S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel (15 page)

“Excuse me?” I said, over the loud music, but not loud enough for him to turn around.

“I’m not saying I don’t like the
whole
track,” he was saying, “just that bridge. Listen.” He waited for a beat to hit and
held the phone into the air. “Hear that? I don’t think it’s the right sample. Did
you ask him if I could hire Hep to pull it out for me? I know he’s using him on his
album, but this would be a personal favor.”

He turned to face me, jumping a little at the fact that I’d been standing there and
he hadn’t known. He looked me over from head to toe, placing his free hand on his
hip. His abs clenched. I tried not to stare, but it was difficult. This was perfection,
this man. I glanced over my shoulder at the double oak doors. Still listening to the
conversation on the phone, he gave me a smile that only people born with charisma
to burn know how to give. It literally changed the temperature in the room. Then he
held up a finger to signal
one more minute
. He looked familiar, that wide smile, those sleepy brown eyes.

“Tell him I’ll pay him double to cut the single with me,”
he continued, the phone back at his neck, but now his eyes were on me, making me self-conscious
all over again. Though not a big guy, he carried himself like he was a giant, almost
as if he were famous or something, which of course he couldn’t be. “We’ll put him
up at the Ritz. Has to be France. That’s where we’re cutting the album.”

He covered the receiver and whispered, “Sorry.
One
minute. Make yourself comfortable, Cassie.”

He knew my name! Then he continued, “I don’t know. Maybe two days. I gotta see my
granny in N.O. Then we go to New York, then France. The tour is in eight weeks, but
I want to lay tracks for two singles. Release them while we’re still on tour. I don’t
care. Tell him there’s more where they came from. We’re still doing that album.”

Remembering to stir his pot again, he turned his back to me and tasted a little of
the simmering dish. He seemed completely comfortable here, knowing exactly what drawer
housed which utensil. With every pinch and stir, the muscles in his upper back and
along his arms rippled and revealed themselves. The beat of the music was hypnotic,
and every once in a while I’d see him get caught up in it, like it was taking him
over and moving him from within. Still cradling the phone between his shoulder and
his ear, he turned and stepped towards me, this time holding a spoonful of the soup,
his other hand cupping beneath it.

“Just tasting my gran’s recipe. Yeah. I’ll bring you some. Now I’m gonna be busy for
the next hour,” he said, blowing on the spoon, then bringing it closer to my mouth.

I took a careful, hot bite. Gumbo. Oh God, better than Dell’s, in fact, better than
any I’d ever tasted.

“Make that two hours. I’ll call you when I’m back at the hotel. Yup. Bye.”

He dropped the spoon, hung up and turned to me. And he stood there like that, not
saying a word, for at least ten seconds. He seemed totally confident, just standing
like that, wordlessly, eyeing me up and down, the music still pumping. This man was
someone. That was for sure. I decided to break the ice.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important,” I said over the music. He took
a remote and aimed it over my head, lowering the volume. He didn’t reply. I asked,
“Who are you?”

He was about to say something, but just laughed and shook his head. “I’m whoever you
want me to be, baby.”

“But … those bodyguards out there. They’re for you, right?”

And there it was again, that shake of the head, that shy boyish smile.

“No comment,” he said. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about … what
you got on. Tell me a little something about what it is you’re wearing,” he said,
crossing his arms across his chest, then resting a thumb on his lips. He stepped out
from behind the island and stood ten feet from me, assessing me like I was auditioning
for something. My knees weakened at the sight of his belt buckle resting low in front.
I tried not to stare, but this was a powerfully seductive man. I felt silly and old
in my dumb yoga pants.

“Um, they asked me to wear this,” I said, looking down at my idiotic sneakers.

“Nice. When I told them ‘soccer mom,’ I wasn’t being literal. But I gotta say, this
is pretty much what I had in mind. Just that the clothes are wrapped around a sexier
package than I imagined.”

“May I?” I asked, pointing to a stool at the island. I was shaking so much, if I didn’t
sit, I’d collapse.

“Sure. You like gumbo?” He grabbed his spoon and turned to the oven to give the pot
another stir.

“I love it. It’s … it’s really delicious. Um … Are you going to
cook
for me? I’m just not sure I ever said anything about a fantasy involving cooking.”

“I
am
going to cook for you. And you’re going to do something for me,” he said, pointing
his spoon at me.

“I am?”

“You are.”

“I thought this was
my
fantasy?”

“Are we gonna have a problem?” he asked, with a kind of cocksuredness that made me
a little weak. He didn’t seem like a man used to hearing the word
no
.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I asked, feeling bolder.

“I use a different name for my work, but my real name is Shawn.”

He turned the heat off and came around the kitchen island to stand beside me, towering
over my little red stool. His hair was shorn close to his head. His right wrist held
a
riot of leather bracelets, rubber bands, and a gold chain that was thicker and shinier
than mine. No charms. I caught a hint of musk off his skin, something that came from
an expensive bottle.

I clenched my jaw. His boldness seemed to bring out something in me, something new
and fierce. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“That’s for you to figure out. Later. Right now, what I am to you is your sex-with-someone-famous
fantasy. But this is S.E.C.R.E.T., remember? These things tend to work both ways,
as I’m sure you’re discovering. So, do you accept the Step?”

“Do you mean my fantasy is actually yours somehow too?”

“Yup.”

“And I have to take it on your word that you’re famous?”

“That’s right.” He placed one strong arm on the bar stool where I was sitting, right
between my yoga-clad legs.

“Okay. I get that. But how on earth could I possibly be
your
fantasy.”

As he spoke, he ran a firm finger up and down my thigh. Shivers darted right through
me. “Cassie,” he said, meeting my eyes, “when you’re famous, everyone wants a piece
of you, and
only
because you’re famous. You asked for a fantasy with a famous person, but you didn’t
say they had to be famous
to you
. I said I’d do it if it was with someone who didn’t know who the hell I was, like
some anonymous soccer mom type, I said. Someone too busy shuffling her kids around
to bother wearing anything but yoga pants
and T-shirts. ’Cause I’m sick of show ponies. Know what I’m saying?”

“Soccer mom. So that’s what I’m supposed to be?” I started to laugh then, and so did
he. “Have you done this before? With S.E.C.R.E.T.?”

He ignored the question, making his way back to the oven range behind me to check
on something baking inside. “Looking good. Corn bread.”

He shut the door. A moment later, he was behind me, inches away. He placed his hands
on my shoulders and moved them slowly down my arms. I felt my pulse quicken as he
gently gathered my hands behind my back and held my wrists together with one hand.
I could feel his breath on my ear.

“Will you accept the Step, my little soccer mom?” he asked, reaching a hand up to
my ponytail, sliding out the band holding back my hair, his mouth breathing into it
as it cascaded down my shoulders.

“Yes,” I managed to say, giggling. Soccer mom is a fantasy? Who knew?

“Good.”

Then he moved his mouth closer to my ear. “Wanna know who I am?”

I nodded. He whispered his name, his work name, his “stage” name. I was glad that
he wasn’t facing me because my eyes bugged out. I wasn’t into hip-hop music, but even
I knew this stage name. And now, Shawn was sliding his hands up my T-shirt. He lifted
it off as though it was made
of gossamer. He reached around and touched my breasts through my tight Lycra top.

“This has to go too. Arms up!”

He stretched my yoga top over my head, and flung it across the kitchen. Then he grabbed
my stool and spun me around to face him. He pulled me close to him so my knees were
between his spread thighs, his right hand tilting my head up to face him, his left
fingering my nipple. He tentatively slipped a thumb into my mouth and I instinctively
sucked the lingering spices from the soup off it, which made him close his eyes. I
liked how that seemed to make him go weak with want, made him sway a little. I sucked
a little more forcefully.

“I bet you’re good at it,” he said, opening eyes heavy with pleasure. “I bet you can
make a man die a little with that mouth of yours.”

I stopped what I was doing. So far all my fantasies had involved me receiving pleasure,
not giving any back. Now I wanted very badly to give, to be generous, as the Step
demanded, but I didn’t know a whole lot about how.

“I want to do something for you,” I said.

“What’s that, Cassie?” he asked, biting his bottom lip in agony as I closed my mouth
around his index finger this time.

I gazed up into his eyes, my mouth closed around his finger for a second. Then with
all the boldness I could muster, I said, “I want you in … my mouth. All of you.”

The air gathered in my lungs but wouldn’t release. I had actually said that. I had
actually told a man, a very famous one, that I wanted to … give him a blowjob. Now
what?
I had given exactly one blowjob in high school. I’d tried it with Scott a few times
when he was drunk and demanded it, but it had been a horrible experience, ending in
a sore jaw for me and Scott falling asleep. I didn’t enjoy it. The prospect of trying
this now—and failing—made me nervous. But as long as I was living out a sexual fantasy
with a famous person, I decided to let the famous person do what famous people are
good at: he would have to demand a certain level of service.

“I want you to show me how to … please you,” I said.

He trailed his wet finger down my neck, and then, cupping my chin in his hand, he
said, “I think I can do that.”

This godly man wanted me to give him a blowjob!

“It’s just … I don’t know if I’m any good at it. I mean, if this is
your
fantasy, then it’s going to suck, I’m afraid.” It took me a second to realize what
I had said that had made him laugh out loud. “I mean, suck in a
bad
way. That’s what I mean.”

He stopped laughing and I swear I felt that I could have fallen into his deep, black
eyes, they were so intense. I could see why he was famous, without even being familiar
with his music. He had charisma, presence, confidence.

At my request for lessons, he began.

“Let’s start with getting you naked.”

I stood and took a step back. As he watched, I slipped off the rest of my clothes,
kicking off the sneakers, then sliding down the yoga pants, then my panties. He watched
me. He wanted this. He wanted
me
. Me! I could feel it. In my mind I kept saying,
Go with it, go with this, he will show you, you will be okay
. My nerves were on my side as I fell under his
delicious spell. He turned and pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and took
a seat.

“You can’t really screw up, Cassie, unless you bring your teeth into the mix. They’re
not invited. Anything else and you’re going to make me a happy man. Come here.”

I took a step towards him. Then another one. I was standing directly over him, naked.
Taking my wrists in his large hands, he tugged me down to my knees in front of him.
He smelled warm and spicy, or maybe it was the stew and the bread, but we were both
getting hotter. He took my hands and placed them on his chest, then dragged them over
his impossibly taut stomach.

“Undo my pants, Cassie.”

Something inside me melted, and I reached down and unfastened his belt. He shuffled
his pants to the floor. He was hard and big. And thick.

“Jesus,” I whispered, wrapping my hands around him, feeling his soft skin. How could
he be so … hard and so soft at the same time?

“Now lean in and kiss the tip,” he said. “That’s it, go slow at first. Like that,
yeah. Kiss it. That’s right.”

I took him in my mouth and licked from the top to the base of his shaft, feeling his
body rock as my mouth and hands developed a steady rhythm.

“That’s right, just a little faster.”

I quickened the pace as he gently moved one of my hands around him and left it there.
I took him deep into my mouth even as my other hand reached under him.

“Yeah,” he said, moving his fingers tenderly through my hair. “You got it. That’s
right.”

My hands met my lips and I formed a vacuum around him, my whole mouth consuming him.
I released him then, licking just his tip with the end of my tongue. He looked down
at me as I looked up, and our eyes met. His face was blissful and relaxed, which sent
a surge of power through my body. I had him. He was mine. I took him in my mouth again,
sucking and pulling him into me, and felt a vibration in his pelvis. This made me
even bolder, and I took more of him in my mouth. I could feel him pressing into me,
yet at the same time, I felt him weakening, melting. I was doing this
to
him. I was in control, in charge. Any minute now, I was going to make this man come … in
my mouth.

“Girl, you don’t need my help.”

The more I pleased him, the wetter I seemed to get, something that had never happened
to me before. Why had I once seen this as a chore? My hand reached around behind him
to clutch at his back, while my mouth pulled him deeper and deeper. Then, reading
his body, I felt him hitting a tipping point and I slowed my rhythm.