by Mimi Strong
“Guys don't understand,” she said.
The shower turned off, and we stared at each other for a while, not saying anything.
Finally, she smiled and said, “But you're having fun now, right?”
“Yes,” I said, and I mostly believed myself.
Todd came out of the bathroom, all steamy and shy, with a towel wrapped around his waist to protect what remained of his modesty.
He gathered up his clothes, his new girlfriend, and they left. We all had an uncomfortable series of hugs and chaste kisses by the door, because the evening wouldn't be complete without more awkwardness.
After they were gone, I walked out onto the patio to look over the city and be with my thoughts.
I was on top of the world, but floating in the vast outer space of my solitude.
I wished I smoked, because the sun was coming up, pink creeping across the horizon, and it would have been a damn fine time for a smoke.
PART 4: À TOUT LE MONDE
In the morning, hungover with lips as dry as paper, I thought things couldn't get any worse, then I crawled out of bed and found a pair of panties stuck to my stomach. Someone else's panties.
I was a college graduate, though, so I used the skills I'd learned during first year, when binge drinking was a required course for freshmen. I brushed my teeth, but didn't spit out the suds. I quaffed them back with a cup of water, jumped up and down a few times, then got down over the toilet and shoved my finger down my throat. Up came the remains of the sins of the previous evening.
“I'm getting too old for this,” I muttered to myself.
I took some aspirin, more water, and had a hot shower. As I got dressed and toweled my hair, I felt almost human again. Flashes of the previous evening flitted through my head, the images alternating between turning me on and giving me pulses of dread.
On the other side of my closed bedroom door, Smith was talking to someone—a woman. More than one woman. What the hell? I finished putting myself together and came out, my hair still damp.
He was sitting at the long, formal dining room table, reading the newspaper. To my relief, the women he'd been talking to were cleaning ladies, zipping around the room and tidying up from our party the night before.
Smith peered at me over the top of his newspaper, those blue eyes like an ocean swallowing me whole. “Good morning, princess,” he said.
“Princess?”
“There's tea, of course. I think we'll take today off. No writing today.”
I could feel the housekeepers' stares, their salacious curiosity.
“I might run out for a latte,” I said.
“I'll have one sent up,” he said, reaching for the phone.
“I need some fresh air.”
He waved to the open doors. “Patio.”
“Smith.”
“Tori.”
The housekeepers pretended not to be listening, sweeping the same spot on the floor.
“I'm in Montreal,” I said. “If we're not working today, I don't want to spend all day in this hotel room.”
He folded his newspaper and looked perplexed, ever the gentleman for the benefit of the strangers in the room. “Darling, I have a whole day of sightseeing planned.”
“All the more reason for me to whip out and get a proper latte,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Darling.”
He picked up his tablet and focused on the screen, dismissing me with a wave.
I bypassed the hotel's restaurant, worried I'd run into Rochelle and Todd there, and hurried across the street and down the block. Where was I going? I didn't know, but it felt good to be free of Smith, defying his attempts to control my body and my time.
I found a coffee shop with a shaded outdoor patio, and got myself a rather strong latte.
As I was sipping my coffee, I heard a man flirting with a woman. His voice low and sexy, he said, “Mind if I join you?”
After he repeated himself for the third time, I realized he was talking to me, and it wasn't just any man, but Remi, the sexy golden-curled singer from the night before.
“I know there are other tables,” he said, his French accent coming out more in his speech than it had in his singing. “But a person can not blame me for asking such a beautiful woman.”
I waved to the seat across from me. “Be my guest.”
“Did you have good times last night?” he asked.
“I think so. The concert was really good. You're awesome. I mean you and your band are awesome.”
“Ah, yes. It was not our best. I was not my best, but I was distracted.” He grinned. “I was very lucky last night, after.”
“After? How lucky? Did you bring two or three girls back to your hotel room?”
He laughed, but didn't deny the idea. His blue eyes twinkled, and with his cherubic curls, he looked like a well-disguised devil.
“You must have threesomes all the time,” I said.
He shrugged. “Three. Four. Life is for love.”
“What's the etiquette? Is it rude to sit back and just watch?”
“No.” He sipped his coffee. “Sometimes I like to watch.”
I hid my dirty smile behind my cup. Talking to a stranger about sex was waking me up more than the caffeine.
“Women are my inspiration,” he said. “Of course I watch.”
I said, “If you loved someone, would you allow another man to make love to her?”
“Make love, no.” He made a fist. “Fuck? Yes. Not every day, but… maybe. Maybe sometimes.” His expression grew serious and he pushed back from the bistro table. “No, that is a lie. If I loved this woman, I would not share her with anyone.” He grinned. “I would lock her away at the top of a castle. Like Rapunzel. With the long hair.”
I grabbed my damp, red hair and twirled it into a rope. This man, Remi, was having a powerful effect on me that was both emotional and physical. My body tingled, and he made the rest of the world disappear when he looked into my eyes.
“You could be my Rapunzel,” he said.
I was fidgeting with a sugar packet on the table top, and he grabbed my fingertips in his and stroked the top of my thumb. His touch on my hand was magnetic, drawing my energy into him.
I gazed up into his eyes, and he said something in French. I had no idea what the words meant, but I liked them. He kept talking, spinning a melodic tale, with the occasional word that sounded familiar, all the while stroking my hand. He had such a gift, and I felt like he was hypnotizing me, touching my body with his words.
Something slammed, a noisy commotion, and the table was suddenly tipping over. My coffee sprayed down my front, and I jumped up and back, tipping the bistro chair and nearly toppling myself. Remi had both hands up, palms facing his attacker, and he was gushing what sounded like apologies.
His attacker had short, silver-shot blond hair, and a strong-jawed face that currently bore the expression of a bulldog. A bulldog who just caught another dog gnawing his favorite bone.
“Fucking Smith!” I yelled, slapping him on the shoulders to let go of the younger man.
Remi had a manic expression, a howling mix of horror and laughter. As soon as Smith let go of his shirt, the man puffed up his chest and bounced from foot to foot, fists up like a boxer.
I let out a few more choice swear words, grabbed Smith Fucking Wittingham by the wrist, and yanked him away. Some people had gathered to watch the fight, and flashes went off as people took photos. Flashes?
As we walked back up the street, in the direction of the hotel, the flashes continued, and it seemed people were following us.
I stopped and turned to yell at the people,“What's your problem?”
More flashes went off in my face, and then finally my smarter brain cells sent the stupider ones the message. This just in: A famous billionaire novelist was just in an altercation with an up-and-coming rock star and maybe, just maybe, gossip rags might find that interesting.
We hurried back to the Hotel Le St. James, neither of us turning to look back.
The photographers, or paparazzi I guess, didn't pursue us past the burly doorman.
I couldn't gauge Smith's mood, but it didn't seem great. I could understand how it must have upset him to see another man holding my hand and gazing into my eyes, but it wasn't like the man was naked and plowing me from behind while I cried out in ecstasy, you know?
We got back into the penthouse, and Smith barked at the housekeepers to leave immediately.
“They're not done yet,” I said, a tremor in my voice.
He started removing his belt. “Out!” he yelled, and they scurried out the door.
We were alone, and he snapped the belt in his hands.
I put my hands on my hips. “Is that supposed to scare me? Are you going to spank me?”
He lowered his chin and stared at me through his eyebrows menacingly.
A tremor of fright shook through me, and I ran. I ran for the exit, but he was between me and it, so I ran for the second bedroom, the one he'd been sleeping in.
I shut the door behind me and tried to lock it, but my hand was shaking, and it took me forever. Smith didn't even try the handle. He tapped on the door politely.
“Tori? I didn't mean to scare you. Open up.”
A nervous laugh escaped my lips. I didn't know what I was feeling, what to call the emotion that was making me cover my mouth with one hand while the other hand rubbed between my legs. The rock star. The running. His jealousy. I was so unbelievably turned on.
“I have an idea,” he said softly. “How about you open the door, and I give you the spanking you so richly deserve. We'll fuck each other's brains out. Then we'll go out and see some of the sights. Sun and fresh air will be good for both of us.”
I kept rubbing that spot between my legs.
He tapped again. “Please? I don't want to kick this door down, but I will.”
“You're bad for me!”
Softly, barely audible, he said, “Don't make me beg.”
I turned the handle and clicked the door open.
There he was, already shirtless, his trousers on, but unbuttoned, a bulge visible behind the zipper.
He slapped the looped belt against his open palm. “Pull up your dress, pull down your panties, and lean over the bed.”
Legs shaking, I did as I was told.
He rubbed my buttocks with his hands.
“That singer made you hot, didn't he? Your little pussy's all wet.”
He ran one thick finger up the insides of my thighs and then along my lips and opening.
“That's for you,” I said.
He brought the looped belt down on my ass. It made a thwapping sound, but didn't hurt as much as his palm would have.
I buried my face in my hands. “The singer made me hot,” I said, the devil in me putting a giggle in my voice. “If you hadn't come along when you did… I was going to seduce him.”
Thwap.
I continued, “I was going to suck his big, rock star cock.”
Thwap.
“And then I was going to fuck his brains out.”
Thwap. Thwap.
“I wanted him to fuck me in the ass.”
Thwap.
“Like a dirty girl.”
Thwap.
I stopped talking and just cried out in pleasure and longing, one low moan, hugging the bed with my arms.
Smith responded by dropping the belt. Something pressed at my pussy, something much larger than his fingers. He slid in easily on my slick juices, and I cried out in surprise as he buried himself in me.
He pumped me a few times, then pulled out and pressed the tip of his cock against my flesh, one door away from my pussy.
I got very quiet, unsure of what was going to happen next.
“Relax,” he said. “It'll feel good.”
He had both hands on my buttocks, massaging them, and I did try to relax.
“Good girl.” He nudged down again and stroked in and out of my pussy a few more times, his flesh rubbing against mine, then he pointed up again and the tip slid right into my tight hole.
“Oh!” And there he was, balls-deep in my ass.
He let out a low, sexy growl. “There's my princess,” he said, and he began to slide more vigorously in and out.
His shaft seemed wider now, in this tighter hole, and as he pulsed in and out, the sensations shifted from specific friction and pressure to more of a whole-body tingle.
I grunted and asked him to give me more, harder.
And he did.
We adjusted positions a few times, moving all the way onto the bed, and as he balled my ass, he rubbed my slick nub with his fingers until I came. I moaned and curled into the sensation of pleasure, worrying I was going to tighten too much and hurt him, but he kept assuring me that everything was perfect. After I came, he gave me three quick, hard thrusts, and then he groaned as he came.
We lay together in silence for a few seconds, then he withdrew and slapped me on the ass, hard enough to leave a big, red palm mark.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” he said, and then he disappeared to the washroom to clean up.
A lesson?
Losing my back door virginity had been insane, in the good way.
I didn't get it. What lesson? That good things happen after you flirt with strange men?
PART 5: THE END OF THE DETECTIVE NOVEL
After spanking and fucking, we ventured back out of the hotel suite and spent the remainder of the day acting like garden-variety tourists. We went to a souvenir shop and bought some tacky T-shirts and big hats, and we joined a walking tour and then a bus tour.
We visited the top of Mount Royal, the mountain that gave the city of Montreal its name. The mountain was also a gorgeous park, right in the middle of the city, like Central Park in New York. I learned that the same landscape architect, Frederick Law Olmsted, was involved in the plans for both parks.
Smith and I sat on the grass and watched an eclectic group of people play their drums, called tam-tams. He wrapped his arm around me, as if I might float away with the sound of the drums if he ever let me go. The only moment he wasn't touching me was when we walked around Philips Square, and he ran into a fancy department store to use the washroom while I bought ice cream.
That night, we dined at a fancy place, and I wore nice clothes and behaved myself.
Smith seemed disappointed by my good behavior.
He asked me to tell him about the trip I took to Mexico with Todd. I got angry at him again for all his spying, but he laughed and reminded me I'd sorta mentioned Mexico during the threesome (or was it a foursome?) with Todd.
I apologized and told him about our trip, which hadn't been half as memorable as a single day in Montreal with Smith. He kept asking for more details, like what hotels did we stay in, and how many times per day did we make love.
“I don't remember,” I said.
“My wife and I made love twice a day on our honeymoon.”
At the mention of his wife, a hard knot formed in my belly. I looked around the restaurant in desperation for something interesting enough to change the topic.
“Twice a day,” he repeated
I'd asked about her before, but now I didn't want to know. I swirled my wine and tried not to react.
“Until she got pregnant,” he said.
“I didn't know you had kids.”
“We don't.”
He reached for the wine, refilled both of our glasses, and changed the topic to investing. He perked up as he talked about the stock market, and his love-hate relationship with high finance.
We slept together in the master bedroom that night.
In the morning, he woke me up with kisses, and we made love languidly, with both of us on our sides and him behind me, sliding in and out. It felt lazy and decadent on the expensive sheets, in the calm morning light.
We had tea and breakfast, and returned to working on the novel.
This was the thirteenth day of our engagement, and we were reaching the end.
Anothe
r nice dinner that night, almost routine.
And then it was the fourteenth. Our final day.
The detective story finished with Detective Dunham simultaneously solving the case and pleasuring two women at once. I would have rolled my eyes more, but the sex scene was pretty damn hot, thanks to some rather convincing details lifted from recent experiences.
We finished at three o'clock, earlier than expected, but he'd been narrating the end almost faster than I could type. The pace made me feel like we were Jack and Jill, tumbling down a hill of words, all the plotlines coming together in a perfect web of story to catch us at the bottom.
Smith said, “The end.”
I thought he was joking, and I didn't type the words.
“The end,” he repeated, pointing at the screen.
I typed the words. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “It's the best part, typing those words. Center that line so it looks nice.”
“I thought the best part was cashing the pay checks.”
“You mean the advance. Or the royalties. Authors don't get pay checks.”
“Well, la dee da,” I said, grinning. “I know you don't want any commentary, but I have to say I'm glad Detective Dunham got together with Sheri at the end. That's really nice.”
“They'll have to break up at the beginning of the next one.”
“No!”
He shrugged. “Fine, I'll have her killed. Tori, I hope you know Sheri's death is on your hands. Your murderous hands.”
“Big, mean author.” I swatted his butt.
Smith took my hand and led me over to the sofa in the penthouse's living room. The sun was gleaming in, and it was such a scorcher of a summer day, I could practically hear the greenery on the patio crying out for water.
Smith looked at me with those bright blue eyes that made everything else blurry by comparison.
“Tori, I want to take care of you.”
I rubbed my finger down his cheek, which bore blond stubble, as he hadn't shaved in two days. “That's sweet of you, but I can take care of myself.”
“I'm giving you a co-author credit. It'll be a small percent, but should give you some regular income.”