by Skye Warren
“How ‘bout a drink?” I’m already pouring each of us a shot of whiskey, neat. She examines me from the corner of the room, leaning against a wall with her hands behind her back. Her beauty is romantic and understated. Small lips, nose, and chin with a delicate neck. The only thing big on her whole goddamn body is her brown eyes, and they look at me like I’m a psycho she wants to devour.
I’m a memory she wants to collect; that’s fine by me.
She’s a notch I’m about to add to my belt; that’s fine by her, too.
I walk over to her and hand her one of the shots.
“Merry Christmas.” I raise my shot glass.
“To you too,” she mumbles in disbelief and we both toss back our heads and down our drinks. After we cluck our tongues, I rub my palms together. “Okay, now for the Christmas presents.”
“Oh no, are you high? Do I need to alert anyone, like your agent or something?” She wrinkles her nose. I chuckle softly, disguising my surprise. Normally, that’s the part where they jump my bones.
Maybe she’s married to that kid’s father, but somehow, I know she isn’t.
No wedding ring.
She looks too ready for me.
And damn if I sound soppy, but me crashing in this random hotel to waste time while all my bandmates are having family dinners so I won’t have to face my own empty house was fate. This needed to happen. I needed someone to fill the void, and lucky for her, she is that someone.
“Sit,” I instruct her, patting the vanity table across from my bed. We’ll get to bed. Eventually. First, I want to tease her into submission. She hesitates, but leans back and lands her fine little ass on the deep oak table. I place myself between her legs. They’re clad in an ugly black and white hotel uniform. Not for long.
When her legs clasp my waist, she gasps. Her eyelids fall heavily, her luscious eyelashes fanning across her cheeks.
“Wanna know what your first Christmas present is?” I whisper into her lips, not touching—not yet. When I do, every nerve in her body will spark and she will burn for me hotter than the sun and brighter than the stars—and lick my lips when I feel her warm sigh fluttering across my mouth.
“What’s my first Christmas present, Fab?” She calls me by my band nickname. I reward her with a nip to her lower lip.
“Your first present is an orgasm through fingering, but don’t worry, baby. There are a lot of gifts to come. In fact, there are so many, they cover the whole fucking Christmas tree.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I slam my lips on hers, tasting her for the first time. There’s this familiar heady feeling I get every time I kiss a new fangirl, a new one-night stand, a nameless reminiscence I pocket, and it’s there. For sure. But when our mouths open and I taste her, something’s different. She doesn’t taste like the whiskey she just downed, or alcohol at all. She doesn’t taste of cigarettes, desperation, and overpriced hot dogs from the concert venue I just performed in. She doesn’t taste like a one-night stand. No. Hannah tastes like herself. A mix of a minty toothpaste, a banana, and maybe a little apple juice. She tastes like a good girl, and I don’t remember the last time I had one.
Suddenly, I’m starving for it. For her.
“Fuck,” I murmur as my tongue seeks permission to enter her mouth again, and her lips fall open. I explore; licking her tongue with mine, eager as a puppy. Our kisses are noisy and sloppy, like in high school, when kissing really meant something, and wasn’t just a lazy buildup for sex. It feels too much like a first. A first everything. Something fresh and different. Then, at some point, our long kisses turn into one, continuous kiss that lasts twenty minutes, maybe even more. I don’t dare grind into the flesh of her clothed pussy. No. I’m still taken aback by how good it feels to simply feel her lips on mine. See, I’m starting to feel that Hannah is like a drug. The key to being a savvy drug user? You need to know what dose to take for a perfect hit. I don’t want an overdose. Too much of her at once will ruin it.
“More,” Hannah purrs, her small hands clasping my belt. I want to stop this. I need to stop this. I just want to fucking kiss this girl for a few more…I don’t know, hours? Before the magic wears off. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m all alone on Christmas Eve, feeling like a fading star in a sea of black. That must be it. The uncomfortable intimacy I have with loneliness. Because I may be a rock star, but I’m also an orphan, with no siblings or relatives. Sure, my bandmates invited me to spend the holidays with them, but when you’re as big a star as me, you can’t afford to be a charity case.
And women? Normally, they’re my charity case.
But I understand Hannah. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone. She wants the memory. They all do. So reluctantly, I let her unbuckle me and grin into our eternal kiss when the predictable gasp of admiration leaves her lips.
“It’s not fair that you’re a rock star and have such a big dick.” Her voice sounds a little too breathless. It comes off almost pained.
“It’s not fair that I was supposed to be fucking you with my fingers half an hour ago but I can’t seem to stop fucking kiss you.” I pepper the corner of her mouth and lips with a few more kisses before I come up for air. Yes, I gave her a truth she doesn’t deserve. She’s just a stranger, but right now, her lips just don’t feel that way. And for once, I get sloppy. Weak. Exposed.
We stare at each other for a long minute before I realize she is holding my cock in her hand. Her delicate, smooth fingers barely curl all the way around the width of me and it may sound creepy, but it’s a turn-on. I lift her by clutching her ass and pull her slacks down. Her sensible 100 percent cotton underwear follow. Pink and bland. Unassuming. This girl doesn’t get fucked on a regular basis and I like that about her.
I put her back on the vanity table and my thumb circles around her clit. She growls and covers my mouth with hers, squeezing my dick lightly. I take that as permission to do more. I slip one finger in and explore her tight pussy, circling, flicking, writing my name inside her. Marking her as mine, even though she isn’t. God, what the fuck am I saying? I’m leaving tomorrow morning, heading to Memphis to work on our new album and I won’t see her ever again.
Hannah begins to jerk me off and every time her thumb meets the head of my cock, my lower stomach flips. It happened to me before. Once. At fourteen, when I got my first handjob. It’s the excitement and adrenalin of having something so out-of-this-world amazing happening to you. Problem is, it’s been ten years since I got my first jerkoff, and I’ve never felt it again.
Goddammit, Hannah. What the hell are you doing to me?
In an attempt to gain control over the situation, I shove two more fingers into her at once. That’s the usual me in bed. Aggressive. Angry. Uncaring. She arches her back and screams my name, my band name, Fab, but all I want to hear is my real name falling from her puffy pout.
“Yes. Yes. Yes, Fab,” she chants in low growls. I feel her pussy tightening, choking my fingers, and my balls tingle. I should be elated, but I’m confused. So goddamn confused. Even though our mouths are still on each other, I feel what’s in my fucking chest more than I feel her hands on my cock and ass, squeezing in desperation.
“I’m coming!” she cries out, and we come at the same time, me in her hand and her on my fingers. Our foreheads collapse together and we’re panting, staring at each other’s eyes for a moment too long. Her small nose nudges mine and something weird runs down my spine.
Don’t.
I disconnect from her wordlessly and stride over to the mini bar, grabbing the whiskey bottle by its neck and downing the majority of it into my throat. If I want to fuck this girl without getting fucked over, I will need booze. A lot of it.
“Why are you here by yourself tonight?” Her voice is small, but her words are too big for me right now.
“For the same reason you are. I have no choice.”
Chapter 3
Hannah
Did he not like it?
Fabio looks a little horrified and a lot angry. Oh my God, wh
at if I gave him the worst handjob in the history of handjobs? It’d be just like me. I don’t have much sexual experience, since Bradley, Easton’s dad, knocked me up during my senior year of high school. I’ve focused on Easton and providing for him ever since, leaving no room for dating, let alone fooling around.
“Wow, you act like Edward Scissorhands just gave you that handjob,” I mutter when I see him slamming the whiskey bottle against the mini bar. His palms are flat against the table and he glares at me from over his shoulder, any trace of his previous playboy-self gone.
“Get naked, climb on my bed and open your legs,” he instructs dryly. Business-like, even. I really should go, because this is a bad idea. Not that I’m scared for the safety of my job—I know Bailey, my supervisor, probably bought the whole broken limbs lie he fed her on the phone—but I have a feeling I will regret it if I let him treat me like one of his meaningless fangirls. My pride won’t take that kind of hit.
“She said she wanted my dick,
But this was just a trick,
Now she wants a boyfriend and a lover,
Too bad I told her that it’s over.”
Breaking Bella, White Noise
“Actually…I think I’m gonna head out.”
I shake my head. Things got too weird too fast. One moment he was a psycho who made me believe that he was dead using ketchup and nakedness, the next we were giving each other mind-blowing orgasms with our hands, and now he is acting like I’m dirt. Nope. I’ve had enough of hot and cold from Easton’s dad, thank you very much.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Fabio shakes his head almost violently, fishing for another alcoholic bottle and unscrewing the cap, pointing its neck in my direction. “We’re seeing this sad night through. Together. Got it, Hannah?”
“I don’t remember telling you my name.” My forehead creases with concentration. I tug at my shirt. I forgot my nametag at home today. The way he stares at me now, it’s like I slapped him across the face. Fab decides to ignore my last statement altogether.
“We still need to fuck.”
“I think my mind is already thoroughly screwed,” I reassure him, pulling my pants up and tucking my blouse into them. I head for the door and fling it open, but he leaps from his corner of the room and slams it from the inside, boxing me against the door like the human giant he is. His nose brushes mine and his green bottomless eyes remind me of who I’m with and why I’m having my first one-night stand, ever.
“Stay,” he commands.
“Make me,” I challenge.
There’s a beat of silence before he flings me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and carries me to the bed while smacking my ass. Back to being fun, I guess.
My clothes are gone in seconds, and this time I’m stark naked. He releases himself from his jeans and boxers and we’re naked before I blink, him on top of me, me writhing in pleasure. I’m clawing at his back like he is my lifeline, his mouth—the strong scent of alcohol wafting from it—is on my nipple and it’s biting and teasing me in a way that leaves me begging. Whether to stop or to continue, I have no idea. I tug at his hair when his head moves south to my sex and shake all over when he finally presses his tongue flat against the lips of my pussy. The shudder ripping through me is so violent, tears stab at the back of my eyeballs.
“Please!” I flinch away from him. The pleasure is so profound it is almost uncomfortable to be on the receiving end. “Do it or stop teasing me. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Gift number two is orgasm by tongue,” Fabio slurs. I know he’s drunk, but I don’t care. He licks me up and down, deep and shallow. His tongue is warm, wet, and gives just the right amount of pressure. It devours me until I scream his name again and again. Then he climbs on top of me and slips inside me without warning. Without a condom, either.
“No!” I cry out, but he thinks that it’s just another moan for him to continue. I’ve been fighting him off and pulling him back to me throughout the night. He fucks me hard and aggressively, and I let him, telling myself that this time, I know better. I’ll slip out of this room when it’s over and buy the morning-after pill from the pharmacy. Then I will run, get myself checked for every STD known under the sun and face the consequences.
On Christmas Eve, I get seven presents. All of them in the form of an orgasm. All from Fabio Ricci. And by the time the sun scares the darkness of night away and a new day forces me to deal with what I’ve done, I sneak out of his room and leave him a goodbye note.
Love your new album, but Jailbird sucked.
H.
I will never hear from him again.
Chapter 4
Fabio
What the hell have I done?
I wake up feeling like our drummer, Johnny, got into my head and had one of his long ass drumming sessions between my ears. My vision is blurry and the suite is a mess. I blink once…twice? Trying to decipher what the hell is it that I’m seeing.
I pat the mattress next to me. Cold. Empty.
I get up reluctantly and take a leak. I’m glad she showed herself out, because it’s always a problem when the fangirls want more. I start brushing my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror, notice the streaks her fingernails left on my chest, and remember.
She wasn’t a fangirl.
She was Hannah.
Foaming toothpaste from my mouth like I have rabies, I bolt from the bathroom and lift the receiver to the phone, and call the reception desk. The line is dead. I tore the cord out of the socket yesterday before we started our fucking session.
Oh, hell no.
Dressed in nothing but my boxers, I run to the elevator, punch the button a few times before giving up and descending down the stairs, taking them two at a time. When I reach the reception desk people are staring. I’m lucky it’s Christmas Day and the place is pretty much deader than Corey Feldman’s acting career, because otherwise, I’d be arrested for indecent exposure by now.
“The girl…” I clutch the supervisor with the moustache by the collar and jerk him so we’re face-to-face, knowing full well my breath stinks like I’d just swallowed a dead raccoon. “The girl from room service. Hannah. I need her number.”
“Why, Mr. Dover? Is there a prob—” he starts, but I shut him up by raising my voice. I’m losing control and I have no way to stop it.
“I’m not Mr. Dover and your black moustache is not real. Let’s cut the bullshit. Tell me how I can find her.”
“Why?” His voice is still quiet, composed. Fuck him! Why? The reason is too embarrassing. She makes me feel like a horny teenager again. She makes my stomach flip. And fuck, yes, she doesn’t make me feel like I’m so alone, okay?
“She forgot something in my room,” I grit. My fucking heart.
“We’ll give it to her,” he smiles cheerily. Fake, fake, fake. I fucking hate this dude.
“No, I need her address.”
“Sir, we don’t give out our employees’ addresses.”
“Sir,” I drawl, mocking him. “I don’t give a flying fuck what you do and don’t do. I need her number and I need her address. And I think both you and I know that if I don’t get it, I can get you into a lot of shit.” Yes, I’m that asshole. The guy who uses his star power to blackmail the average, nice guy who just wants to do his job and for people to think his ridiculous moustache is real.
We stare each other down for a brief moment before Javier gives me a slight nod and scribbles something down on a complimentary hotel notebook. I don’t even bother to look at it before I tear the page from the notebook and bolt upstairs to get dressed.
Hannah, where the fuck did you think you were going? You were mine from the first taste. You can’t leave. I’m not done claiming you yet.
Chapter 5
Hannah
Last night plays out in my head like a broken record I can’t get out of my head. The way he took me from behind at some point, one of his arms draped lazily next to my body and the other circling my clit while our eyes locked in the mi
rror of his bathroom. He moved inside me like a cowboy and I had a stupid grin on my face the whole time I felt his cock sliding in and out of me. Leisurely. Taking his time. Present number four: an orgasm with my cock.
“Mom? Are you even listening?” My three-year-old son asks from across the table. He’s eating pancakes and wearing red and green PJ’s. I smile and put the coffee mug to my lips.
“Of course, baby. So Ruth made a roast,” I encourage him to continue. And he does. He tells me all about his father’s girlfriend. And I take it, because not only do I have to play nice with Bradley and his fiancée, the same woman he cheated on me with for a year before I found out, but I also feel incredibly guilty. Not for slipping the morning-after pill between my lips when Easton wasn’t looking. Not for having a one-night stand either. But for not making him wear a condom. For not insisting. What the hell was I thinking? Putting myself at risk like that. What kind of mom am I?
Easton continues talking presents and Christmas food when the front door rattles with an impact of an impatient fist. Startled, I jump to my feet. My parents are out of town. They knew I had to work and Easton would be with his dad. I glimpse through the peephole and cough in disbelief when I see who it is. I unlock the door and swing it open, my mouth agape.
“What are you doing here?”
To say Fabio looks like a mess is an understatement. His hair is all over the place, his shirt is wrinkled and his boots are unlaced. He doesn’t answer me. Just cups both my cheeks and walks me backward until my back hits the opposite wall, then he gives me a slow kiss, with tongue and something else that feels too much like emotion.
