Naked Angel

by Logan Belle

  He hadn’t planned to fuck Gemma by himself the night of the party. He’d thought that once he got into it, he’d find a way to get her downstairs so he could summon Martha. But the desire he’d felt for Gemma was so strong, he’d told himself he would give in to it just that one time. Yet now here he was, sitting in his Mercedes outside of Gemma’s Williamsburg apartment. In theory, he could still turn around and leave. But he had known there was no turning back from the minute he touched her.

  The odd thing was, she was probably the least sexual woman he’d been with in years. Typically, once he got a woman going, even the ones who were initially reluctant to do the three-way with him and Martha—once they started, it was game on. Some of the women who were most reticent at the beginning turned into the wildest ones in bed. But not Gemma. There was something cold and unreachable about her even at the point when she should be at the height of pleasure. And that, more than anything he’d experienced in his entire sexual life, turned him on.

  Gemma emerged from the run-down brownstone looking, to him, like an angel. Her unkempt blond hair fanned out behind her as she practically skipped to the car. He didn’t know how to read her good mood except to assume that she was excited to see him. This not only vanquished any doubts he had about what he was doing behind Martha’s back, it made him hard as a rock.

  “You look stunning,” he said, getting out to open the car door for her. She wore a black tulle skirt and an elaborately stitched bodice top. “Did you make that outfit?”

  “Yes,” she said, sitting in the front seat. “By the way, I have to be somewhere at eleven. But that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  Justin’s spirits—and erection—flagged.

  “You have plans after dinner?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s sort of business. Couldn’t be avoided. Sorry,” she said.

  He eyed her pillowy lips, the inviting gap between her front teeth. He thought about how still and quiet she had been when he fucked her in the way that made most other girls writhe and scream.

  “I forgive you,” he said. “We’ll just have to eat quickly.”

  “Our reservation is at seven thirty. That should give us plenty of time.”

  “We also need time to stop at my place after dinner.”

  “Oh, really? Isn’t that a bit presumptuous of you?”

  “Maybe. But your tight scheduling has forced me to be less than subtle.”

  “Hmm. My tight scheduling. So what’s been your excuse up ’til now?”

  He laughed and put a hand on her pale thigh. He had no idea how he would make it through dinner. Maybe he wouldn’t have to.

  “If you’re so short on time, maybe we should just head over to my place and order in.”

  “Whatever you want,” she said, looking at her BlackBerry.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of her lack of enthusiasm. Was that a yes? It certainly was not the kind of response he was used to getting to an invitation. But she wouldn’t say okay if she wasn’t somewhat interested—would she?

  He supposed he would just have to take her home and find out.

  Nadia felt no trepidation as she stepped out from behind the red Painted Lady stage curtain. Mallory had expertly pinned Bette’s costume—a Tudor-style bodice and full skirt with an easy-off side seam—to fit her. It had only been slightly big to start, and although Mallory grumbled under her breath that she didn’t know why Gemma wasn’t answering her phone on the night of a show, it turned out fine in the end. And it was a gorgeous creation, with stitching so fine and detail so elaborate, Nadia couldn’t help wondering if it wasn’t wasted on the burlesque crowd. After all, the costume was intended to end up on the floor. Except, on her it would not. She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake trying to get away with a non-striptease dance number. Mallory assured her that burlesque shows were made for variety, and that the crowd would appreciate her piece. Nadia would just have to take her word for it.

  On any other night, she might have been more nervous. But her mind was occupied with an endless replay loop of the kiss with Max. She knew he was in the audience, and she knew that they would leave together when the show was over. The only question was what would happen after that.

  The rich, throaty sound of Adele’s voice filled the room, and Nadia moved into arabesque penchée. The crowd watched with rapt attention. When the lusty chorus kicked in, she went into a series of turns. Her heart raced with the thrill of motion. She used to cry to this song, thinking of Jackson. Now the song would always be attached to the memory of the first time Max had touched her.

  A sense of abandon overtook her, and by the time the song swelled toward its rapturous ending, she did not hesitate to throw herself into the grand jeté.

  The curtain came down, and she heard the crowd cheering and whistling. With a sense of confidence she hadn’t felt in months, she walked into the dressing room with the pride of a dancer. Maybe she could just perform like this for the club … a little ballet to give the show variety, like Mallory had said. It would be so easy… .

  “Bravo,” said Poppy LaRue, zipping up her thigh-high red patent leather boot. “Now next time, give us some burlesque!”

  14

  Gemma waited for Justin to hold open the door to his townhouse. She stepped inside tentatively, as if expecting a crowd to jump out at her.

  “It feels so different empty like this,” she said. And it was true: It was difficult to connect this spare, quiet place with the raucous party where she had ended up being fucked poolside.

  Justin said nothing, but followed behind her as she wandered slowly through the living room. As much as she wanted to maintain her distance from Justin and all he tried to impress her with, she couldn’t help being moved by the art collection. She paused in front of a print by the street artist, Banksy.

  “He’s from England, too,” she said. “I think he’s a genius.”

  Justin nodded. The way he stared at her was a little unnerving, but at least she knew she had him on the line, so to speak.

  “Who else do you like?” he said.

  “Hmm,” she said, thinking. “I like de Kooning.”

  Justin smiled. “We have some of his work upstairs.”

  “Really?” she said. “From what period?”

  “His ‘Woman’ series. Do you want to see them?”

  She nodded. She did want to see them. But, more important, she wanted to just get this part of her night over with. She would let him fuck her and would know she was locking in the money to get her through the next year without worrying about a steady job. And next, she would get him on board with helping her start her own clothing line. She knew it was just a matter of dangling the right bait. It was not a big deal, really. He was good-looking; he was nice enough. A lot of girls had to do a lot worse to get their careers off the ground.

  Justin took her by the hand and led her up the stairs to the third floor master bedroom. On the right wall was the painting Woman III. Gemma found the series fascinating, filled with women with distorted facial features and overripe breasts. Her college professor had suggested they represented the threat all men felt from women. She wondered if this was true in Justin’s case, or if his wife had been the one to invest in the de Kooning Woman.

  “Do you have others?” she asked. But before she could get an answer, Justin had moved behind her, his hands untying the lacing of her top.

  Gemma remained motionless, still facing the wall. Her dress fell to her ankles, giving Justin a view of her bare back and her ass in her nude-colored, lace panties. His hands reached around and cupped her breasts, and she felt his hard cock pressing against her back through his pants.

  “Are you really going to get me the money you promised for the costume work?” she said to the wall. One of his hands moved from her breast and she felt it behind her, fumbling to get his own pants off.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “Money is not an issue for me.”

  This statement, more than anything he was
doing to her nipples, almost made her wet.

  Almost.

  As usual, as his hands slipped inside her panties, his bare cock now flush against her ass, she felt something close to boredom. All this frantic rubbing against another person just struck her as silly and pointless. The last boyfriend she’d had, Roberto, had broken up with her because she was a “cold fish” in bed. Although he had said it in Spanish, so it sounded almost romantic. But he had not meant it to be romantic—he was infuriated by her lack of responsiveness.

  Justin, on the other hand, seemed almost excited by it. Unless she was misreading the situation, he seemed utterly undeterred by her apathy.

  She braced herself with one hand on the wall while he fingered her. There had been times, with other lovers, when she had faked small noises to indicate pleasure. She no longer bothered. Instead, she looked up at the painting, pretending she was at a museum, ignoring the poking between her legs.

  After a few minutes, he turned her around to face him. He seemed to consider kissing her mouth, but something about her facial expression must have changed his mind. Instead, he moved her to the bed, where he spread her out like a buffet. He bent his head to her breasts, licking and sucking like a greedy child. She wondered if he was going to masturbate on her again, or if he would just fuck her this time. At least the masturbation had offered some entertainment. But no, tonight he took the pedestrian approach of moving her knees apart with his own, then shoving his big cock inside her. She grunted with momentary discomfort, but she suspected he misinterpreted it as pleasure. The pace at which he was thrusting was so frantic she was almost afraid he would hurt himself. The entire bed shook and creaked—her teeth almost chattered.

  In what had to be less than two minutes, he came with a sharp cry and a shudder. By the time he rolled off of her, she was already thinking about her meeting with Violet Offender.

  He turned to look at her, but she kept staring at the ceiling. She hoped he didn’t say something like, “Was it good for you?” Anything but that.

  Mercifully, he kept his mouth shut. She excused herself to use the bathroom.

  And then it was on to the next item of business.

  Nadia joined everyone congregating backstage after the show. Amidst the flurry of packing up costumes and makeup and changing into street clothes, ideas about where to go next were bandied around the room.

  Justin Baxter stepped inside and apologized for missing the show.

  “Then you at least have to come out with us,” said Poppy. Mallory backed her up on this, insisting Justin join them for their usual post-show drinks, and added he could even choose the place.

  Max put his arm around Nadia. She felt her stomach do a flip.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered. Nadia was thinking something along the same lines: She was uncomfortable hanging out with him backstage. Sure, Alec was there, and Poppy’s girlfriend was there, too. But it wasn’t like she and Max were a couple. Plus, she knew how he felt about the whole burlesque scene, so the less he saw to judge, the better as far as she was concerned.

  “Where do you want to go?” she said.

  “Come out with us,” Poppy said. “We’re going to get some drinks.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Nadia said. “It’s been a long day. I didn’t even plan on being here tonight. I’m going to head on home.”

  “Party pooper,” said Poppy.

  “No, it’s true. She stepped in at the last minute to help fill in for everyone who bailed. Thanks, Nadia. You were amazing. I’m tempted to ask you to dance like that at every show, but then you’d never move on to burlesque. And I know you will be equally stunning in a burlesque performance,” Mallory said.

  “Thanks,” Nadia said uncomfortably.

  “See you tomorrow—don’t forget rehearsal for Justin’s party,” Mallory called on her way out the door.

  “So … you’re going to go home?” Max asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “But you’re welcome to come with me.” She couldn’t believe she’d said it like that. So forward! But it was the first time she had felt attracted to someone since Jackson. And after that afternoon preview of what it felt like to have Max’s hands on her body, she didn’t have the patience to play games. Even if this were a onetime thing, even if he lost what little respect for her he might have, she knew she wanted to join the legion of women who knew what it was like to have Max Jasper as a lover.

  Gemma informed the young woman at the door that she was not late for the show and that she was not paying the twenty-dollar admittance fee. She was, in fact, there for a meeting with Violet.

  The woman ran one hand over her shaved, tattooed head and left her entranceway perch in a huff. The sound of Lady Gaga’s “Judas” played from deep inside the club. Gemma shifted in her heels. Her body was tired—she felt like she’d just been fucked, which she had. Hard.

  It was difficult to comprehend Justin Baxter’s ardor for her. But it was always like that with men: Their want, their need was so frantic and consuming, it left no room for her to feel much of anything.

  It was stifling in that entrance corridor. She had the impulse to leave and told herself she would count to sixty. She’d reached fifty-five by the time the bald girl returned.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  Gemma dutifully trailed her into the club. The room was loud and crowded. She noticed that people were smoking cigarettes despite the citywide ban on indoor smoking. Onstage, a woman clambered up a pole like an insect, wearing what appeared to be nothing more than a wide ace bandage wrapped around her body. Her long black hair fanned out behind her, and once she reached the top, she disengaged her legs and scissored them around the pole. Gemma stopped in her tracks, riveted.

  “Who is that?” Gemma said.

  “That’s Violet. You probably don’t recognize her because of the wig.”

  Gemma watched Violet’s body contort into positions that would seem impossible on the ground, never mind fifteen feet in the air.

  “Is that … considered burlesque?”

  “It is in here,” said the girl. “Violet wants you to wait for her in her office. She’ll be with you in a minute.”

  They looped around the back of the room and then down a flight of stairs to a small room. Gemma sat on a red leather couch that faced a glass desk. The desk held only a Mac laptop and a stack of magazines.

  The bald girl left her alone.

  Gemma realized she was hungry. Skipping dinner probably hadn’t been the best idea. But she had known what Justin wanted, and her goal had been to get him more invested in her, not to have a long, drawn-out date.

  She checked her BlackBerry, then reapplied her lipstick even though it was still fresh from when she’d dressed at Justin’s. Nervous and increasingly uncomfortable, she wondered if she should leave.

  The door opened and closed just as quickly. Violet Offender leaned against the door as if holding off a tornado.

  “What a fucking night,” she said, walking to the chair behind the glass desk. Her body was slick with sweat and shiny with glitter. She wore a long, white T-shirt so thin it was sheer. Her bare breasts and black lace panties were clearly visible through it. On her feet she wore four-inch heels with wide straps and lots of buckles. Gemma recognized them from Jimmy Choo’s latest collection. She’d wanted a pair herself, but of course could not afford them. Burlesque must pay from the other side of the desk.

  “Did you get to see any of the show?” Violet asked, putting her feet up on the desk. The T-shirt hiked up to her waist, and Gemma couldn’t help admiring her long, tanned legs with toned thighs, and her obviously taut stomach. And then, her glance sweeping upward, Gemma took in the swell of Violet’s high, pert but round breasts.

  From across the desk, Violet’s wide green eyes appraised Gemma right back. Gemma felt terribly pale and terribly British. An hour ago it had seemed obvious why Justin Baxter should lust for her with such intensity. Now, she wondered how a man could want anyone but Violet Offender.
She seemed, at that moment, to be the epitome of feminine allure.

  “Yes,” Gemma said. “I … saw you.”

  “What’d ya think?”

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Gemma said.

  Violent nodded as if hearing something profound. “Exactly,” she said. “That’s where you come in.”

  “I don’t follow,” Gemma said.

  “Did you see what I was wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “A…dress? A dress that looked like a bandage wrapped around your body.”

  “Close: It was a bandage wrapped around my body. Now, don’t you think a performance of that caliber deserves a more sophisticated costume?”

  “Um, yeah?”

  “So that’s why I called you here. I saw photos of costumes you’ve done for The Painted Lady. I want you to stop working for them and work for me. Exclusively.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible. I don’t work for The Painted Lady. I work for Agnes, and she gives me the assignments.”

  “Oh, well then this should be easier than I thought. I know that old bat is cheap as hell. I’ll pay you more.”

  “It’s not that simple. I’m also doing some side work for Justin Baxter. And he might be putting me on retainer.”

  “How convenient. Are you fucking him?”

  Gemma blanched. “Of course not,” she said.

  “Yeah, right,” said Violet. “So what’s the guy you’re not fucking offering to pay to keep you on retainer? ’Cause let me tell you, I don’t care how great you’re blowing him, it’s his wife who holds the purse strings.”

  “Justin made the offer, not his wife.”

  “I’m sure he did. I’m just saying, no matter how pussy-whipped you’ve got him, he can only pay you what Martha lets him pay you.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Fine. See for yourself. Let me know what he offers you. In the meantime, at the very least, I need you to do our costumes for the Las Vegas Burlesque Festival.”

  “I’m already working on that for Justin.”