Star Struck

by Meredith Michelle

  “The thing about poker,” Jackson begins as he reaches across the rug to deal five cards to each of you, “is that it’s all about the risk. It’s not much fun without any stakes.”

  The cuff of his starched white shirt brushes just slightly against your silk-sheathed thigh as he completes the deal. “So I have a suggestion.” He looks up from underneath his jet-black eyelashes with a purely piratical grin and names his game. “Strip poker.”

  You reflexively tuck your legs more tightly beneath you, cross your arms over your chest, and begin to object.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he interrupts with his slow, casual drawl, “I’m not suggesting you strip—after all, you are only wearing two items of clothing, if I’m not mistaken.” The way his eyes travel appraisingly over the curve of your breasts and down to your hips elicits a fresh, hot blush.

  “So,” he says, bringing his eyes up to meet yours. “I happily volunteer to be the one to strip. High stakes for me. The odds are firmly in your favor. What’ve you got to lose?”

  You reach up to retrieve your wine glass. You take a sip and try to regain your composure. You’re not sure what game he’s really playing. “Jackson, this is a bad idea.”

  Still, you’re not moving from your comfy spot on the rug. Somehow the idea of seeing Jackson in less than his full armor seems appealing—and a little dangerous.

  “You know what Anna? I’m changing out of this penguin suit one way or another, and this way just happens to be a little more fun.”

  You take a deep breath and another sip of wine. “Okay,” you tell him, raising your chin resolutely. “You’re on.”

  Three hands later Jackson is lighter by his jacket, tie, and cummerbund. Either he’s so skilled at poker that you can’t tell he’s throwing the games or you’re really better than you thought. One more game and it’s the shirt that has to go, and you’re not sorry.

  Surprise, surprise, you win again. At this point, even if this is all a ploy, you’re fine with it. The wine, the flickering candles in the dimmed light, and the scent of Jackson’s cologne have your head spinning. This boy is sexy, there’s no doubt, and he may just be the next big thing. And from the look in his eyes, all he wants right now is you.

  Jackson struggles with the top button of his shirt collar and looks at you for help. You rise to your knees and move toward him, smiling and ready to help him with the button, when he grabs you suddenly by your wrists and pushes you firmly back onto the rug. Suddenly his mouth is on your neck, hot and unrelenting, and his hands pin your wrists, pushing them painfully down into the pile of the carpet. His strong chest is pressed against yours as he crushes you to him, and you can feel the harder urgency of him below his waistline.

  He moves up from your neck and looks you hungrily in your eyes, then kisses you deep and strong. The rough stubble of his chin scratches your face and his tongue plunges forcefully into your mouth. Then, just as suddenly, he pulls away.

  Jackson eases back onto one elbow and casually piles up the cards. His mouth is red from the smear of your lipstick and the bulge below his belt is hugely obvious against his black tuxedo pants. He begins to shuffle the cards. “Glad we got that out of the way,” he says.

  You are stunned into silence, your head spinning, warm desire coursing through your body but battling with your hammering heart. You are aware of the slightly swollen, bruised feel of your mouth and the lingering soreness of your wrists where Jackson’s hands were locked. You are completely confused by your desire at once to run from the house and the insane urge to grab his wrists, dig your nails into his strong arms, and return the favor.

  Jackson smirks as though he has you right where he wants you and looks at your untouched cards. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to finish the game?”

  You’re suddenly more excited by the prospect than you ever thought possible. You look him in the eye and slowly reply, “Of course.”

  Two more hands have Jackson down to his boxers. You are one hand away from victory and you’re determined to finish what you started. The next game doesn’t go as well and for the first time tonight, you lose. Jackson looks at you expectantly.

  “Uh-uh,” you remind him. “You said you were the one doing all the stripping.”

  He gazes down at the only item he has left to be lost. “Well, looks like I’m there.” He smiles up at you jeeringly. “But it doesn’t really seem fair—the one time I win I get nothing in exchange. Besides”—he looks down thoughtfully as if studying the fuzzy pile of the rug beneath you—“it doesn’t have to be the dress.”

  You smile in understanding and stand slowly, trying to keep your balance as the room tilts dizzily around you. You can feel his eyes drawn like magnets to your body. You are aware of your dress clinging to every perfect curve. You turn away in mock-modesty, lift the hem of your dress, and in one smooth motion remove the tiny, lacy panties beneath it. You look over one shoulder and fling the flimsy red thong at Jackson. He catches it deftly in one hand but his eyes never leave your body. A new mischief lights his face and he tells you, “Be right back.”

  When Jackson emerges from the dark hallway he walks toward you with a steady determination, then pauses at the threshold to the living room and strikes a pose that would make any GQ model jealous, with one hand on his hip and the other stretched casually against the doorframe. The first thing you notice is his perfect, hairless chest. You recall the intense pressure of him pinning you down and you feel yourself melt like liquid mercury. You can’t keep your eyes from traveling down the length of his taut stomach and you are stunned, there’s no other word for it, to see Jackson’s hugely stiffened cock emerging from the thin, frilly lace edge of your underwear! You don’t know whether to laugh or gasp, so you do both. “What are you—?” You have no idea what to say.

  “I know, I know,” Jackson offers, “I’m unbelievably sexy. You don’t have to try to hide it.”

  “You really are insane!” You laugh as Jackson walks back toward you and grabs you by your bare upper arms. You instinctively tense but you hold your ground, pulling away but smiling all the time. “You are certifiable!”

  He increases the strength of his grip and moves his face toward yours, pressing his lower half against your hips. “Don’t try to tell me you’re not filled with desire.” Jackson’s large, warm hands are traveling down the length of your body to your hips and then around to grasp your behind. Jackson lets out a low, appreciative groan. “Every woman loves a man who’s in touch with his feminine side.”

  You haven’t realized how large this man really is until this moment, nor how powerful. You can feel the slight prickle of the coarse hair that coats his strong thighs through the thin fabric of your dress. He’s backing you slowly toward the low sofa behind you and not taking his eyes off of yours.

  Suddenly, you’re on your back and Jackson is on top of you, one large hand pressing down on your shoulder and the other working its way up from the long hem of your gown. You know you should stop him, that you should put an end to this crazy, unpredictable night, but something about his desire to possess you feels so good that you just can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop. Besides, you’re sure he’s totally harmless. He’s just a boy who likes to pretend he’s dangerous, and there’s no way he would risk harming his career.

  He has your dress up to your knees and then to your thighs, and you are all too aware that you have no second line of defense—he’s wearing it. His hand brushes over the soft, slight curve of your belly and then down again between your legs, where his thick fingers find the spot that sends bright sparks up from your toes straight up the top of your spine. Now he moves his hand up to hold your one free arm, and uses the tip of his cock, the completely unprotected part protruding from the lace edge of your panties, to rub insistent circles on your most sensitive part. You try to loosen one arm to reach down between you, but Jackson makes a little “Uh-uh” noise and uses his shoulders to pin you more firmly to the sofa.

  His mouth is on yo
ur chest, your neck, his sharp scruff scratching the tender inlet at the base of your throat. You try to bring one hand up to protect the skin you can feel is already beginning to redden and bruise but again Jackson seems to predict your movements and brings his hand to pin your wrist, a little painfully, against your right shoulder. You feel an instant of intense fear as you realize that his other hand is now on your neck, his thumb and forefingers splayed and pressing slightly, but steadily, against the pulse point just below your jawline.

  You try to say Jackson’s name, to tell him to stop, but his mouth is on your mouth, his lips locked hard against yours, his tongue blocking your ability to speak, and only a muffled noise that probably sounds more like pleasure than panic is all that escapes.

  Your pulse feels stronger than usual, as though fighting Jackson’s attempt to stop it. You hear blood thrumming in your ears, and you begin to see a small starburst pattern in front of your eyes. You struggle to free your hands but are utterly paralyzed by the force of this man.

  With one quick movement Jackson has your gown hiked up to your waist and you can feel the urgency of his thrusting intensify as he moves aside the lace of the panties he is still wearing to release his full length. You feel him hot and bare against your thigh and with a quick flash of fear and anger you roll quickly to the side, freeing one leg, and bring your knee up hard into him.

  “Owwwwww!” Jackson’s groan of pain is intense as he rolls off you onto the floor, clutching his knees against his chest and curling into a fetal ball.

  As quickly as you can you get to your feet and smooth your gown. You grab your tiny Versace bag and run to the door as you hear Jackson’s strained yell, “Hey! Hey!” You slam the door and run down the stone-graveled drive. The night air hits you and you suddenly feel more sober than you have in your life.

  You pull the cell phone from your bag and begin to scroll for a number. But who should you call? Bodhi, whose big, warm eyes and slow, soft smile seem as comforting as a feather pillow on this suddenly cold night? But what if he ends up attacking Jackson, unable to control his anger when—if—he finds out what happened? Judging from his reaction to Jackson earlier tonight, you wouldn’t put it past him.

  Or Buffy, whose shoulder you could really use right now, but whose eternal optimism and out-and-out adoration for Jackson would be shattered. No, you can’t do that to your friend, and you know she’ll read you like a book the moment she sees the state you are in.

  You realize that at this late hour your only option may be to call a taxi. You envision your unsteady walk to the end of the long driveway, praying Jackson won’t follow, and hoping the taxi driver won’t out you to the media. A big enough tip should ensure silence, but you can only imagine how you must look. You do your best to smooth your hair and, taking your little compact from your clutch, wipe the smeared lipstick from around your mouth and dab at the mascara that’s run slightly around the outer corners of your eyes. That will have to do, you think.

  Your head is spinning but you know you have to take quick action before Jackson comes looking for you. Hiding like a thief behind a stand of small shrubs, you run your tongue slowly over your stinging lips and taste a slight, metallic tinge of blood. You lift the phone and dial.

  To call a taxi to take you back to the hotel, turn to page 70.

  To call Bodhi, keep reading.

  The longest five minutes of your life later you hear the crunch of tires on gravel as Bodhi turns the sleek black car into the end of Jackson’s driveway. He brings the car to a lurching stop and is instantly at your side.

  Though it’s dark, you can feel Bodhi’s eyes searching yours as he guides you back to the car. Your head is spinning and you feel angry and embarrassed at the same time. You know it took Bodhi far less time than it should have to get to you and that he must have stayed close, just in case.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly,” you tell him, the words not even approaching how grateful you feel.

  “I knew not to trust that guy,” Bodhi says gruffly. You can hear the underlying protectiveness in his voice and your heart squeezes in gratitude. You’re grateful, too, that Bodhi isn’t asking questions.

  You find you don’t need many words and that you and Bodhi have an unspoken understanding.

  “I’m okay,” you tell him. But you’re not, and you’re wondering how you can go to work in the intimacy of a movie set with this person who has just stepped so far beyond the bounds of propriety that there’s no way to go back. But how will you explain this to the studio, how will you deal with the scandal, and can you even get out of the contract if you try?

  “I’ll stay with you as long as you need me tonight,” Bodhi says with a tone that leaves no room for argument before opening your door and helping you into the car.

  Your gown suddenly feels constricting and hot and your heart pounds in your chest. You can’t even think about tomorrow. All you want now is to escape, and Bodhi suddenly seems to be just what you need.

  From page 29 (and continued from above) . . .

  Back in the mercifully dim, cool car, you consider Bodhi’s meditation idea. After everything you’ve been through today, it might actually be really good. A million stressful thoughts battle with a strong desire to surrender yourself to this trustworthy man and obliterate your hectic day.

  “Bodhi, how far is that beach spot you mentioned earlier?”

  You feel the car lurch slightly as Bodhi involuntarily hits the brakes. Clearly you’ve surprised him. “You mean the meditation spot? You really want to do that? I mean, I’ll totally take you if you want to go.”

  Suddenly a wave of doubt washes over you, along with the harsh reality of what you’ve been through tonight and what you face tomorrow. You shouldn’t have said anything. “Never mind. I shouldn’t. Let’s just go back to the hotel.”

  Bodhi pulls the car to the curb, turns, gazes straight into your eyes, and lowers his voice slightly. “Anna, the thing is, I don’t know when we’re going to get the chance to do this again.” The disappointment on his face is almost too much to bear. “You fly out first thing tomorrow. This really could be our last chance.”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking, Bode,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I’m just so exhausted right now.”

  “Then this is exactly what you need. And I’ll make you a deal,” he offers. “If we get out there and you’re really too tired, just say so, and all we have to do is hop back in the car and I’ll take you straight home.”

  The sincerity in his eyes and in his words pulls at your heart, but exhaustion and anxiety are making your head swim.

  Bodhi’s eyes search yours as he waits for your answer. He has the uncanny ability to infuse his features with the irresistible appeal of an adorable puppy.

  “Okay,” you tell him, looking him decisively in the eye. “Let’s do it.”

  “Yes!” shouts Bodhi, then more quietly, “Let’s do it. You won’t be sorry.”

  Until that six am wake-up call, you think, but you push the thought out of your mind.

  You rest your head against the back seat until you feel Bodhi pull off the highway. The lights are fewer and the stars clearer here, and you can feel a distinct change in the air as you approach the shoreline. He guides the car into a quiet inlet near the beach and turns the motor off.

  “Here we are,” he tells you, pulling off his bow tie and tossing it onto the passenger seat. He rounds the back of the car and stops to remove a worn leather satchel from the trunk, before coming around to your door and pulling it gently open. He holds out his hand and helps you out.

  Standing before him, his warm eyes locked to yours, you experience a woozy moment when you think he may actually try to kiss you. Instead, “Ready?” is all he says, and begins to walk toward the beach.

  You pause at the place where the pavement becomes sand to step out of your shoes. Bodhi slides out of his as well. “Let me,” he offers, slipping your shoes into the leather satchel on his shoulder.

  Y
ou marvel again at how considerate he is, and how genuinely willing he is to attend to your needs. He’s always been there for you as your driver, but he was being paid for that. Tonight is strictly overtime.

  You follow Bodhi down onto the beach, the residual warmth of the sand soothing your tired toes as you walk. The surge of the waves against the shoreline brings a familiar primal feeling of oneness with the earth and sea, with the night sky above. Jeez, you think, I’m starting to think like Bodhi.

  “This is a good spot,” Bodhi says, and tosses the soft leather satchel onto the sand. You stand with your hands on your hips, facing the dark ocean, and feel the stress of the day begin to drain away. The moonlight turns the white crests of the waves luminescent as they break toward the shore. Beyond, the sea is a mirror of moonlight, shimmering and sparkling in the dark.

  Bodhi kneels on the sand to pull a blue flannel blanket from his bag of tricks, spreading it with a flick of his wrists. “After you,” he says.

  You kneel on the blanket and face the sea, your legs tucked under you, your gown around your knees.

  Bodhi lowers himself to sit beside you, cross-legged and barefoot in his tux, still managing to look completely in his element.

  He reaches into the bag again, and this time pulls out two long-stemmed glasses and a heavy glass bottle.

  “What else do you have in there?” You laugh. “A coat rack?”

  “Champagne, of course,” he says with a faux-French flair. “Would you expect anything less?”

  “I just wasn’t aware alcohol was part of the whole transcendental thing. No wonder it’s so popular.”

  “Ha, ha,” Bodhi replies. “This is just for tonight. I figured it’s a special occasion, my first Save the Surgically Altered event and all that.”