While making me come harder, I’m sure! Because what other effect is this supposed to have on me? I’m looking right into Logan’s passionately dark eyes in a darker room in one of the most respectable movie theaters in America. His lips slightly part. So do mine. We don’t dare kiss when someone could look up and see us in this moment. It’s bad enough they would catch us locking gazes while we jerk each other off. Yup. That’s what my hand is doing now. Jerking off this cock in my hand. Between his gaze and his swelling, I’m about to…
“That’s it.” Logan’s voice is right in my ear but also a million miles away. Orgasm hits me, my inner walls closing tight around his fingers, refusing to let them go until I’m done riding out my pleasure. My eyes want to close. They can’t. They’re too busy looking for Logan’s approval… which they get, if I can count on that grin to be telling me the truth. “Come for me, Daphne. Come undone.”
Composure. Carefully trained composure I’ve been practicing since I was a little girl in the world of the rich and famous. That’s the only thing keeping me from moaning in this public balcony. Do I want to, though! I want to thrust hard against Logan’s fingers. I want to grab his wrist and feel it tremble in my grasp. I want to kiss him and let go of his cock so it’s still hard when he throws me down on the floor and fucks me senseless with it. My thoughts are consumed with more than fingering while I ride out a long orgasm.
Logan sits back in his seat, fingers going to his lips as he licks my essence off them. His gaze never leaves mine. He’s making love to his own fingers like he probably wishes he could make love to the place they just were.
“You’re exquisite, Daphne DeMarco.”
I crash back to reality.
Oh my God.
What have I done?
I snatch my hand out of Logan’s pants. The closer my hand gets to my face, the more I smell his natural scent. It’s so heady that my instincts tell me to fall face first into his lap and suck him for all he’s worth. What the fuck! I hate giving head! It’s so boring and…
Something tells me it wouldn’t be boring with Logan.
“You okay?” The spark is gone from Logan’s eyes. Concern takes over. “Did something happen?”
Yeah, I let you finger me, asshole!
Holy crap. Holy shit. In a theater? At his mother’s movie premier? With the guy who told a national magazine that I’m a slut and into gangbangs?
What the fuck am I doing!
“Daphne?”
I fix my clothes before standing up. Before Logan can ask me what’s wrong again, let alone attempt to take me by the hand, I’m gone from the balcony and taking off for no place in particular.
You’re a bad girl and you should feel ashamed! I’d tell my conscience to take a hike, but I have no business telling that piece of shit anything right now.
Chapter 3
LOGAN
Did that happen? Did I finger Daphne DeMarco in plain sight? Furthermore, did she give my cock a few complimentary strokes for my efforts?
Ho boy.
It takes me about five seconds to realize she’s run out on me. Well, me and my erection, which I quickly, painfully tuck into my pants so I won’t embarrass myself when I race after her. Which I do, by the way. I catch glimpses of her brown hair and pink dress as it disappears around corners, past guards, and thankfully not into a women’s restroom, which she passes twice.
“Daphne!” She never responds. “Hey! Wait a sec! Let’s talk!”
Me? Talk? I must be high on her pheromones, because Logan Dean doesn’t talk, unless it’s dirty foreplay.
Daphne bursts into the lobby and stalls outside the main entrance. She probably doesn’t know where to go or if she should contact someone.
As I’m about to approach her and suggest we find somewhere private to talk, I bump into the one person I was really hoping to avoid for a while.
“Logan! Well, fancy that!”
I grimace, eyes darting between Daphne’s faraway figure and the woman now standing between us. “Mother,” I say with a sour grin.
Daphne turns around, gasping at the sight of my movie star mother and me conversing not too far away. I count my lucky stars that she’s not running away in terror.
“So good to see you here again.” My mother pats my arm and catches where I’m staring. “Who’s that? Some charming friend of yours?”
My throat is so dry that it feels like swallowing sandpaper whenever I try to speak. Here’s the thing: I have never, ever brought a girl home for my mother to meet. I have never voluntarily introduced her to a girl I’m sleeping with, or even casually dating. Nope. Not ever. It’s never been any of her business. Besides, I don’t want to get her hopes up. She would never understand that the women I’m with are nothing more than temporary fuck buddies.
Sure, she knows that I have quite the voracious appetite and reputation. She’s even bumped into some of the girls I’ve dated and had flings with, but I’ve never introduced her to a girl I’m currently pursuing, let alone the girl I just fingered. Hopefully she can’t see what I’ve got tucked in my pants. I think I would die.
“Mom,” I try to stay gracious as I suck Daphne into this terrifying fold. “This is Daphne DeMarco, of the department store chains.” I step aside, and my mother instantly gravitates toward the woman I would call my date. Run, Daphne. Why did you ever stop running? “Daphne, this is my mother… Camilla Dean.”
Daphne shakily raises her hand for a friendly shake. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Dean. I love your work.”
“No, pleased to meet you, sweetheart.” My mother’s eyes narrow as she scrutinizes Daphne’s appearance, from her coifed brown hair to her powdery pink dress. What ensues is one of the most awkward minutes I’ve ever endured around my mother. This is a woman who has read all about my exploits in the tabloids and I’m sure has heard some naughty things on the grapevine. My mother is sexually liberal – how else do you think I came about? – but it can’t be pleasant to hear these things about your own flesh and blood that you birthed during the peak of your acting career. What’s killing me is that Daphne isn’t anything like the other girl’s I’ve dated. There’s no reason for my mother to tear her apart with a mere glance. Yet here we are, and all I can do is rehearse how I’m going to apologize to Daphne later. If she’ll even talk to me, that is.
“I like your style, Miss DeMarco,” the venerable Camilla Dean says after that agonizing minute. “Fresh, but elegant.”
I sigh in relief. Daphne manages a small smile of appreciation. She has no idea what bullet she’s dodged by not making my mother think she’s some flashy heiress who barely knows how to slap together an outfit.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Dean.” Daphne regains her feisty countenance now that she has my mother’s approval. Great. Now they’re going to gang up against me, aren’t they? “You’re stunning as well. Are you wearing Cartier?”
A delicate hand flutters to my mother’s neck, where a thick necklace encrusted with diamonds rests. “Indeed, I am. You have a good eye.”
So much relief right now. I was expecting the absolute worst with my mother, having never introduced her to someone before… and considering the state Daphne was in when she ran away from me, I had no idea how she would have handled this on the fly.
My good mood may have come too soon, though, because my mother suddenly bursts into a slew of questions, the first of which I can’t even really answer.
“So!” She glances around the theater lobby, probably searching for some cameramen to flash a smile too. Or, God forbid, grab Daphne and I into a motherly embrace so we can look picture perfect for tomorrow’s gossip columns. Or maybe I’ll be shoved out of the way entirely so she and Daphne can hit the “HOT” lists in the fashion pages. I wouldn’t put it past her. My mother loves her exposure. “Did you enjoy the movie?”
Daphne blushes such a deep crimson that she almost turns purple. I, on the other hand, am used to playing this game with my mother and can give her my opinions uncensored.<
br />
“Loved it, Mom,” I say. “Although I think Daphne may have liked it even more than I did. Every time I looked at her, she was flushed and fanning herself through the sex scenes.”
Daphne gasps. “There were sex scenes?” she whispers in my direction. Uh, duh. Did she miss the part where my mother walked into the professor’s office and gave him a blowjob beneath his desk?
I laugh. Daphne looks like she wants the earth to swallow her whole, but not before she smacks her satchel against my arm. As always, I appreciate getting a rise out of Daphne DeMarco. Not that it’s hard or anything.
My mother is more than shell-shocked over this playful exchange between us. That’s right. This is something not even the tabloids have been able to capture between girls and me. Anytime we played for the cameras it was always so forced and posed that my media savvy mother must have noticed.
Her perplexity is soon replaced with a dreamy smile. “Yes, that was done quite artistically, don’t you think?”
Let me tell you, I had the great misfortune of seeing my mother’s cleavage pop out of her blouse before she disappeared beneath that desk, and nothing about any of it screamed artistic to me.
But I can’t resist the opportunity to torment my sweet Daphne even more.
“Indeed,” I say, somber. “Daphne is artistic herself. That’s probably why she got so into them. I could swear I caught her panting at one point.”
Daphne’s pretty pink lips drop open. My mother laughs, although is shortly interrupted by a rough photographer calling out her name. She politely excuses herself to go tend to the world at large, leaving me with my date who looks like she wants to slaughter me.
“Wasn’t that good fun?”
I don’t get the reaction I thought I would get.
I don’t get playful banter. I don’t get a light slug to the arm again. I don’t even get a joke at my expense.
What I get is hot tears of humiliation and a growl in her throat.
Before I can react, her hand hits my face with a crackling smack! Daphne spins around and storms off for the women’s room while I’m left to stand here and nurse the burning sensation spreading through my cheek. That slap is still echoing in my ears!
“Trouble in paradise, Logan?” a photographer shouts at me. Of course, this whole debacle has been caught on camera.
It’s all I can do to not send them a million daggers from my eyes and shout back, “How’s that for a hot story!”
Chapter 4
DAPHNE
I don’t think I can eat another scoop of ice cream for the rest of my life.
For the past week, I’ve cooped myself up in this stifling apartment, eating junk food when my stomach aches get too bad. Basically, I’ve been existing on Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough and a box of donuts Ashleigh brought over a few days ago. She claimed to be worried about me. Not worried enough to block me from seeing Logan Dean that first time!
The donuts are all that are left now, since I can’t fathom eating another spoon of ice cream. Since they’re so old – and the box has been opened, yay – they’re getting moldy, and I won’t risk it.
This is when I realize I can’t stay in my apartment forever.
Never mind that everyone, from Ashleigh to my housekeeper to my stylist, have warned me to keep to myself for a few more days. This past week has apparently been nothing but a shit storm of blog posts, tabloid articles, and terrible high society gossip that no one will cop to having – but you know everything does it!
It all started with Logan’s damn interview. Then someone took a photo of me arriving at his place, even though I swear there were no paps around. All hell subsequently broke loose after the movie premier in New York.
Photos of everything exist. Everything. No, not the naughty shit we did up in the balcony, but everything else that mattered. God. If anyone knew about me stroking Logan’s cock or him finger fucking me until I came… I would die! Not to mention my parents arriving to throttle me and cry for my dead virginity. I think my mother would literally head to the nearest cathedral and light a candle to the Virgin Mary to make this all right.
Speaking of my parents, they desperately want me to go home and hide out there for a while. The only thing on my side is that my father doesn’t bother with the tabloids or gossip, and my mother quickly found out how many deplorable lies they spew when she moved here to marry my father. Back in Italy, she only had to worry about the busy-body gossips in her affluent village. Here? She had barely stepped off the plane in 1990 when the tabloids were saying she was having affairs with five other men. My mother was a proud, God-fearing virgin when she married my father, so you can imagine the amount of strokes she had upon facing the American gossip mill.
So they don’t care… for now. Except my father has called me no less than once a day to suggest I go to the family estate to “relax.” Oh, and there’s someone there he really wants me to interact with. Maybe take a few pictures with. Like I don’t know what he’s up to after the stunt he pulled over a month ago…
My maid has brought me my usual stacks of magazines, but I can’t bring myself to look at them. My old favorite The Daily Social is headlining with a picture of me as red as a tomato while Logan implies to his mother that I am a perverted slut.
To Camilla Dean. The woman who has so many Oscars she needs a walk-in closet to display them. And Logan was teasing about fingering me in front of his famous mother? Can I die already?
Pictures of me and him are in every tabloid. On every blog. On the lips of every asshole who thinks they know all about us now. People have been tagging me on Facebook about it. Who fucking does that? Isn’t it bad enough that there are a million articles speculating why I slapped America’s favorite playboy?
Meanwhile, I’m not letting myself think about him.
Which means I try to stop it, but sometimes those toxic thoughts still slip through.
On one hand I’m too embarrassed to even acknowledge what we did in the theater, but on the other… it’s quite telling that he hasn’t said a single thing about this kerfuffle to the media. From the sounds of it, the media shit storm has sent Logan Dean into hiding. Where? I have no idea. Maybe his shitty apartment, or one of his mother’s many homes. Maybe he’s in Boca porking some floozy who is so happy to be another notch in his metaphorical bedpost. God, why am I thinking about that? Why am I letting it make me angry?
The whole thing is only mildly shocking. I was expecting a photo of him leaving a club with a model totally shitfaced by now.
I don’t let myself dwell on it too much, because Logan Dean is a complete, utter asshole. I don’t want anything to do with him. I swear it.
My phone keeps ringing – and has been all week - but I don’t answer it unless the ringtone says it’s Daddy or Ashleigh. Not many people have this number. I don’t know if the media got a hold of it or what, but I don’t want to take my chances. At this moment I’m too busy throwing magazines into the recycling bin.
However, staring at my moldy donuts makes me realize that something has to give.
A sigh powers me through the next hour. I take a shower and go sit down to do my hair and makeup. Somehow, despite the fact that I’ve been existing on junk food for the past week, I seem to have lost weight. My cheekbones are jutting out even more than usual, and it’s not a good look for me. Now if I get papped people will say that I have an eating disorder.
On a whim I pick up my phone and check out my messages. I press play on the first one out of thirty-seven.
I pick up my small makeup brush and start applying eye shadow. I nearly stab myself in my left eye when I hear Logan’s voice.
He’s pleading at me. Pleading! I don’t really catch any of the words because I’m trying to concentrate on my makeup, but that is a pleading tone in Logan’s voice. I should turn the message off and delete it. I don’t. I tell myself it’s because I’m too stubborn for my own good. Yes, that’s it. It has nothing to do with his deep, sexy voice. The voice that was murmu
ring all that nasty shit into my ear while he fingered me…
Logan is apologizing. He’s sorry. He fucked up. He was nervous about me meeting his mom. He feels strange around me. He trips over his words in a rush to get them out, and it’s kinda cute, I guess.
Next, he attempts to flirt with me. Not going to work. If anything, it’s making me angry. Then again, I can’t say I hate hearing a ton of compliments hurled in my direction after my week of endless self-pity.
Now he’s annoyed, because it’s been almost a full week of me not answering my phone and he really, really wants to talk to me. Did I know it’s even worse for him because Ashleigh refuses to give him my address? Poor thing! Smart Ashleigh.
Yet… why am I kinda mad that she hasn’t given him my address? Sure, I’d be pissed based on principle, but then Logan would be here…
Everything Logan says goes from angry, to frustrated, to flirtatious and then some more apologizing for everything he previously said. By the end of it, I am completely exhausted. My makeup also happens to be finished, and it only takes me a few minutes to get dressed in something simple. All that’s left is to take a deep breath and prepare myself for my first foray into the outside world after a week of seclusion.
I figure a little shopping never hurt anybody, so I call my driver and he confirms that he’ll be waiting for me downstairs in a few minutes.
Even though I know better than to leave early, I am so restless that I can’t take being cooped up in here any longer. I grab my purse and sunglasses, toss my cell phone into my bag, and take off for the fresh summer air.
As soon as I step out into society, I regret my decision. A whole swarm of photographers are camped out in front of my building, and I can barely shade my eyes with my sunglasses before they start snapping their cameras in my direction.
Questions regarding Logan are fired at me. I ignore every single one of them. This isn’t my first walk of shame, although I am sure to keep my chin pointed high in pride as I approach the sidewalk where my driver will be.
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 44