by Isabel Jolie
“It’s not a game. It’s more like…” Following me around, assuming I’m the kind of train wreck people couldn’t keep their eyes off. Like the Kardashians. Obviously, the producer guy didn’t say that, but why would anyone want to watch me if I was all put together? They’d seen my account and assumed I was a basket case. A blonde shitshow. “Well, shit, Luna. I was so excited.”
“And maybe you should be. I don’t know. It’s just, I don’t trust those people. They’re all about money. Which for them means ratings. What’s your next step?”
“I fly out to L.A. He’s emailing me information.”
“Well, free trip to L.A., right? That’s cool.”
I hung up the phone with Luna, my jacked-up excited balloon popped, kaplooey. He’d said he’d send an email, but as I scanned my inbox, nothing had yet arrived from Nyck Johansen. But I did have an email response from Capital Business Enterprises.
I clicked on the email. They’d seen one of my posts asking about selling subscribers. He had a number of questions about my income level, month-to-month and year-to-year. In a nutshell, he wanted my attrition number. It wouldn’t be good, but any payment for a business I planned to close down was better than no payment.
I lost myself gathering the data for him in my trusty Excel sheet. About midway through the exercise, it occurred to me I was sending off a whole lot of data into the ether to a guy I’d never met before. But it wasn’t like Star Business was a public entity. What exactly could he do with it? And, if he was right, and he could get me the dollar per subscriber he referenced, I might not even need that bank loan.
Of course, if I sold my OnlyFans business, then there’d be no Netflix. I meandered down to my den, taking it all in through fresh eyes. Imagining a film crew, or at least cameras placed strategically throughout. A dirty coffee cup from yesterday remained on the coffee table along with the wine glass from last night and a crumpled paper towel. The throw I’d circled around my waist cascaded from the sofa down to the floor. Three pairs of shoes in a jumbled heap crowded the narrow space beside the front door.
All the furniture belonged to my landlady. Each and every piece of slipcovered furniture designed to be easily cleaned should a guest or renter spill a beverage. The art hanging on the wall consisted of cross-stitched shells. Would I want a film crew associating all of this with me? Was this the brand I wanted to portray? It was one thing to carry on a website almost no one in my world had heard of. But Netflix? People might recognize me. And you couldn’t photo edit video.
I supposed you could put in restrictions, like no camera views inside my refrigerator, or watching me eat, or in the bathroom. Maybe they’d use lighting and edit the footage to make their actors…or was the word talent…look their best?
A low level of nausea circulated through my belly. I needed air. I texted Gabe, Are you there?
His response came through in a minute or two. Yep.
I slipped on my furry boots and headed out the door.
It didn’t occur to me until I’d ascended the last step to his front door that his sister and friend could still be visiting. But before I could backtrack, he saw me through the glass. He stood at the far end of the house, in front of the glass sliding doors. In his hand he held a highball glass with a golden liquid, and he raised the glass in greeting, then turned his back to me, staring back out over the ocean.
I opened the door with caution, scanning the area for skinny bitches.
“Hi,” I called, and held my breath as I listened for any feminine response.
I shrugged off my boots and crossed the floor in my socked feet, quiet. Gabe stood rigid. The familiar smell of bourbon wafted through the air as he swirled the amber liquid. The muscles along his jawline flexed as if he gritted his teeth.
“You okay?”
He exhaled, lifted the glass, raised his arm as if he was going to hurl the glass like a baseball, but he caught sight of me and changed his mind. He shook his head and stepped outside.
I followed him to the railing, looking out over the beach. Far off in the distance, two surfers sat on boards, both in wetsuits. A woman and her dog strode down the beach. I didn’t say a word, simply waited.
Gabe emptied his glass. I estimated he had at least one shot worth in that glass. From the aroma, I guessed he just downed an expensive sipping bourbon. He leaned over the deck railing, resting both forearms on it. The wind whipped at his dark hair, sending the short ends swirling up and down.
“Bad day. I’m pissed off.”
“Who pissed you off?” The skinny bitches?
“A guy from my office. Accused me of a whole load of bullshit. This whole thing…this whole case. It’s a nightmare. And I don’t think it’s going to go away very soon.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“You’ll be stuck here with me for a little longer, then, huh?” I bit my lower lip through a grin, aiming to make light of the situation.
The cold glare he returned whipped through me more thoroughly than the chilly wind over the ocean.
“No. I’ll be back home soon. Fuck them if they think they can send me away like some leper.” He set his empty glass on the deck railing and once again gazed off in the distance.
“Is your sister still here?”
“No. I flew them back this morning.”
“Did she like your place?”
“She’s always thought this island was a shit hole. She’s a Hamptons girl.”
“Well, I’m going to get out of your way.” I backed up carefully. A splinter snagged a piece of my sock, and I centered my gaze on the wooden boards, searching for any remaining hazards on my retreat.
“Wait. Stop. Fuck. I’m sorry.” I paused, watching him in the reflection of the glass. He ruffled his hair, making himself look really adorable, then rested his hands on his waist. “I was in such a great mood all day today. Then Reed called and he…I’m sorry.” Those green eyes seemed darker than I’d ever seen them.
“No worries.”
“It’s almost time for our date. Stay. You don’t need to go.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. I need to get out of my head.” He strode past me, back into the house, leaving the sliding door open for me to follow. “What can I get you to drink?”
His tone rang a false high. I reached for his hand and tugged him over to the sofa. “Sit. Let me try something.”
He sat down on the sofa, legs out front, and I reached for his shoulders. His muscles were firm, like iron rods. When I pushed my thumb down, it barely made an indention.
“Jeez, you’re tight.” I scrambled on the wide sofa to get in a better position behind him. I dug the base of my palm into the tight shoulder muscle, and he groaned. He wore an off-white cable knit sweater, and I tugged on it. “Take this off. It’s getting in the way.”
He obediently removed it. A heather gray t-shirt remained, but it was thin and wouldn’t impede my assault on his tight shoulders.
“Fuck. You’re good at that.” My fingers pushed, prodded, and pulled his shoulder and neck muscles. I even used my elbow. His muscles were responsive, and within minutes, they loosened.
“One of my stepdads taught me. He used to spend a lot of time at the computer, and he wouldn’t do the right stretches. He’d get super tight.”
“How many stepdads do you have?”
“Four.”
“Wow. That’s…”
“Yeah.” Nothing else to say to that. “Here. Lay down on your stomach.” I tossed off some of the pillows, making room for him to lie flat, then climbed up over him once he did as I said.
He groaned loudly as I pressed into the muscles along his back and tracked the tight cords along his spine. I went lower and lower along his waistline until he squirmed. He propped himself up on his forearms and looked over his shoulder at me with a youthful grin.
“Now who’s grabbing the jiggly parts?”
“What?” I half laughed. “You don’t have any jiggly parts on you. Y
ou are all firm muscle.”
“Even the love handles?” His raised eyebrows called my bluff.
“Those are not love handles. These are love handles.” I grabbed the bulbous sides of my hips for proof.
He rolled onto his back, and in a wicked fast movement, flipped me over so he was on top. Lord, those green eyes—a girl could get lost in them.
“I love your curves.” He pressed his lips against mine. “Never knock them. Ever.” With his forearms braced above me, and his legs and body over mine, it created a cocoon of warmth. My insides swirled and sparkled.
He rolled off me and positioned us so we were side by side. He dragged a throw across both of us and adjusted pillows behind our heads. Then he tapped his index finger on the tip of my nose, smiled, and placed a kiss where his finger had been. His free hand roamed along my back and down to my waist. I squelched the desire to push his hands away. After all, he’d just said he liked my curves. He relaxed against the back of the sofa and left his hand on my waist, as if laying claim to my no-touch zone.
“I was about to explode before you came. Had a plan to drink myself into oblivion. And then you show up and I’m relaxed and happy. How’d you do that?” His question threw me, maybe partially because I was still thinking about his hand in the jiggly zone. “How has your day been?” His thumb caressed my cheek, sending tantalizing sensations throughout my core. My thighs squeezed together all on their own.
Those green eyes reflected a lighter evergreen shade. His lighter mood fed me. My day. I did have something good to share.
“It’s been interesting.”
“Yeah.” His lips grazed mine, and his nose nuzzled below my ear. “Tell me.”
“Netflix called.” Shock filtered through his expression as he fully registered my words. He rolled back, creating a gap between our bodies. I rushed to explain. “A reality TV show.” I could swear his eyes widened. “I’m not going to do it. But, still, how cool is that to get that call?” I hadn’t known until that very moment I wasn’t going to do it, but lying beside him, I knew, clear as day. Reality TV wasn’t for me. The nerves sprung up on my insides, just from telling him about it. It didn’t sit right. “I still might go to LA to meet with them, though. Free trip to L.A.”
“I’ll take you to L.A.”
“I didn’t think those small planes you fly could make it to L.A.”
“They make bigger planes. I can buy us tickets.”
There was something about the way he said the word “us” that constricted my lungs and sent a rush of wetness between my legs. No man had ever used the word us, not in relation to me.
He dropped his head and claimed me with a searing kiss. A kiss that forced me to break away, gasping for air. Then I pulled his lips back down to mine and claimed him back. Our tongues tangled, dancing a slow hypnotic dance. Unrushed. He tasted like bourbon, which to me had always tasted like candy. He tugged at my sweater, and I opened my eyes. The late afternoon light poured in through the back wall of windows.
“It’s light.”
“And I want to see you. I want to be the man who sees you in natural light. The man who sees the blemishes. The man who sees all of you. And one day, I want you to see what I see. I want you to see yourself through my eyes. Because through my eyes, you are stunning. A knockout on the outside, yes, but I don’t get caught up on a dimple or what did you call it? Squishy? No, because what’s in here,” he tapped my head, “and what’s in here…” he tapped my heart, “captivates me.”
My throat went dry. I skimmed the pads of my fingers over the rough, dark hairs growing in along his jawline. His biceps bulged as he braced himself partially over me, and I traced the curve of the muscle.
If he’s going to be turned off, might as well find out now, before he really obliterates your heart with that smooth talking.
I raised up, and he helped guide the sweater over my head. He sucked in air as he took in my breasts. It wasn’t my sexiest bra, but it was comfortable and supportive and gave the girls a nice bit of cleavage. He trailed kisses down my neck, to my chest, and then the bra fell away.
He sucked in a nipple and twirled his tongue, and I whimpered. Somehow, I felt his tongue in my core in the form of a burn. A need.
He sat back on his legs and removed his t-shirt, then stood and dropped his jeans to the floor. He helped me remove my leggings and, once again, my panties came right off with them. He moved slowly and methodically, those gorgeous green eyes locked on mine.
There I was, in broad daylight, naked as the day I was born. Embarrassed, I reached out for the throw.
His hand fell over mine, and he shook his head. “I’m a boob guy. I don’t care about the other parts you’re so worried about. And, darling, trust me, you don’t need to be worried. You. Are. Breathtaking. You don’t do as much Photoshopping as you think you do.”
I sucked in a breath and reluctantly let the throw drop to the floor. He reached down to his jeans, pulled out a brown leather wallet, and slipped out a square condom wrapper. He held it up so I could see, set it down on the coffee table, and covered my body with his.
I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him close. His erection pressed against my entrance, cradled between my legs, the thin fabric of his cotton boxers the only barrier to his entry. We both groaned.
I reached inside his boxers and wrapped my fingers around him, stroking. The waistband of his boxers inhibited my movement, and he pushed them down then kicked them off. He watched, mesmerized as I worked over him. I moved to take him in my mouth, and he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“I need you. Inside you. Now.”
I nodded, and he dropped his head, kissing me like I was his last chance for breath. His bare cock slid against my pussy, resting in the slick, ready folds. One dip of his hips, or of mine, and he’d slide inside. His gaze alternated between me and watching the tip of his cock. My muscles clenched in anticipation.
“Fuck me,” I panted, surprising myself.
He snapped into action. The crinkly sound of the condom wrapper drowned out the dull background noise of crashing ocean waves. He spread my legs wider and returned to my entrance. The muscles along his jaw contracted. A vein in his neck pulsed. He shook his head.
“No. You take control.”
I didn’t understand, but he maneuvered my body with skill, and I found myself hovering over him, one leg on each side of his legs. I shifted forward and placed him at my entrance and slid down, inch by inch. My channel couldn’t have been tighter. I closed my eyes, and his hands held on to my hips. I breathed out, attempting to relax.
“That’s it, baby. Take me. Take all of me.” He groaned as I stretched around him. “You are so fucking tight.” He reached up and fondled my breast. Then with expert fingers he touched me intimately, applying a gentle, circling pressure. It felt so good. My muscles strained as I sank lower, taking him in, all the way. Instinct took over. My hips moved on their own, and I rode him, seeking the unknown. My breasts swayed and bounced, and those gorgeous eyes took in everything, mesmerized. I’d never been on top before, but I quickly got the hang of it and moved as if I was working myself with my very own personal vibrator. Only this time, he watched. His hips met mine, and he guided me. He alternated between working my clit and my breasts with an expert touch. My breathing quickened, and I heated, completely uninhibited. He pushed himself up, and I leaned forward, still rocking my hips, and he took my nipple in his warm mouth. His hands gripped my ass, guiding me. I sat up, and the chill air over my sensitized nipple had me reaching for it, tweaking it with my own hand.
“Fuck, you are sexy.” I slipped my hand down over my mound, searching for my clit, repeating his movement, as my hips rocked over him, and Gabe let out an animal-like roar as I clenched around him. He half rose off the sofa, and his veins protruded from his neck as he strained. He pulsed inside me, and I slowly, ever so slowly, rocked my hips, milking him, memorizing his expression. The haze of red beneath his skin as he released. I’d done
that.
He breathed out heavily and collapsed onto his back.
“Holy fuck. I’ve never come with the girl on top. Ever.”
I raised myself up, releasing him, then fell beside him, as I too gasped for breath. My fingers traced the muscles of his arm, and along his face, and the thin layer of sweat on his brow. I couldn’t stop touching him. He pulled in a lungful of air and smiled.
“God, that was good. So good.” He kissed me, a sated, grateful kiss. I ran my fingers through his hair and reveled in the feeling of closeness and intimacy.
“You are mine. Do you understand? Mine.”
I gulped as he rubbed his forehead against mine and kissed my nose. Then he popped off the sofa. I didn’t understand. Not at all. He planned to return to New York. So, I was his for, what, while he wanted me? It didn’t make sense to me. I refused to hope for more. But I could enjoy the now. What we’d shared blew away anything I’d ever experienced before.
Once upon a time, I’d thought what I had with Ben was real. I’d convinced myself that those moments in his basement, or in my locked bedroom, were real. But I’d slowly accepted that I was nothing more than a sexual release for him. A dark secret he hid from the world, the way some people hid their porn habit. He’d never gazed into my eyes while he fucked me. As a matter of fact, he preferred when I bent over the bed, fully clothed other than my missing underwear, and sometimes he’d just push those over to the side.
Sure, I called myself a dumb girl whenever I needed a good self-berating, but I wasn’t so dumb I believed Gabe really wanted me. This thing between us was a temporary kind of thing. It had to be. As his sister knew upon first seeing me, I wasn’t his type. Not for anything real. And he knew it too. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have invited me to dinner with all of them? If you were serious about someone, you’d want them to spend time with your sister. No, I had to keep perspective. Men say things during sex they don’t mean.
Gabe returned to the room, climbed back onto the sofa, and pulled me into his arms. “What are you thinking you want for dinner? Let’s order in.”
I pushed back, torn between wanting to leave and gain distance, to protect what remained of a fragile heart, or remain and enjoy the evening with him. He nipped at my earlobe and kissed my breast. And then he kissed me. Over and over again. And with each kiss, any resolve I had melted like butter on the bottom of a heated pan.