by Ava Cummings
We’re both under the stream. The water rushes down on us, lubricating every move, as he glides me up and down against him. Gently, he puts me down. I open my eyes and see him handing me his electric shaver. “We still haven’t done the dare, Starr.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say, taking it from him, turning it on.
He thrusts himself toward me. I feel my stomach clench and a rush of warmth runs through me down there.
A little tentatively, I take him in my hand and move his erection to the side, slowly beginning to shave him. He closes his eyes, smiles, and tips his head back, giving himself to me, completely trusting. It turns me on. Who knew shaving someone could be so hot?
I take a little hair off and pause.
“More?”
“Make sure it’s even, Starr,” he says, teasingly.
I go back and take more off, until he’s almost clean. He grows bigger and harder as I continue. One of my hands grabs his erection and plays with him, while the other is shaving. His muscles tense, and I can feel him getting more and more turned on.
When I’ve shaved most of him, I pause. He opens his eyes and looks down.
“Very pleasing job,” he says. “Now, my turn,” he says, taking the shaver out of my hands.
I stand there, kind of shy, with my hands covering myself.
“Let me in, Starr. It’s my turn. Remember the dare? Me first, then you. That was the deal.”
“I know, but be careful, Jesse. I have a lot of smaller, important bits down there,” I say, as I slowly remove my hands.
“I know. Don’t you worry, I’ll be careful. You’ll like it. Let me show you. I’ll start slow.”
“Okay,” I say as I close my eyes, spread my legs a little wider, and give myself to him.
Suddenly, I feel his mouth on me. He’s on his knees, and the water is running down between my legs around his head. He’s kissing me all around: on my stomach, legs, inner thighs, stoking me hotter and hotter. He buries his head in me and moans. I get bolder and climb up, placing one leg on either side of the tub so I’m raised up higher, spreading myself open. Jesse dives in and explores me furiously with his tongue, putting his mouth onto me. I push myself into him and he softly devours me, as the water rushes down. My insides light up, and I tingle from head to toe. My breath comes in short bursts as the tension and heat build inside me.
“Not yet, Starr,” he says, pulling back, as if he knows I’m close. “There’s still the dare.”
He stands up, I climb down, and he turns on the razor. He starts to shave me gently, the vibrations from the razor almost sending me over the edge.
He keeps looking up at me, making sure I’m okay. With a few more strokes, there’s almost no hair left.
“All clean,” he says.
“Wow,” I say, looking down.
He turns off the shower and wraps me in a clean, fluffy towel. He grabs one for himself, and it hangs beautifully from his sexy abs.
We make our way back to the bedroom. Jesse strides toward me, untucks his towel, and lets it fall to the floor. He stands there in his God-given glory. My insides heat up instantaneously. Immediately, he reaches for my towel, unwraps it from my still-wet body. He puts his hand out for me to take and leads me to his bed.
“How adventurous have you been in bed?” he asks, as we lie face-to-face.
“I’ve done a few wild things,” I say, although in all honesty, my sex life has been pretty vanilla.
“I have another dare,” he says.
“What is it?” I ask, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. “Something naughty?”
“A bit, I would say. But it’s all for your pleasure,” he says, and winks. Did he really just wink—and pull it off? This guy can get away with anything.
“So…”
“Have you ever let anyone play with you here?” he says, grabbing my butt and playfully spanking it.
“Umm, no,” I say. “Listen, I like this dare thing, it’s been fun, but I don’t know about that.”
“I’ll take it easy. You won’t believe how sensitive it is there. It feels amazing,” he says. “Do you really want to lose now? So far, you’re winning.”
He flashes me his movie star smile, puts his hand between my legs, and starts to feel my pussy. He puts two fingers inside me and begins to stroke. I slide my legs open, asking for more. He takes his fingers out and slips them to my backside, just playing, gently stroking. He’s right—it’s so sensitive. A new sensation I’ve never felt.
I let him continue. He plays around more, gently slipping the tip of his finger just inside and out, the tiniest bit. I cry out in pleasure and move my hips around without thinking.
He groans and then flips me over, putting his mouth between my legs as he begins to gently lick and suck. The pleasure spikes as the tension builds with his rhythmic motion. I climb higher and higher, giving myself to him, until every nerve ending is vibrating with pleasure. Suddenly a rush of warmth runs over me and I let go, coming into his waiting mouth, screaming wildly, moving my hips, pushing myself deeper into him. He groans and keeps his mouth steady as another wave washes through me.
I grab him, pull him up to me, and roll him onto his back. His erection gleams before me, full and enormous. I bend over him and take him into my mouth, all lips and tongue, stroking him up and down, with the same smooth, gentle, rhythmic motions he used on me.
“I don’t want to come yet,” he says.
He pulls me up, rolls over and opens his side-table drawer, pulling out a condom. In one quick motion, he puts it on and turns back over, grabbing me and pulling me onto him. Slowly, I take him inside me, working his length in as he fills me completely. I begin to move my hips. He closes his eyes, moves his arms above his head in surrender, and lets me move on him. I pump him slowly and smoothly and feel him getting harder.
And then he drops another surprise. “I have one more dare.”
He turns me around so that I’m facing his legs. I move back and forth, while Jesse grabs my cheeks and plays. It feels so different this way. His erection stimulates nerves inside me that I didn’t even know were there. A heat starts to build inside me again, as I climb higher and higher. The two of us move together as one. His erection blooms inside me, as I feel him getting closer, too. He gently begins to play with me from behind again—so softly, exciting the nerves there, slipping his finger in ever so gently. It sends me flying, and as he thrusts inside me, I come in a hard wave. The contractions pulse so strongly, it sends Jesse over the edge, too. He grabs my hips and moves deeper into me. As he throbs inside me, I come one more time, in a smaller wave.
I roll off him and lie in a pool of sweat, exhausted and out of breath.
“Amazing, Starr,” he says, pulling me in a strong embrace, encumbered in his muscled arms and chest. “I’m not finished with you. Let’s see who can come up with the wildest position. Have you tried the wheelbarrow?”
I don’t know if I can take any more pleasure in one night. But it sounds fun. I turn to him and smile.
“Game on.”
8
One in a Million
I’m leaning against the conference room wall at the Celeb morning editorial meeting, praying it continues to hold me up while Bernie and the managing editor run through the lineup.
I didn’t get in early enough and had to scramble madly, hair flying and eyes ablaze, to get everything done to prepare Bernie for the day. Still feeling a bit woozy, I berate myself for doing a flight of tequila shots and tumbling into bed with Jesse. Then, I panic. I’d forgotten to distribute Bernie’s out-box, with all the edits to stories and responses to pitches that need to go back to the editors before the meeting.
“Please, oh, please, God, don’t let her tear me up in this meeting!” I say silently to myself, as a thin sheen of sweat begins to gather on my forehead.
Thankfully—and unusually—Bernie appears to be in a decent mood. She compliments Chelsea on last week’s Lawson story. We beat our rival, Hollywood Insider, in newsstand s
ales for the second week in a row, thanks to her. The success has buoyed Bernie’s standing with Oldenhouse. He called yesterday and personally congratulated her. She’s one step closer to getting what’s rumored to be a multi-million-dollar bonus, payable if she can reach the sales goals set in her contract.
“Chelsea was first to break the Lawson affair, and Barbi Berger at PMK is furious with us that they didn’t have a chance to put a statement out first. We’ll have to tread lightly with their other stars for a while. But the newsstand sales are over a million, one of our best issues yet. Well done, Chelsea,” says Bernie.
The editors and reporters drop their heads down, and I can almost feel them rolling their eyes.
“Fat or pregnant?” says Bernie, holding up a picture of another starlet who appears to have a tiny bump at tummy level. It could easily be a bad camera angle or a big pasta dinner, but no matter: It looks round. I’ve learned that pregnancy watch for Hollywood’s hottest stars is big business—breaking it, or even hinting at it, sells.
“I have a report from one of my guys out in LA that she’s been to the doctor several times in the past few weeks,” says one editor.
“Great. Keep digging and we’ll put it on the cover,” says Bernie. “Brendan, find a good ‘before’ picture, so we can show the readers the change; choose the skinniest-looking one you can find. And then see if there’s something of her coming out of the doc’s office, looking bloated or holding her belly.”
We run through the rest of the week’s lineup. As we’re winding down, Bernie directs a final question at me.
“Anna, how was the Von Buren party? Anyone there?” I had told Bernie that I was going—that I was invited by a Page 10 reporter—to bolster the “night crawler” status she’s considering bestowing on me.
Standing up a little straighter, I work to gather my wits. I move my hand across my forehead, wiping away the sheen, and toss my hair to one side.
“The usual socialite crowd—not too many celebs,” I say. “But Lecia Meister was there with her old Dalton friends.”
“She do anything?” asks one editor.
I remember the dare I sent Jesse on last night. In our world, this kind of thing is considered news.
“Well, she wasn’t wearing any underwear,” I say, tentatively. “Brendan, could you see if there are any oops pictures for the front of the book?”
“How did you know that?” Bernie says, laughing, which happens about as often as unicorns appear in Central Park. “Forget it…I don’t want to know.”
“Let’s just say that I made a deal with Jesse Martin, from Page 10,” I reply somewhat cryptically, as the Celeb team snickers. Suddenly, I feel my stomach clench, and I cringe at the thought that Jesse may have slept with some of the other staffers.
“Good. Brendan, check it out,” Bernie says.
The meeting breaks, and I dash out of the conference room, grab a few papers from my desk, and shoot into Bernie’s office. As I glance back to the conference room, I see Bernie walking and talking with another editor. Quickly, I run in and grab the out-box papers. If I can get it done now without her noticing, I may be in the clear. Trying not to look frantic, I drop the new papers on Bernie’s desk and grab some older magazines, neatening them. Slowly, I move toward her out-box, slide the papers under the magazines in my hand, and scoot out. I make it back to my desk just before she turns to head down the hall.
Heart palpitating as I plunk down in my chair, I rub my temples trying to regain my composure. When I look up, I spot Brendan dancing down the hallway, dangling a bag in his hand.
“Anna Banana, look what I found at the front desk. Something from a secret admirer,” he says, in a singsong tease.
“Since when does Bernie have secret admirers?” I mutter as he gets closer.
“It’s for you, and at the front desk they said a super-hot guy just dropped it off,” says Brendan, placing it on my desk and standing there—waiting.
My mind leaps to Damien. All the feelings I had that night come flooding back, instantly, without having a chance to think it through or understand why. Maybe he found me. Maybe he broke up with his girlfriend. Maybe he felt the same way. I feel hopeful suddenly. My heart leaps. It’s all so visceral, automatic.
“Thanks, Brendan,” I say, waving him away.
“You’re no fun.” As he turns and saunters off, he informs the office, “Someone’s got an admirer! Maybe it’s Jesse Martin from Page 10.”
My face flushes, and I want to crouch under my desk, but instead I look around and smile, playing it off. “Just my mom sending cookies from my favorite bakery!” I announce, knowing full well that my mom would never in a million years order me cookies.
I grab the note tucked in the tissue paper and hold my breath as I read the hand-written message.
You’re one in a million, Starr. Thanks for an amazing night. The city’s not so big. I’m sure I’ll see you around.
Jesse
Nestled inside is a bottle of Don Julio Real. It was my favorite of the tequilas we tasted last night. Jesse said it was one of the most expensive ever made, selling for around $400 a bottle.
See you around? My heart plummets out of my body, all the way to the lobby. I shake my head, privately castigating myself for hopping into bed with Jesse, thinking, hoping, it was more than it was. I guess I wasn’t good enough—or something enough—for Jesse to put me in the “keep her” file. I feel kind of ashamed about the whole thing, and my insecure self chimes into my thoughts, validating the situation. Why would Jesse be with a socially awkward, broke editorial assistant, anyway? Furthermore, why would Damien dump a woman—probably a gorgeous model—for some random country girl who completely embarrassed herself at a party?
At dawn that morning, Jesse had gently woken me, asking if I wanted to get home and shower before work. We didn’t say much, but at the time, I thought it was sweet of him to save me from being late.
I wince as my mind recalls the adventures of last night. Ugh. He was so smooth—quick with the compliments and adoration. It lulled me into a state of submission. Feeling desired felt so good—a balm that soothed the other wounds. I kind of assumed that he would want to go out again. But it was all temporary. Mr. Playboy needs to keep on living the dream.
I set the bottle aside and dive into work, telling myself that I’ll process all of this later. I grab a stack of expense reports and start going through them. It’s been a few weeks and it’s filling up. It’s my job to make sure they’ve been filled out correctly—that all the receipts match the charges filed, and that they’re dated properly—before I give them to Bernie to approve. It’s busywork, making it the perfect task to take my mind off last night.
I start running through them, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and then I see Chelsea’s report and perk up. Remembering how she tore me apart for asking for some simple mentorship, I realize nothing would give me more pleasure than to find she missed a calculation and send her expense report back.
Working my way down each line, I see lunches with sources, expenses for magazines, cabs to and from events. Kosher. Kosher. Check. Check. Everything comes to her so easily. Little Miss Perfect would never make a mistake on her expense report!
Toward the end, one receipt jumps out: $1,241 from the Christian Dior sample sale. The receipt is dated from last week, but the sample sale was three weeks ago. I don’t think Chelsea was even there. I remembered that when I’d arrived, the PR director for Dior had told me she was glad that one person from Celeb had finally shown up.
I check the employee file Bernie gave me, to see Chelsea’s clothing allowance. Some senior editors get a stipend for clothes to wear to events. Chelsea’s is $1,000 per year. This charge alone exceeds that. And the receipt doesn’t look like the one I got for that great one-shoulder dress and stilettos.
As I continue to look through the report, I see another unusual charge: an invoice for $224 for “services rendered” to a Glenn Goodall, who is not a reporter or writer in our sy
stem.
My mind goes back to the conversation in the conference room—to how Chelsea had not one shred of empathy for Lawson. In this business, we all make our living off the stars and their foibles. I get it. But they’re human beings, too. These are people whose lives are affected by the stories we run. It’s not that she shouldn’t go with it, but she could show a little understanding of its impact.
And her reaction to me felt the same way. Not an ounce of compassion. Maybe that’s what comes from growing up in a world of privilege. You don’t have to care about anyone else; you don’t need anyone else. It’s all about numero uno.
I shake my head and make a mental note to do some more digging.
9
Photo Bomb
“When you’re in the VIP room tonight, get some stealth shots of Liz and Melvin,” says Brendan, handing me a small digital camera, showing me how it works. “Rumor is, they’re dating.”
“And I want proof,” yells a frenzied, slightly maniacal Bernie.
“Blend. That’s all I need you to do. No one knows who you are yet. Be a minx and steal some money shots.” Brendan rubs his hands together and throws his head back, looking like an impeccably dressed Dr. Evil.
I nod, apprehensively.
“Just do it, Starr,” says Bernie, reading me like an open book, as she always does. “Lose that wholesome country-girl persona. You’re in the big leagues now. This is how we play.”
“So you just do it like this?” As I fumble with the camera, I shudder quietly—the beginnings of a freak-out. I’m the product of two openhearted hippies. Sneaking around is not in my genetic makeup. I wear everything on my sleeve. On top of that, I’m a klutz and an awkward ball of nerves. How did I get nominated for this assignment?
“They’re stars. They get to be rich and famous. This just comes with the territory,” says Brendan, sensing my apprehension and spouting the usual party line.
I give them a quick smile, even though I’m feeling a little, well, dirty. I’m beginning to see that the real celebrity newsgathering seeps out along the seams—small, huddled meetings, quick gatherings in Bernie’s office, late-night calls with sources. The legit stories featuring a sanctioned interview with a star are few and far between. More often we’re digging for scraps and getting loose-lipped sources to talk.