Starlight (Peaches Monroe) (Volume 2) Paperback – September 2, 2013 (30 page)

Taking his time, he brought me up, up, to the point of the waves crashing, but eased off instead, allowing the waves of pleasure to recede.

I begged. I pushed my pride aside and I truly begged for release. “Harder? Harder? Don’t stop. Don’t… noooo. You bastard. You tease. I’m leaving this room as soon as feeling returns to my body.”

Then he went in again, and I moaned and begged, and still he wouldn’t let me come.

I even tried to be sneaky about it, but he had fingers inside me, and could tell by my tension or my breathing, or possibly the sheen of sweat that appeared on my stomach whenever I got close to detonation.

Finally, I just gave in.
You win, Keith, you sex-a-thon-having meditation-nut. Do to me what you want, because it’s your birthday, and when we’re done I’m going to acquaint myself with the massaging shower head in your bathroom.

Once I was as compliant as Silly Putty, he climbed on top of me, his penis against my stomach, and kissed me until he was as hard as ever. We sat up together, wrapping our arms around each other and kissing. He put a condom in place, then sat up with his legs loosely bent, forming a circle with his knees under mine.

We were both still sitting, facing each other, legs interwoven. My butt was still raised on the pillows. I leaned back on my palms and raised my hips as he slid forward to merge with me, moving easily into me as a thrill raced up my spine. I wrapped my legs around him, sitting upright and feeling him completely within me, from his root and all the way up, his upper body wrapped in my arms.

We rocked back and forth like this, and when my legs started to shake from the position, he gathered up the pillows that had escaped and propped me up under my butt.

Now we were really in our groove, barely moving, but fully in contact. We stared into each other’s eyes, and I wondered what he saw that made his expression so raw and serene at the same time. He kissed me, and we both kept our eyes open, as if we were afraid the other might disappear, like a dream in the morning.

Monday morning, Keith drove me to the studio for the commercial shoot, and I wouldn’t get out of the van. It wasn’t nerves that got the best of me, but I was addicted to that man! I couldn’t stop kissing him and grabbing onto his sweet, sweet ass, and other parts.

“What have you done to me?” I said.

He growled and kissed my neck while fondling my boobs through my zip-up hoodie jacket. “Me like pretty girl.”

Finally, I pulled myself away and reluctantly opened the van door. “Wish me luck,” I said.

“Break a leg.”

“Anyone’s leg but mine.” I leaned back over to his side for one more kiss.

What
had
he done to me? Quite simply, he’d subjected me to a marathon tantric sex session the night before, thus ruining me for all other regular sexual encounters, for the rest of my life. Keith’s super-slow lovin’ fried out some of my dopamine circuits, and now I craved him like a chocolate addict craves the good stuff from Belgium.

I dragged myself away from the old green van and in through the austere door of the photographer’s studio. The same guy who did the photos was directing the commercials, so at least I got to work with the same crew again, including…

“Mitchell!”

He stopped where he was, at the opposite end of a long corridor just inside the lobby. He started running toward me in slow motion. Laughing, I did the same, lifting my knees high and pretending I was racing frantically toward him, but in slow motion.

We collided together in the middle, hugging and pretending to sob.

He pulled away and went back to regular Mitchell mode. “You, Miss Thaing, were a
handful
Friday night,” he said, his blond eyebrows raised high.

“I sure was. Then Keith picked me up from the bar and I went home and got myself a handful.”

“You did better than me! I went home and microwaved two Jenny Craigs and ate them both. For dessert, I ate jam straight from the jar with a spoon.”

“That’s quite the sad tale.”

“I’ve had worse nights.” He shook his head. “Come Christmas, everyone thinks it’s
so
funny to dress me up like one of Santa’s elves.”

“You would make a cute elf.”

“I know.” He wrinkled his nose. “True confession? I like being an elf. I own three different costumes, but if anyone asks, they’re rentals.”

We started walking toward the hair and makeup room, where the illusion I was a professional model would begin.

“Hey, speaking of quirks,” I said. “Do you happen to remember why I got a tattoo that reads
Doves Cry
?”

He gasped. “That happened? I thought I was dreaming.”

“Any clue what it means?”

“Give me a minute,” he said.

I got into the makeup chair, introduced myself to the sleepy-looking makeup girl with a pixie haircut, and got comfortable as Mitchell ran off to make me a mocha.

He came back with the drink and told me the story.

Apparently, we were listening to Prince songs in the limousine that first night we went our partying, with Gunner and Daniel, the models. I had really enjoyed Prince’s
When Doves Cry
, and how the opening ba-wang sounds moved around the car’s surround sound speakers. At my request, they replayed the song a couple of times, until finally I told the guys I was confused, because I still didn’t understand what it sounded like when doves cry.

Daniel, the straight guy with the shaggy brown hair, said, “What it sounds like? You mean when the doves cry? It’s a seven-note melody. Doot-da-doot. Doot-doot-do-doot.”

As Mitchell relayed the story, making the pixie-haired makeup artist snicker, I dimly remembered all of that happening. I’d had one of those moments you only get when you’re drunk or over-tired, and not yourself. That night, I realized I over-think everything. The key to life seemed so simple in that moment, as we were all laughing and playing music in the limousine. I just had to let go. If I had to cry, I’d cry.

Then I did start to cry, right there in the limousine. Messy tears. Snotty nose. The whole drunk-girl-crying experience. But they were happy tears. My only fear was I worried I’d forget my revelation when I sobered up.

We then did the only logical thing. We drove straight to an all-night tattoo parlor—not the nice kind with attractive people who won’t tattoo you if you’re drunk, but the seedy kind with scary dudes who can’t spell, where you watch closely to make sure the supplies are sterile—and I got my tattoo.

Mitchell finished the anecdote, assuring me I didn’t complain at all about the pain.

The makeup artist applying my extra eyelashes begged to see the tattoo, so I pulled my loose-fitting shorts down and showed her. The ink was looking less black and more blue every day as it healed.

“That is so cute,” she said. “I’m, like, totally jealous. You have a great tattoo and an amazing story. All I have is a fucking tramp stamp.”

She turned around and bent forward to show us a thorny mass of roses on her lower back.

“Um, the flowers are pretty,” Mitchell said.

“It’s nice,” I lied.

She turned around, her lip curled up in a sneer. “You know what my guy does? He pulls out at the last second and says, ‘Water the roses. Pew, pew.’”

I gasped. “No.”

“Yes. He comes on my tramp stamp. He’s mentally ill or something.”

“I’m sure he loves you, though, right?”

She continued, “Of course he does. He rubs my feet when I come home after a long day, and he made me a bacon omelet this morning, and I love the big, stupid idiot, so what-cha-gonna do?”

With a straight face, Mitchell said, “He sounds like a keeper.”

I pointed to the girl’s wedding band. “How long have you been married?”

“A year. It’s good, except for the tattoo thing.”

I nodded, because that was perfectly understandable.

An hour later, I looked like a Vegas showgirl crossed with a lion. My hair was bigger than a drag queen’s wig, having been teased mercilessly and augmented by another pound of blond, wavy hair.

They hadn’t gone so crazy on the hair for the still photos, and I was surprised by how powerful a lion’s mane made me feel.

The photographer, who had someone else on the camera as he was directing today, came by and frowned, then walked away.

I blinked up at Mitchell’s reflection in the makeup mirror, both of us lit up brightly by the flattering light bulbs. “He hates me,” I said.

“That was his good frown,” Mitchell said, patting my shoulder. “Trust me, I know. That frown was him acknowledging that you look fierce, and now the pressure is on him to not blow it.”

“I can’t believe you said I look
fierce
. People actually say that word around here, don’t they?”

A skinny guy came into the room with two dresses. “Hey, girl. You look fierce. So, we’re all loving both of these dresses, but I’ll let you pick which one you like.”

“I won’t be in my underwear?”

Mitchell took the dresses and shooed the guy away.

He explained, “The concept is… you’re riding a bicycle in the park and as you ride by a cute guy, he sees you in your underwear. We shoot you in the dress, and then in the underwear, and do a little computer magic to mirror his eyes undressing you.”

“Really?” My stomach flip-flopped. “Isn’t that creepy? How does this sell the underwear? It doesn’t seem very sexy or empowering to me.”

Mitchell laughed, then stopped. “Oh, you’re serious. You said
empowering
and I thought you were pulling my leg.”

I squirmed in my chair and reached for my bottle of water. “You’re right. I’m over-thinking again.”

“You’ll be smiling through the whole commercial, so it won’t feel like you’re being victimized.”

I spat out my water, dribbling down my chin. “Mitchell, you don’t know what it’s like to be a woman.”

“Sometimes I feel like I have a sassy big girl inside of me. Her name is LaShonda, and she makes me buy cupcakes.” He blinked, looking as innocent as a curly-haired little cherub.

“Okay, I’ll wear the ivory dress. Let’s do this.”

He made an unattractive expression. “There’s one more thing. Promise you won’t be mad.”

“I’m not eating in the commercial. I already put that in the contract, and it’s not negotiable.”

“The cute guy is Dalton Deangelo.”

“You mean someone who looks like him.”

“No, it’s really him. When you were in the washroom at the restaurant, he said he wished he could make it up to you, how he hurt your feelings, and I had a few ideas.”

I sighed. “I guess that’s fine. He’s the reason I got myself into this mess, so he may as well be part of it.”

“You still like him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not as much as you, fanboy.”

Someone tapped on the door. My heart raced, anticipating Dalton, but the person who entered looked like a cross between a Vegas showgirl and a lion. WHAT? How could that be me? How could I be sitting in the makeup chair and also walking into the room?

“Can I get your autograph?” my look-alike asked, handing me a cotton T-shirt and a felt pen.

“This nice young lady here is your lighting stand-in,” Mitchell said.

“Wow, for a minute I thought you had me cloned.”

The girl’s face squished up. “That’s so nice of you to say. I love you SO MUCH. Like, I know this is weird because you don’t know me, but I love you and I think we could totally be best friends.”

Standing behind her, Mitchell grimaced and mouthed the words
I’m sorry
.

“Thanks,” I said, and I signed her Team Peaches T-shirt, because that seemed like the thing to do.

She immediately began crying, and ran from the room.

“Did I do that wrong?” I asked Mitchell. “She seemed decent, but honestly, that was more terrifying than the paparazzi.”

“Don’t post any exterior pics of your home online,” he said.

“I’m not Lady Gaga.”

“No, but some of your Team Peaches people are quite organized. Yesterday, they staged a rally at a dog rescue in San Diego, because the place wouldn’t let a woman adopt a Jack Russell terrier. The woman was… big enough to have some mobility issues, and she wanted a dog to help get her out of the house. They told her she was going to return the dog six months later, overfed and blown up like a sausage.”

“Tell me you’re joking, because I have to shoot a commercial right now, and I do not have time to fly to San Diego and slap the sense into those people.”

“Everything worked out. She adopted the dog, and the shelter issued an apology and has promised to change their screening process. The dog’s name is Barkles.”

He held up his phone and showed me a picture of the little guy, being cuddled by his new person, all thanks to this group of people on the internet whom I had nothing to do with, but were acting like my hit squad.

“I hope everything works out.” My stomach flip-flopped again, and I felt like I was back on the teacups ride at Disneyland.

“You do look fierce today,” Mitchell said.

I turned and looked in the mirror, where I saw a scared little girl playing dress-up.

Fierce.

I bared my teeth in a growl. If I got through the day without any major malfunction, I was definitely, absolutely, positively, no doubt about it, getting a cupcake.