say. “I downloaded your third album the other day. Talk about fearless. Wow. I’m sorry I didn’t buy it when it came out. I feel like an idiot.”
“You weren’t the only idiot who stayed away from that one, believe me. So did you like it?”
“I loved it. It’s a masterpiece. I loved the simplicity of it. No bells and whistles, just honest songwriting. Just your glorious voice.”
“Yeah, that’s what made it so painful when it bombed,” he says. “I put my naked self out there and nobody gave a fuck. All they want is ‘Shattered Hearts.’ That third album flopping is what made the cocksuckers rein me in and demand I start writing the kinds of songs ‘that got me here in the first place’ for my fourth and final album.”
“I watched the infamous clip from your concert here in Denver,” I say. “You wanted to play another song off your third album when your fans started revolting, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I had a little tantrum that night.”
“Which song?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
He shrugs. “‘Piece of Me.’”
“I really love that one.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you really never going to sing ‘Shattered Hearts’ again, like you said that night?”
“I don’t know. That’s how I feel right now, but I guess I’ll see how I feel with a little more time.”
I b
ite my tongue.
“What?” he asks after a long silence.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, for the love of fuck. I just read every blog post you’ve ever written, Penelope, which means I’m now well aware you’ve got strident opinions on everything from lady bugs to butt plugs.”
I laugh. “Yeah, but I have no right to have an opinion about this. It’s your art.”
“Give me your opinion. It doesn’t mean I’ll be persuaded to change a damn thing I’m doing. I just want to know what you honestly think.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
I take a deep breath. “I think you’re seeing this wrong. Yes, ‘Shattered Hearts’ started out as your song, but it belongs to the world now. Sure, you’ve played it a million times and have moved on from it, but someone going to one of your concerts is maybe getting to see you perform it for the first time. Maybe some guy in the audience bought tickets to your show for his girlfriend because you’re her all-time favorite. Maybe he works a job he hates, but he does it partly because it means he can afford doing fun things like taking his girl to a Lucas Ford concert.”
I pause, worried I’ve overstepped my bounds, but Lucas doesn’t seem at all pissed, so I continue. “That song is the soundtrack to your fans’ lives. They’ve lost their virginity to it. Cried to it. Grieved to it. You’ve eased their pain by sharing yours.” I shrug. “So I think you should decide to stop feeling like the song is trapping you and realize it’s a gift. Embrace it. If you feel like you’ve outgrown playing that song, as is, then, okay, you’re a musical genius—reinvent it when you play it live. But most of all, be grateful for the gift of so many people loving and feeling moved by your creation. The way I see it, it’s the least you can do for getting to do what you love for a living. So few people on this earth get to do that.”
There’s a moment of stillness between us, during which, I presume, Lucas is deciding whether to physically kick me out of the bed or simply tell me to fuck off.
Lucas abruptly closes his laptop and sets it aside and I hold my breath, waiting for his fury. But that’s not what I get. To the contrary, without a word, Lucas pulls me on top of him, slides himself inside me, pulls my face to his, and kisses the living hell out of me. “Ass-kicker,” he breathes. “Thank you.”
