by MV Ellis
I curl my toes in the hope that the tension in my body will help to slow my descent toward orgasm. I’m shuddering and trembling all over, feeling out of control. His breaths are short and jerky, matching his movements, and I know he’s close too. Just as I think he’s about to come, he pulls sharply away from me, out of my mouth, and rips off the condom.
“I want to come in your mouth, and over your face. I want to come in you, and on you.”
Those words alone are enough to finish it for me. I come loud and hard, the pleasure knocking me sideways. I’ve never come just from a guy’s words before, but with Arlo, it’s definitely a thing.
“Yeah, babe, come for me.”
He flips me onto my stomach, coming all over my back.
“Fuck, I love your back, especially when it’s covered in my cum.”
He flops down onto the bed beside me, grinning like a schoolboy who found his dad’s porn stash.
“When we fuck, it’s something else. Just the sight of your taught muscles writhing beneath me is enough to make me come. There are so many things I want to try with you, and do to you, it’s crazy.”
Talking dirty has never been my thing, but the way Arlo is so crude sets me on fire. In fact, I’m constantly surprising myself with the things I do, say, and think around him. It’s almost like I’m a different person, some girl I don’t even recognize.
He props himself up on his elbow, still breathless. “After I took the condom off I got the urge to feel you around me, skin to skin. So fucking weird, because I’m always really careful with that stuff—I’ve literally never even thought about going bareback with anyone before. Ever,” he pants out.
“What’s with that?” From his tone, I think the question is directed more at himself than at me, so I don’t answer. Damned if I’d know what to say, anyway. What is with that?
I’m well and truly spent, collapsed facedown into the mattress as Arlo wipes my back with a warm, wet washcloth. When he’s done, he lies back down on his side, facing me. I shift to face him. His hand is roaming my body again, almost absentmindedly, brushing past my ribs, my nipples, my cheeks.
“So fucking beautiful,” he mutters, as though still thinking aloud, then seems to remember that I can hear what he’s saying.
“Your body is amazing. You’re tiny, yet so toned and strong and flexible. I could watch you move for hours. I love seeing you glide around the house with that ballet dancer’s grace. I wanna test your flexibility to the limit in bed.” He seems deep in thought again. His gaze is locked on his hand, still distractedly tracing over my body.
“Stay with me tonight? We can order food and watch a movie.”
I half think I hear a note of uncertainty in his voice, but I brush it aside. He’s one of the most supremely confident people I’ve ever met. Uncertainty isn’t in his vocabulary.
“Don’t, Arlo.”
“What?” He seems genuinely confused.
“You’ve made it amply clear that you don’t date, and relationships are a dirty word, so don’t worry, you don’t need to pretend that this is something it isn’t. It was a few awesome hours screwing each other’s brains out. I’m not expecting hearts and flowers, or even Netflix and chill.”
A strange look crosses his face. I forge on regardless.
“Besides, I’ve got dinner waiting for me at home, remember? Shit! That, reminds me….” I grab my phone, and quickly bash out a text to Marko, briefly explaining why I’m going to be a little late. I spare him the gory details, but I’m sure he’ll get the idea, and coax the rest out of me after we’ve sunk a bottle of wine together. When I look up, Arlo is glaring at me. What the fuck is his problem?
“Yeah, well, don’t let me keep you, you’ve clearly got more important things….” He sounds pissed, but I’ve got no clue why. Sheesh—keeping up with his moods is a full-time job!
“It is important to me. So yeah, I gotta run—my friend is waiting.”
I start moving to the edge of the bed so I can retrieve my hastily removed clothes— and get out of there.
It’s only then that I look up and notice the look on Arlo’s face. You’d think I’d just slapped him. Again. I thought letting him know that I don’t expect anything from him would have pleased him, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. I feel the need to elaborate.
“We’re on the same page. Neither of us is in the market for anything serious, so there are no unrealistic expectations on either side. That’s a good thing, right? Anyway, I really do have to go, or I’m going to be in the doghouse.” I’m suddenly keen to get out of there, and just want to bring the conversation to a close.
“Umm… I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early, as ever,” I chirp, trying to sound as carefree as possible.
I back into the bathroom to straighten myself up. My hair is now an unsightly mess of crazy curls, having been manhandled by Arlo for the past few hours. I also need to get dressed, of course.
“Yeah, cool,” he deadpans, turning his back on me. Clearly I’m dismissed.
Chapter Eight
When I get home for dinner with Marko, he’s in a typically jovial mood.
“Hey you, how was the rock god? Huge schlong?”
Classic Marko in fine form—he goes straight in for the kill, no pleasantries, no holds barred. Just like a certain rock star I know.
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, feigning ignorance, although I know he won’t be convinced for a nanosecond.
“Don’t give me that crap. I’d know that freshly fucked look anywhere—I’m a master at putting it on women’s faces, remember? I can smell it on you, too. You’ve got dick emanating from every pore. Plus, that’s the only reason you’d almost stand me up for date night at the last minute, right?” He quirks his brow questioningly.
“Okay, busted.” I sigh.
There’s no point trying to hide it, he knows me too well.
“Yes, we slept together, and yes, he’s hung like a freaking Celtic warrior. Not only that, but he knows how to use that shit.”
“Wait, how do you know how a Celtic warrior is hung? How many of them have you bedded?” he says with a wry smile.
“Stop being a dick, you know what I mean. He has more than enough to work with, and then some.” I can’t keep the grin from spreading across my face.
“So by the smitten schoolgirl look, am I to gather that you’re serious about this guy? I mean, like long-term serious?” Marko probes further. My mood goes south fast.
“Nah, it’s not like that. It was a one-time, no-strings thing, to get me back in the game. But now I have a mixed bag of emotions to deal with, you know? Even though it meant nothing, and I mentally prepared myself for the fact that it was okay to have sex again, I still have lingering guilt about Danny. Not so much about the fact that I’ve slept with someone else, because I’ve kind of made my peace with that. But obviously he’s my first since Danny, so it’s still a pretty big deal.
“What I feel worse about is who it was. This guy who couldn’t be more different from Danny in just about every way, but with whom I have this crazy chemistry. I mean, obviously Arlo is the wrong guy in so many ways. In all ways apart from the phenomenal sex, in fact. But then why am I so ridiculously attracted to him? And why was what I had with Danny so different? I mean how can I want someone so much, when I don’t even really like them?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, sweets. You know me—I have the emotional maturity of a six-year-old. But you’re saying that this is no big deal, just a passing cock, right?”
“Absolutely. You and Nic have been saying for the longest time that I need to get back on the horse, and I finally agree with you. What better way than with a man whose reputation rivals even yours? No strings, no complications, no dramas.” Marko doesn’t look entirely convinced, so I carry on.
“Besides, great sex is great sex, and that, my friend, was some great sex, with a capital F-U-C-K. I know this isn’t leading anywhere, but it was worth i
t just for the way he went down on me. He’s a demon!” I think that has done the trick.
“You dirty little minx. I always thought you were a bit uptight. I never figured you for the type for hot, no-strings sex with rock stars. And not just any rock star, but the musician equivalent of me. Who cares that he’s the polar opposite of Danny? In a way, that’s better, right? It’s not like you’re trying to replace Danny, but they say the best way to get over one is to get under one, and that’s what you’re doing. From that perspective, Arlo Jones is the perfect dude for the job.” He’s laughing his ass off.
“Well, I’m glad my sex life is a source of amusement for you, Marko. You’re right though, casual sex isn’t normally my thing, but hey, for once I decided to seize the day.”
“And Arlo Jones’s dick.”
“Yeah, that too.” I’m cackling like a schoolgirl now too.
Before I know it, I’m doubled over with laughter, clutching at my sides, tears streaming down my face. I’m pretty sure it’s nervous hysteria rather than genuine laughter. I mean, what’s the “funny” side of this scenario? I hooked up with the only person on the planet I know for fact is as big a slut as my best friend, and despite knowing it’s not leading to anything, I really liked it. Even worse, I now kind of feel like I was cheating on my dead fiancé. Definitely nothing to laugh about.
After a few minutes, I manage to get myself together and stand up straight again—just a few stray peals of laughter escaping from me every few seconds. When I finally fully recover my composure, I notice for the first time that there are no food smells in the house, and no signs of imminent dinner. I frown.
“What’s up, wifey? You look confused,” Marko says.
“Well, it’s date night, right?”
“Right.”
“So where’s dinner? I’m famished. Screwing rock stars works up a real appetite, you know.” I chuckle softly.
The deal with date night is that we take it in turns to “host” the date, and therefore to provide the meal. Cooking’s not really my thing, so I normally order something in, but Marko, despite his extreme bachelor lifestyle, is actually a stellar cook. Pretty much any cuisine you can name, he can knock you up a tasty meal.
“Something came up, and I was kind of distracted, so didn’t get a chance to shop or cook. We can just order takeout. What do you feel like?” He has the decency to at least look contrite.
“I feel like a home-cooked meal, made by my bestie’s own fair hands. I can have takeout any night of the week, but I look forward to your cooking, you know I do.”
I’m whining now and pouting a little, but I don’t care. I really do love Marko’s cooking. I give him my best puppy dog eyes—he’s a sucker for that shit.
“Okay, okay, don’t look at me like that, you know I can’t handle it. I’ll see what I can conjure up.” Yes! Never fails.
I find it pretty funny that Marko has a reputation for being a badass with women, which is totally true, yet he’s putty in my hands. He’s never been the tough guy with me.
He strolls over to the refrigerator and sticks his head in, hemming and hawing over the contents.
“So what’s her name?” I say, as casually as I can, hoping to squeeze the truth out of him before he registers what I’m doing. He’s generally a huge blabbermouth, sharing every gory detail of his latest conquests, but I’ve noticed that lately he’s been uncharacteristically quiet about his sexploits.
“Hmm? Who?” He’s clearly distracted, still puzzling over the contents of the fridge. Perfect.
“Whoever is important enough to keep you from cooking date night dinner.”
He didn’t say it was a work thing that came up, so I figure there must have been someone that kept him, rather than something. Normally he’d kick a girl out the door with her underwear around her ankles for date night with me, so this someone must be special.
“Jourdan,” comes his muffled reply.
“Aha, so there is someone special. I knew it!”
Mission accomplished. I’ve got mad skills.
“What? No, there’s nobody. I mean, nobody special. I mean… fuck!”
He pulls his head out of the refrigerator, but avoids making eye contact. Another first. In all the time I’ve known Marko, he’s never been this coy and fumbling over a woman. This may be more serious than I first thought.
“Ha! Sounds like it’s somebody special to me. Tell me about this Jourdan—I want to know all about the woman who almost came between me and a home-cooked meal.”
“Oh yeah, she came all right.” The smug smirk is back as he licks his lips lasciviously.
The stuff he’s told me in the past about his conquests would make Dirk Diggler’s toes curl. He’s my best friend and I love him, but when it comes to women, he can be kind of a pig sometimes, and that’s not a side of him I like to see if I can help it.
Something about this feels different, though, so I persevere in squeezing a few more sketchy details from him. He grudgingly divulges that Jourdan is a fiery journalist who kicks his butt in and out of the bedroom. According to him, the thing they’ve got going is complicated. Unusually, that’s pretty much all he’ll say.
I make a mental note to question him about it some more, as soon as I get another chance. Right now, I’m distracted by the delicious breakfast-as-dinner he has pulled together for us—rich and creamy scrambled eggs with chopped chives and a drizzle of truffle oil, served with smoked salmon and warm buttered croissants. Yum. Marko knows the way to my heart. I swear if he wasn’t a huge slut, I’d totally put a ring on it. We finish our dinner, and a couple of glasses of wine each, before retiring to our separate rooms.
***
The next day, I make my way into work through the back door as usual, with relatively little fanfare. After the first time I was papped entering the house, there were a few articles touting me as Arlo’s “mystery woman.” I was mostly described as a “petite, exotic beauty,” which pissed me off. Why is every non-blond portrayed as exotic? It really gets my fucking goat. As far as I’m concerned, exotic should be reserved for tropical fruit, birds of paradise, and topless dancers. Last time I checked, I was none of the above.
Then came all the speculation about when and how I met Arlo, and the exact nature of our relationship. I don’t know how it passes for journalism when it’s almost entirely fictional. There were suggestions that I was a call girl, that I was involved in a love triangle with Arlo and Luke—and many references to the fact that I’m one of a number of women “keeping Arlo company” while he’s in NYC.
A few days after the initial slew of articles, another one surfaced quoting “a source close to the band” revealing the truth—even divulging my name, and mentioning Marigolds. To spill that level of detail, it would have to have been someone very close to the band. Arlo swears that neither he nor any of his people had anything to do with it. But if it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t him (and it sure as shit wasn’t Gloria, Marko, or Nic), who the hell else could it have been? It doesn’t really matter now, and in some ways, it’s a relief to end the speculation, but in others, it kind of made matters worse.
It’s funny to read about yourself in the tabloids and blogs when you’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant being in the limelight—funny weird, not funny ha ha. It’s actually kind of crap, in fact. Now that my name is out there, I’ve had to lock down the security levels on all my social media accounts, as I was getting hounded with so many inappropriate comments, messages and random friend requests.
On the other hand, showbiz is fickle, and the public seems to have a shorter attention span than the average goldfish. Now that the mystery has been solved, and it’s clear that despite numerous offers I’m not about to sell my story, I seem to be old news already —I’ve well and truly had my fifteen minutes of “fame.” I enter my code, and hurry inside, closing the door firmly behind me.
I don’t know what to expect from Arlo when I see him. I hope I made it clear that I’m happy to continue with my
job as before, and that the last thing I want is any kind of drama. Nor am I expecting chivalry, or to be swept off my feet. Having broken my cardinal rule of “don’t shit where you eat” (aka don’t get involved with people you work with, or worse still, work for), I’m ready to write off our tryst as nothing more than outrageously good sex between consenting adults, and a step in the right direction toward rebuilding my life without Danny, and never speak of it again.
I’m humming my way around the kitchen when Arlo finally makes an appearance. Not that I’m waiting for him, or monitoring his movements, or anything as lame as that. He looks a little rough, like he hasn’t slept, but of course, it suits him—he’s sex on legs, even when he has a face full of stubble, and bleary eyes. Even his bed hair—thick, dark, and sticking up at odd angles—is sexy as fuck. He’s topless as usual, wearing loose cotton lounge pants slung low on his slim hips, revealing that V-muscle that I could just bite.
Stop. It. My conscious mind admonishes my subconscious. Now is not the time to be drooling over him, especially as he’s standing there looking like he’s been up for three nights straight, probably fucking other women, and is glowering at me with a face like thunder.
It’s constant with him, the spoiled toddler routine. Maybe I would have been better off taking a job as a nanny—at least I’d know what I was in for with the mood swings and temper tantrums. Although I couldn’t hack the whole cleaning up poop thing, so I guess that’s one advantage of working for Arlo. Plus, the eye candy and the “perks” that go with it wouldn’t be as good as a nanny.
“Morning, Arlo.”
I decide to remain cheerful, even when faced with someone who looks about as cheerful as the average serial killer. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible for men to have PMS.
“How are you?” I continue lightly.
“We’re going back on tour.” He says this in the same tone he would use to reveal that the entire band has herpes.
“That’s great!” I look up with a smile on my face, only to have it disappear when I meet his stony glare in return. ”Isn’t it...?” I can’t think why it wouldn’t be.