Things weren’t all that different from when all he could give was an online relationship. Hell, I’d had to go through a lot to get him to even meet me in real life in the first place.
The part of me that loved him, that sad little part where hope lived, reminded me that Quentin wasn’t just difficult or an asshole. No. He was damaged. He’d had his heart broken. Not only when he’d lost his wife, but he’d lost his son. And he blamed himself for the entire situation.
But I worried about how long it had taken for him to come clean and tell me about even having a son. When I arrived home after he told me about the accident, I Googled it. The only thing I found was the obituary, which alluded to an accident. There was nothing else. He said he’d run over the child, that it had been his fault. But surely he’d been exaggerating. If he wasn’t…that was something no one should have to live with. And it did explain why he was so closed off. I couldn’t imagine being responsible for the death of a loved one, especially a child. Children are supposed to outlive their parents. The whole story was terribly tragic, and it made me think that maybe it wasn’t the right time to complain to Quentin, to ask for more from him.
But if not now, when? Was I going to be worried about upsetting him forever?
Plus, I didn’t know how to help him. If he was locked in a cage of his own pain, I didn’t know what could I do to help him break free and let him love and be loved.
A happy ending with Quentin was not going to come easy. It would take time and patience. Two things I was running low on.
And then there was BA. He’d alluded to having a rough history with women as well, yet he didn’t seem to have the same hang-ups. For him, life went on. He moved forward, embraced life. The communication between me and him was light. Fun.
I blushed to myself. But he wasn’t in a relationship with me. Not really, even though it felt that way sometimes.
Part of me wanted to tell both Quentin and BA that I wished to cease being a submissive for BA. Another part of me fantasized about them both dominating me together in real life. That desire had recently come to the forefront of my mind. I thought BA would be game, but for some reason I doubted Quentin would like the idea.
One thing I knew was that things couldn’t keep going on the way they had been. Something was going to have to change.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Celebrities had never been a big deal in my eyes. I knew some larger-than-life people—Shelby for example—and I realized that as big as some people seemed, they were just people. But as Quentin and I stood in line for the red carpet to attend the Academy Awards and everywhere you turned there was someone else you grew up recognizing from the big or little screen, I have to admit it made me a little giddy.
We went down the red carpet early, before most of the press and the “important” celebrities got there. As we waited our turn to parade in front of the cameras, Quentin laid his hand possessively on the small of my back, and I almost melted right there onto the famed carpet.
“You’re more beautiful than every other woman here,” he whispered into my ear as he drew me close to him for a picture. I could feel the telltale nudge of his arousal against my buttocks and I grew weak in the knees. God, he knew how to make me want him.
Of course, Quentin looked incredible as usual in a designer tux that was the darkest of navy blue. No, the designer didn’t send it over for him. He said that was just for the famous people, but the people from Winged did get him a stylist who picked it out and got him fitted properly.
They didn’t get a stylist for me, but I had Shelby and that might have been just as good.
Together, after trying on countless dresses that were a “no”, we found one that was a “yes.” And when I saw the gleam in Quentin’s eyes when he first saw me in it, I knew we’d made the right choice.
My dress was a midnight-blue floor-length gown that complemented Quentin’s tux perfectly, though that happened by chance rather than through a coordinated effort. It was sleeveless with a v-shaped sheer neckline. It was suitably modest, unlike some of the celebrities who were showing all their bits. The bodice and skirt were covered in flowers that looked like violets made from paillettes.
And now, seated in the Dolby Theater, I figured out what it was about all these celebrities that made them look so different in real life. When you saw them in the flesh, you realized many of them were small, shorter than you pictured. Lots of them, not just Tom Cruise and Sylvester Stallone. You always think of stars as huge, larger than life because they’re projected on the big screen, but in real life most of them are much shorter than you’d have thought. Many of the women were so rail thin that they looked like if you sneezed they might disappear.
Another thing I noticed as I clapped for the winners and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over everything, was that Quentin was as handsome as any man in the room. That included the actor who could pull off drama and comedy and the one who reinvented himself every few years as well as the guy whose wife was a Hollywood-proclaimed saint and had a dozen children of all shapes and origins. Proud as could be, I reached over and laid a hand on his arm.
He touched my hand, and his eyes darted to mine.
He was nervous.
The man who controlled my body with an iron hand, who seemed in control of himself in every situation—he was nervous. Until that moment I hadn’t known Quentin was acquainted with anxiety.
Lately I’d been seeing more and more sides to the man. Honestly, it was refreshing to catch these glimpses into normalcy. I liked that Quentin was a man and not a machine.
“You okay?” I mouthed at him.
He nodded soberly.
Okay.
He’d told me beforehand that he didn’t expect to win. He’d told me, “They never give it to first time nominees. Plus there’s that war film that has been nominated, and that’s all anybody can talk about. Plus one of the all-time great composers is nominated, too.”
“But he’s nominated for a small film nobody’s seen,” I’d said.
He’d shaken his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s just nice to be nominated.”
Nobody means that. I mean, it is nice to be nominated, but it’s even nicer to win. People say that to protect themselves. If it looks like you didn’t care about winning, it makes it harder for people to pity you when you don’t win. If you don’t think it’s better to win, just ask Susan Lucci.
The Academy Awards is a super long event, but after a while, I’d almost forgotten why we were there. I got sucked into the show, with all its drama and all the music and dance numbers. Plus, I admit that it’s a lot more interesting when you are there than it is watching it on TV. When every bit of the drama plays out right in front of you, and the air is electric, pulsing with the power of Hollywood, it’s a lot more engaging.
So I was expecting just another award being announced when an adorable teen actress and a young actor from the big war movie that was all the rage came onstage.
“Liam, have you ever seen a movie before they added the music in the background?” the pixie-faced teen girl asked.
“Yes, Brittany, and it was dull and lifeless.”
Brittany faced the camera. “That’s right, Liam. A film’s musical score is what adds the drama, creates tension, and coaxes out our smiles and our tears.”
Liam nodded. “A great musical score can be so vivid and so memorable that we find ourselves humming it long after the movie is over. And the nominees for Best Original Score are: “Quentin Andrews for Winged; Saul Redstone for The Mailbox, Louis Boisfontaine for Le Rouge Bouche; Mark Fox for Spilled Blood; and William Bergman for The Sound My Heart Makes.” Behind the presenters on a big screen they showed clips from each movie as the nominees were announced and played a snippet of the music from their scores.
The teen girl grinned in a way that made me smile back despite my nerves, which had me gripping my chair. My stomach was tying itself in knots, but one glance at Quentin and he looked as cool as an otter poop. “And the award goe
s to…”
Her male counterpart did the honors, ripping open the envelope and showing it to her. Then, in unison, they both leaned in to the microphone and said, “Quentin Andrews for Winged.”
Goosebumps dotted my whole body, and I threw my arms around Quentin. He returned my hug briefly, gave me a quick kiss on the lips and started for the stage.
We hadn’t talked about this…if he won. Did he have a speech? Would he mention me?
I had to admit I wanted him to. Wanted him to desperately. But he didn’t even know me when he composed this score. I wasn’t his muse.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the Academy. This is a great honor and a privilege. Thanks to everyone involved with Winged. Peter Sharp, our director. Thanks for asking me to write the music for this beautiful story. I’m both flattered and humbled to be here among such incredible company tonight. I want to thank my music crew and all the musicians who worked on Winged. Thanks to my agent, my first music teacher, Mrs. Hammil, and everyone who helped me get here.” He took a step away from the mic, and my heart took a short dive.
But after taking a few steps he turned back and stepped to the podium, and grabbing the microphone in his fist he said, “And thank you to Sophie for taking me places I could have never gone without you. Thank you and goodnight.”
Wow. My heart soared. I wasn’t sure if he meant that to sound dirty or not, and I didn’t care. There were a few titters around the room, but they were soon swallowed up by applause. For the rest of the night it felt as if I were floating among the clouds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I rolled onto my side, perspiration glistening on my stomach. More his than mine, but I’d done my share of sweating as well. We’d been holed up in the Beverly Hills Hotel ever since the Oscar parties ended the morning before. I’d called in to have a substitute take my class for a few days.
But if you couldn’t take a day off when your man won an Oscar, when could you?
After the Academy Awards themselves ended we made our way to the fancy Governor’s party, where Quentin had his Oscar engraved while I snagged us two of the mini gold-covered chocolate Oscar statues. We munched on tiny chicken pot pies and miniature mac & cheeses that had nothing in common with the blue box variety I made at home.
Quentin was the perfect date. He never left my side for more than a moment, and even though it was his big night, he continually checked in with me to make sure I was comfortable and having a nice time. Even Bunny, coordinator of Ft. Worth’s Cotillion, designed to teach manners to up and coming preteens, would have been impressed by his chivalrous behavior.
After the Governor’s Ball, we took a car to Beverly Hills to attend the Vanity Fair soiree. We settled into a banquette with some of the other people who had worked on Winged where we chatted, star-watched, and drank champagne for hours. I pocketed an extra of the red and gold Zippo lighters on the table for Shelby. I thought she’d love the party favor with the VF logo imprinted on it.
Quentin seemed to enjoy watching me have fun more than he enjoyed the parties himself. Everywhere we went people congratulated him. And each time I asked, “Who was that?”
He responded, “I have no idea.”
It was a huge night in his career, possibly the biggest ever, and I was thrilled to be a part of it.
There had been some other parties Quentin had commandeered invitations to, but when he asked me, at two in the morning, if I’d rather go back to the hotel or keep partying, he appeared relieved when I said I’d rather go crawl into bed with him.
We’d slept most of the next day, and then existed on room service. Quentin returned dozens of congratulatory calls and emails before we made love and fell asleep again. The whole thing was surreal. And amazing. I felt like a princess who’d snagged the handsome prince. Cocooning ourselves here in this smashing hotel suite for days at a time felt almost like a honeymoon.
Now we were just finishing an early morning romp, and we lay in peaceful silence for a while before Quentin positioned himself on his belly, his mouth near my breasts, giving me a great view of his scrumptious ass. Bending his head, he took my nipple between his lips. Toyed with it, his eyes meeting mine. Then he pulled back, stretching my poor ninny until I screeched and he let it go.
“What do you think of those hucows?”
Not what I was expecting him to say. “Those what?”
“Did you ever see those hucows—human cows—when you were on the fetish sites?”
“I don’t go to those places anymore.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Between you and BA, my dance card is pretty full.” I gave him a weak shove on the arm.
“I don’t mean looking for a partner. I just meant for curiosity.”
“Ah, so you go there looking for ideas? Inspiration?”
He nodded, and for a minute I felt the hot twinge of jealousy. He could be spending that time with me. We had so little of it lately. But instead he was spending it trolling the internet, checking out what was the freaky, kinky thing online that week.
I was being petty and I knew it. The man was free to go on the internet and look about. As long as he got his jollies off with me, I shouldn’t be complaining. “So what were you saying about human cows?”
He gave a wicked laugh then started speaking in a sinister voice. “Well, you see, there are these Alpha males who are farmers. And they own these human cows. Some of them have whole stables full of them.”
I giggled. “That can’t be real.”
He nodded, his eyes sparkling devilishly. “Oh, but it is. And they breed these cows.” His hand traveled down between my legs and he began to rub me the way he knew I liked.
I squirmed under his touch, my hips bucking against his hand. “So what do they do to these cows?”
“They tie them up and force them to lactate.”
“Now how do they do that?” I shook my head, not sure if he was pulling my leg or not.
“They have these big suction cups that they attach to the cow’s titties, and they milk her with them.” He climbed on top so that he straddled me and began to fondle my breasts, squeezing them.
I laughed. “You’re making this up.”
There was a playful look in his eye. “No I’m not.”
“So, what are you saying? That you want me to be your cow?” I squirmed underneath him.
“No. I don’t want you to be my cow, but I would love to drink from your breasts.” With that admission, he dipped his head and suckled first one breast, then the other.
My head was spinning, my thoughts clouded by lust. Drink from my breasts? How was that even possible?
Suddenly his rock-hard length was pressing against me. It had happened quickly, but my own desire had accelerated at a rapid speed as well. He lay down on top of me and I opened my legs wide for him.
It never failed to amaze me what a perfect fit our bodies were, or how incredible it felt each time he entered me. That first stroke always took my breath away. No matter what else was happening around me, when he pushed in and seated himself all the way inside me, it was like I’d died and gone to heaven.
I settled back, realizing this time was going to be different. He didn’t seem to be interested in doling out a lot of pain, and that was fine. But then he said something that got my juices flowing even harder.
“But you don’t have to be a cow for me to breed you,” he growled.
A fresh wave of desire crashed through me as he plunged his cock hard into me. “You want to breed me?” I asked because I wanted to hear more. I certainly didn’t want to become pregnant, but that was hardly a possibility. If I could have children I would have conceived during my marriage to Spencer. But there was something so primal, so virile about the way he said that, I was compelled for him to keep talking with that filthy mouth of his.
“Yes. I’m going to put a brat in that flat belly of yours and watch you grow thick with my seed inside you.” He fucked me harder. “Now beg me,” he snarled. “Beg
me to treat you like the slut you are, to breed that greedy cunt of yours.”
I gulped. “Please, Sir. Breed me, Sir. Make me your whore.”
He slapped the outside of my thigh. “Good girl.” Then he lifted my heels over his head and hooked my ankles around his shoulders.
His hand reached down and stroked my face, giving me his thumb to suck on. I lavished it with my attention—he’d trained me to respond to having something phallic-shaped in my mouth. The sensation of a full mouth excited me almost as much as a full pussy did, so I was grateful for that thumb.
He fucked me until my body shook with climax after climax, and at the end he tilted my hips toward the ceiling and emptied his cum into me. He’d worked up so much heat with the friction between us that it actually felt cool inside me, a contrast to the intense heat our bodies had generated.
Moments later, he lay next to me on the bed and pulled me close, tucking my head under his chin and covered us both. “You are a good girl, Sophie. Such a good girl.” There was a wistfulness in his tone that I didn’t understand. But I was happy to be with him like this. In fact, at that moment I felt closer to him than I ever had before.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, kissing my hair.
“Don’t be silly. Of course you do. Why would you say that?” I asked, hoping to lighten the tone.
But he didn’t answer, and in a minute I heard the soft sound of him snoring.
I lightly stroked his arm and watched him sleep. Being with him for this major life event was such a privilege. I’d been meaning to talk with him about BA, but this wasn’t the time. This trip needed to be all about Quentin and his accomplishments. There was no way I was going to do anything to mess that up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It had been a while since Quentin had sent me a task. In the recent past we saw each other so often or did phone sessions that a written assignment or task from him was almost unheard of these days. So when I received this task from MC, and not BA, in my inbox a couple of days after I got home from California, I was overjoyed.
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