Taming Cupid

by Emily Bishop

  A muscle in Blake’s jaw ticks, and he strides from the water curtain without saying anything more. He doesn’t even look at me. He takes a graceful leap onto a rock and disappears onto the other side of the curtain.

  “Blake,” I call after him, knowing he doesn’t understand, desperate to explain. I half-cross the rock shelf, but Candace skips onto it and intercepts me.

  “Take a walk with me, Roxy,” she commands, scooping an arm around my shoulders. “Follow Blake,” she barks at the cameramen.

  We stroll across the rock shelf now toward the other side of the water curtain. The downpour isn’t as harsh on this side, and we can see the beach from here. All the vans idle, waiting for us. The stagehands deconstruct the yurt. The cameramen trail Blake, who looks miserable. “You did the right thing,” Candace tells me.

  “Which thing?”

  “Not kissing the billionaire, of course. We would never have used the footage anyway. I wish we didn’t have to use you in the episode at all, but that wasn’t what Sir Berringer wanted, was it?” The cameras are all packed up. Stagehands trundle back and forth across the beach with pillows and wicker horns and candles. “Never let the bachelor kiss you,” Candace reminds. “Do you know why I say that?”

  “You don’t say that,” I remind her. “This is the first season that has ever been a rule.”

  “Oh, sweet Roxanne.” Candace squeezes my shoulder tightly and gives it a little jiggle, like we’re comrades. “Every season, I have to remind some staffer repeatedly to not climb into the billionaire’s bed. This is just the first season I’ve ever had to warn you!”

  “So?” I ask, my tone tight and rigid. “Why don’t you just let people do what they want to do?”

  “Because, Roxanne,” she snaps, “it’s going to ruin the integrity of the show when you show up pregnant in the tabloids, isn’t it? And anyway, I can’t have my best makeup artist going on crying jags while she paints up a date for her ex-boyfriend.”

  “Dramatic,” I lightly critique her.

  “Dramatic? Look at him, Roxy, and you tell me which is more dramatic, this advice or those cheekbones. You blind? Women crawl on that dick all day long. He can have anyone he wants. They’ll do anything. And you’re just the makeup artist on his reality television show.”

  “No, I’m not,” I inform her staunchly, twisting from beneath her arm to glare squarely at her. “We met at a Second Chances Christmas party. Five years ago. We were the same back then.”

  Candace mock-gasps. “You mean, he wanted to sleep with you back then, too? When you were all of twenty-five? I’m shocked!”

  “Don’t,” I tell her. My fingers go to the necklace. “It wasn’t like that. We had a moment.”

  Candace cocks her chin to one side. She scrutinizes my hand. “Why do you do that?” she wonders. “Why do you hold onto that necklace every time you have to defend yourself?”

  My fingers unfold from the necklace, and my shoulders square. I exhale steadily. “I don’t.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “What Jenny told me about that necklace. Is it one of the Berringer estate keys?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did Blake give it to you?”

  I don’t answer, and she simmers.

  “I could fire you,” Candace reminds me, voice taut. “You know that, right?”

  “I’ve had this necklace as long as you’ve known me, Candace,” I snap at her, calling her Candace aloud for only the second time ever. There was something about her which always felt motherly to me, but she is losing it now. Now she seems all too human. “I met Blake when I very first left Jared. That was the year of the Second Chances Christmas party.”

  “So? You met after Jared and he just gave you a key to his house?”

  “We didn’t just meet. I was about to kill myself. And he stopped me.” I normally wouldn’t let that just spill out, but I’m so hot to defend our background and our chemistry, the words are out there before I can stop.

  “What?”

  “I was hanging off the side of the ship, about to jump,” I confess, “and he stopped me. He talked to me. He helped me back over the railing and gave me this key.” My eyes lock onto Candace’s. “It means a lot to me. It’s not a sexual thing or a romantic thing. It’s a personal thing. So there.”

  Still, Candace glowers. “All right,” she allows. “I guess that’s fine. But you know this guy is dangerous, right? You saw the pictures, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Stay away from him,” Candace assures me. “He’s Bachelor #6, Roxy. That’s all. Another billionaire. Don’t fall for it.”

  ***

  On the jet flight back to England, I catch myself staring at the back of Blake’s head until Candace nods off. Yes, she went through the entire Greece date without quitting until late into the night, after all the work was done, while juggling full-blown salmonella. She did it, just like she said she would.

  I stare at her as she sleeps and try to figure out my feelings about her lately. She’s changed. I see her as mortal now, the way a teenager sees their mother as compared to the way a child would.

  I creep up to Blake’s seat and feel a twinge as my eyes sweep his face.

  He reclines slightly, his head leaned back against the cushion, his eyelashes forming tired crescents on his cheeks. How precious. He’s utterly still and the perfection of his beauty strikes me. Every inch of him is sculpted, from the Viking cheekbones to that barrel of a chest to his…statuesque member. Everything. Sculpted.

  But now, as he slumbers in his chair, he seems soft. Cherubic.

  The corner of his lip quirks, and I almost giggle. He goes from cherub to imp just like that.

  We’re back at the chateau in two hours’ time, and everyone migrates to their bunks for bed, sapped from a day of filming and travel.

  I stare longingly after Blake’s back as he advances off the walk and up his staircase. We haven’t spoken since I rejected his kiss. All I have seen for hours is his retreating back.

  We leave for America in the morning. Tonight is our last chance to be together.

  But I don’t know if I can trust him.

  Chapter 7

  Blake

  This is all I want in the whole world. Take my billions, but leave me this pussy…

  Miles is still upstairs when I shove into the master bedroom, flicking open my cufflinks as I go. I feel like I can see sputtering electricity in the peripheral of my vision, I’m so faded from that trip. Physically and emotionally. It’s already past two in the morning.

  I loosen my shoulders and unbutton my shirt, glowering at the empty bed sprawled before me.

  I told her everything. Roxanne is the only one, other than Miles, who knows the story now. But when I leaned in, she leaned away. It didn’t matter. Even Arthur’s death didn’t justify my beating of Desmond Delago.

  I know I’m not going to sleep a fucking wink tonight. I know it.

  I close my eyes, clench my jaw, and my shoulders slump.

  This is our last night at the chateau. I can’t just let her slip between my fingers. I can’t let Candace’s “Cut!” be the last word between us.

  “Would you do one more thing for me on your way out?” I call to Miles, glancing over my shoulder.

  Miles rolls his eyes slightly, and I smile. Maybe he thinks I didn’t see it, or maybe it’s been so many years he knows that it doesn’t matter if I do. “Of course, Blake,” Miles says. “What is it?”

  “Would you deliver a message to the dark-haired girl? The staffer?”

  “Um,” Miles says.

  “Her name is Roxanne. You’ve seen her. You can’t miss her. She’s living in the smaller trailer down in the camp.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. What’s the message?”

  “Tell her I want her to bring me that key around her neck.”

  Miles gives me a tired look, but he doesn’t protest.

  “Yes, sir,”
he agrees, a strange clip in his voice. He doesn’t ask. “I will do that.”

  “Thank you.” I shirk the shirt and try to relax.

  It’s the perfect plan. If Candace finds out, she’ll allow Roxanne to come because she doesn’t want her to have anything that might have belonged to the bachelor. It sounds as if I’m mad, though I’m not. It sounds as if I’m mad so no one will be suspicious.

  I’m not mad. I’m just not finished with that conversation Candace interrupted.

  Roxanne will come. It’s after two, but we all just returned. They’re all still up. She’ll come. And when she comes…

  I try to think about the mature, emotionally intimate conversation we’ll have, something that goes all night and leaves us completely in love in the morning, full of trust and commitment and stuff. We’ll talk about our parents, and our first loves and what schools we went to, our dreams when we were little, our fears for the future.

  I try really hard to picture that talk.

  ***

  It’s after four in the morning when I bitterly douse the lights and climb into bed. The floor is cold and quiet throughout the house. I wonder what happened with Miles’ message. Where did I go wrong?

  Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she thought I was mad and she didn’t want to come. Maybe Candace was suspicious.

  Maybe Roxanne scoffed in his face and told him I’m a complete psychopath, the beast who snapped once. The man who can’t make a single excuse about his behavior. The one she looks at and only sees the fists. The one she looks at, and only sees her piece-of-shit ex.

  I’m doing meditations and breathing exercises to unwind from the stress of being stood up when I hear hinges turn.

  I prop myself up on my elbow, scanning the shadows. “Miles?”

  A disembodied giggle bubbles across the darkness.

  “Roxanne?”

  “Blake?” comes whispering back, like a reverse echo.

  Roxanne inches forward in the darkness. All I can see is wild hair and a curvaceous silhouette. I can’t tell what she’s wearing and imagine running my hands over warm, bare skin.

  “I’m here. In bed.” My prick is already filling with blood, even though we’re supposed to be having that mature conversation. We’re alone at last, in a bedroom at four o’clock in the morning, both wide awake, one of us already completely nude. Hell, we leave for America in the morning. And I’m about to waste all that time convincing her to trust me. Oh well. “What took you so long?”

  “Um. What?” Roxanne wonders.

  “What took you so long to come?” I reiterate. “I sent a message two hours ago.”

  “What, like a text?”

  That would have been simpler. I should have her phone number.

  “Through my man,” I say. “Miles didn’t come to your trailer and tell you to come over?”

  “No. No one came. Actually, the door was locked when I tried to come.”

  I grin. “You knew the key went to the lock on the front door.”

  “I thought it was worth a try.”

  I smile until my cheeks pinch. “That works on so many levels,” I tell her.

  “I wanted to see you,” she finishes in that husky, honeyed voice, and I forget all about Miles and the failed mission. Miles could be on Uranus now. Fuck Miles.

  The bed sinks as Roxanne crawls aboard, and my heart starts going like a jackhammer. My prick pounds out a slower, steadier rhythm. I could almost swear my dick is getting the majority of the blood, though. I tell myself she’s just here to talk. She’s just here to talk.

  “Before we go back to LA,” she continues, almost within kissing range now. Christ, I can smell her. She’s already wet, I know it. She already smells lightly of sex, like she’s an animal sweating out pheromones. “Blake… I want you to know that I do care.”

  This erection is too strong, and she’s moving too slowly. I can barely hear her voice over the throbbing. She’s so close.

  “I want to be a real friend to you,” she promises me. Her silhouette is on hands and knees right in front of me.

  I pop up and bind my arms around her, twisting her and whipping her down flat on the mattress. She gasps at how quickly it all happens, but it’s still not fast enough.

  “If you just want to be a friend to me,” I say, voice thick, “you need to get out of this bed right now.”

  She wears a very loose and flimsy tank top romper.My gazess and

  The moonlight through the window washes her skin out, and it contrasts highly with her dark hair and eyes. Her lips look dark, too. She’s monochromatic, like a memory in a dream. I think I’m falling in fucking love with her.

  Roxanne gulps. “I don’t just want to be your friend,” she whispers, pinned beneath me, my rod pulsing between her damp thighs.

  I nuzzle down into Roxanne’s creamy neck and drag her scent through my nostrils. It’s a salty and warm, buttery sweet scent, the way a woman gets between her legs when her body wants a baby the most. It’s my kryptonite. I lose a hand inside her romper and feel her soaked slit. My eyes roll back in my head, and I murmur to God about it. She’s amazing.

  This is all I want in the entire world. Take my billions, but leave me this pussy. Literal heat wafts off her mons. I slide a finger inside her and shudder. She’s so slick and tight, contoured to my fingertips. I might pass out.

  The narrow crotch her romper provides stretches out of shape by the stroking of my hand, exposing her pussy to me. My free hand aims my dick and lets the head play over her pink strip. Every time I feel her button or her hole—the bottom and the top of my torturous trek—my jaw clenches and the room gives a little spin for me. I need to be inside her. I can’t think straight with her body right under me, piping hot and so soft. So penetrable. Is she ready?

  My head catches against her entrance, and it puckers at me like another mouth. I groan and take it back from her.

  Roxanne moans softly as I hit her clit repeatedly with my plush head. Every time I accidentally linger too far south, her hole sucks at me again. It’s kind of amazing, and I give up to the momentum, sinking into her bare-skinned. My vision colors with a psychedelic pinwheel for a second; that’s how good it is. She’s drenched and almost feverish, and her muscles clamp my member like a vice.

  I drive a hand into Roxanne’s hair, and I lose my mind. I pump, and she shrills and clings to me and talks in tongues. It lasts for an eternity and seconds at once, then I twist her on her stomach and relish her ass with my hands, worshipping her body. I lunge forward and sink my teeth into the crest of her shoulder. She reels into me and opens up. I go deeper. Finally.

  Then she’s on top of me. It happens so quickly, so artfully, and I realize that I recognize it.

  “That was jiu-jitsu,” I breathe.

  Roxanne grins down at me. “I guess it was,” she confesses.

  “Oh, this is going to be fun.” I grab her hair harder and go deeper, then roll with her and come up on my knees. I hold her hips in the air, and she forms a bridge easily, naturally. Jesus Christ. I go deeper. I don’t know how it’s possible that I keep finding these new levels inside her, or how it’s possible that they only get sweeter and sweeter.

  I peel Roxanne’s torso up to mine and duck my head to take her nipple in my mouth. It’s sweet, and I suck for a long time, losing myself inside her, working us both up to a slow, steady froth again. I love having her right in front of me. Sitting up. Eyes open.

  She catches me staring at her with my lusty glare, and she smiles bashfully, which brings a quick rush of heat up my shaft.

  “You know what I love about you?” I pant.

  “What?”

  “You’re so real. Everyone around me is always hyper-aware of themselves, but you? You’re real.”

  “I’m definitely hyper-aware of myself,” she assures me breathlessly. I huff out a laugh and pin her back down to the mattress, digging deep into her luscious thighs. Her whole body has a sheen now, and we’ve been bathing in the moonlight for so long that I
can see everything in perfect, bluish detail.

  “Have you come yet?” I ask her. If she did, it was a quiet orgasm. She feels so tight, it’s impossible to distinguish tightening.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I kind of feel like I’m having little orgasms all the… all the…” Her eyelashes flutter, and I feel a little twist on my shaft. I pulse back at her. “…time,” she finishes.

  “Then the answer,” I tell her, drawing my dick from her pussy and slithering down her torso to her gleaming mons, “is no.”

  My tongue fans up and rolls over her nub, and she whimpers and bucks her hips a little bit. “I could live off of this juice,” I swear to her. My mouth comes down to her hole, where most experienced cunnilingus performers don’t linger. I understand that the girth and length of my tongue is a tease at best, nothing to be compared with my penis, but I don’t care. I stick my tongue inside her because I want to taste her, I want to taste us. She makes me feel loose and experimental.

  My tongue skates back up her strip and I gnaw at her, dragging her forward inch by unyielding inch.

  She’s here and she wants me; I know she does. I feel her writhing and hear her whimpering, but she’s just not coming.

  I’m dazed and rubbery-lipped when I finally blink up at her and tell her, “If there’s something you want, something special that gets you off hard, I can do that.”

  Her fingers dig into my hair affectionately. “You get me off hard,” Roxanne insists.

  “Apparently not,” I reply with a little laugh. I glance at the clock. It’s almost 5 in the morning now, and she still hasn’t had an orgasm.

  “You made me come in the garden,” Roxanne reminds me thoughtfully. Even now, the tone of her voice makes my heart sink. She sounds so contemplative. That’s not the way a woman should sound in the middle of coitus. She should sound…bedraggled. Rough. Windswept. Like she’s coming in from a hurricane.

  “You’re all up in your head,” I tell her, resting my chin thoughtfully on her sweat-slick mons. God, I want to come inside her–my dick pulses, pressed against the sheets like a heart between my legs–but I don’t want to let go unless she’s letting go at the same damn time. “What is it?”