That’s just the problem. I want him to bite. I want him to tear off every stitch of my clothing with his teeth, mark my body, and bite down on my lips. And then ravage me. Lick me with his tongue. Suck me with his lips. And then fuck me every which way he can.
We remain at a gridlock. I still haven’t taken a step or said a word. His violet eyes burn into me.
“Zoey, please don’t make me stand up and fetch you. If you do, I’m going to throw you over my knees and spank you.”
I gulp. My first words: “You would?”
“Of course not, that would be sexual harassment, n’est-ce pas? Maybe even assault and battery.”
Assault me! Take me now!
“Zo-eeey. Please. You’re beginning to stress me out. A limo will be here to pick me up in fifteen minutes. Now, come over here, and give me a quick shoulder massage and then help me get dressed.” He crooks his left index finger and signals for me.
“Okay,” I squeak. With the garment bag draped over my arm, I take one baby step after another. I’m walking like I’m on tightrope about to fall off, except there’s no safety net to catch me.
“Good girl, Zoey,” he says as I near his bed. “Now, lay the garment bag down, and hop on the bed so you can massage my shoulders.”
I’m teetering between fainting and jumping him. Somehow, I will myself to do as asked. I lay the garment bag flat on the giant bed and then crawl on to it so I’m kneeling behind him. I soak in his beautiful muscled back and his broad sculpted shoulders. The body of a swimmer. An Olympian. A God!
Wordlessly, I cup my hands over his shoulders and dig my fingers deep into his bronzed skin, pressing and kneading. He is tensed up; I can feel his knots, especially in his neck, and press deeper to loosen them.
He moans. “Ah, Zoey. So, so, so good. Your hands really are magic.” He moans melodically again, and I wonder: Is this what he sounds like after he has a satisfying orgasm? My own body heats up, and wetness gathers between my legs.
“How do you feel?” I stammer.
“Better.” His voice is sultry and soft. “I’m nervous about tonight.”
“Don’t be. You’re going to win.”
“I doubt it. I have some pretty stiff competition.”
I don’t think he has any competition in the stiffness department. I glance over his shoulder. His monstrous cock is still as hard as a rock. Every nerve in my body is sparking, and another surge of wet heat drips down my thighs. I’m so turned on I could cry.
Rolling his shoulders and head, he lets me know he’s loosened up. “Enough. Help get me dressed now.”
My legs Jell-O, I stumble off the bed and unzip the garment bag. I behold a magnificent black suit draped over a crisp white tux shirt with a plaque of “invisible” buttons and extra long cuffs. A purple bow tie that matches the color of his eyes is wrapped around the hook of the padded hanger, and a pair of black velvet slippers peak out of a shoe bag.
“Start with my shirt,” he orders.
I remove the jacket, laying it gently on the bed, and slide the dress shirt off the hanger, the cool, starched cotton a sharp contrast to my heated hands. He takes it from me and slips it on. “I need you to button it.”
“Okay.” Starting from the bottom button, I do as asked. My eyes stay fixed on his six-pack, and I feel the ripple of each finely honed muscle against my fiery fingertips. I get to the top button and adjust the wing-tipped collar.
He glances down at his hands. “After I put the jacket on, I’m going to need you to do the cuffs.”
My stomach scrunches. I have no experience with cuffs or cufflinks. But next, I have to help him with the slacks. I rummage through the bag for some underwear. Nada.
“Um, uh, aren’t you going to put on some underwear first?”
“Zoey, I don’t wear underwear. I thought you knew that.”
“Oh,” I mutter. So, that fine cock is going to strain against the fine fabric of his trousers. I hope he gives himself plenty of crotch room. I take the satin-piped pants out from the bag.
Squatting down, I slip his two feet into the leg openings and inch the formal pants up to his knees. I’m salivating. His gorgeous cock is only a mouthful way. I can practically taste it. “Stand up.”
At my command, he rises, and I’m once again awed by his imposing size. He looms over me. Gripping the pants by the waistband, I rise, sliding them up his long, muscular legs as I do. I try not to gaze at his erection or get too close to it. Impossible. He smirks at me. Asshole! Tucking in his shirt, I zip up the fly and hook the clasp. Thank goodness, I don’t have to deal with a repeat of the jeans incident.
We’re getting there. I hand him his single-button jacket and he slips it on. I do the button and flatten the satin lapels. It fits him so perfectly, accentuating his wide shoulders and his tapered, athletic physique. The wide cuffs of his shirt, however, hang out from the sleeves. Okay, now I’m in trouble.
“Zoey, the cufflinks are in the bag with my shoes. I reach for the bag and set the black velvet slippers on the floor, arranged so he can easily step into them. I then dip my hand back in the shoe bag and easily find a small silk pouch containing the cufflinks. I shake them out of the delicate see-through bag onto my palm. I study them. They’re simple but elegant gold disks engraved with the letters ET.
“You’re an ET fan? That’s one of my favorite movies too.”
He laughs. “Not at all.” And then his expression turns a bit somber. “These cufflinks belonged to my father. His name was Edward.”
“Oh,” I mumble, covering up my embarrassment. I catch sight of a family photo on his nightstand and can see the powerful resemblance.
“They’re my lucky cufflinks. My most treasured possession. I may win tonight if I wear them.”
A wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if I break them or can’t fasten them? It’ll jinx his chance of winning the Best Actor award. Oh, God! What should I do?
Brandon’s impatient voice cuts into my despair. “Zoey, what are you waiting for?” Using his splint-free fingers, he plucks one of the cufflinks out of my hand. “I’ll hold this one while you insert the other.”
After a short internal debate, I decide not to tell him that I don’t know the first thing about cufflinks. I don’t even know where to start. Logic tells me I’m supposed fold up the cuff that drapes over the back of his hand, lining up the two sets of button holes, and then insert the cufflink into each slit to hold the cuff together. Fumbling, I manage to fold up the stiff, starched fabric and line up the holes. A fine layer of soft dark hair dusts the edge of his large, manly hand.
Pinching the edges of the cuff together with one hand, I attempt to slip the bottom half of the cufflink through the top slit with the other. Makes sense. Except I can’t get the disk through no matter how hard I try. My hands are shaking and the damn buttonhole won’t give an inch.
“Zoey, what’s taking so long? The limo will be here any minute.”
At the sound of Brandon’s miffed voice, I panic, and the cufflink slips through the cracks of my fingers.
“Oh shit!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just dropped your cufflink.”
“Jesus,” he says, following my eyes to the carpeted floor.
Crap. Where is it?
“I don’t see it!” he exclaims.
“Me neither!” My voice is thick with despair. I drop down on all fours and frantically search the carpet. Brandon follows suit, getting down on his hands and knees in his tux, the unfolded cuff trailing along the floor. We circle each other in our desperate scavenger hunt. Why can’t we find it? It couldn’t have gone far. And it shouldn’t be that hard to spot.
Guilt stabs me in the gut and shoots through my blood. These are his lucky cufflinks—a family heirloom. If he doesn’t wear them, he may not win tonight and it’ll be all my fault. My eyes start to water. Several rebel tears escape and fall to the carpet.
“Why are you crying?” To my surprise, Brandon’s voice is soft
and sweet.
“I feel terrible. If we don’t find it, I’ll jinx your chances of winning. I’m so, so sorry.”
I’ve never failed him like this. But to my even greater surprise, Brandon grabs the edge of the loose cuff and dabs at my tears. “Stop it. We’re going to find it. It has to be here. Maybe it’s on the bed.” He stands up, slipping his bare feet into his tux slippers.
“Ow!” he shouts out.
Plunking back down on the fluffy bed, he removes one of the slippers and gives it a little shake. His face brightens with an ear-to-ear grin.
“Look what I just found!” He holds up the cufflink.
“Phew! Thank, God,” I say with a loud sigh of relief. I leap to my feet.
He winks at me. “Here. Try again.”
Before he can hand it to me, I draw in another sharp breath and, on the exhale, tell him the truth. “Brandon, I have a confession. I don’t know a damn thing about cufflinks.” With my help or without it, he may not be wearing his lucky charms. A resurgence of guilt mixes with despair.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do them myself.”
What!?
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets as I watch him yank the splints off his fingers and fling them across the room.
“B-but—”
“My fingers are just fine now,” he says as he fastens the cufflinks with ease.
For the second time tonight, my mouth crashes to the floor and I can’t get a word to form. Finally, while he adjusts his bow tie around his collar, my mouth moves.
“Why the hell—”
He cuts me off. “Because I was having too much fun with you. I liked having you feed me and dress me.”
I want to kill him! The asshole—make that, the sadistic bastard—tricked me. Played me for a patsy. He’s done a lot of things to piss me off, but nothing comes close to this. I’m humiliated and furious. My blood is curdling. Did I tell you how much I really, really want to kill him?? His voice hurls me out of my treacherous thoughts.
“How do I look?” Smiling, he makes a final adjustment to his bow tie. The rich purple color turns his eyes an even deeper shade of violet. Two sparkling amethysts.
Holy hotness! My heart flutters and my pussy pulses. I’m melting like a popsicle. He looks breathtaking. Devastating. Sexy as sin. Every bit the big star he is.
“Y-you look…beautiful.” So, so, beautiful. I think I’m going to die.
He flicks my chin, and the very touch of him brings me closer to my inevitable demise. A glint in his eyes and a small grateful smile light up his face. “Thanks, Zoey.”
Before I can reply, I hear a car pull into the driveway. He hears it too.
“That must be my limo.”
With a sinking heart, I follow him into the living room. It takes another nosedive at the sight of Katrina. Clad in a body-hugging sparkly gown in an eye-catching shade of coral, she looks like a goddess. Her golden hair cascades over her shoulders like a shimmering cape and an array of glittering diamonds light her up like the glimmering North Star. She completely ignores me. It’s as if I don’t exist.
She grabs Brandon’s hand. “Come on, darling, let’s go. I don’t want to miss one red carpet opportunity.”
“Good luck tonight, Brandon,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. Yet, every word’s an effort.
He looks over his shoulder as Katrina hurls him toward the door. Our eyes connect. I swear there are sparks flying between us. The ache in my core is palpable.
His eyes never leave mine as he quirks a small melancholic smile. “Thanks, Zoey. Look for me on TV.”
Fighting back tears, I simply nod. They disappear, and after a forlorn sigh, I hear the limo pull away.
I slump down onto the couch and bury my head between my hands. I feel like poor Cinderella, left behind for the ball. Except Cinderella was way better off. At least she had a couple of cute mice to hang out with to cheer her up along with a trusty fairy godmother to make her dreams come true. Bippity-boppity-boo.
Brandon
Flash! My eyes flutter madly. My head hurts. I’m having a memory breakthrough. I remember something and silently curse. I hate this shit. It’s a goddamn circus. A media frenzy. The part of being a megastar that I despise. Our limo pulls up to the entrance of the Beverly Hilton, and even before we step out of the car, paparazzi storm us. Click! Click! Click! The never-ending flashes blind my eyes and clog my eardrums. I fake a megawatt Hollywood smile when really what I want to do is smash each and every one of these assholes’ cameras. Wearing Katrina on my arm like a clunky piece of jewelry, the walk of fame down the red carpet feels like an eternity. That’s because my fiancée insists on talking to every E! Entertainment reporter who accosts her and mugging for the paparazzi and glamcams. While zealous fans gathered outside the hotel are roaring “We love you, Bratrina!” and hoping to get a shot of us with their phones, I seriously feel like Mr. Katrina Moore.
A fashion blogger runs up to Katrina. “I love your dress. Who are you wearing?”
“Monique Hervé. She’s also designing my wedding gown.”
“When are the two of you getting married?”
Looking straight into a camera, she spews the date. “Saturday, May twenty-third, six p.m. Pacific Standard Time. Check your local listings and be sure to tune into Celebrity-TV for the special edition of America’s It Girl.”
Flashing a big smile and her ring, she sounds like a walking commercial for our wedding. I want to vomit.
Another female reporter runs up to us. “Bratrina, so glad to have you here. Tell me, Brandon, with your recent accident, did you ever think you’d not see this night?”
“Well—”
Katrina cuts me off. “We always knew this moment would come. I prayed for it every minute while I sat by his bedside in the hospital.”
The reporter’s face turns to mush. “That’s so beautiful I could cry. Oh, and congratulations on your engagement. The best of luck to the both of you.”
We’re stopped yet another time. The bubbly Asian reporter shoves a mike into my face. “Congratulations on your nomination, Brandon. Do you think you’re going to win tonight?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m wearing my father’s lucky cufflinks. So there’s a chance.”
Katrina: “Darling, of course you’re going to win.”
“Is there anyone at home you want to say hello to?” the reporter asks.
Katrina grabs the mike. “Hi, Mommy.” She waves. “And Daddy, if you’re watching this from prison, just know I love you.”
I have to say I’m a little touched. The reporter takes the mike and angles it back at me. “And what about you, Brandon?”
Just one person. “Yo, Zoey.” I blow her a kiss. I hope she’s watching and catches it wherever she is.
Katrina shoots me a dirty look. Make that a look that can kill.
Is everyone and their mother nominated for an award? The Emmy’s, now that I remember, are bad enough, but the Golden Globes go on ad nauseam because they cover both motion pictures and television. Oh, and now they even give awards to online shows produced by Amazon and Netflix among others.
The only thing that makes these awards bearable is that you get to eat and drink during the show. Unlike the Emmy’s where you’re trapped for hours in a stadium-sized auditorium downtown, at the Globes, you’re served a full-course gourmet dinner in the expansive but more intimate Beverly Hilton ballroom. The place looks spectacular with dazzling arrangements of flowers on every table and is overflowing with Hollywood glitterati dressed to the hilt. If I had to guess, there must be over two thousand attendees and that’s not counting the press.
Everyone looks like they’re having a blast. A chumminess saturates the room—reminiscent of a camp reunion. Hugs and kisses abound. As we make our way to our table, I’m both astounded and humbled by the number of people who stop to congratulate me and express their relief that I’m okay. Wow! Even De Niro and Scorsese give me man hugs and Glenn Close gives me a bi
g kiss on the cheek. But most I don’t recognize on account of my amnesia. Especially those nominated for all these cable series and movies I can’t recall. Zoey’s briefing only went so far. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never catch up.
Our table consists of the Conquest Broadcasting nominees. In addition to me, there are several other stars, directors, and producers nominated, including Kurt Kussler director, Niall Davies. Also at our table is CBC production chief, Blake Burns and his lovely wife Jennifer, the head of MY-SIN TV, the women’s erotica channel that’s part of Conquest Broadcasting. We chat and I learn that several of her series are up for awards.
“When you have the time, you really must do one of our telenovelas,” she tells me over the salad course. “We’re putting Shards of Glass, another one of Arianne Richmonde’s erotic romances into development, and you’d be perfect to play the lead, Daniel Glass. Women love you. Oh, and by the way, I love Kurt Kussler. I so hope you win tonight.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “I’d love to be considered for the role if my production schedule allows.” So far, except for a short hiatus over the summer, the chances aren’t good.
She takes a sip of her champagne. “Oh, and I suppose I should congratulate you on your engagement. I’m glad it’s working out between you and Kat. More than you’ll ever know.”
Just like Blake, she calls my fiancée Kat. She’s a little bit more supportive of our nuptials though hardly what I’d call enthusiastic. There’s something unspoken. Do I really know the whole story? Maybe there’s more to learn, but tonight’s not the night.
Katrina is seated on the other side of me. After a very cold but cordial hello to both Jennifer and Blake, she’s been on good behavior. Thank God. Most of the time, to be honest, she’s been working the room, hobnobbing with every A-list celebrity, talking to reporters, and posing for photographers. And when she’s not up and about, she’s been tweeting non-stop, snapping photos, and taking selfies with her iPhone.
Comediennes Tina Fey and Amy Poehler are co-hosting this year’s awards, and they’ve had the audience roaring with laughter. Though they’re not on my memory radar, they’re two funny chicks. While their opening jibe about Bratrina becoming a popular baby name and their ensuing Kurt Kussler “Get it. Got it? Good.” spoof had me flushing with embarrassment, the audience was in stitches as was Katrina. The presenters, however, haven’t been as entertaining, and now they’re going through a phase of documentary film awards that I could care less about. Naturally, they leave all the big awards like mine to the end so viewers will stay tuned. I’m getting restless, plus Katrina is bugging me to take selfies with her that she can post on Instagram. No thank you. During a commercial break, I take a run to the little boys’ room.
Unforgettable Page 18