by H. M. Irwing
Curve Couture
Part 1
By H M Irwing
Chapter 1
I slowly slid across to the edge of the bed. Feeling a little sore, I got up gingerly and slowly made my way across the room, gathering clothing as I went. I could feel the dark stare narrowed on my back but didn’t turn around, even as I heard a rustle of fabric behind me.
“I’m sorry I made love to you.” His deep baritone sent a thrill down my spine, even as his words sent a spasm of pain. But I understood, so I only nodded as I reached down to pull up my panties.
“I want you to know I never wanted this to happen. It was an accident,” he continued on.
I could only nod again, for it had been just that. An accident. My first time… and it was an accident.
“I never intended to have sex. And certainly, not with you,” he went on insistently.
As if I didn’t know. As if I even needed an explanation.
I was a twenty-four-year-old virgin for a reason. No, wait. I had been a virgin that was. My plump frame and homely features did not, as a rule, inspire passion in the opposite sex, so I really did understand that it was an accident.
“You know I love your sister,” he reiterated what he had been saying before we had sex. Somehow, hearing him say it now did not have the same effect as it had before.
Colin Richards had been nearly sobbing when I found him sitting on the doorsteps outside. I had been instantly concerned. Inviting him in had clearly been a mistake, and pleading that he told me all about it, more so. But then, this was not an unusual thing to do for me. Lending a sympathetic ear was a given. I was naturally empathetic. I could relate to most woes—most woes pertaining to my sister especially, having experienced all of it myself. The older sister to a glamorous super model, Janice Williams. Plenty of woes in that. I’d lost my parents at a tender age. Again, lots I could relate to. Then, there was the generic, never had a boyfriend, working for the most horrible boss in the world. My shit just went on.
So, yes, I could relate, and I often did.
With Colin, it had been no exception. Only I seemed to have gone a mile over what was considered reasonable. Another first for me. I usually remained within the borders of what generally constituted as sensible. Almost from day one of knowing him, Colin had come to me with his troubles. His Janice troubles, and I had done what I always did. I listened, and I empathised.
Only this time, things got carried away; a hug of comfort turned to a kiss, a cuddle, and then… a fuck.
I felt heavy regret stirring within, one that burned with a combination of guilt and outright shame.
I turned around, looking for my bra and then spotting it near Colin’s feet. I shifted forward to grab it. I felt an incredible urge to get out of my own home. I doubted I could ever come back here again, not without relieving moments of what was surely a regret of a lifetime.
I bent down to retrieve it and straightened to encounter Colin’s bold and hungry gaze trained on my luscious form.
He neared me and reached out to brush his thumb over my nipple, causing it to instantly harden into the nubs he suckled on so painfully only moments before. I winced over the soreness.
“You won’t tell her about us, will you?” he asked, closing in his body to mine. I didn’t understand the question. My mind froze again as it did before when he cupped my tits mid hug and then later fucked me.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts, but he misunderstood and said, “Good. I knew I could count on you to help me. I knew you would understand.”
Then, he pulled me back flush against himself, and I ceased to think at all. But the clear prodding at my back roused my senses back in time.
“I made a mistake once, but I will not again. I refuse to let you take advantage of me.” I shook my head as I shoved at his chest.
“You say that now, but you cannot deny that you want me—that you always have. We’ve already done the deed. What would it matter if it were to happen again? … And again, and as many times as we want it? … As I want you,” he said matter-of-factly, totally backtracking over what he’d said only moments earlier. He lowered his head down to me, but I turned away to evade his advance.
“I meant it when I said I’d made a mistake. That you are a mistake. As far as I know, mistakes shouldn’t be repeated,” I said firmly.
“Claire, you are being a prude. Or is it just your insecurities coming through? You are hardly ugly, my dear, and your curves have their own unique appeal. You are not your sister and will, of course, never hope to compete with her, but that doesn’t mean you should lock away your own potential and throw away the key. You have plenty to offer the opposite sex. … Plenty,” said Colin amiably, sounding so incredibly pompous that it was all I could do not to puke at his feet. Regret was beginning to weigh heavily in my belly.
“I’d like you to leave,” I said firmly as I continued to struggle within his hold. I couldn’t believe I had lost my virginity to such an ass. But it wasn’t as if I had the pick of the lot. There was no one queuing up my footpath to bang down my door and demand a lay with me. But on thinking back, I hadn’t wanted to die a virgin either, so in a way, I was somewhat grateful that he had taken an interest in me. At least long enough to do the deed. But once was seriously enough.
“Fine, you ungrateful slut. Don’t come crawling back to me for more later. This was a one-time offer,” Colin said spitefully as he stomped about, throwing on his clothes to drape carelessly over his exquisite form. He was not The Male Model of the Year for nothing. Even dressing in a hurry, in crumpled clothing and tousled hair, he still looked the epitome of a man about town—a carelessly blonde and blue-eyed corporate climber. He was the requisite look for male models in demand this year. I swept a swift perusal of his swagger as he purposefully walked right up to me. Staring hard at me with what I assumed was his attempt to intimidate, he pulled his lips back in a snarl of a smile. Then, without another word, he marched out my front door.
I heaved a sigh of relief, but then, the worry set in. Would he tell my glamorous little sister, Janice, that I’d slept with her boyfriend?
I groaned out loud before I stomped off into the shower. Shit was going to happen. There was no way around it. And there was no better time for it to happen than tomorrow.
Sleep that night was a futility in effort. And I carried the bags to prove it the next morning. But my day was full. Made so by me, so I donned on my most professional looking suit and made a mad dash for the office.
It was a strange sort of weird that had me rushing for the office this morning. It happened during all that restless tossing and turning last night, where the guilt of my actions, warred with the revulsions of it, and the weariful contemplations of what would unfold, sent my hand reaching out for my phone. It was not as if I had Erin Robertson on a speed dial, but then again, how could I not have him on my phone. It must have been some sort of sleepy rambling, but when lucidity struck, only four hours earlier, all pretensions of sleep were over. I had summoned the wolf to my lair. Thankfully, he declined and suggested we meet at the Ritz instead, … for tea!
Who even drank that anymore?
That I had readily agreed only verified the state of my mind at that time. Still, I made the invite, even if he made the counter-invite, so I would be there. I would tighten my girdle and suck in my gut then face the enemy. After all, I had my big girl panties on, so anything was possible, even turning to my competitor and asking for a favor—begging more like it, going down on my knees and downright pleading! If that were what it would take?
As I already lived in the outskirts of Melbourne inner-city, it didn’t take me long to stop by the office and grab some version of a contract, and Jean, my assistant, before I barrelled on downtown to the place of
my would-be massacre. There was no way I would be left breathing after this. Not when I would probably be reduced to sprawling belly-up, offering my guts for his taking. Not that he was into that sort of thing. But I had heard a thing or two of his more sadist side. It was strangely fitting. All that beauty couldn’t be taken in straight. It needed a thorn—a sharp edge that would jolt the beholder’s attention back into focus, … into reality.
A failing, I had no need indulging in. I was no spell-bounding beauty. The man I was to meet was another matter altogether. I parked my small, little Mazda Two into a vacant slot about a block away, instinctively knowing I wouldn’t be finding any closer. I got out onto the curb and stood tall on my high-heel clad feet, trying desperately to ignore my shaking knees as I waited patiently for Jean to join me. Carting my files and folders, she looked a sight as she nimbly fell into step beside me. I was sure we looked like the oddest pair, but our arrival at the Ritz drew no attention. The place was busy, but that was only to be expected. The warm ambiance was all elegance and inviting. The shimmer and glint off the floor to ceiling, wall to wall mirror drew my attention.
Nerves were quick to send me to stand in front of it. My eyes were quick to settle on the shadows I wore so hauntingly beneath my tired eyes. I reached up to tuck a wayward tendril behind my ear.
Wincing at my profile in the mirror, I swept my hand down my front, smoothing down the fabric of the gray raw silk skirt I had on. The aim was to look as business-like and professional as I could. And that was really asking for something, given the bulk I had to work with.
“Maybe I should have just worn black,” I muttered ruefully, peering up into my gray gaze. I fidgeted then fluffed at my dark-blonde, waist-length hair and turned sideways to eye up my ass.
“I doubt it would have helped,” volunteered my assistant, most unhelpfully. I turned to cast baleful eyes at her petite self. She, like me, was in the wrong line of work. Jean was skinny but short, while I was fat, obese even, with a weight that seemed to fluctuate to any point that could still be squeezed into a size eighteen—a size I resolutely refused to budge from, despite my bulging torso’s cry for relief.
I held in my breath and shuffled around to eye Jean fully, her frail and petite size making me feel larger and bulkier with every breath I struggled to draw in. I should be used to this, being surrounded by size zeroes and their variations for most of my adult life.
She was right on one account; the black wouldn’t have helped. Not this day. It wasn’t just strategically located fats that nudged at my buttons almost to a bursting point; it was the man I would soon meet that had my nerves on edge. Frayed edge, … hanging in tatters.
“This is not a meeting I am looking forward to,” I told Jean, who obligingly nodded her head emphatically. The maître d’ appeared at that moment to escort us both in, no doubt to prevent my hogging the mirror in the foyer. Vanity came with the job. It sort of rubbed off on a person when dealing day in, day out with others glued to their image in front of it. I offered a meek smile and grasped Jean’s arm tightly, dragging her in with me to meet with the vulture. Although, Jean wouldn’t be staying. She had no idea what I intended to discuss with Erin, and for the life of me, I would like to keep it that way.
She didn’t quite get my hardship over this. I was, after all, about to meet the hottest man on the planet. A label that was true, if not my own to quote. A phase first coined, oddly enough, by Vanity Fair. Vogue was swift to take up the clamour, and the hoo-ha and outcry of his magnificence had not lessened since, despite his retreat to the back end of his vocation. No longer a model but an agent. A modeling agent that was every bit as cut-throat, slippery, and shrewd as he was disgustingly handsome to behold.
To put it simply, I saw Erin Robertson as I lie under Colin Richards for my first fuck.
“Your table for two, darling,” murmured the maître d’ with as much sangfroid as he could muster. It didn’t ring true, even if it did jive to the opulence of my surroundings. Tea at the Ritz was a bad idea. Especially since I didn’t drink the beverage.
“Could I get you any drinks?” Handing us our menus, the tight-arse maître d’ turned his attention to me with a flourish. It wasn’t his attention I wanted. Not now when my thoughts were so filled with Erin Robertson and what was to come. I shook my head mutely and allowed my assistant to pipe in her request for a coffee to go. I sent her an absentminded frown, but despite the contrariness of my behaviour, I didn’t rebuke her. The coffee was a price I was willing to pay for Jean’s company a little longer. I dug out some papers from my briefcase and shuffled through them, pretending to immerse my thoughts in its intricacies, but it was really Erin that flooded my thoughts—flooded and drowned them out altogether. Strange, but despite the gravity of my reasons for being here, I was more preoccupied with Erin himself. Erin, Erin, Erin!
And more Erin!
Erin Robertson. Even with a feminine sounding name, he was anything but. The man was a man’s man, through and through. He had beauty and brains and a string of females ready to toss their panties at him over the merest inclination of his beautiful head.
An ex-model turned agent, the embodiment of my lusty dreams and my arch enemy, though not by choice; it was simply what happened when two agents rivalled for business.
In the bling-filled arena of throat-cutting, backstabbing, and mortal threats, I represented my sister, the present top female model. Tall, platinum-blonde, blue-eyed angel, with the sultry features of a Goddess, Janice Williams was my opposite in every way. And as I was her agent, I had no place for envy over her looks. My job was to land Janice contracts that would pay big for as long as her looks lasted.
That was the sad truth of this industry; you earned only for as long as you looked beautiful. Then, you mostly just perish from drugs and alcohol abuse unless you had a constitution as ironclad as Erin’s, who not only managed to shrug off the habit, but who had taken himself out of the running at his very peak in the industry to become an agent, of all things. His advertised endorsements were still running strong, though, long after the initial contracts expired. Renewed and reworked, his face and form was still making him a fortune, even if he himself had resigned to the backend of operations.
The ass minted money from all over.
Erin was very selective over whom he represented, but he gave them his best, and now, he was after my sister. He had been so for a while—ever since he saw her parade in next to nothing on a runway in Berlin, of all places, a little under a year ago. Yet time had seemed to have stopped still for Janice since then. A veritable impossibility for someone in the modeling world, but Janice was, as always, the exceptional exception.
Flashing her wide toothed, sunny smile, an entire contrary to the windy, blizzard raging day, she drew the attention of not just everyone there present, but those viewing the live feed of the greatest fashion show on Earth. Fashionistas from all over the world had been there that cold, freezing day, and Erin Robertson had rocked up to me, casually mentioning that my sister was looking fine. Top form, he’d said. I was unsurprised then when the deep chill of the day got to me.
Somehow, hearing Erin praise Janice had raised an ugly side of me. Jealousy. Still, I was more surprised that Erin could see Janice yet not see her. But then, my sister was a pro; she could keep the frost out of her chilly baby blues and offer only sunshine and warmth to the very best of them, on any day, even if Hell itself glazed over.
Indeed, fobbing off her multitude of lusting fans and panting agents was the very equivalent of all hell breaking loose, especially after that particular show-stopping feat. Purposefully encouraging her boob to fall out of her top on a Victoria’s Secret runway simply had that effect. Janice was smart that way. She knew how to stir up a crowd. And more importantly, she knew how to revitalize a flagging career.
But being chased after the hounds of Hell aside, I had been beyond disappointed to have Erin Robertson call me, asking for a meet-up. I wasn’t stupid. I could put two and two together. I was
only surprised it had taken him this long. Indeed, he had asked for her before, but that had been over the phone—a casual request. The Berlin show tipped the iceberg. It was clear Erin wanted in on the action every bit as much as all the endless others.
From the very start, they all had wanted her, offering and counter-offering for her in the hopes of having their agencies represent her instead of me. And up ‘til yesterday, I had held them all at bay, believing that they were vultures who would destroy Janice while they minted off her.
Most would, but not Erin. Never Erin.
I could admit, I more than a little openly idolised the ground he walked on. Erin could do no wrong in my eyes. It was knowing this that made what I was about to do so much easier.
Today, I would hand her over. I would meet Erin, agree to his terms, and add in a few of my own. I couldn’t quite face my sister after what I did yesterday, let alone continue to represent her. I would back off and carve out a new career for myself, doing something other than securing tough-to-get modeling contracts for Janice. I would see that I left her with the very best there was before I bowed out of this industry.
“Good to see you again, Claire,” said the deep tenor from behind me, making me leap up and scatter the stack of papers in front of me.
“Shit! Did you have to do that?” I snapped, setting a waspish tone to the proceedings from the get go.
This was not how I intended to start.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Erin said mildly, not at all looking the least bit contrite, but I played along, glad for the opportunity to start anew.
“Sorry I snapped at you,” I muttered, really only partially mollified, but I was scrambling to get back on a correct footing.
“Not a problem,” he said, taking the seat before me.
I turned to Jean and gave her a nod to leave. I had needed Jean there to bolster up my courage. But now was time for some serious discourse, and this was something I had to do in private.
“I want you to sign on Janice,” I said without preamble, almost as soon as Jean left.