Adrian Lessons (23 page)

“For me to completely lose my goddamn mind?” I say hoarsely.

He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and then releases it. I shudder.      

“I’m waiting for you to realize you’re in love with me,” he whispers, and I freeze with the shock of it, but before I can respond, the limo is pulling to a stop.

I hastily disentangle myself, rearranging my dress and popping the errand boob back in. He smooths his hair and we both look down at the massive tent in his pants.

He closes his eyes, and after a few seconds, it’s gone.

“How?” I gasp.

“I picture Mrs. Dorian, from homeroom.”

That makes sense. She bore a remarkable resemblance to a bowl of stewed prunes left in the sun.

I open my mouth, intending to tell him I’m entirely not in love with him, but the words won’t come.

“I’m not…aghblagh.” Hmm. “Adrian, you should know that I’m definitely not hngghgrrf.”

What the heck?

But he’s not looking at me. He’s gazing out the window, and judging by his expression, at something utterly displeasing. I lean next to him to squint out the darkened limo windows.

He’s frowning at a red carpet.

And flashing lights.

And ten billion reporters.

“They said this wouldn’t be a big deal,” he mutters.

“Not a big deal?” I choke. “That’s CNN out there.”

He gives a vaguely annoyed shrug. ‘Vaguely annoyed shrug’ is not in my range of expressions at the moment. I’m currently vacillating between lemur wide-eyed-ness and toddler-about-to-vomit.

Then he stretches out his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

And I take it.

The moment we step out of the limo, a million camera flashes go off, and it’s sort of like being in the middle of a firework.

“Hello, hi there,” I nod to each reporter. “Lovely weather we’re having. I like your tie. Are you from Boston? You look like a West Coast fellow.”

They ignore me and shout questions at Adrian.

“Mr. King, when is your next shoot with White Steel? Will you be modeling for their winter season as well? How does it feel to follow in your mother’s footsteps?”

He stares straight ahead, an irritated slant to his brow that I’ve never seen before, but his grip tightens on my hand. More than a few gazes shift curiously to me before we head inside, the security guard not bothering to check our names.

The inside of the venue is dazzling. Everything’s sleek and chrome-looking. I resist the urge to leave fingerprints on the nearest perfectly-polished table, just for the sake of it. What I do not resist the urge to do is zoom to the appetizers table.

Bacon-wrapped scallops, seared tuna slices, the fanciest of the fancy cheese, sliced tomatoes with balsamic vinegar…

“Since when do models eat like this?” I gasp, experimenting to see how many tuna slices I can stuff in my mouth at once. Results: five.

“They puke it up afterwards,” says Adrian, still with that unfamiliar frown. It bothers me. I swallow massively and poke his arm.

“This is kind of fun. Good food and a bunch of nerds who think you’re the hottest thing to ever be a hot thing. Cheer up.”

“I guess it’s not so bad,” he says after a minute, and I’ve earned myself an Adrian smile.

Just then, though, it becomes so bad.

So Bad arrives in the form of a gorgeous girl with legs for miles and an endless waterfall of dark, dark hair. She latches onto Adrian like the world’s sexiest leech and plants a kiss on his cheek, dangerously close to the lips.

“I knew you’d come! Have you tried the champagne? It’s vintage,” she purrs, paying as much attention to me as the wall.

“Cleo, this is Naomi. Naomi, this is Cleo,” he says, gently sliding free. “My…”

He’s looking at me, and he’s asking for permission.

Naomi’s looking at me too, and she’s got her claws out, ready for a reason to sink them in.

“His girlfriend,” I say confidently, wrapping my arm around his waist and leaning into his hip.

What I actually say is “I’m, uh, you know, his, uh, you know,” and try to sexily bump hips with him, but end up shoving him into the waiter behind him, who spills champagne all over the floor.

But I think I get the point across!

“His chiropractor?” asks Naomi, raising an eyebrow. God damn it. Do I look like a chiropractor to you, sister?

“His girlfriend,” I finally manage, so proud of myself for getting the two syllables straight that for a second I don’t notice the expression on Adrian’s face.

And then I’m really glad I do notice, because it’s worth seeing.

Although I don’t know if I want to see it too many more times, because of the things it does to my heart.

“Ah,” she laughs, all breeze and air. “Of course you are.” And then she floats away.

I’m left turning redder than the tomatoes, and markedly less delicious. “You’re probably too cool for the word girlfriend, being a famous model now or whatever—” I mutter at the floor.

And then I’m drawn into his arms so desperately, held with such feeling, that I lose sense of where he ends and I begin.

“There is nobody on this planet who’s too cool to call Cleo Reynolds his girlfriend,” he says softly. “But I hope to God nobody else ever will.”

And in that moment, I’m hoping too.

There’s a click, and when I tip my face away from his chest, I see that we’re being photographed.

I fully expect Adrian to snap at the guy, or shove him away with a scowl, as per his apparent allergy to the press, but instead he looks straight at the lens with his arm around me. “Make sure you get her name,” he tells the reporter. “Cleo Reynolds. The most important person in the world to me.”

The photo preserves the awesome moment: him with his characteristic Adrian triumph grin, and me with my mouth hanging open like the hatch of a World War II submarine.

The party keeps going for another couple hours. Nobody seems very interested in talking to me and everyone seems very interested in talking to Adrian, which gives me a great excuse to spend some quality time with the grilled shrimp. And the flutes of bubbly champagne. And the rich crabmeat dip. And the chocolate fountain.

You heard that right.

Chocolate fountain.

And then I discover the oysters.

I’ve never had an oyster before, but after the first two I begin to understand what the big deal is.

They make you really, really horny.

And the oysters plus chocolate plus champagne plus the fact that I haven’t had sex in months plus the fact that Adrian has driven me to the edge of orgasm more times than I can count…

Equals a flat-out insane Cleo.

This flat-out insane Cleo goes up to the ring of people surrounding Adrian, busts into the center, and pulls him into a long, hard kiss.

Wolf-whistles erupt all around me, from male models who are mostly drunk. “Where do I get one,” the nearest guy whines. But I barely hear him, because I’m lost in the sweet, dark drug of Adrian’s lips.

When we break apart, I’m so starving for his body that I’m shaking.

He looks me over. Then he pulls aside the head security guard and whispers something in his ear.

“What did you say to him?” I ask, when I recover my ability to say words that aren’t RIP OFF MY CLOTHES RIGHT NOW.

His sculpted face is so gorgeously wicked. “I told him that if he can clear this place out in the next ten minutes, I’ll give him twenty thousand dollars.”

I open my mouth, but before I can laugh at his hilarious joke, an announcement comes on.

“Attention, patrons. Due to an emergency gas leak, this venue will now be evacuated. The situation is not life-threatening, but immediate repairs are in order. Attendees are invited to the next-door Charleston for the after party. Thank you for your cooperation.”

I stare at Adrian, waiting for him to join the throngs of exasperated rich people headed for the door. But his grin just grows wider.

“You were serious!” I hiss. “You just faked an emergency!”

“The way you kissed me just now, Cleo, that was an emergency.” He pulls me down to duck with him behind a nearby piano as everyone streams past us.

My heart is pounding. “You said you weren’t going to have sex with me until I realized I was in love with you.”

“Whether you know it or not, that kiss you just gave me was your realization.”

His voice is rich and deep as burgundy wine, and I want to sink into it, but I have to argue on principal. “That is so arrogant. You can’t assume I’m feeling a certain way just because I happened to kiss you like my life depended on it.”

He runs a thumb under my lower lip, his eyes glinting. “You love me.”

I splutter. “I love…Tina Fey.”

“You love me,” he repeats, tracing a delicate pattern on the back of my neck as the room around us slowly empties.

“I love…
Sleepless in Seattle.
”

The room is now completely empty. He stares into my eyes for a long electric moment. Then he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. I shriek, pounding his back playfully, as he carries me to the main table with its pristine white silk tablecloth and its crystal glasses and its silver plates.

He sweeps it all onto the floor.

The clatter is so deafening that I scream.

“That’s for later,” he says darkly, holding a finger to my lips.

Jesus.

He drops me on the table, my back sliding against the fabric of the tablecloth, and dives down on top of me, his mouth working feverishly over my collarbone, my jaw, finally my lips. This is Adrian unleashed, and all of his passion is sweeping me away like a tide. His tongue surges into my mouth and mine reciprocates eagerly. I grip him around the waist with my legs, yanking him close, until our bodies mesh together in all the right places.

“You love me,” he breathes into my mouth.

Adrian. Adrian. Adrian. His name pulses in my head. “I love—this dress.”

“Is that so?” he says. “I love it too.”

And then he
rips
it off my body, tearing it away like it’s the world’s most offensive piece of fabric simply by being between him and my skin. I’m inclined to agree. He tosses it to the side.

“But I love it much better when it’s over there.”

His eyes rake over my body. I’ve never felt sexier in my life, flat on my back on the expensive tablecloth, everything exposed—and I mean everything. It wasn’t a panties kind of night.

“You,” he says, “are unbelievably, completely, utterly fucking beautiful.”

“I know.” I’m not lying.

“And,” he says, leaning over me and raining kisses on my stomach, “you love me.”

The sensation bubbles up into my chest and I gasp. “I love—chocolate.”

He pauses thoughtfully. “Is that so?”

Then he glances at the chocolate fountain.

“Don’t you dare!” I yelp, but he’s already dipped his hands into the sweet molten pool, and then he’s pouring chocolate all over me—my chest and everything below.

He sucks chocolate off my nipples, leaving a clean patch and electric tingles on each, and licks his lips. “Turns out I love chocolate too.”

“Adrian,” I manage. “Take off your fucking clothes.”

His suit received the same treatment as my dress. I smile up at him.

“Good. Now I don’t need to feel guilty about ruining your fancy clothes.”

And I lob a handful of chocolate at his chest.

It trickles downward, and he pulls off his boxers. And I behold it.

The stuff of legends.

It’s huge, but not so large that I’m intimidated. Only excited. I never expected something like a cock to be beautiful, or even sexy, but it’s just as strong and sculpted and perfectly shaped as the rest of him. Curved just so at the base. The sight of it, and the knowledge that I’m the reason it’s hard, fills me with this wild need that rinses me of any inhibitions. I launch off the tablecloth and we meet in an almost violent kiss.

“The sight of you naked and chocolate-covered is going to be my best friend for every lonely night for the rest of my life,” I choke out.

“If I have it my way, you won’t have any more lonely nights.”

I kiss my way down his muscular, chocolaty chest, running my tongue over his belly button and the ridges of his abs. He tilts his head back and groans as I go even later. “You don’t have to do that, Cleo.”

“I want to,” I insist. It’s true. I want to explore him with my hands, my mouth, my everything. I feel like a kid with the world’s best new toy.

I lick up his shaft eagerly, the chocolate mingling with the sweet taste of his skin. His surprisingly hard, smooth, and delicious skin. I trace each curve, memorizing him, not really believing that I’ll be able to have him night after night after night. I need to store this up.

I slide him tentatively into my mouth, and he groans. The sound, the knowledge that I’m the reason for it, makes me crazy.

I begin pumping, taking him in my hand and sucking him off in time. I’ve Googled blowjobs enough for book research that I have at least some idea what I’m doing. His hips buck forward unconsciously and I take him as deep as I comfortably can into my throat.

“Cleo,” he grits out. “You’re a miracle.”

I’d give a retort, but I’m not sure I can squeeze out any words around his cock.

“Come here,” he says, and reaches down for me. “I want us to come at the same time.”

He scoops me up and kisses me again, before replacing me on the table and spreading my thighs wide.

“Careful,” I gasp as he runs his hand up my thigh. “I might come if you so much as breathe down there.”

“Oh, if there’s anything you’ve learned about me by now, it should be that you won’t come a second before I want you to. I’m in control of that. Don’t you worry.”

And then, to prove his point, he breathes down there. His hot breath sears into me and a resurgence of warmth hits my abdomen like a tank. I moan, and I’m quivering on the edge, but I don’t come.

Have you ever stood on the edge of a literal cliff? Looked down at the miles and miles of air between you and the ground, knowing that death is half an inch away? Imagine that rush, but in sexual terms.

He keeps me on the edge with my hands held behind my back, pushed out, nearly dangling.