by Candy Sloane
He was always behind the camera or backstage and never could have made the These are the significant scenes cut.
Well, except at the restaurant when he was under the table, and he’d done some fancy camera work to hide that.
He was the one who had really gotten me here today. He was the only reason I was still here, now. But, he hadn’t kept his promise. I took in a painful breath. He’d left me to figure out how to end this on my own. I was tired of lying. I just wanted to tell the truth. When the mic was given to me, I decided I finally would.
“Who do you guys think she should pick?” Backdoor yelled to the crowd.
I tried to focus but, when they roared back, the three Gasms’ names combined into a mucky soup of sound. Even they would be no help.
“Okay,” Backdoor announced. “Now we’re going to give The Gasms a chance to state their cases one last time.” Her face was shiny with a fat, fake smile.
She walked the mic over to Kappa and I cringed, readying myself for his disgusting plea.
But, before he could speak, music started to play over the loudspeaker, raining down over the crowd and me.
It took me only a second to recognize the song.
My Song.
My fantasy.
Before I knew what was happening, Scott was down on one knee in front of me singing:
If you want a lover,
I'll do anything you ask me to.
And if you want another kind of love,
I'll wear a mask for you.
If you want a partner, take my hand.
Or if you want to strike me down in anger,
Here I stand,
I'm your man.
My whole body hummed, opened like a silken fabric unfurling in a sweet tropical breeze. He hadn’t left me. He was here, playing out my fantasy, making it reality. The one I’d shared with him and no one else.
He was singing I’m Your Man.
To me.
Me.
Here in front of everyone—the cameras, a live studio audience, the Gasms, and, most surprisingly, Garrett.
I closed my eyes and opened them just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I reached out for his face, felt the dusting of stubble on his cheek, and knew this was real.
His solid hand slid onto my knee as the words I longed to hear a man proclaim tumbled from his lips. No one yelled cut, or ran up onstage, or killed the lights, or tried to stop him. The show kept right on filming.
When he started the next verse, mostly because I couldn’t wait anymore, I pulled him up off his knees and kissed him. My lips had to taste his, had to experience the words that were falling from them. His kiss was possessive, forceful, a period on the end of our sentence, an exclamation point on the beginning of whatever we were about to embark on. We weren’t hiding anymore. The music played behind us, voiceless.
“I see why you like this song so much,” he said, nuzzling against my cheek.
I heard the crowd applaud, cheers and hoots coming in waves. But their awe had nothing on the pure adoration running through my every molecule at that moment. I’d been surprised again by this unpredictable man.
A man who’d just proclaimed to the whole world he was mine.
I pulled back and took in his shining eyes, the glowing skin of his face. “But what about—”
He placed his finger on my mouth, interrupting me. “There’s only one thing people like more than sex,” Scott said, “and that’s romance.”
I spied Allie in the crowd. She was standing, clapping so hard I thought she might fly away.
“Even after all this,” I said, “I agree.”
Satisfaction pursed his mouth. “This was a surprise to you, V,” he said, indicating the mic in his hand, “but Garrett was in on it, at least, as of half an hour ago.”
“Does that make you the winner?”
He shook his head. “No ten grand for me. No twenty-five grand for you. Garrett being able to come in under budget is just about as romantic to him as my little spectacle was to the viewers. To you,” he said, his eyes—the eyes I thought would be my undoing at the start of this—turning into the one thing that had made me whole.
Scott understood Garrett reacted to money, to being able to tell a compelling story. To having a reality show turn out completely different than any show before it had. He might not have given us his blessing for our benefit, but Scott had gotten it.
As long as the show ended with me in his arms, in his bed, who cared why?
“What should we do now?” I asked.
He laughed and drew me so close there wasn’t even air between us. His eager body gave me his answer before he did, “I’m going to suggest each other.”
The Finale
Turns out the Gasms were all okay with how things ended. They were going to receive the ten thousand dollars split three ways and there was talk of them getting their own reality show. A sort of odd couple with the three of them living together in a house and having their lives taped. Maybe that ranch in Wyoming. Allie was being wooed by the network to possibly be the host.
Scott’s show was still a go, and I was looking forward to going back to life as a librarian—well, that is, once Scott and I finished our very unfinished business. I hoped L.A.’s library scene might welcome a reality show reject.
It wasn’t the happy ending anyone was expecting, but everyone, including Scott and I, was happy.
The elevator dinged for my floor at Caesars, and Scott and I headed out into the hallway. We walked hand in hand down to my room. Performing this simple gesture for the first time and having his hands seem just as sure and deft in public as they had in private only increased my anticipation for the performance awaiting us behind closed doors.
When we reached my door he let go and shot me a serious look. “Give me your key. I want to do this right.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever had a problem in that department,” I purred, so hyped up, so drunk on him, it was hard to be serious.
When he didn’t respond I passed it over. He slipped it into his front pocket and picked me up like his arms were a hammock.
“What are you doing?” I squealed loud enough to be able to open the door without a key.
“Carrying you over the threshold,” he said, unlocking and then kicking my door open with his foot.
“Did I miss something?” I joked, glancing at his ring finger.
“I’m just trying to be a little traditional. I mean, I am taking your virginity, right?” he asked coyly as he carried me inside.
“You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.” I winked. “But I’m pretty sure I’d never get away with wearing white.”
He kept me balanced expertly in his arms as he closed the door behind him. “Well then,” he said, setting me down and sliding his finger along my jawline. “Here’s to every time being like the first time.”
I wanted to jump him immediately, rip his clothes off with my nails and teeth, but we had a mystery to discuss, or at least I did.
I bit my lip. “So that first time thing, this sort of is. I kind of can’t remember what happened in the bathroom at the strip club.”
“None of it?” he smirked.
“Not the best part,” I admitted, looking down.
“This…” His voice was raspy with want as he ambled toward me. “You are never going to forget.”
“Wait,” I joked, “Where are the cameras?”
“No cameras,” he said, pulling me to him, “I want you all to myself.”
“Me first,” I said. I led him over to the bed and guided him into a seated position. I put my glasses on the nightstand and tore out of my clothes and my bra before he could even speak. I displayed my body for him in just a pair of black lace panties. “It’s time for me to attend to you for a while.”
A sensuous smile saturated his face.
So.” I hooked my thumbs at my hips. “What would you like first, my mouth or my nickname sake?”
“Do I have to cho
ose?” he asked, his eyes darting from one to the other.
He didn’t. I’d make all the decisions for him. I’d do all the thinking and all the acting. I’d sing a wordless song for him with my mouth and my, well, you know.
I went for his shirt first, pulling it up over his head in one quick motion. He tousled his hair and sat back, cupping his hands behind his neck. He was finally letting me take care of him for a change.
I couldn’t wait.
I considered straddling him and making out for a while but, now that we were alone and he was completely available to me, I needed his dick. I needed to touch it, taste it, and let it see what it had been missing. Like a woman ravenous, I went for his fly, unbuttoning it with one hand.
“I like this already,” he mused.
I unzipped slowly using my thumb and forefinger. He was already hard, his dick popping up and out of his boxers before I could get his pants off. It was smooth, long, thick, and it was mine—all mine.
“I like this already,” I said, launching his pants and boxers across the room.
Once he was free of his clothes, it was time to make him my slave. I slid on top of him, ran my tongue down his chest, his stomach, and sucked the sweat from his belly button, teased down farther until I took him into my mouth. I relaxed my throat to accommodate his length.
He moaned, and the sound ignited a hunger that made me suck him more forcefully. I cupped his balls and spun my body to get a better angle. With his dick in my mouth and him under my spell, I suddenly understood what he’d seen in bringing me pleasure. It was just as marvelous as feeling it, but more so. The power to control his desire was the strongest drug I’d ever taken.
I tightened my lips against him and slid up and down his shaft until he was hypnotized. His eyes closed but his body was open, ready. I ran my tongue in loops around the head as I let both of us come up for air.
“Why did I ever stop you from doing this before?” he breathed.
“So it could be all the more enjoyable now,” I said against his slick skin.
I brought him into my mouth again, gliding faster. He put his hands in my hair, bucked against me. I could taste that he was almost there, almost where he had taken me so many times.
“Should I finish this or should we finish together?” I murmured into the skin of his stomach.
I could feel the vibration of his breath against my lips quicken as he considered my offer.
“I think I’m ready for some of that nickname sake I’ve been hearing so much about.”
“Good,” I said, rising and slipping out of my panties so he could drink in my whole body, “’cause you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
He slipped on a condom and I eased myself onto his hips. The sound he made when I climbed on top of him was exquisite enough to inspire its own poetry book.
The sound that was caught in my throat when he entered me required its own table of contents.
I moved against him, slowly at first, my eyes on his eyes, my lips on his lips, and my forehead against his forehead, enjoying the closeness of him, the heat of him. I pushed up with my arms and sat upright so I could take him in deeper.
Having him inside me rocked and centered me at once. I ran my hands along his broad chest, tracing my nails down and leaving red trails on his skin. He took my breasts into both hands, teased at my nipples.
I rode him harder, needing more of him. He moved with me, our bodies grinding in complete sync. I rocked against him, enjoying the way it burned and ached at the same time that it soothed.
“V,” he sighed, “I’ve waited for this for so long.” He glided his hands down and around to my ass, squeezing like he wanted me to feel his need.
“You have?” I couldn’t help but laugh. I moved faster up and down, up and down, pumping against him. Sweat pricked my face, slinked down and in between my cleavage and along my back.
“Speaking of,” he said, not missing a beat in our dance, “is this a practice run or the real deal?”
“I hope it’s the real deal.”
“Where are you on a scale of one to ten?” he asked, still rocking with me.
“Six,” I admitted.
“Meaning you’re probably really at a three because no one ever tells the truth when a man they like has his ego on the line.”
“Who said I like you?”
“Honey,” he said, moving out from beneath me and forcing me onto my knees, “you are about to love me.”
He kneeled behind me, entering me again. I clenched around him. His fingers went for my clit, rubbing in time with the deep hard plunge of his dick. If he wasn’t holding me steady, I would have fallen backward, it felt so good.
“It’s time for me to win.”
The bottom half of me ignited, burned, melted. A singular thought, Scott, short-circuited my brain.
“Tell me that you want it,” he said, his fingers still teasing me like mad, “that you want me.”
“I do. I want it, so bad,” I said. My words stuttered from how hard he was going at me.
I felt him start to shake, and I knew he was there, too. I closed my eyes and rode with him to that magical place I’d never been, my breathing as rapid as the spasms inside me: one, then another, and another, torpedoing me into ecstasy. My whole body was numb and, at the same time, completely alive.
He kissed the back of my head. “Now you really are mine, V.” His breathing was uneven. “And I am yours.”
I turned to meet his lips. “When can I own you again?” I asked, sliding my tongue down his neck and chest salty with sweat.
“You always will.”
We lay down on the bed, and he took me into his chest and hugged me close, the two of us basking in the afterglow, the sheets rumpled around us.
“I figured out what V really stands for.” He sighed. “Victory.”
“Mine or yours?” I asked, looking up at him.
“Ours.”
I lay tiny kisses along his collarbone.
“Hey V?”
“Hmm,” I hummed into his skin.
“Would you like to go out on a date with me?” he asked, sitting up.
“Like a date-date?”
“Yes, an out-somewhere-together date,” he said, his eyes flashing.
“Yes!” I jumped up to kiss his lips and bounced on the bed in excitement. “Just,” I paused, my brows flickered, “no food or cameras, agreed?”
“We’ll save the cameras for our private dates,” he said, one side of his lips tilted up.
“Let’s just make sure they stay private,” I laughed. “All I need now is to add a sex tape to my list of credits.”
“I can see the title now.” He held up his hands for emphasis. “One Night with the Orgasm Virgin.”
“Orgasm virgin?” I repeated, tracing my tongue down the muscles of his chest. “Not anymore.”
About the Author
You may have discovered this already but Candy Sloane is the fictional creation of Lisa Burstein. She was the main character in the book Sneaking Candy. You can follow her on twitter at @candysloane and check out Lisa online at www.lisaburstein.com
Sneaking Candy
All I ever wanted was to make a name for myself as Candice Salinas, creative writing grad student at the University of Miami. Of course, secretly I already have made a name for myself: as Candy Sloane, self-published erotic romance writer. Though thrilled that my books are selling and I have actual fans, if anyone at UM found out, I could lose my scholarship…and the respect of my faculty advisor, grade-A-asshole Professor Dylan.
Enter James Walker, super-hot local barista and—surprise!—my student. Even though I know a relationship is totally off-limits, I can’t stop myself from sneaking around with James, taking a few cues from my own erotic writing…if you catch my drift. Candy’s showing her stripes for the first time in my real life, and I’ve never had so much fun. But when the sugar high fades, can my secrets stay under wraps?
Chapter One
I couldn’t d
ecide if I was burned out, pissed off, in love, or none of the above. I chewed on my pen, what I’d done the last time Professor Dylan reviewed one of my syllabi in his wood-paneled office.
What I could decide was that he made me nervous.
Obviously he made me a lot of things, but nervous was pretty much the only one I was allowed to feel when it came to him. Not that there were any specific rules at the University of Miami about “relations” between teaching assistants and the professors they assisted, but it was “frowned upon.” It was a sexual harassment mine field. Considering Professor Dylan was tenure-track, it was enough to make him see me as someone with typhoid—sexual typhoid.
At least when he was sober.
I understood. It would take a hell of a lot to mess up my career just to mess around with some student.
I watched his steel-blue eyes scan the document, grateful they weren’t focused on me. That was when I felt more than just nervous about what he would say—when instead I felt a fever about what he might do—a heat in my thighs, which blazed up to my neck, scorching everything in between like a wildfire.
As a creative writing student, a creative writing teacher, I got how cliché this situation was: falling for your boss, falling for your professor, falling for an older man, falling for a man who’d recently broken up with his long-time girlfriend.
It had more clichés than I could count.
The fact that he liked my writing, thought I had real promise, and chose me as his teaching assistant because he believed I could actually be a successful author while my parents did not, also added the ever-disgusting daddy-issue cliché to the mix.
Weirder still, considering he was only twenty-six years old.
“This is a little female-heavy, Candice,” he said, tipping his head up. His mouth was a straight line, like the punctuation on his criticism.