by Suzie Nelson
“You. Inside me. On me. Making love to me.”
“Oh, Melody, I’m going to do everything to make sure we work. Your voice. The softness of your skin. Your smart little mouth. You keep me hard. You keep me spilling pre-cum in my pants and stroking the tip, when I lay in bed at night.”
Shivers of pleasure passed through my body.
He positioned his length at the opening of my sex. It was so thick and long.
“Wait,” I whispered. “We need protection.”
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath and dragged himself away. His muscles flexed as he rushed back like a mad man, tearing away the packet and putting the condom on him.
And when he took me, he did it like no other. Sensually slow and dreamlike. Piercing me with his thickness and driving my orgasm over the edge. I rocked with him, humping as he thrust into and stroked my insides.
“Yes, Melody, yes,” he moaned.
And I groaned in lust with him, falling over the edge with no intention to be saved. Together, we floated in hot passion, our moans filling the air. The rest of the fur coats rolled away from our love making. Our bodies molded together. We became one energy of erotic lust, exploding into each other. My head went dizzy. My heart hammered to the rhythm of our sensual movements.
And then we came together, hard and groaning so loud I was sure his butler heard us. Never had I felt so blown away. So utterly consumed.
“I want more,” I whispered as we lay in each other’s arms, exhausted and full of pleasure.
“Good. I want more too.”
“I heard a saying that an artist should never date another artist. Too many egos in the bed.”
“I’ve got another opinion.”
“And what is that?”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “See. There’s this big door.”
“Oh god, not another door.”
“Yes. And on the other side of the door, is your destiny.”
Playing groaning in annoyance, I tried to pull away from him.
He stopped me and whispered, “Melody.”
“Yes, crazy man.”
“Lose your head.” He captured my lips and devoured me once again. “Just lose your head, my sweet Melody.”
THE END
Underneath His Mask
Chapter 1
Angie Wilde flopped onto her couch with a sigh, kicking off her black high heels. They might make her ass look great but they certainly did not help her get this job. The interview had gone terribly, as always.
“And what makes you so sure you won’t repeat the ‘incident’ if you work for ACTV, Ms. Wilde?” she mimicked the interviewer’s question snarkily. “Ugh! Your tiny cable TV network should be so lucky to have me! God, it was a year ago. Give it a rest, people! Move on! Isn’t there anything on Twitter to distract you from one tiny little screw-up? ”
Angie threw one of the throw pillows at the far wall in frustration. “Apparently not,” she sulked, slouching further into the welcoming embrace of her gray linen couch.
Angie sighed and looked up at her ceiling as if hoping it would somehow provide her with a divine solution to her problems. It didn’t. She sighed again.
A few years ago, Angie Wilde had been one of the entertainment industry’s hottest up and coming journalists. She’d talked to everyone from Prince to Kim Kardashian. But, just over a year ago, her blossoming career had come crashing down around her ears. It had all started with Josh deciding that his fragile ego couldn’t handle playing second fiddle to Angie.
“Look, Angie, it’s totally normal. This is totally normal,” Josh told her, raising his hands as if that would keep her calm.
Angie raised an eyebrow, her hands firmly on her hips. “How is this normal, Josh? How is it normal? Explain it to me.”
“Men need to feel like they’re in charge,” said Josh, misreading the signs and lowering his hands slightly. “Your job is emasculating me, Angie. How am I supposed to feel confident in my masculinity if you insist on undercutting me?”
“My job is emasculating you?” Angie repeated. “What the hell does my job have to do with your masculinity, Josh? The last I checked you were the only person in charge of your own self-confidence.”
“Yeah, but, like, Dr. Matthews explained that because you’re so well-known and make so much more money than me that it’s having a negative effect on my self-image. I feel like I’m no longer in the position of power.”
“Oh, that’s what Dr. Matthews said to you, is it?” Angie asked rhetorically. “And tell me, did Dr. Matthews say why, exactly, you should be in a position of power in the first place? Or is it simply because you have testicles?”
“You don’t need to be crude, Angie. That’s so typically you,” Josh shook his head. “Dr. Matthews says that—”
“I don’t give a shit what Dr. Matthews says, Josh!” Angie yelled. “We have been together for seven years. Seven years. I’ve been supporting you ever since we graduated from college. I supported you through your master’s degree, through that bogus professional development certification. Through the year and a half you were ‘looking for work’ but couldn’t find anything up to your standards,” Angie made the quotation marks with her fingers. “I supported you through everything and now that my career is finally taking off after all my hard work, you’re going to hold that against me? You’re going to say that I’m doing this to you?”
“Angie, I’m just telling you that—”
“If men are supposed to be in charge or whatever bullshit Dr. Matthews is feeding you then why didn’t you man up and get a job and pay the bills? Huh? Answer me that, Josh.”
“Well, if you had let me—”
“If I had – I’m sorry, if I had let you? How often did I get you into job interviews with friends of friends? How often did I send you promising job offers I’d found? God, how often did I beg you to get a freaking job so that I didn’t have to pay for everything? I’m still paying off my student debt, Josh! If I had let you! Grow up!”
“This is exactly what Dr. Matthews said you’d do,” said Josh smugly. “Overreact.”
“Over – over—” Angie gaped at him. “You’re throwing away seven years of my life and tens – hundreds – of thousands of my dollars for nothing and you think I’m overreacting? Oh, I’ll give you overreacting!” she told him, right before she hauled off and slapped him.
Josh clutched his face, stumbling backward. “Ow, you fucking bitch! You’re crazy!” he screamed.
“No,” Angie corrected him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m righteously indignant. Now get out of my house, you creep!”
“What—” Josh’s eyes widened. “But I—”
“What? Did you think you were getting the apartment? Why? Because you’re man?” Angie laughed somewhat hysterically. “My name’s the one on the paperwork and I’m the only one that makes enough to pay the mortgage down payments. So get out! Now!”
Josh circled Angie, scrambling towards the front door. “But I need my stuff!” he whined.
“And I need the last seven years of my life back!” Angie yelled. “Luckily for you, your stuff can be Fedexed across town. My life is gone for good!”
“Does that mean you’ll send me my—”
“Yes, Josh. It means I’ll send you your things. Now get out!” Angie watched as he grabbed his coat from the hook. “And we’ll see what that quack psychologist says about your masculinity now that I’m not paying for your sessions anymore.”
Josh looked like he was about to protest again but Angie’s furious look kept him from saying anything more. He scooted out the door, slamming it behind him.
As soon as she heard the elevator open and close behind him, Angie threw herself down on the couch and started crying.
But that wasn’t everything. Just when she’d thought she was getting over Josh’s betrayal, her mother, Teresa, had died of cancer. They’d found out two weeks before at a routine doctor’
s exam. One minute her mother was laughing and joking with her at lunch every Tuesday and the next she was bald, pale, and skeletal, lying silently in a hospital bed while Angie spent her Tuesday lunchtimes clutching her mother’s frail bony hands and crying.
Angie’s father had died a long time ago when she was very young and her mother was her favorite person in the whole world. Teresa had always had Angie’s back, no matter what had happened. She’d supported Angie’s dream of becoming a TV interviewer and even helped pay for Angie’s communication degree as much as she could on her librarian’s salary. When she told Angie that she was sick, Angie had felt as though the ocean was rising up and drowning her right there on that sunny L.A. sidewalk.
“It’s pretty bad timing, I have to say,” said Teresa one day as Angie sat with her after her chemo treatment. “I mean, Josh just broke up with you and now here I am getting cancer. It’s not very fair to you.”
Angie let out a half laugh, half sob. “Mom, that’s the last thing I’m worried about. You’re the one who’s dying. Concentrate on you!”
“But you always were the best thing about me,” Teresa replied, smiling at her only daughter.
Angie sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Oh, mom, what am I going to do without you?”
“You’re going to go on being a strong, amazing woman who makes me so proud,” said Teresa.
Angie gave her mother a watery smile. “Thanks, mom,” she whispered.
“No, thank you, sweetheart. You made my life worth living.”
“Aw, mom, don’t say that. It’s not over yet.”
But they both knew it would be soon.
“I have to say, though,” said Teresa, changing the subject, “I’m glad Josh is gone. He was a terrible boyfriend. I always thought he’d never be good enough for you. He was always so needy. And he never celebrated your successes the way he should have. Or appreciated all you were doing for him. Plus his parents were so booooooring. You’re better off without him.”
Angie sighed. “I know. I mean, I know that theoretically. It’s just hard in practice. We were together seven years! Ever since high school. I thought we were going to get married. And even though I know he’s actually a louse I still miss him. You get used to having someone around, someone in bed next to you.”
“I know,” said her mom. “Oh, I know. But don’t worry. It’ll get easier. One day soon, honey. I promise.”
“Thanks, mom,” said Angie.
The day after her mother’s funeral she had an interview with Ryan Gosling about his upcoming movies and supposed romance with Emma Stone. And, right there in the middle of it, he’d said something about having lunch with someone and Angie had realized that she’d never, ever have lunch with her mother again and she’d started crying. And not elegant, “one tear silently trailing down the cheek” crying: full blown, red-nosed, puffy-eyed sobbing. Half way through answering her question on his favorite acting job to date, Ryan had stopped, staring at her as if she’d suddenly transformed into a werewolf.
“What?” she’d yelled at him. “Haven’t you ever seen a heartbroken woman before?”
Ryan just kept staring as his handlers came to rescue him and Angie’s assistant had helped her up and off the sound stage.
“Have a little compassion!” Angie had shouted at the retreating actor. “You’re supposed to be the emotionally mature one!”
Gosling had filed a restraining order and she’d been banned from ever going within fifty feet of him again. Not that it mattered. Her bosses had decided she was a flight risk and fired her. And then no one would touch her. She’d been reduced to begging for jobs at third rate networks like ACTV. And even they didn’t want her!
Luckily, she’d had some savings put aside and she’d inherited a surprising amount from her mother, which had gotten her through the past year. But if she didn’t find work soon the money would be gone and she’d be forced to take a waitressing or secretary job – which she did not want to do. She couldn’t imagine having come so far only to have to go back to being a waitress like she’d been during college. It would kill her. It wasn’t bad work, but it was not her calling and she knew it.
That was the real kicker. Angie was good at her job. Really good. She asked all the right questions and had a nose for lies. She knew how to wheedle the truth out of even the most reluctant celebrities. Though, of course, first, she had to get to the celebrity, which was a lot easier said than done if you weren’t working for a respectable network.
What she really needed was a comeback interview, something that would knock the socks off of all those close-minded networks that had turned her down. And not just a great interview, but a great interview with an unusual interviewee - someone who didn’t talk to just anyone. Again – easier said than done. After all, who in this age of Twitter and Instagram didn’t talk to everyone and anyone all the time?
Angie groaned and flopped over onto her stomach, burying her head in the couch’s pillows. But she was going out for drinks with the girls tonight and she knew she couldn’t lie here moping for much longer. She had to go get ready. She groaned again. It was so depressing telling them about one failed job interview after another. Her friends always got so excited for her. Hell, she got so excited for herself. And that was always the worst part about failure: having to admit it.
At least her friends would be on her side.
“Come on Angie,” she told herself out loud – she talked to herself out loud a lot more now that she lived alone – “Get your shit together, girl. Chin up, etc., etc.”
With another gusty sigh, Angie heaved herself off the couch and into the bathroom to shower.
As she blow-dried her thick, chestnut hair, she appraised her naked body in the mirror on the back of her bathroom door. At least she still had her looks, she thought. Her body hadn’t let her down. Knock on wood.
But Angie had to admit that she was very proud of her body, and with good reason. She’d been a track and field champion in her South California high school and gotten into university on a sports scholarship in order to pursue her true passion. But, while she eventually let track go, she’d always been very conscientious about staying active and healthy. Angie smiled, remembering how much Josh used to complain whenever she would make him go running with her or spend their Sunday afternoons hiking in the hills of Griffith Park. But Angie loved the feeling of strength and power that exercise brought her. She liked to know that, if she wanted to, she could run wherever she was going or climb whatever she cared to climb. It made her feel so much more self-confident.
Even after she lost her job, and Josh had gone and her mother had died, she didn’t stop working out. If anything, she worked out more, funneling all her grief and rage and fear into her exercise. It was her way of expressing her depression. She was lucky that way. The more anxious and depressed she became, the more she worked out.
After six months of unemployment, she took up rock climbing. It had made her feel better about life for a few weeks as she threw herself into the challenge. After that brief spurt of optimism, she’d gone back to quietly freaking out about her life - but at least she’d found a new hobby. And one that not only made her back and shoulders look amazing but had gotten her laid by possibly the most beautiful man she’d ever slept with, even if his name had been Chad. As her friend Claire had said at the time:
“Chads are for one night stands only, Angie. Can you imagine having to say that name every day? You’d stab yourself through the eye with a pencil. Chad. Chad. Chad.” She repeated the name over and over again, each time with a different goofy accent, making Angie and the other women clutch their stomachs.
“Stop it, Claire! Stop it!” Angie gasped. “The poor man. It’s not his fault he has the name of a ninth grader in 1996. He’s really nice.”
“Yeah, sure. You slept with a man that looks like Jason Momoa’s younger brother because he was ‘nice’,” Claire rolled her eyes and slurped her mojito.
<
br /> “Touché,” said Angie. “And to be fair he’s about as interesting as a ninth grader from 1996, but, as you’ve pointed out, his brain wasn’t the main attraction.”
Claire snorted with laughter. “But seriously, Angie. Even you have to admit that you just can’t moan that name and still feel like having sex,” Claire said. “It can’t be done. The very word ‘Chad’ is, like, an immediate buzzkill. No wonder he’s so fit. Gotta lure the ladies in despite the name.”
Angie shook her head. “You’re incorrigible, Claire!”
“You gonna see him again?” Pippa asked, throwing her long blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Nah,” said Angie. “It was fun but…God, his name is Chad.”
