Authors: Callie Harper
“Are you hungry?”
he asked. “I can get you something off the menu. They have amazing
raw oysters.”
“Oh, no thanks.”
I’d grabbed a hot pretzel from a cart before I’d run into the
subway after my last piano lesson of the night. It wasn’t much, but
tonight it was all I could stomach. Too many butterflies fighting for
the space.
“How about a
cocktail?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have a
favorite, or…?” He looked at me, so solicitous and expectant, and
possibly even hotter than he had looked that afternoon. He’d
obviously shaved, though I liked him with stubble as well. His black
collared shirt was open a couple of buttons and I could see a few
thin, braided leather necklaces around his neck, then the lick of a
tattoo at the side. Yes, please.
“We have some
signature cocktails,” the bartender offered. He stood by us, at the
ready. I imagined that happened a lot to Ash Black.
“What do you
recommend?” I asked.
“The Bardot,” he
answered without hesitation. I raised an eyebrow at Ash to see what
he thought.
“It’s pisco,”
said the bartender.
“Peruvian brandy,”
Ash explained.
I smiled. It wasn’t
even the type of thing I was embarrassed to not know. I wasn’t
sophisticated and worldly and there was no use in pretending I was.
“Never had it before, but I’ll try it.”
I shrugged off my coat
and Ash helped me drape it along the back of my tall bar chair, such
a gentleman.
“You look amazing.”
His gaze raked over me, lingering a moment on my thighs. As I sat on
the stool, my skirt rode up and exposed a long stretch of skin. Take
that, Liv. I’d still caught his eye, even though I’d covered up
my lingerie with clothing.
But I did have on lacy
black panties underneath. Who knew where the night might lead? I’d
been raised with a strict moral code, of course, and had the virtues
of chastity extolled to me on more than one occasion. I had to admit,
it had worked its way into my brain. When fooling around with guys, I
could practically picture a light-up map of the bases, big red Xs
flashing over every one but first.
I’d had sex before of
course, with Stan. Stan the man, over and out in five minutes. He’d
been pretty proud of his prowess in the bedroom. I didn’t think he
had much to brag about, but what did I know, really? Maybe lots of
women never had orgasms with their partners? I’d given myself much
more pleasure with my fingers and hot fantasies, some of them
starring Ash Black. But maybe that was normal? I figured I wasn’t a
very sexual person, that’s what it came down to.
But sitting next to
Ash, our legs brushing against each other, I felt pretty damn sexual.
Every time our legs grazed against each other, every moment his
fingers drifted toward my own, lightly caressing my skin, I tingled,
a slow, warm buzz forming deep inside. He asked me about the rest of
my day, how teaching piano went, what my roommates had thought when
I’d told them the story of how we met.
“Oh, they were
hilarious. They always are.”
“Did they warn you
about me?” He took a sip of his drink and kept the tone of his
voice light, but I sensed something more in the question. As if he
earnestly cared what I thought of him.
“Jillian warned me,
yes. But she’s also worried about every news story she reads about
the city. And also weather events.”
“Weather events?”
“You know, like
tornadoes. She’s made us an escape plan in place in case one hits.”
“We don’t get
tornadoes in New York.”
“You never can be too
prepared according to Jillian.”
He seemed amused. “How
about your other roommate?”
“Oh, Liv wanted me to
wear nothing but a bra and panties to come meet you.” As soon as
I’d said it, I couldn’t believe it had slipped out of my mouth. I
blushed and took a quick sip of my drink. It went down smooth and
delicious, creamy and lemony all at once.
“I like Liv,” Ash
declared.
“She put eyeliner on
me, too.” He smiled, but his mind clearly was still on the image
I’d created a moment ago. I hadn’t meant to say that. Nervously,
I asked, “Have you ever worn eyeliner?”
“What?”
“You know, like Keith
Richards. Rock star eyeliner.” What was I talking about? Anything
other than my showing up naked.
“When I first started
out, stylists tried that sort of thing on me for photos. There were a
couple of early shoots where they made me look a lot like Captain
Jack Sparrow.”
I laughed. “I’d
love to see those photos.”
“I’ve burned them
all.” He looked deadly serious.
“Really?”
“Oh, no, you can’t
get rid of anything these days. Even if you try. Once it’s out in
the media, it’s out.”
I nodded, thinking of
his recent scandal with Mandy. All around us, I could tell people
were noticing him, watching and whispering. He seemed oblivious, but
to me it felt like that paranoia from middle school where you were so
self-conscious you thought everyone was staring at you in your new
shirt. Only this time, it was true. The walls really did have eyes.
“Hi, sorry to bother
you guys, but could I take a picture with you?” A middle-aged woman
in a big coat interrupted our conversation. She only had eyes for
Ash.
“Sure.” He gave her
a gorgeous smile and the sigh she gave in return was audible. Mental
note: he has that effect on all the ladies, Ana. Don’t think
there’s anything special between you two.
“Could you?” She
held her phone up to me and I positioned it to snap a photo of her
and Ash. She wrapped her arms around him like she wanted to bring him
home with her.
“My daughter’s a
huge fan,” she explained. Yeah, right. This woman probably had an
Ash Black mug she drank coffee out of every morning.
I took a couple of
pictures, Ash looking magnificent in every one of them, and handed it
back.
“Thanks so much.
You’re so amazing,” she gushed.
Ash gave her a smile
and a goodbye wave. Nothing out of the ordinary here. I took a sip of
my drink.
“You OK?” he asked,
hand to my wrist. Mmm. That shouldn’t feel so good, such a casual
touch, but his fingers brushing my skin nearly made me fall right off
the bar stool. His thumb stroked my wrist bone, then the sensitive
skin inside.
“Um,” I cleared my
throat and made myself say something other than ‘That Feels So
Good.’ “Are you used to the attention?”
“You mean that woman
asking for a photo?”
“Her, yes, but also
all the other people here watching you, whispering about you.” In a
quieter voice, leaning in, I murmured, “There’s a guy down at the
end of the bar who hasn’t stopped staring at you. Not even for a
second.”
“Yeah.” Ash nodded.
“I know.”
“Doesn’t it freak
you out?”
“Sometimes,” he
admitted. “Like when I’m getting chased by an angry mob.” He
smiled and made light of the scene from earlier today. But he had
been getting chased by a mob. They’d been one step away from
yelling “Kill the beast!”
“It goes with the
territory.” He shrugged. “You don’t get to be famous without
that part of it, too. And most people are friendly.”
I sipped my drink, not
too sure. It seemed pretty strange to me.
“Does it make you
uncomfortable being here with me?” His dark brown eyes filled with
concern over my well-being.
“I wasn’t trying to
say that.” I looked up at him. “I’m happy here with you.”
“I only suggested the
bar down here so you wouldn’t feel weird about meeting me in my
hotel room. But it does happen to be a mere elevator ride away.”
“You’re staying
here at this hotel?”
“Yes, I am.” He
gave me a smile so inviting I just about fell into it. I had to get a
grip. But it would be nice to be up in the privacy of his hotel room.
No staring, no asking for photographs. Just him and me, me and him.
It probably wasn’t a great idea.
Leaning in to me, he
rested his hand on my bare, exposed thigh. His cheek so close to
mine, his lips right at my ear, he whispered, “I promise, I won’t
do anything you don’t want me to do.” My eyelids fluttered closed
for a moment. Such promise in that statement. I knew this man could
get me to want him to do just about anything. Jillian, my mother and
father, just about every Sunday school teacher I’d ever had jumped
up and down in my head yelling “Are you crazy? Look at this
delinquent with his tattoos and bedroom eyes! Run away!”
But his hand on my
thighs felt so good, starting a slow burning heat for him between my
legs. I wanted to part them, give him some access, see what he could
do with those long fingers. He was a guitar player, after all, a
master at playing an instrument. He must be sensitive to every
response, so attuned to how each movement played into and aroused the
next.
“Let’s get out of
here,” he whispered, husky and low, in that voice that made him
world-famous. What was a girl to do?
“All right.” The
words slipped right out of my mouth. He finished his drink, then
carried mine and my coat across the bar, all eyes watching us,
tracking every step. I had no idea how he was used to that spotlight.
In the elevator, I
sighed with relief. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“You get used to it.”
I shook my head. “I
can’t imagine.”
“There are ways to
manage. You can control a lot with the right PR and security. I’d
make sure it wasn’t too awful for you if you, you know, spent some
time with me.”
What was he talking
about? My heart beat fast and I had to stop myself from biting my
nails. Was he discussing arrangements for how to deal with the press
if we started dating? Did Ash Black even date people? I didn’t know
every aspect of his life story, but everything I’d heard seemed to
suggest that he epitomized Rock Star, from the leather pants to the
ever-changing face of actresses/models/popstars by his side. But he
wasn’t wearing leather pants right now. He had on jeans, faded
ones, though I bet they still cost $500 and it hadn’t been Ash
Black who’d broken them in. But, still. Maybe there was a whole
other side to him? A deeper, more serious side that wanted to find a
real connection with someone? And maybe he needed someone outside of
his celebrity bubble to do it?
His hotel suite was
gigantic, easily far bigger than the apartment I lived in with two
roommates. The living room, alone, had to be 400 square feet, with
huge windows overlooking the city skyline at night. Front and center,
the Empire State building shone lit up for the holidays, red then
green, then red again at the top of that iconic spire.
“It’s so
beautiful,” I admired, taking it all in.
“So beautiful.” He
brought his hands to my shoulders and stood behind me. I could feel
his heat, how close he stood, and somehow, even with the breathtaking
view before us, he made me feel like it was me he was admiring.
“Here, let’s get
comfortable.” He led me over to a plush couch, somehow threading
the needle between grandly sumptuous and sleekly modern. Everything
in the hotel room seemed like a unique piece of art, from the chunky
industrial-sized coffee table to the burnished pewter lamp overhead.
He must have pressed a button that did something to something,
because soft music began, atmospheric jazz, blending perfectly with
our view of the city at night.
“Not The Blacklist?”
I had to tease him.
“Do you want to
listen to my music?” He sat next to me, close, his leg against
mine, his large, long arm draped across the back of the couch.
“No, this is
perfect.” He handed me my drink and I took a smooth, lemony sip.
“I’m glad I have
you here to myself.” His voice, so gritty yet so intoxicating,
affected me even more than the alcohol.
“It must be hard, not
having any privacy. You can’t go anywhere by yourself.”
“Why would I want to
be by myself?” He dipped his head down and nuzzled my hair, not a
lot, just a slight gesture but my stomach flipped right over. Even
the Russian judge gave it a ten.
“I love walking
around the city by myself.” It was hard to keep my thoughts
assembled, but I tried. “There’s so much to do here, but
sometimes I think my favorite thing to do is listen to music, walk
around and people-watch. It’s like being inside a movie all the
time.”
“Yeah, I can’t
really do that.”
“That’s so sad.”
I meant it. He couldn’t even go for a walk by himself. He was so
restricted, so trapped.
“Do you feel bad for
me?” he asked, toying with my hair, twisting strands between his
fingers, feathering it out across my back.
“Well…” It
sounded ridiculous, I knew that. Here I was, a nobody librarian
feeling bad for a world-famous superstar.
“Do you know what
would make me feel better?” His fingers found my neck now,
circling, stroking, massaging. Divine. Unthinking, on instinct, I
tilted my face toward him and he started kissing me. His mouth, warm
and sure on my mine, worshipping me, parting my lips so slow and
intense. He kept his hand on my neck, his palm and his fingers so
large they circled it, holding me there as he kissed me deeper. His
tongue, so wicked, coaxing, seeking me, drawing me out.
His other hand worked
its way up my arm, along my side, up to the swell of my breast. He
hissed in appreciation as he cupped it, full and round, and swept his
thumb across my nipple.
“Oh!” I gasped as
he grazed my swollen, pebbled tip, every nerve ending in my body
wired into that point. I started to throb between my legs and I
clenched my thighs, unable to believe the wild response he provoked.
“Anika.” He
caressed my name as he did my neck, my breast, my lips, stroking and
working me. “How do you like it?” He started trailing kisses
along my jaw, still gentle and light. “Do you like it sweet?” He
dipped down, taking advantage of my tipped-back head, my exposed skin
to lick and kiss, sending shivers through my entire body.