Authors: Callie Harper
“More here,” my
mother summed it up, more food, more presents, more of everything.
The dishes kept coming and he kept at it, joking around with me,
singing bits of Christmas carols with my aunt. She decided to teach
him a traditional Russian Christmas song, “The Forest Raised a
Christmas Tree.” The look on Ash’s face as he earnestly listened,
then repeated the lines about an evergreen nurtured by the forest. He
just about killed me, in a whole bunch of ways.
“Listen, I didn’t
mean to barge in here and stay so long,” he apologized to me, as if
he’d done something wrong.
“Ash, I’m so glad
to see you. I’m just surprised.”
“I haven’t even
given you your gift yet.” I had one for him, too, upstairs. I led
him up the stairwell, feeling absurdly guilty for sneaking a boy up
into my room. I gave him mine, first, nervous and shy. It wasn’t
much and it was kind of nerdy, but after all, that’s who I was. And
what did you get for the rock star who had everything?
You knit him a hat,
that’s what. I’d done it in the same chocolate brown as his eyes,
plus some charcoal gray, and lined it all in soft, fuzzy fleece. “So
you don’t get cold when you go on tour,” I explained, looking
down at my bed.
“I love it!” he
exclaimed, holding it up and looking at it. “Is it Gucci?”
“No, I made it.”
“You what?”
“I made it.”
“How?” He looked at
me, confused.
“You know, I knit
it.” I felt embarrassed. “With needles and wool.”
“You knit me a hat?”
I nodded. So dorky.
“No one’s ever knit
me a hat before.” He sounded astonished. I shrugged,
self-conscious. But he seemed to like it. “Thank you, Ana. I can’t
believe you did this for me.”
“Try it on.” He
slipped it on and I had to admit, it looked good. The brown matched
the exact color of his eyes. What was it about a handsome man with a
strong jaw in a knit hat? He should probably take it off. We were
still in my parent’s house. Jumping him wouldn’t do at all.
“Well, now I feel
like my gift isn’t anything,” he said. “I didn’t make it.”
“Ash, you didn’t
have to get me anything.”
He handed me a small
box, wrapped somewhat clumsily. I liked that he’d wrapped it
himself. I had to smile, picturing him with scissors and tape,
struggling and failing to get the paper just right. “Open it.”
I ripped off the paper,
opened the lid and found a ring with two keys. No tag on it or label.
I picked it up, curious.
“I wanted to get you
a piano,” he started explaining, “but I couldn’t see where one
would fit in your apartment.”
I laughed in agreement,
picturing the grand piano I’d seen in his San Francisco home in our
tiny living space. There’d be nowhere to walk around it.
“So, I talked to a
friend of mine who runs a recording studio. He’s cool with you
coming and using one of the practice rooms any time you want. Great
acoustics, everything’s top of the line. And it’s not far from
where you work, in SoHo.”
“You mean it?” I
lit up. The only time I got consistent access to a piano was when I
headed up to my parents’ house on the weekends. I’d been starved
for one.
“Anytime you want.
This key’s to the front entrance. This key’s to the practice
rooms.”
“Ash!” I threw my
arms around him, amazed at not only his generosity, but his
insightfulness. I couldn’t think of anything I’d want more, the
gift of playing music anytime I wanted. He wrapped his arms around
the small of my back.
“Merry Christmas,
Ana.” He kissed me, sweet and full. My lips met his, kissing him
back like I never wanted to stop. Until he broke it off.
“Is that a picture of
me?” he asked, looking directly at the poster of him on my wall.
“Oh my God!” I
shrieked, rushing over to try to shield the incriminating poster from
view.
“Ana! Are you
upstairs?” My father’s voice called up the stairwell. A minute
longer and we’d be in trouble.
“We’ve got to head
down.” I rushed over, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of my
childhood bedroom.
“So, I’m your
teenage dream, huh?” he whispered as we started down the stairs.
“Shut up!” I
blushed, trying to pretend that he hadn’t seen the evidence of my
history of infatuation.
“Me and Robert
Pattinson. I didn’t know you had a thing for vampires.”
“Every teenage girl
liked
Twilight
,” I
hissed.
“There you two are.”
My mother stood in the kitchen, surveying us as if looking for
evidence of out-of-wedlock sex.
“OK, I’ll get out
of your hair,” Ash declared. “Thank you so much Mr. and Mrs.
Ivanov for letting me crash your Christmas.”
“Crash?” My mother
asked, but seemed pleased as he took her hand and gave it a quick
kiss, formal and polite.
“We’re pleased you
could join us,” my father said, actually looking it.
“Oh, and I almost
forgot.” Ash collected two gifts from beside the door and handed
them to my parents. “Something for you both.” He thanked them
again, wishing them a great holiday, and I walked him outside to his
car. A rusty old pickup truck.
“This is what you
drove here in?” I asked, surprised.
“It’s my brother
Heath’s. He’s kind of a mountain man. He let me borrow it so no
one would know it was me driving up here.”
I kissed him goodbye,
quick so my parents wouldn’t worry. Plus I bet my aunt and uncle
and cousins all had their noses pressed up against the window
watching us.
Back in the kitchen, my
amazement didn’t fade. It grew. Ash had given my mother two tickets
to the New York Philharmonic, a night featuring the Russian composer
Rimsky-Korsakov. And for my father, a signed score of Shostakovich’s
fifth symphony.
Wow. And tomorrow he
was taking me to Paris. I felt like I was walking on air.
§
The limo came to pick
me up at 7:30 the following night. Our flight didn’t leave until
11:30, but Ash said he wanted to take me somewhere first.
“Dress for a party,”
he suggested, like I had any say in it. A stylist dropped off a tiny
silver dress and high heels, and insisted on doing a few touches to
my hair and make up. After all, this was a job and I had to look just
right for the cameras.
I’d packed myself for
Paris, though. We still hadn’t let the PR team know about our
plans.
“How do we have time
for a party?” I’d asked Ash. I’d been on a few flights before,
always with my parents. To them, preparing for a plane flight
involved weeks of discussions and planning, culminating in arriving
hours early to navigate the frightening and ominous passage through
ticketing and security.
“Baby, I’m a rock
star,” Ash had answered. “There’s always time for a party.”
The car took me to a
club in Nolita, north of Little Italy, and dropped me off in front
where I faced cameras by myself for the first time.
“It’s Ash’s
girl!” one of them yelled and then all of them were on me, snapping
pictures and shouting comments and questions.
“How you liking your
walk on the wild side?”
“Are you worried he’s
going to break your heart, too?”
“Ash is a good
person,” I found myself defending him. “You should back off.” A
bouncer reached out, took my arm and helped me wade through to the
door. Inside, Ash stood waiting for me.
“You should have
texted me you were here!” He reached out to welcome me with a hug.
“Were they awful?”
I shrugged. They had
been, but now I was inside and it looked cool as hell. I could
already spot a couple of celebrities I recognized, musicians and
actresses. Ash introduced me around, keeping his arm around me the
whole time, steering conversation to topics I could join in on.
He offered me a glass
of champagne. “Here’s to Paris!” He clinked my glass. “You
haven’t posted to Facebook about it, have you?”
I laughed. “No.”
“I know they’ll
find us, but we might grab a day without anyone knowing we’re
there.” He gave me a mischievous smile that sent a thrill through
my entire body. A humming dance floor called out, throngs of
well-dressed partiers moving to the beat.
“The day after
Christmas? Who knew?”
“There’s always a
party somewhere,” Ash explained. “You just have to know the right
people.”
“And you do?”
“I’m Ash Black.”
He winked at me.
“Then show me how you
dance.” It might have been the champagne, it might have been just
feeling drunk off his nearness, but I shook my booty off on that
dance floor. Not a care in the world, having the time of my life, I
waved my hands in the air like I just didn’t care. The man could
move, working those legendary hips and thrusting to the beat. He’d
be amazing in bed. Every woman and probably some of the men at that
party were thinking it, too. I knew that. Maybe some of them knew it
for sure? I didn’t like thinking of that, all the people he’d
been with before. Maybe even during our two weeks together?
But then Ash brought
his hands to my waist, pressing up against me, moving with me to the
rhythm and beat. How could I worry with the feel of him in the
darkness, the smell of him right there next to me, so close but not
close enough? The party was fun, but I wanted to get him alone.
“Let’s get out of
here.” He read my mind. The driver who’d taken me over waited for
us outside, now with Ash’s bags in the trunk as well. I loved how
things just came together for Ash. I wondered if he realized it, or
if he’d become so used to puzzle pieces simply falling together for
him he didn’t notice anymore. I’d enjoy it while I could.
In the dark of the
limo, the privacy screen drawn all the way up, Ash and I sank into
each other. Lips, hands, tongues, we kissed and touched and took our
flirting from the dance floor to a new, heated level. His hand on my
bare inner thigh, he eased up my skirt.
Breathing heavy, he
whispered into my ear, “I want you so much, Ana.”
“I do, too.” I
couldn’t help grinding against him, my leg up over his, my sex
pressed into the muscle of his thigh.
“We could,” he
murmured, kissing my neck, his hand grabbing my ass, firm, pressing
me up against him. “No one has to know.”
I exhaled into him,
nearly passing out at the thought of him sinking into me. The feel of
him long and hard, entering into my slick heat. He’d be rough with
me and I’d love it.
But I was already
hanging by a thread, a thin, flimsy thread. The gifts and the orgasms
and the fun we had together, I was falling fast for this man. But I
couldn’t do that. I was hired to fake date him and break up with
him, not fall deeply in love in that crushing, complete way you
dreamed of one day happening with Mr. Right. He wasn’t Mr. Right,
he was Mr. Right Now, and it would be a lot easier to remember that
if we didn’t have sex. Somehow I knew that if we did, I’d never
be able to turn back.
“You know how I fall
asleep each night?” Ash whispered to me in the dark, his hand now
wrapped around my thigh. “I think of you. How you smell.” He drew
his tongue along my neck, taking in my scent. “How you taste.” He
drew his finger up against my panties, pressing against the damp
lace, stroking my sex. My lips parted in a soft moan. “I think of
what you sound like when you come.”
“You do seem to like
making me come,” I gasped. God, did he ever. He did it so well. And
so often.
“I’m addicted to
it,” he whispered, his finger pushing my panties to the side,
plunging into my slick folds. “You’re my new drug. You make me so
hard.”
“Ash.” I placed my
hands on his shoulders, trying to slow down the roller coaster.
Really, I only succeeded in feeling his hard muscles and thinking how
good it would feel with his shirt off, digging my nails into his
flesh while he drove into me again and again.
“Yes, Ana?” he
asked quietly, wickedly, his finger slow and leisurely circling
around my clit.
“Ash!” I had to
think of something to snap me out of this. “Have you slept with
anyone in the last couple weeks? You know, since we’ve been
pretending—?”
“There’s been no
one but you, Ana,” he assured me with passion. “I can’t stop
thinking about you. You’re driving me crazy.”
He took my hand and
brought it to his jeans. Wow, he was huge. His long, rock hard shaft
pressed against the soft, fitted denim. I ran my fingers along its
length. I wanted to unbutton, unzip his jeans. I swallowed with
fierce need.
“You make me so hard,
Ana.” His voice sounded hoarse. “I haven’t been with anyone
else.” I stroked him through his jeans and he groaned. “I’m
hard all the time. I’ve been taking my cock in my hands and jerking
off thinking of you. I’m going crazy.”
“I know how you
feel,” I panted.
“You do?” His eyes
opened, fixed on me. The silence stretched between us. Then he
whispered, “Have you touched yourself thinking of me?”
I had, many times, late
at night. I felt embarrassed admitting it, but I gave a shy nod yes.
His voice came out
strained. “Show me.”
“What?” I sat up,
surprised, sliding my leg off of his.
“Show me how you
touch yourself, Ana.” He kept his hand on my thigh, his fingers
pressing into me, urgent. My pussy throbbed.
“I couldn’t.” I
shook my head, no. I could never show him how I touched myself. That
was naughty.
“Show me, Ana. We’re
both going insane. Show me how you touch your sweet pussy and make
yourself come.”
Shy, unable to believe
I was doing it, my hand slid down between my thighs. Without
thinking, on instinct, I slipped my fingers into my slick heat. I
sighed at the touch. I was already so wet for him. I was wet for him
all the time, wanting him. He’d gotten me turned on at the club,
dancing with me, then stroking me in the car and I wanted more. I
slid my fingers along my slit, quivering with need. My body wanted to
come.