Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  Panting, I stutter out, “You have a job to do in about ten minutes.”

  Without hesitation, he starts to unbutton his pants, while I lean back into the mirror on the vanity table and try to catch my breath.

  “Baby, I’m so primed to go right now, we’ll be lucky if I last more than thirty seconds inside you.” He looks up quickly, a look of apology crossing his face. “Fuck, I sound like a selfish asshole. But I swear I’ll make it up to you all night if you don’t get off. I’m just going to lose it if I don’t have you right now.” He stops and runs his hands up my thighs, licking his lips. “And this little skirt is crazy hot.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Ticktock, ticktock.” I smirk and slide my hands to his waist, nudging his body toward mine.

  He rips his pants open and shoves his boxers down just enough to pull his length into his hand as I brace myself on the vanity, sensing that I’m going to need all my balance for this speed round. Stretching my legs out to wrap around his waist, I pull him closer and with only a small remaining distance between our bodies, he holds himself to enter me. Just as his tip grazes over my wetness, a loud knock hits the door and Rob’s voice comes through it.

  “Trev? You ready?”

  I freeze. Please God, tell me there is a lock on that door. I can see it in my head: “Oh, hey, nice to see you again, Rob. Why, yes, this is my vagina on display right now, all ripe and ready.” That wouldn’t be humiliating at all.

  Luckily, either Rob is smart enough to know not to open the door after watching our greeting or there is actually a lock on it. I’m going with Rob being smarter than the average bear.

  Trevor makes a guttural noise and hollers back through the door.

  “Fuck off, Shaw!”

  I start to laugh, kind of loud, because it’s a little sitcom-esque. An X-rated sitcom, but still. Trevor drops his head to my shoulder, lets out a loud deep sigh, and then bites down. Hard. I let out a sharp little scream and smack the top of his bare ass in retaliation.

  “It’s not my fault!”

  “You fucked around at the hotel instead of getting here sooner and fucking around with me.”

  Another knock hits the door and Rob shouts again.

  “Be pissed all you want, asshole, but we gotta go do this. Now!”

  Apparently, part of Rob’s job description falls under not putting up with any of the prima donna’s crap. Trevor leans back from me and shoves his still-hard cock into his boxers, adjusts himself with a slight wince, and zips up his jeans. Grabbing his shirt, he runs his hand over my wetness, lingering when a throaty gasp escapes my lungs.

  “That punishment you mentioned earlier? You better be ready for it when I’m done at work, baby. When we get to the hotel, you’re going to be begging me for mercy.”

  I close my legs around his hand and shut my eyes, quickly considering all the ways I want him to teach me a lesson. Jerking his hand out, he licks the tips of his fingers and groans. I slide down off the vanity reluctantly and put all my clothes back in their rightful places. After one long, hard, deep kiss, he opens the door to a glaring Rob.

  Trevor looks at him with a scowl. “What? Here I am. Pissed off and hard. Should make for a stellar show.”

  Rob leans around all the pouting and smiles at me.

  “Kate, do you want to watch the show from the side of the stage or down on the floor?”

  I haven’t given it any thought, but since it’s been years since I was at a concert, it seems appropriate to see it like everyone else. Maybe all this fuss over the infamous Trax will make sense then.

  “I think the floor. That way it will be like I paid for my ticket like everyone else here.”

  Trevor walks away to join the rest of the band and calls back over his shoulder to me.

  “Oh, you’re going to pay, Mosely. You can bet your ass you’re going to pay.”

  A blush blooms across my face, turned on and embarrassed all at the same time. Rob thwacks Trevor on the head with his clipboard as he walks by. Then, raising his hand up, Rob glances down the hall to someone. With a nod, he points down at the top of my head.

  Swiftly, a giant of a man is next to me, bald and red-faced with the kind of neck that is so thick it runs up the back of his skull and pushes out horizontal rolls of muscle around his head. Clasping his hands in front of him, fingers gripped together as if he might kneel down and pray if he wanted to, he doesn’t look me in the eye.

  Rob gestures to the Lurch-looking fellow and then looks at me. “Paulie will get you down there. Stay close to him; you’re his responsibility tonight. If anything happens to you, I’m sure Trev will make Paulie cry like a little girl.”

  With that, Paulie gives me one curt nod and then gestures for us to head down the hallway. Trevor is gone in the opposite direction and I miss him already. Pathetically, I look back over my shoulder. It’s sad really, to be this, what? Penis-whipped? That sounds totally weird and a little gross.

  Emerging from a narrow tunnel, Paulie leads us onto the floor and because I came through a back door, I didn’t have any chance to appreciate how big the venue is. I have to orient my body and find a way to grasp the sheer number of people. Each of them here to see the same person I am. Tilting my head back, I can see up to the cheap seats, and even those are full. As the lights start to go down, an audible rumble erupts from the audience and with barely a moment to adjust to the darkness, a loud bass line explodes from the speakers. Only a few notes escape before that rumble bursts into a broad roar. The crowd apparently recognizes the song and I feel bad that I don’t, because even though I’ve promised myself a few times that I would download his albums, I haven’t done it. I reassure myself that I can’t imagine Trevor has read my book, so we’re probably even on the artistic front.

  All of the cacophony of the audience fades back as the bass line yields to Trevor’s voice. When he barrels out onstage, I end up staring slack-jawed and dumbfounded at the man onstage while offhandedly wondering if he is still a little uncomfortable from our escapades in his dressing room. If so, it’s certainly not slowing him down one bit. After only a few songs, it all starts to make sense and a million pieces fall into place.

  Why does his body look so freaking unbelievable? Because he doesn’t stop moving for a single solitary second. He is all over the stage, jumping, running, and landing gracefully in place wherever he wants. This also explains the delectable amount of endurance he has when we’re together, in any variety of ways.

  Why would people pay hundreds of bucks to see him perform? Because he’s good. Very, very, very good. Moving between powerfully guttural vocals and hip-hop-style lyrics flowing like spoken word poetry, he works every second onstage without missing a beat.

  I want to shout that I get it now. I want to go over to all the scantily clad women pushed up against the stage and shake them by the shoulders, hollering that I understand why they would bare their breasts to him. I especially want to tell him, “You’re incredible. No, really, I get it now.”

  As I gape, entranced like all the rest of them, I see him head to the side of the stage where I’m stuck to the floor, unable to move a single muscle for fear I might miss something. With a long jump in my direction, he ends the song and lands on his toes right in front of me. Beaming, he shoots me an enormous grin and then winks at me. I believe I quite possibly experience a small orgasm. Then off he goes, leaving me standing there completely, absurdly enamored.

  Nearly thirty minutes later, I’m exhausted from ogling but still mesmerized by every move he makes. Then the music softens and I see him slow his body, working toward the front of the stage. A mic stand appears and he takes his place at the leading edge of the stage.

  “OK, we’re gonna do something a little different tonight. It’s a special night here in Seattle and I want give you guys something to remember.”

  The crowd hollers on cue at the mention of their city. All the gloriously complicated lights that had dominated the stage fall away, replaced by a few pared-do
wn spotlights, the brightest falling on Trevor.

  Over the crowd’s screams and hollers, a humble melody begins, slow and spare. Because they don’t recognize it, the audience goes nearly silent and focuses intently to see what will come out of his mouth. When he starts to sing, it’s different from before. Instead of loud and driven, this song turns his voice husky and raw, wrapped in an aching tenderness I can feel on my skin.

  In just a few lines, I recognize it. It’s a cover of an old Springsteen song that I haven’t heard in years. Around him, the audience remains hushed, but every woman in the audience seems to be on the verge of one of those small orgasms I just experienced a few minutes ago. Cell phone cameras are everywhere, dotting the blackness as they record the infamously hardcore Trax, performing a sentimental, intensely moving song with unbelievable sensuality.

  Pulling my gaze from the audience, I watch him, barely moving, his eyes closed and the muscles in his forearms taut from his tight grip on the mic stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Simon, relaxed with his guitar and looking at me with a goofy grin on his face. I tilt my head a little and avert my eyes uncomfortably. Farther behind Simon, the drummer is doing the same thing, not smiling but taking quick glances at me. Then across the stage, standing in the wings, I see Rob. He’s holding that all-important clipboard, grasping it up to his chest with his arms crossed over it. His smile is even bigger than the rest and when he locks his eyes with mine, it grows a bit more.

  Then it hits me like an anvil upside the head. The song. It’s for me.

  19

  When the lights finally dim for good, Paulie escorts me in complete silence out the long tunnel, down the hallway I came in through, and out the door to the limo. The driver is smoking a cigarette, the end lighting up the night with a tiny orange beacon, leaning against the front fender. When he sees us, he straightens up quickly, tossing the butt and rubbing it out with his shoe. Holding the door open for me, he nods and licks his lips.

  “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t realize you would be ready this early.”

  Then he averts his gaze and stares off into the distance at nothing. I would have preferred him to sneak peeks of my cleavage rather than act like I’m some kind of off-limits concubine.

  I slide into the backseat. The leather gets uncomfortably cold as I wait and then wait some more. I’m beginning to feel like a duffel bag instead of a woman. The kind of inanimate object one would throw on the backseat to be picked up when most convenient. When I’m on the verge of letting myself out and going back inside, someone raps a few times on the window glass and opens the door. My belly starts to tumble, hoping to see Trevor there and have my irritation at sitting here for so long drift away.

  When the door opens, Rob is there instead, crouching down to lean inside.

  “Hey, Kate. Sorry, Trevor forgot he has to do a few press photos tonight. I’m trying to keep it short, but he was worried you might be hungry or something. Why don’t we have the driver run you back to the hotel and then I promise he won’t be too far behind.”

  Rob puts his hands together in a prayer configuration and smiles. “Don’t hate me. Trevor already does tonight. I don’t really give a flip if he hates me, but I’d prefer to stay on your good side.” Winking, he smiles again and I shake my head gently.

  “It’s fine.” My stomach is growling a little and sitting around in a limo has completely lost its minimal charm.

  “Perfect. I’ll let Trev know that you’re all set.” Rob sticks his hand out to me. “It was so great to meet you. Now I see what all the fuss has been about.” He shakes my hand and then starts to shut the door. Before it closes completely, he suddenly swings it open again and bows his head back in.

  “Be good to him, Kate. He’s a really good guy. The best there is. And, that’s coming from someone he routinely tells to fuck off. You’re obviously good for him, just don’t let the hype of tonight distract you from the fact that he’s still a regular guy. He needs someone like you in his life. A no-bullshit, never-walk-away, accept-him-as-he-is kind of woman.”

  In the darkness, Rob’s face is barely illuminated by the dim glow radiating from the inside of the limo. Still, the intent behind his little speech is clear. I look down at my hands, clasp them together, and fidget my thumbs over the backs.

  I take a side glance at Rob. “I know.”

  When he shuts the door again, I hear him slap the roof twice, and then the driver pulls away. The privacy glass is up and I’m so tired all of a sudden. Without Trevor, it’s hard to find my bearings in this world. Adding to it the pressure of being something important to him, important enough to get the don’t screw with him speech from Rob, it all feels like the air is getting too thick to breathe in.

  Even though I already knew something inside him needed acceptance for being a regular man—I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice from the beginning—having another person say it aloud is harder to bear. What Rob said, it now feels more like a question. One I’m not sure how to answer.

  Back in the giant hotel suite, the darkness imparts a cavernous feeling and the lights of the skyline’s reflection make the modern décor look sterile in its shadows. The cronuts are cold; instead of yielding to my touch they stiffen under the pressure. I resist the urge to eat them, and instead wander to the kitchen to open up the fridge. All that’s in it are bottles of champagne, a bowl overflowing with ripe strawberries, and a few tins of caviar. It looks like a goddam rap video in there.

  My phone chimes and I peek at the text while dragging the bowl of strawberries out.

  I’m in the limo, be there in a few. When I get there you better be naked except for that hot little skirt and those boots.

  So much for the tender little flower of a man Rob was counseling me about. I roll my eyes a little, the pressure of being everything he needs melting away, because I can just be exactly what he wants right now. For now, it’s enough to be this, without layering on overarching demands. This is where I want to be, with him and near him. And he wants me the same way.

  My body comes alive, knowing that we can lock the door and feel each other again, all night. I pull out a bottle of champagne, because I’m thinking that standing in the middle of a penthouse hotel suite, wearing only a tiny skirt and knee-high boots, sounds exactly like the storyboard for a rap video. The champagne just adds to the tawdry script of it all.

  Rob said not to let watching Trevor onstage get me confused about the man he really is. After seeing him do what he does, though, I feel a little dirty and wrong because I suddenly want Trax . . . more than I’d like to admit. I want Trevor, too, still making it hot, but the idea of playing filthy fangirl sounds like an enticing little diversion to get lost in for a night.

  I pop the champagne cork smoothly, congratulating myself for being so awesome at it, and stroll into the living room where a large teak dining table fills the far side of the space. Stripping off my shirt, I slide off my bra next and then pull off my panties, leaving all the jewelry on because I like how the necklace falls down between my breasts. Big enough to seat twelve, the dining table is rustic but smooth. I give it a test shove with my hips. Sturdy. That’s probably a good thing.

  Setting the bowl of strawberries down, I start to enjoy a few and wash them down with a couple swigs of champagne. The bubbles coat my mouth and I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut as they run down my throat a little too quickly. The strawberries are ripe and succulent, luscious enough that I have to be careful not to let the juice drip down my chin. I take up another and then hear the door to the suite click shut.

  Taking a small bite of the strawberry, I spin around on my heel to see him standing in the living room. The bite is just as juicy as the others, so I take a quick lick off the bitten end and then pucker my lips to suck the fruit a little. He drops the bag he’s holding to the floor and smiles.

  “Holy shit. I didn’t mention the strawberries, but it’s a nice touch.”

  “I was hungry.” Giving him a sly, dirty smile, I hold
the strawberry out toward him. “Want some?”

  Stalking toward me, Trevor leans in to take a bite off the fruit I hold between my index and forefinger. Juice runs down my fingers and as he swallows, I lick the sweetness off using just the tip of my tongue. He leans into me and I think he’s going to kiss my neck. Instead, he reaches around and grabs another strawberry out of the bowl.

  He takes a bite off the tip and watching his mouth makes my heart beat so fast that I lean back into the table for support. With the fruit gently between his fingers, he draws the ripe, moist end over one of my nipples and I watch the light pink juice trace over the stiff peak, my breath hitching in my throat as the cool sensation hits my skin. When he drops his mouth to lick off the juice, I let my head roll back and rest my hands against the table. The posture shoves my breasts forward, allowing him to take more of the flesh into his mouth. I let out a moan and focus on everything he’s doing, not wanting to miss one second of his mouth against me. Moving to the other nipple, he flicks it with his tongue a few times, then bites down gently before lapping away softly.

  Pressing his body into mine, he tears his mouth away from my breasts and kisses me with the same force he had in the dressing room but tempered by the fact that we don’t have a ticking clock working against us. I pull my hands to his chest and feel the contours of his beautiful body under his shirt. When I go to move it off him, he backs up a few inches and shakes his head at me.

  “Always so greedy with getting my shirt off.”

  I frown and give him a little snarl, and he offers a tiny lopsided grin. “I need you; we’ve been away from each other for too long.”

  I want to tell him so much. I want him to know how much he made me feel tonight. All kinds of naughty things, heart-swelling things, and things that make me wild for him. As he pulls his shirt off and starts to unbutton his pants, I whisper meekly, “I want something from you.”