Eternally Seduced (38 page)

I burst into laughter at the way his eyes widened.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

He pretended to fall asleep.

“Constantijin?” Grinning, I began to shake him, and I didn’t stop until he opened his eyes again. Pouting, I said, “Please?”

“NO.”

“Please?”

“FUCK NO.”

I threw myself on the bed, scooting to the edge and turning my back on him. “Fine. It’s so obvious you don’t really love me when you don’t want me to do---” I shrieked in laughter when he snatched me back to him and twisted me around in one move.

“You’re getting as manipulative as I am, you little cheat.”

I beamed. “Aren’t you proud?”

Constantijin gave me a short, sweet, hard kiss. “So proud I think I love you even more.”

Returning the gesture and adding a little nibble afterwards, I pulled back and said cheekily, “I love you, too, but don’t think you’re getting off the hook. Let me do
that
to you, too?”

He rolled to his back, laughing, tucking his arms under his head. “We’ll see,
schat.
If I think you’re good enough.”

“But I am! And on that note, what does ‘
schat’
mean? I keep forgetting to look it up in the dictionary.”

He groaned, grabbing a pillow and slamming it over his face. “To think I used to hate how
quiet
you were.”

I pulled the pillow off with a grin. “Now you know better. So, what do you say? When can I do
that?
And you haven’t said yet what ‘schat’ means? Constantijin? Constantijin?”

###

How (Not) To Be Seduced By Rockstars,

Book 1

“That’s him, isn’t it? Staffan!” Carmina Virgil was the first one to spot the limousine driving out of the underground parking lot. Thousands of women who also lined the street echoed her scream, all of them waiting to catch even just a glimpse of Staffan Aehrenthal.

“I effing love you!” the brunette next to her yelled as the limousine inched nearer, its journey impeded by the fans doing their best to get past the human barricade that stood in their way. The hotel management had called police officers to the scene, their private security unable to handle the hysterical fans that did everything short of murder to get closer to their favorite rockstar.

The brunette started sobbing. “Love you, oh my God, love you!”

Carmina rolled her eyes even as she continued recording the limousine moving in front them at a snail’s space.
Typical fangirl bullshit,
she thought as she irritably pushed her red locks away. Why couldn’t they say it like it was? They didn’t love Staffan Aehrenthal. They just
loved
the idea of loving him.

It was a good thing she had no such misconceptions. She was a fan of Staffan because he sang well, danced well, and – according to the other Gs – he fucked unbelievably well, too. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d learn about it firsthand, too.

A wide-eyed teenage girl with glasses next to Carmina asked in a shaky yell, “Is it always like this?”

“Like this what?” Carmina’s head started to ache. With the throng of crazy obsessed fans jostling behind them, it was a challenge to keep eye contact with the younger girl.

The younger girl waved a hand. “Is it always this
crazy
?” Her voice was slightly muffled as a more aggressive wave of incoming fans tried to move past her.

Giving up recording, Carmina slipped her phone back in her jacket’s inner pocket and yelled back, “Is this your first time going to his concert?”

The girl nodded. Or at least Carmina thought she did since the younger girl had started to drown amidst the chaos. Taking pity, Carmina grabbed the girl’s hand, uncaring of who she elbowed in her way. She pulled the younger girl to her. “It’s bitch-eats-bitch every time with the Sex God’s concert, hon. And
this
? It’s nothing. You should have seen his concerts in Europe. I went to his concert in Netherlands once.” Her scalp tinged at the memory. It wasn’t a good tingle, not when she remembered a German chick pulling her back by the hair just to catch a closer glimpse of Staffan’s crotch-grabbing move.

She said feelingly, “Freaking insanity! Half of the audience went topless in hopes that he’d pick one of them to fuck!”

Somebody accidentally knocked the younger girl’s head from behind, and Carmina shrieked furiously, “Watch your hand!” She glanced at her companion, who was doing her best not to be swept away by the tidal wave of other aggressively adoring fans. Almost every woman in the crowd was chanting his name like they only needed to see Staffan Aehrenthal trademark smirk to have the most stupendous orgasm.

The younger girl shrieked again, and Carmina immediately reached out to rescue her companion from the crowd. She sighed. “This isn’t the place for kids like you.”

“I just wanted to see him in person, and I didn’t have enough money to watch his concert.” There was a faraway gaze in the younger girl’s eyes as she looked up. Carmina didn’t have to look the same way to know what made her companion lose herself in a dreamlike state.

God.

Or rather
the
Sex God.

The larger-than-life tarpaulin hanging from the concert venue’s front wall showcased an obviously tall man with longish blond hair, an angel’s face and an utterly sinful look in his hazel eyes.

His black blazer was exquisite in its cut, just like the silk shirt underneath it, almost completely unbuttoned to reveal more than an eyeful of his muscular chest. The matching trousers he wore were just as stylish, but there was nothing elegant at all about the more than noticeable bulge under his pants.

He had been photographed leaning against the wall, hands inside his pockets, but the ordinary posture did nothing to diminish the bold and vibrant energy he emanated. Staffan Aehrenthal was a classically beautiful man, as perfect as a marble statue, but there was nothing at all elegant about the raw sexuality burning in his eyes.

“Don’t fall in love with him, hon.”

The teenage girl blushed.

Carmina suppressed a sigh. “Do you know John Lennon and Yoko Ono?”

“Umm, are they, like, a boy band?”

Save me from Beliebers who just discovered what sexy truly meant
, Carmina thought. There should really be
sexier
boy bands. There had to be some kind of middle ground between The Bieber and Staffan Aehrenthal, some way to prevent young girls like the one in front of her from losing their virginity to the first tattooed guy they met and resembled their favorite rockstar.

“Umm, no. Let’s just say that John Lennon used to be a really popular rockstar and Yoko Ono was this really infatuated fan.”

The girl gasped. “And they fell in love?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the moral of the story.”

“So…what is it?”

“She became the most hated bitch on the planet.” Carmina turned back to face the street, where the limousine had only managed to move past them by several feet. “Staffan Aehrenthal isn’t something you can order for yourself. He’s like this magnificent exotic hotel buffet, something that’s
only
for sharing.”

The teenage girl didn’t answer. She was too busy gazing dreamily at thirty-foot tall poster of Staffan Aehrenthal.

Carmina shook her head. Oh well, at least she had tried. She gazed back at the poster. It was really those eyes’ fault. No one could ever be immune to the message glinting in those beautiful fuck-me hazel eyes.

I can make you scream with just one touch.

~~~

Half-sprawled on the custom-designed seat of his limousine, with a glass of whisky in one hand and his iPad on the other, Staffan Aehrenthal cursed out loud when he read the dozen or so headlines staring back at him.

Outside, hundreds of fans lined the road leading into the airport, screaming his name and a lot other words.

Do me. My virginity is yours. I’m your #1 groupie.

Ten years ago, Staffan would have paid attention to them. At twenty-two, he had believed he really was the king of the world, and that he could have anything he wanted. Back then, he did have everything – or he thought he had.

But things had changed now, so much so that he had been living like a bad-tempered monk since the start of his first world tour. Sex was his only stress reliever, but for the longest time he wasn’t able to find someone who could stir his cock to life even just an inch. All he needed was a fucking inch, and he could make any woman happy.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Staffan returned his attention to the rest of the headlines.

The Three Pussketeers

He rolled his eyes when he caught sight of what the press had dubbed him and his friends. What the fuck did that even mean?

The other headlines were just as bad. What was it with American media and their inexplicable obsession over the most absurd titles? The U.S. leg of his tour had barely started and already they had a dozen nicknames for him.

Mr. Fucktastic

Europe’s badass version of Justin Timberlake

Sweden’s #1 Sex God

These people were insane. They made it sound like his countrymen were so fucking obsessed – literally – that they actually kept a list for man whores.

He clicked on the next page that Constantijin – a Dutch billionaire who had been his friend since their boarding school days and was also one of the so-called Pussketeers –had emailed.

This one you will love,
Constantijin had typed on top of a red arrow pointing down.

Staffan almost choked at what he had read. Clearly, his friend had saved the best for last.

Mr. Rockstar Chic.

A fan-made collage created by someone named
Starry Eyed
had been pasted below the title, featuring rows and rows of his red carpet photos and paparazzi snapshots.

He wanted to puke at the title. They made him sound like a fucking fashionista with a dick.

So he liked his clothes fucking decent. So he preferred his blazers custom-designed, his shirts made from the finest cotton and smoothest silk, his trousers bearing only labels of European’s leading houses of fashion and his shoes and belts cut from hand-sewn leather.

All those didn’t mean he welcomed being in every fashion police’s Best-Dressed list. Other men might have considered that an achievement, but as far as Staffan was concerned it just made him sound fucking gay.

They didn’t know that his almost fanatic obsession in having the best clothes was a by-product of his childhood, of the times Staffan had been forced to alternate between two shirts until there were more holes than clothes in them, had no fucking uniform to use for school, and had nearly peed in utter shame whenever he was forced to go to Mrs. Gustav next door because he was close to starving to death.

Running an irritated hand through his hair, Staffan tossed the iPad on the opposite row of burgundy-colored seats in disgust.

His phone rang. He accepted the request for the FaceTime call and a second later, the faces of Constantijin and his friend’s girlfriend popped out on the screen. “How was the email?” Constantijin asked with a grin. An extremely good-looking man in his own right, Constantijin used to be known as Netherlands’ #1 Playboy. He had also been notorious for his unsmiling ways, but that, too, had changed when Yanna Everleigh entered his life.

Staffan answered his friend by flipping him off.

Constantijin’s bark of laughter was cut short when Yanna slapped his arm. She gave Staffan a sweetly apologetic smile. A pretty, dark-haired charmer, Yanna had easily won him over with her sometimes-shy and sometimes-bubbly personality.

“Don’t mind him, Staffan. He just misses you.”

Constantijin choked.

Staffan deliberately lowered his voice, adopting a seductive tone as he teased, “And what about you, my beautiful darling? Did you miss---?”

Yanna blushed.

“Goddammit, Staffan, I’m the only one who can make Yanna blush,” Constantijin growled.

“Constantijin!” Yanna wailed as her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink.

“Just tell him what we called him for so I can get you naked---”

Eyes widening, Yanna slapped her hand over Constantijin’s mouth. Clearing her throat, “Umm, anyway, I just wanted to remind you that it’s the 30
^th
today, Staffan. And you haven’t yet made a call.”

Shit
. He had forgotten about that.

“I know you’re tired after your concert and you’d rather relax---”

Staffan shook his head. “You were right in reminding me.” He checked his watch, a slim gold type that had no doubt added to his newfound “fashionista” image. Earlier, he had even heard one of the popular morning show hosts refer to him as the music industry’s very own David Beckham.

God save him from all these fucking comparisons. David Beckham? He had utter respect for the man, but they were too different. The soccer player had the patience to stand in front of camera for hours, but Staffan found it literally hell to be still for more than five minutes, and especially when it had to be for photo shoots.