by Shel Stone
Milan had sucked. It wasn’t fun working and it wasn’t really like she needed to. Working was a back-up plan in case things went wrong, but she wasn’t sure it was worth it. Editorial work was different. It was all about her and people treated her like a precious jewel most of the time. She had a shoot in Cyprus in a week’s time, but nothing until then. The Burberry and Vivienne Westwood shows were on the cards after that, but for the next week, she had nothing to do.
Alexi had a birthday coming up, so she could start planning for that—make a real effort and invite some of the people worth impressing. She couldn’t do something sedate so it came across like a birthday party for someone old. It had to be high energy and a bit of a spectacle.
*
After a café au lait at one of the shoreline cafés, Cheyenne made her way to the Athletics Club to work off any calories in her system and tone her figure. She still pondered what to do for Alexi’s birthday. It was her event to plan and she needed to put on a show. A chat with Jesus about hiring out Shine might be a thought. Shine was currently the best club in Marbella and no one would scoff at getting an invitation to a private function there.
The current hot artist would have to be secured to perform. Alexi didn’t like rap, so it had to be someone else. Adele was too sedate, but maybe Beyoncé was an option. Cheyenne would have to buy something spectacular for the event. Of all the sparkle, she had to outshine everyone, but that wouldn’t prove impossible, particularly as she had control of the guest list. And as far as she had seen, no one had particularly stolen Alexi’s attention.
After showering and dressing, Cheyenne pulled on a tight Dolce dress that few had the body to pull off. In the past, she had to beg, borrow and steal these dresses—now she could just point at what she wanted and it would be added to her tab. Scoring a dress such as this wasn’t quite the coup it used to be. All the same, she might have a look around D&G this afternoon, make a head start on finding this spectacular dress she needed for Alexi’s birthday.
Getting out her phone as she steered the champagne-coloured Aston Martin towards the centre of Porto Banus, she dialled Jesus’ number.
“Que?” Jesus’ dulcet voice reverberated out. Jesus was hot and he knew it. There was no denying that fact. They’d only met a few times, when she and Alexi had gone for a night of dancing, which was actually him sitting in the premier booth and her dancing for him. Jesus always made sure they had the best seat in the club.
“Jesus, it’s Cheyenne. I need to talk to you about Alexi’s birthday.”
“Of course,” he said. “You’re going to host it here.” It actually came across as a statement more than a question and she felt a little thrill through her body, but then she wouldn’t be calling to talk about Alexi’s birthday if she hadn’t already made up her mind. “Come by. I am waiting.”
Cheyenne couldn’t help the fission sneak through her. Jesus never minced words and his dark eyes lingered a little longer than they should. He also had that Spanish way of doing things. Not necessarily polite and by no means sucking up. A man who knew he ran the hottest club on this stretch of coast, maybe even in all of Spain. It was just such a shame that Jesus wasn’t in the league she played in. They were both grafters, in a sense carving out their fortune. Together they would have nothing to graft, and a measly club would not provide her with the lifestyle she craved. Shame, but that was just how it was.
Pulling in at the club’s front, she parked where she probably shouldn’t. In all likelihood, she’d get a ticket, but that was just the city’s version of valet parking, wasn’t it? She dropped the key in her clutch and made her way up the stairs to the entrance, which was bouncer free this time of the day. The club was still open, but the music was more sedate. Still, people packed the massive dance floor, probably strung out on E, having literally danced all night.
Cheyenne felt a stab of jealousy as these people—average people, just losers most of them—had the ability to act with such complete self-indulgence. Drugs really were for nobodies and Cheyenne worked too hard to do such things. Drugs served no purpose, achieved nothing, even as the stuff was rife in the modelling world. Again, stuff for losers trying to escape their own self-esteem or tragic past, or whatever. Cheyenne didn’t give a shit.
Asking one of the half-naked barman for Jesus, she was referred to a narrow set of stairs, chained off to the customers. She had to unhook the chain to get upstairs and felt a little miffed that Jesus wasn’t waiting at the entrance for her.
A dark corridor led to a bright room in the back of the club, where she saw his legs through a set of glass doors leading to a balcony. Dark grey jeans covered long, well-formed legs. He wore cowboy boots, which on most people would look ridiculous. On Jesus, they gave a hint of biker to him—a bit of danger. As she always saw him, he wore a vest, probably to show off his spectacular shoulders and arms. He worked well with what he had.
Dark hair curled to his shoulders and those dark eyes moved to her as she emerged onto the balcony. A small cup of coffee sat on the glass table he had his legs on, crossed at the ankles.
“Slacking off?”
He smiled tightly, but there was no friendliness in the smile, like nothing particularly impressed him. “Cheyenne.” Her name sounded so exotic with his accent, like he was tasting the sounds. “You look well. Would you like a coffee?” Bringing down his legs, he rose, the muscles of his legs straining. He kissed her lightly on both cheeks like the Spanish always did. Again, she knew there was no affection in it—just standard procedure. Maybe he actually disliked her. Some of the Spanish did—hated them, in fact—the foreigners that had taken over Marbella leaving this whole stretch of coast too expensive and foreign for the people who actually belonged here.
“No, I’ve just had one.”
“Sit,” he said, indicating to the chair opposite. He sat down again and picked up the coffee cup, which almost looked dainty in his fingers. He liked his coffee dark and thick. Replacing the cup, he leaned back and considered her. “So, a party. If you are planning it, it will be something special, no?”
“Of course.” She crossed her legs, but his gaze didn’t waver, and that annoyed her. Men fell over themselves for her, and Jesus didn’t, and it pissed her off. He wasn’t all that; he certainly wasn’t in the big league. He might be king of his little castle, but it was just a club.
“You would have to invite at least five hundred people.”
“Money isn’t an object.”
“I don’t mean money. The party will look too small for the space otherwise.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I want to bring in an artist, someone like Beyoncé or Rihanna.” Not even that ruffled him. He only pursed his lips as if considering the logistics.
“It is short notice, but you want me to check availability with their managers?” he said.
“Yes.” She certainly didn’t want to. Actually; she didn’t want to do anything. “I want a party like Baz Luhrman has stage produced it.” This finally brought a smile from him. A little crooked, but showing white teeth. He was too big to be a male model, but he had the face for it.
“I will make you a party,” he said. “One you will never forget.”
Goosebumps spread up her arms. He said it like he was planning it just for her.
“Let me get you a coffee,” he suggested. “I must bring you something.”
“You can buy me lunch,” she said with a smile. Their little exchange had brought on her appetite. She would just have to work off any damage later.
“Bueno. You will tell me of the things you see,” he said, rising from his seat and waiting for her to do the same. He placed a hand on her lower back, and the touch radiated up her skin. It had been much too long since a man had driven her wild—almost two weeks and as a result, her nipples tightened painfully under her dress at the first man touching her. Alexi really should provide better for her, but their relationship was, in essence, one-sided in that respect. They basically saw each other when Alexi wanted t
o, and her job was to put up with that. It did have a certain side-effect on her sex life, and now she found herself pulsing at the touch of some lowly club owner.
He took her to a restaurant down the street—expensive with white linen on the table. She’d tried to suggest another one, but he said no, they should go to this one. Again, a rush of heat flared through her at the thought of him forcing his will. She didn’t know why she found that so sexy, but she did.
“The fish is exquisite,” he said when they sat down. The table was small and their legs touched underneath. She should be moving away from the touch, but she didn’t.
“You think I should have the fish?”
“You should.”
She liked Spanish men. They were different. Not the simpering and terminally polite like some others, emasculated by political correctness until there was nothing left of them. Russians were a little the same, but Jesus was as dark as Alexi was pale. While Alexi was ruggedly handsome, Jesus was gorgeous. Nothing seemed to escape his eyes, like he saw the try-hard grafter underneath the glossy exterior. She wasn’t entirely sure he liked what he saw either, but she respected him for seeing more than just the perfect face and exquisite body.
After prying, she heard about him planning a second club, a beach club like some of the others, but more geared towards the masses than some of the more exclusive clubs like Blanca. This coast had some of the most expensive real estate in the world and it would be a major undertaking. Cheyenne’s respect for him heightened at the news of these plans, but he was still in the small leagues compared to someone like Alexi. But then Jesus was the same ilk as her, and he was scraping a good living for himself, built out of nothing, compared to some of the other trust fund babies that ran around here. Alexi’s fortune had been smart moves during an unprecedented time of turmoil, but he had always been politically connected—needed to achieve his rise.
The fish was delicious and they didn’t linger for long after the meal. Cheyenne actually wanted to stay a little longer, dreading heading back to her empty apartment, but the only thing to do was to pay the deposit for hiring the club.
Jesus’ strides were long and strong as they walked back. She followed him up to his office, where a contract for her already sat waiting on his desk. The office itself was built with dark wood. It was definitely designed by someone. Dark orange covered the walls and there were even some Moroccan inspired touches. It suited him. Dark and heavy, little mirrors in places, reflecting light, or a partial story. Like him, one didn’t get the full picture.
“You’ll have a drink now? Or must you go?” he asked as she leaned over the desk, signing the contract with the gold pen he pulled out of his pocket. The metal was warm from his body. Heat rushed at her again. Why did he have to be so damned sexy? Then again, it had been a while since she’d found someone this sexy. Must she go? She damned well should be going, for the reason that she didn’t want to. She felt him standing next to her, felt the heat coming off him.
“Maybe one,” she said. He walked to the bar set up on a side-board and poured a dark liquid into a cognac glass. He had just asked her to stay after their business was concluded; maybe he wasn’t as indifferent as he made out. Obviously, she was too cool for giddiness, but a certain victory exerted itself.
He handed the glass to her, the stem between his fingers and the round bowl resting in his palm. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Trouble taking a bit of liquor?”
“I have been known to do some very silly things,” she said, taking the glass from him and holding it to her lips. The rich scent filled her nose, on top of the heady scent of him that she had been surrounded by over the last hour. He smiled and she almost felt undone by it. Fuck, he was sexy.
“We must all do silly things once in a while. What else is life for?”
Not for doing silly things, she said to herself, but she took a sip of the smooth, rich liquid. He stepped a bit closer and she knew full well it was a proposition. His dark eyes were on her, roaming lower towards her mouth. Not indifferent at all. Maybe he’d been wanting her from the moment she stepped onto the balcony, she wondered.
Leaning down, he kissed her. The touch was soft and light, lingering. His lips were warm and sensual, as was the kiss. Tongues toyed together and she bit down on his lower lip. A moan reverberated through his body and into hers, and a strong hand pulled her hip to his. The heat that had been simmering flared to full fire, like an uncontrollable blaze, ready to burn anything in its path.
His hands moved down to her thighs, dragging the hem of the skirt up. She knew how much he wanted her because his erection was large and hard against her stomach. And he didn’t have to worry about his size, it seemed. She wanted him badly, wanted him pounding into her.
Sharply turning her around until she faced away from him, his hands massaged her breasts until she didn’t think she could stand anymore. One hand moved down to the edge of her silk La Perla panties, sneaking inside where he found her wet and wanting. Firm pressure on her clit made her moan and push her arse back into him and the hardness of his erection.
Warm lips were on her neck and his hand came up, creeping up her cheek, twisting her head and lips to him, and she took his forefinger in her mouth, sucking. She was dripping wet—hadn’t wanted a man this bad in… she couldn’t even remember how long.
Pressing her arse back farther, she bent down on the desk, pushing her panties down her legs. She wanted him to take her like this, feel him above her, behind her—entering her. And he didn’t deny her. She heard him undo his belt and then the zip and her core clenched in anticipation, until the tip of his cock pushed into her, forcing its way in. It felt so delicious, so forbidden. Torrents of sensation flowed out as he filled her, making her take all of him. Her legs shook as she submitted to him, holding herself back from coming too soon.
“Hard,” she said, and he withdrew, pushing into her until her hips hit the edge of the desk. She would bruise from this, but she didn’t care.
Chapter 20
BRINGING THE LONG-HANDLED brush back to the hull, Adelaide scrubbed the head down the gleaming white hull of the Sylphina, feeling the surface get a bit smoother with the strokes as the salt came off. There wasn’t much dirt to be seen as they never waited so long to clean that it actually looked dirty. Still, Adelaide was dirty, wet and sweaty. Every part of her felt salty, even though she was constantly sprayed by the fresh water. They had done most of the port side that day and the muscles in her arms and back were sore. Some days, this whole yachting business was just hard work.
“Your phone’s ringing,” Jens said, popping his head over the side.
“Can you answer it for me?” She had left it inside so it didn’t get drenched in her pocket, and in hindsight, it had been good thinking. If it was ringing, someone really wanted to talk to her.
“Hello?” she heard Jens’ singing voice. “She’s indisposed at the moment.” His head appeared again. “It’s Trish. Chrissy has broken her leg or something. They’re at the hospital.”
“Oh God, that’s terrible. Tell her I’m on my way.” Adelaide had a moment of sheer panic. She was dripping wet. She had to change.
Jens’ head appeared again. “No, she says it’s alright, but she can’t get hold of Jesus. Their shift starts in an hour and they can’t make it. She wants you to go tell him. They’ll get fired or something.” Jens couldn’t muster interest for anything unless there were hot men involved. Jesus normally did the trick, but not today, apparently.
“Fine,” Adelaide said and lay down the long brush with the hose hooked onto the head. Water flowed out of the handle until she turned the tap off on the jetty. She could pop over and try to find Jesus; she wasn’t far away from Shine, provided he was there. If not, she could inform someone else, who then had to take the responsibility of informing him.
Walking around the jetty, she made her way onto the aft of the boat and carefully walked down to her cabin. Anything she touched at the moment would
leave watermarks and she didn’t want to make more work for herself.
She picked a pair of jeans, which turned out to be a bad choice as it was hard to pull the legs up over her wet skin. A t-shirt and she was ready to go.
Ducking the traffic, she crossed the street, which was probably at its sparsest in the late afternoon. Jesus would not be happy being two dancers down, but he would be a damned sight happier knowing in advance. From what Adelaide had heard, he had some on-call back-ups he used.
What the hell had Chrissy done to break her leg? Sure, she had been a mess last time Adelaide had seen her, but breaking a leg was a bit extreme. It wasn’t like she was into adventurous sports or anything. Adelaide would call and find out after she sorted the club.
The main employee entrance was at the back of the building and a security guard eyed her suspiciously.
“I have to talk to Jesus,” she said. “He knows me. I’m with the dancers.”
The guard took her at her word, and that was something she liked about the Spanish. She nodded and headed into the building, towards the stairs leading to Jesus’ office. Hopefully, he would be there, or she would have to go chasing after him.
Knocking quickly on the door, she pushed it open, but was shocked at her own stupidity as he was having his way with some girl on his desk, who looked in absolute rapture with one of her knees up on the desk and Jesus doing her from behind.
“I’m so sorry,” she said and couldn’t get her feet to move fast enough. Time seemed to move in absolute slow motion, and for that fact, she could see without a doubt that the girl Jesus was fucking was Cheyenne. And Cheyenne saw her, too. “Fuck,” she said and rushed out the door, slamming it behind her.
Adelaide stood in the hall with her hand over her mouth. First of all, she’d just barged in on Jesus doing it, which was… hmm, a gigantic breach of privacy, although she suspected she was more disturbed by that fact that he would be. But he’d been doing Cheyenne, Alexi’s fucking girlfriend. Air was still not coming into her lungs. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”