by Logan Belle
But tonight, even Martha was irritating him. It wasn’t her fault—something inside of him was just … off.
Maybe he was more bummed out than he’d realized about the recent distance between himself and his former good friend, Billy Barton. The A-list New Yorker, man-about-town, and publisher of Gruff magazine used to be one of his favorite party guests and cohorts in exploring New York nightlife’s seamier underbelly. But now they were owners of rival clubs. Justin would never understand what had made Billy secretly buy the Blue Angel last year, partnering with Violet Offender, a performer who had been fired from the club under its previous owner. Violet was a hot piece of ass, but there was something off about that chick. As Justin liked to put it, he wouldn’t fuck her with someone else’s dick.
And then Justin saw a sight that made him feel almost like his old self again.
Gemma Kole walked into the room and heads turned. Her long, dark blond hair was unkempt as usual, and unlike the other highly groomed and polished female party guests, she didn’t wear makeup except for smudged black eyeliner. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room, but she had an unpolished sexiness that made him feel the most intense attraction he’d experienced in as long as he could remember. But because she designed costumes for Mallory—who was technically his employee, which made Gemma an employee once-removed—he’d never seriously considered getting her into bed. But tonight, with her Kardashian-esque ass poured into a tight, short dress, he didn’t know if he’d be able to resist.
“She’s interesting,” said Martha. Billy knew what that meant. It was the green light: Go get her and call me when she’s good to go.
“Yes, dear, I could use a scotch,” he said. Martha shuffled off to the other room.
Justin made his way toward Gemma.
Alone, at last.
The club was empty. The last of the girls had changed, packed their costumes into their bags, and headed over to the Baxter party. The dressing room was a mess of scattered cosmetics, discarded stockings, hairpieces, and empty champagne bottles.
“This is worse than a college dorm room,” Mallory said, clearing a space on the small sofa and tucking her legs under herself. She flattened her left hand on her thigh and stared at her engagement ring. It was the most perfect object she’d ever seen. She felt she would never be able to see it fully—every angle revealed a different facet of the diamonds. Even the shiny curves of the platinum band held fascination for her. “It’s so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at it.”
“Well, you’re going to have to,” Alec said with a smile, sitting next to her.
“Why is that?”
“Because it’s going to be really distracting for me to make love to you while you stare at your hand.”
“Hmm. I don’t know if I can control myself. You might have to blindfold me.”
“You read my mind.”
Alec pulled a silk scarf off one of the vanity tables and folded it with quick, practiced movements.
“Alec, come on. We have to at least make an appearance at the party.”
“Shh,” he said, straddling her and tying the scarf over her eyes.
“You’re crazy,” she laughed, allowing him to ease her onto her back. She felt something under her left shoulder blade, and felt around with her hand to pull it out from under her. She guessed it was a tube of mascara. Alec took it from her hand, and she heard it hit the floor.
She felt his hands on her waist, unzipping the long black skirt she had changed into for the party. The fabric brushed the length of her legs as he slowly pulled it off her. Then she felt nothing. The room was completely silent. Had he left?
“Alec?” she said. Her hands fluttered up to move her blindfold, but before she could slip it aside to sneak a peek, Alec pulled her hands back to her sides. “So, you are still there,” she said.
Saying nothing, he eased her panties down the same slow path as the skirt. He pushed her legs apart, and she felt air caress the folds of her pussy. She reached out for him, but he ignored her, holding her legs open and still. In the absence of his touch, her mind filled in the blank, imagining his fingers inside of her.
“Did you lock the front door?” she asked, suddenly remembering where they were. He did not answer her. On some level, she had known that he would not.
She tried to relax, to just accept the stillness and the silence. Her chest rose and fell with her quickening breath.
And then, finally, she felt the tip of his tongue graze her clit. It was so faint, she almost worried that she’d imagined it. But then, no, he gave her what she wanted: His tongue pressed deep inside, teasing her with the promise of how he would later penetrate her with his fingers and his cock. She moaned, reaching for his hands, pulling them to her. Maddeningly, he would not touch her except with his mouth. And then, not even that.
Again, the silence, the stillness, and then the air on her wet pussy. She reached for him and found his stiff cock. She ran her hand up and down it, her heart pounding. His hands toyed with her hard nipples, grazing them with his fingertips until the quivering between her legs was unbearable. She slid her hands around to his buttocks and pulled him toward her. With relief, she felt the tip of his cock pierce her needy pussy.
He pulled off her blindfold, and as he thrust inside of her, she looked right into his blue-green eyes. They were clouded with intensity. That look in his eyes, his absolute desire for her, affected her more than any touch.
They found their rhythm, and she knew she would come first. She felt the first waves of her orgasm build, and then break, in exquisite ripples that shuddered through her.
“My God, you feel so good,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I felt you come,” he said. Of course he had. They knew and felt everything about one another, big and small. That was why she was so amazed he had been able to surprise her tonight. That he had been planning something so huge, and she had been clueless… .
“Turn over,” he said.
She got on all fours. She felt his cock press against her ass as he reached around to finger her. He knew that once she came, she could reach orgasm again and again easily with his touch. Sure enough, he worked his fingers to bring her to another quick, shuddering peak. She pressed her ass against him, wanting him inside her fully. When her contractions had faded, he entered her from behind, his one hand still reaching around her so he could lightly brush her clit with his index finger.
“I want you to come, baby,” she moaned. He didn’t answer her, but she could tell by the urgency of his thrusting that he was close. And then she felt it—that telltale tremor, the flash of lightning before the thunder.
Alec came with a primitive yell. His hands gripped her hips so tightly it almost hurt, his thrusting so fast and rhythmic it directed her own movements with an instinctive lockstep that was as old as time. In these moments, she felt like they were one person. And then, as it sometimes did, his orgasm triggered another of her own, so quick and strong it almost made her weep.
She collapsed onto her stomach, and he fell on top of her, kissing the back of her neck. She squirmed to roll over, and he moved off so she could snuggle against him.
She lay tucked under his arm, her head on his chest where she could feel it rise and fall with his breath.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered. He kissed her forehead, which was slippery with sweat. She ran her hand lightly over his chest, and he twisted her engagement ring.
“So how long were you planning this?” she asked.
“Since we woke up this morning and you said save it for later.”
“No! Not the sex. The engagement.” She slapped his arm playfully.
“Oh … that. I think ever since Beyonce told me—very wisely, I might add—if I like it, put a ring on it.”
“I’m serious,” Mallory said.
“So am I.”
“That song is like from 2008.”
“Exactly.”
“You haven’t been thinking about this for t
hat many years.”
“I’ve known I was going to marry you since our second date,” he said. She propped herself up on one elbow so she could look at him. She knew he was serious, and when their eyes met, she felt hers fill with tears.
“Oh, Alec,” she said.
“What? You’re the one who created all the drama.”
“Ugh!” she said, flopping back down. She nestled into his arms again and stretched out her hand to admire the ring. He pulled her hand over his chest so he could look at it, too.
“I’m so glad you like it,” he said.
“Like it? I love it. It’s so perfect. I can’t even imagine how you did this.” She kissed his rib cage. “Can I ask you a dumb question?”
“I don’t think you’re capable of a dumb question, but sure—go ahead.”
Mallory took a deep breath. “Do you think our sex life will get worse after we’re married?”
“Okay, I was wrong. You are capable of a dumb question,” he said.
“Alec! I’m serious. You hear everyone talk about how sex dwindles after marriage. It’s not like one person has said it—everyone says it.”
“We’ve lived together for a long time. Why would anything change now?”
“I don’t know. It just does.”
“Are you really worried about that?”
She shrugged. “I guess. A little. Everything has been so great with us lately. I kind of want to just freeze this moment in time. I don’t want to mess around with perfection.”
“Nothing can stay the same. You have to move forward. So yes, even our sex life will change,” he said.
“You really think it will?”
“Yes,” he said. “It will get even better.”
“I’m serious,” she said.
“So am I. But there is one thing I’m wondering.”
“What?”
“Do you think maybe you’ll switch over to just producing shows, not performing?”
Mallory sat up. “Why would I do that?”
Alec shrugged. “I don’t know. At some point, maybe you won’t want to take your clothes off in front of strangers.”
“Where is this coming from?” she said slowly, her voice low.
“I don’t know. I guess maybe I think it will be weird for me to see my wife getting naked onstage every week. I mean, what if we have kids?”
Mallory shook her head. “See! This is what I was afraid of. We’ve only been engaged three hours, and already you’ve stopped seeing me as a sex object and are worrying about what our nonexistent children will think of me.”
“First of all, I promise to always sexually objectify you. We can write it into our wedding vows.” He pulled her close. “And I’m not worried about what our nonexistent children will think of you. I already know they are going to think you are the coolest mom in the world, which of course you will be, until Lady Gaga procreates.”
“So then why are you asking me this stuff?”
“Mal, I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished the past few years. But I have to admit sometimes it’s hard for me to see the woman I love getting naked and being hooted and hollered at by strange men.”
“How long have you felt this way?”
“Always. I’ve told you this before, haven’t I? I have mixed feelings about burlesque, but I know it’s important for both of us to be creative and live inspired lives. I just wonder if maybe you won’t segue your inspiration into producing more and, um, shaking your booty less.”
Mallory let him hold her, while her heart pounded. She appreciated his honesty, but this was the last thing she wanted to hear. And in the spirit of mutual honesty, she decided she needed to tell him that.
“I don’t think I can do that,” she said.
Gemma knew people who called traveling from London to New York “hopping the pond.” Tonight, at Justin and Martha’s after-party, she felt exactly like a fish that had flopped out of its comfortable pond into much deeper waters.
Aside from the celebrities, and the chic, spare décor with its simple elegance, which was evident even through all of the Prohibition-era props, Gemma was blown away by the costumes: Everyone who was working at the party, from the waiters circling the crowd with trays of Sidecars and Bee’s Knees cocktails, to the bouncer at the door, to the live band, was dressed like he or she had stepped off the set of The Cotton Club. The cocktail waitresses’ dresses—identical sequined shifts in gold—were more impressive than her own.
And then there was that bizarre, fishtank-like cube hanging in the entrance foyer. High above the crowd, encased in glass, two young women wearing nothing but bras, garters, fishnet stockings, and flapper-style headpieces played cards.
A gold-swathed redhead handed her a Sidecar.
“Those should come with a warning label,” Justin Baxter said.
She hadn’t noticed him approach, but there he was. She had to admit he was good-looking—there was no question about it. And from the way he was gazing at her, the feeling was quite mutual. But she didn’t feel particularly attracted to him. This was no surprise—she never felt attracted to anyone. It was like she was missing the erogenous gene or something. She could look at a guy and know he was hot, but this didn’t translate into a desire to have him touch her. On the rare occasion that she indulged someone in having sex, it was far less pleasurable than getting a decent massage.
“Thanks for the red flag,” she said, taking a sip. The drink was a potent mixture of sweet and sour. She could taste the brandy. She licked some of the sugar off the rim, and she felt Justin watching her mouth.
“Is this your first time here?” he said.
“Yeah. Don’t you know who’s been to your home?” she asked.
“Do you know how many parties we’ve hosted? Sometimes I go to a big event, and people I’ve never seen before in my life thank me for a great night six months or even years ago.”
“Hmm. Well, no. I’ve never been here before. It’s lovely, though.”
“Let me give you a tour.”
Gemma cast a quick glance around the room. Justin’s wife was nowhere in sight.
“Um, okay.” She took another sip of the drink, then another as she followed him through the crowd to an elevator bank just off the living room.
“Is this like a townhouse or an apartment or what?”
“It’s a townhouse,” he said.
“I’ve never seen anything like it—and I’ve been in New York over a year!” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She shouldn’t admit to how little luxury she had been exposed to in her life. If he saw the shabby house she’d grown up in, the endless gray skies of the English countryside—not to mention the bland, provincial food—he would no doubt find her far less interesting. The only way she’d gotten through the bleak austerity of her adolescence and young adulthood was living for the arrival of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar at the town library every month. She’d thought maybe she’d be a model but then was surprised by her talent for making beautiful clothes, not just wearing them.
They took the elevator to the top floor, and stepped out onto a deck with—of all things—a swimming pool. Lit from below, it shimmered an almost iridescent aqua blue in the summer moonlight. “Oh, my Lord,” she gasped. So much for playing it cool. “Why don’t you have the party up here?”
“I prefer to keep the party up here private,” Justin said.
Looking at the fourth-story view of downtown Manhattan, feeling like she was surrounded by the wealth and privilege she had longed for all her life, feeling so close to claiming a piece of that pie for herself—the “party” Justin was offering her was one she could not refuse.
“Is the pool heated?” Gemma asked, walking to the water, careful not to totter too close to the edge in her four-inch heels.
“You tell me,” Justin said with a mischievous smile. Gemma turned her back to him, gently shook off one of her shoes, and dipped the toes of one foot in the water. She was happy to di
scover that yes, the pool was, in fact, heated—to what seemed like a perfect temperature.
And then she felt herself nearly airborne above the water. The only thing keeping her from being submerged in six feet of water was Justin’s arm circling her waist as he dangled her above the deep end.
“Oh, my God, put me down!” Gemma shrieked, her heart pounding.
“You want me to put you down?” Justin said, lowering her so her feet skimmed the water.
“No!” she yelled.
Mercifully, she felt him swing her back so she was over firm ground. When her feet touched the smooth wood planks of the deck, she whirled around and punched him in the arm. “That wasn’t funny!”
“Ouch! For a little thing, you have a strong left hook. Do they raise you on boxing in England?”
“Luckily for you, no. I was raised to be a lady.”
They faced each other, less than a foot apart, at the edge of the pool.
“There’s nothing lucky about that. I’d much rather see you not acting like a lady.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let me show you.”
5
Nadia poured herself a glass of bourbon from the fully stocked bar in the apartment on Ninety-second and Fifth Avenue. It was her Great-Aunt Rose’s apartment—she’d owned it since the 1960s, and her recent expat life in France had bestowed upon Nadia the real estate equivalent of winning the lotto jackpot. For the price of utilities and the care and feeding of an overweight tabby cat named Twiggy, Nadia lived far above her means. It was only her aunt’s generosity that enabled her to live in Manhattan at all.
She curled up on the couch, glass in hand, Twiggy marching in place on her lap trying to get comfortable. Nadia was extremely hungry, and she knew she could order in food from any number of neighborhood restaurants willing to deliver at eleven o’clock at night, but she also knew she didn’t deserve to eat. Not after her performance. After a lifetime of the discipline and rigors of ballet, such blatant failure was something she could barely process, let alone tolerate. She knew linking food to her performance was falling back into bad habits, but she didn’t know any other way to deal with her disappointment. She couldn’t change what had happened onstage, but she could refrain from eating. And tomorrow she would figure out a way to make things right in her universe.
