The Shower
by: Audrey
(c) 2001

There, indeed, it is

“Let me help you with that,” a voice says, and there’s Chris, crazy Chris snatching the flickering lighter from her hand and cupping his hands around her cigarette. A moment later, she inhales, grasps her right wrist in her left hand to keep the shaking to a minimum, and leans against the wall, exhaling in one long, shuddery cloud of smoke.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

“Not at all. Why do you ask?”

 

“I’ve never seen anyone look quite so grateful for a cigarette. Do those things have heroin in them or something? Are you junkie?”

 

“I wish.”

 

“So you and JC dance pretty well together.”

 

She looks hard at the burning red ember on the end of her Marlboro. She’s never realized just how pretty that red light is, how fascinating every bit of ash and burnt tar looks.

 

“Are you always like this after dancing with someone?”

 

“No.”

 

“What’s the problem? You looked like you were having fun.”

 

“I wasn’t.”

 

“Well, he certainly looked like he was having a good time, judging by the lump in his pants.”

 

“That’s a little crass.”

 

Chris shrugs. “I’ve seen enough of JC’s erections onstage to know when it’s just a physical reaction and when he’s actually turned on.”

 

“I suppose I fall in the latter category.”

 

“If the jock fits.... So what’s your issue?”

 

“I don’t have an ‘issue.’ I just realized I don’t really want to be the next in a long line of JC groupies he’s charmed in a hotel bar. He doesn’t even talk. He’s good-looking, but he’s boring.

 

“Protesting a bit much, aren’t you?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he rarely goes out after shows. Usually he just goes to sleep. I’ve only seen him hook up with one or two girls, and that was always at publicity things, during the day. It’s way past his bedtime.”

 

“Right. Sleepy Spice.”

 

“And I’ve never seen him dance in a hotel bar before.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“All I’m saying is, don’t freak out just because you’re attracted to him. A lot of girls are. Don’t be freaked out just because he’s in ‘NSync.”

 

“I’m not freaked out.”

 

Whatever.”

 

“Well, I’m going back inside. Join us if you want, but don’t act all pissed off just because you’re turned on.”

 

Before she can respond, he’s back through the door, repositioning himself at the bar. JC’s nowhere around.

 

Fuck, she thinks. Her one chance to be romanced by JC Chasez and she blows it because she wants to feel… what did she want to feel? She had no problem dancing with Chris earlier, but that was like dancing with a really sexy best friend, a bootie call buddy. JC… JC’s different. And not because he’s JC Chasez of ‘NSync.

 

It’s something about his eyes.

 

Oh, well, she thinks, and grinds out her cigarette under her foot.

 

“I think I should go home,” she tells Chris inside. He cocks his head at her.

 

“Are you sure? Don’t want another drink?”

 

“Um. I think I better not. Where’s my luggage?”

 

Chris bites his lip. “Oh. Well.”

 

“Is my suitcase gone? Where is it? In the limo?”

 

“No…”

 

“Where’s my stuff, Chris?”

 

“Well… the limo driver wanted to go home so I had your stuff put away.”

 

Where?

 

“….JC’s room?”

 

Audrey’s stomach drops. “Are you fucking kidding me? That’s a little presumptuous, isn’t it?”

 

“No! I mean, not really. I couldn’t think of another place for it.”

 

“How about your room? Or, I don’t know, behind the bar?

 

“I’m really sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t JC. It really was me. I’ll go get it for you.”

 

“Forget it,” Audrey says, snatching the card key from his hand. “I’ll find it. Where’s JC?”

 

“I don’t know. Bathroom, I guess.”

 

“OK, well, when he gets back, tell him he’s a great dancer,” she says, and turns to walk away.

 

“Hey!” Chris calls.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re really cool,” he says. “Like really.” She smiles then, and chastises herself for being so edgy.

 

“Thanks,” she says, and hugs him. “You’re really cool, too. I don’t know what my problem is.”

 

“Lust has that effect on people,” he says, squeezing her. “We should hang out next time we’re in town.”

 

“Oh, right,” Audrey says. “’Cause I can handle stress like this all the time.”

 

He kisses her lightly on the cheek and, warmed by the affection, Audrey heads for the elevators.

 

To JC’s room. The elevator takes a year to reach the top floor, taking her farther away from JC Chasez every second. But she can’t face him again, not after running like the hounds of hell were at her heels just because he dipped her.

 

Before she inserts the card key in the slot, her hand hesitates. Maybe she should go back downstairs, apologize, have a drink and hang out with him more. On the other hand, she really doesn’t want to be another groupie. And she is curious about his room. Although she could go downstairs and dance with him more…

 

 

 

She pictures Chris, explaining to JC downstairs that she’s a crack addict or, at best, a neurotic speed freak, and blushes. She made an ass of herself in front of him. She doesn’t want to do it again.

 

She slides the key in the lock, face warming as she thinks of the Freudian action—light red, insert tab A into slot B, light turns green and a door opens!—and at the answering click, she pushes the door open.

 

She can’t see her suitcase. The former New Yorker in her rejoices; she’ll have to look for it, and in the meantime, she’ll just have to check out a star suite in the trendiest hotel in San Francisco. It has nothing to do with JC, she tells herself. I just wanna see the room.

 

She steps into a short hallway, carpeted in thick maroon plush carpeting, and into the sitting room. It’s filled with design-heavy furniture, all loops and swirls and odd angles, and she wonders if anyone can actually feel comfortable on any of the ridiculous-looking things. The minibar is wood and steel, with a steel refrigerator, and she realizes those two appliances probably cost more than her parents’ entire kitchen.

 

Her suitcase is nowhere in sight.

 

Guess I gotta go in the bedroom, she thinks with a quiver of anticipation, and pushes open a door at the end of another short hallway.

 

Her mouth drops open. The bed is normal-looking enough, a deep maroon and silver bedspread folded down with a mint on the pillow, but it’s enormous. Like swimming-pool sized. She could fit six people on the bed and still have room for a dozen vibrators and a few circus animals, to boot.

 

 

 

 

 

JC’s suitcase is open on the bed, and a trunk sits askew on the floor, but other than that, there’s no sign of life or her suitcase; she sighs. She’ll have to go back downstairs after all. But what a great story, she thinks—I was in JC’s hotel room.

 

As she heads back toward the sitting room, her nose twitches; she catches a scent of soap. Not hotel soap, but Lever 2000 or Irish Spring or one of those other soaps her guy friends always use.

 

Her heart leaps into her throat. She sees a door across the sitting room. She hadn’t noticed it before, so she’s sure it must have been closed; but now it’s open, and it’s the bathroom, and the light is on.

 

She knows that door wasn’t open before.

 

“Can I help you?” a voice says, and she jumps, and maybe even squeals a little; and there, behind the minibar, is JC, and his hair is glistening and wet, laying across his forehead and ears in curls, and his chest is bare, and he’s wearing a towel around his hips, and he’s looking at her expectantly, as though she’s about to tell him whether or not she wants fries with her Big Mac.

 

“Oh my god,” she says, and averts her eyes, blushing fiercely. “I’m so sorry. Chris said my suitcase was up here so he gave me your key and I was just looking for it—I thought you were downstairs, I wasn’t snooping or anything, I didn’t know you were—oh my god—”

 

“I trust you,” he says, and laughs. To her mixed horror and awe, he steps out from behind the bar and opens a closet door. “Here it is.”

 

There, indeed, it is. She has her suitcase. She can leave now. Her suitcase, the American Tourister that’s been to half the cities in the United States, the faithful, blue, lifetime-guaranteed suitcase that contains most of her favorite clothes and shoes.

 

She hates it.

 

“Oh. Thanks,” she says, and approaches the two of them, eyes to the floor. She grabs the retractable handle, slides it up, and becomes aware of how close he is, and how silent the room has become.

 

So, naturally, she rushes to fill the silence.

 

“Can I apologize for downstairs? I mean, I really didn't mean to run away from you, it's just that I really did want a cigarette, and you're a really good dancer but—”

 

He lays his hand on hers, squeezing tight. Still grasping the handle of the suitcase, she drags her eyes from the floor and raises her eyes to meet his. They’re blue, so blue, and hooded and maybe even smiling a little; and he smells so good, and she notices a small curl of hair that’s just touching his left temple.

 

“Your hand is cold,” she says. It is. Smooth, and strong, but ice-cold.

 

He shrugs, more of an attitude adjustment than a visible movement of his shoulders. “I just took a cold shower.”

 

“I guess that’s why,” she says, trying to laugh, and when she realizes the implications of his statement, her laughter cuts off and she swallows. “Oh.”

 

“I didn’t mean to chase you away downstairs.”

 

“Yeah, well, I guess I scare easier than I thought,” she says, averting her eyes again. “I should go, though.”

 

“Oh, come on,” he says, loosening his grip. “Let’s watch some TV or something.”

 

Now she does laugh, a real laugh. She’s in a hotel room with a damp-haired, clean-smelling JC Chasez, the one guy about whom she’s entertained more fantasies than any other, and he’s suggesting they watch television. Now that’s comedy.

 

“No offense, or anything,” she says, “but I don’t think I really want to watch television with you.” She gazes at his face, and thinks she sees the corner of his mouth tug into a smile. “Besides, I’m still all nasty from the concert and plane, and I’m a little intimidated by you looking all clean and sexy…”

 

 He grins, showing dimples and white teeth, dropping fifteen years from his face, and the courage she’d lost downstairs returns to her. “Are you actually going to laugh again? Be careful, or you might lose your status as the serious one.”

 

He laughs, and still smiling, takes the suitcase from her hand.

 

“If you’re so worried, then why don’t you go take a shower?”

 

She feels a familiar quickening in her lower belly; it’s not the electrical sexual tension of their dance downstairs, of dangerous moments and almost-sex, but it’s still one she’s experienced before: the moment she decides that, yes, she’s going kiss this person, and maybe have sex with him, and it’s going to be good. The sensation isn’t as thrilling or forbidden as the one she felt during “Fever,” but it’s still good. It’s better. Her last vestiges of anxiety, thoughts of other women and the implausibility of her situation escape her, and she raises her eyebrows at him.

 

“Sounds fair,” she says. “I like hot showers, though. Do you think there’s enough hot water to last for a long shower?”

 

“Oh, this is a pretty nice hotel,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll have enough to go around.”

 

She grins, then turns and enters the bathroom. The white tile is cold and wet from his shower, and she realizes she’s actually standing in a room where, moments before, that Adonis was nude. She meets her eyes in the mirror, observes the flush in her cheeks, the bright light in her eyes, and shivers a little.

 

She peels her clothes off, leaving the door open a crack, and turns on the hot water. The bathroom’s huge, one of those double deals where the shower has a seat carved into it and the bathtub fits two, maybe three people. As she steps into the shower, goosebumps rise on her skin, and she thrusts her head under the hot spray. Will he come in?

 

She pauses and listens for him; she can’t hear him. Oh, fuck it, she thinks, opens the sliding door, sticks her head out the bathroom door, and sees JC pouring himself a glass of wine at the minibar. Wine, she thinks. Of course. She takes a deep breath.

 

“Hey,” she says, and he jumps. When he sees her head in the doorway, bare shoulder and collarbone sticking out of the door, hair wet and dripping on the maroon carpet, his eyes widen. “Are you coming in here or what?”

 

Before he can answer, she closes the door, steps into the shower, and says a silent prayer that she didn’t just make another ass of herself. When he doesn’t come in right away, she shrugs and puts her head under the hot blast of water, feeling it sluice through a day’s worth of grime and airplane smell and sweat; her hair rests heavily against her back, and she raises her face to the nozzle, blocking out everything but this one pounding sensation, of the hot water stinging her eyelids and burning paths down her neck. At least she’ll be clean if and when they do hook up.

 

Eyes closed, she reaches for the shampoo, and a strong hand clasps her wrist from behind.

 

“I’ll get that for you,” JC says, and when she tries to turn to face him, he grips her shoulders, forcing her back to him. She gasps a little in the steamy air.

 

A moment later, his long fingers are in her hair, massaging her scalp and stroking lather through its straight, dark thickness; his hand brushes the nape of her neck and she feels her knees weaken. She braces a hand against the wall, eyes closed, feeling his hands now rinsing water through her hair, now rubbing her scalp, and when his hand tugs at a lock—enough to cause tingling pressure, and just the slightest pain—her knees do buckle, and a moment later he’s there, arm wrapped around her waist from behind, chin on her shoulder, muscles pressed against the length of her, erection prodding against her backside. She gasps at the feel of his body, all hard angles to her soft curves, hot water sliding between them, shampoo running from her hair to lubricate the skin between her back, his front.

 

Still encircling her waist, he raises his other hand to lift her wet hair away from her neck, leaving it bare to the pelting water. His lips press against her neck, tongue trailing along the length of her shoulder, other hand splayed against her belly, pressing her further back into him. He pulls his body closer to her, tilts his chin into the hollow of her collarbone, and nudges his nose against her jawline. Her lungs feel hot and heavy in the heat and steam.

 

He slides his other hand around in front of her, fully encircling her from behind, and she arches her back like a cat, longing to feel the friction of his chest against her back. Her back’s the most sensitive part of her body, always has been. He shifts a bit, and she arches her back again; and then he realizes what she wants, slips one hand to her back, kneading the muscles gently, trailing his short fingernails across her skin, making her breath catch. When he nibbles her shoulder, she gasps; when he moves to her middle back, leaving a trailing of licks and kisses and nibbles down her spine, she cries out. She feels hot and wet inside as well as outside, slippery and buckling and weak, and she loves this, but she hates it, too, this long, heated agony of anticipation. His hands caress her waistline, gently scratching her from breast to hip, cupping her buttocks gently, then squeezing them, all the while kissing her upper back. When his hands brush the sensitive spot on her lower spine, she cries out and reaches her arms to grab the back of his head, tugging at his hair, and he plays with the skin at that nerve center, pressing and tickling and torturing it.

 

They’re back to front, her arms around his neck, his hands touching her waist, the spray from the shower pounding her breasts and belly. He reaches for the bar of soap, runs it between his hands, then draws slow, slick circles on her belly, working up to her breasts. He holds her breasts, one in each hand, hands slippery from the soap, and pinches the nipples, breathing in her ear, using his upper arms to keep her standing.

 

Please…” she hisses, and he bites her ear; and then, left hand supporting her ribcage, slides one hand down her belly, across her tattoo, over her bellybutton, and to her pubic bone. She sucks air between her teeth, tries to pull away from him so they can face each other, but he holds her tight, and slips his finger between her legs. She whimpers a little, and when she squirms in his grip again, he grabs both of her arms, pushes them against the wall, and now she’s braced against the wall, legs spread wide, water pouring down her neck, and JC returns his hand to between her legs, cock pressing against her back, thighs holding her legs straight and strong.

 

His soapy finger slips between the folds of her, finding her clit and rubbing fast, too hard for her right now; she whispers “Slow down…” and he accommodates her request, slowing down, drawing lazy circles. She’s never come standing up before; she wonders if she’ll slip and break something, but his arms hold her fast and strong, and his finger is so wet, so slick, and the water is so hot, and she tightens her backside, tenses her thighs and tummy muscles, straining, wanting this so badly, and whispers “faster” and he speeds up, breath hot in her ear, and begins moving his hips against her lower back; she feels his finger between her legs, his cock pushing up through her buttocks and up her back, his breath in her ear, his arms holding her tight, and always the water, the water pounding down over them, and then she screams out, and her body shudders, and her back arches. She slides through his arms to the floor of the shower, water running in rivulets around her, head leaned against the wall, his muscular legs at eye level, water pounding on her face.

 

From a great distance, she hears a voice calling her name, and after a moment, she opens her eyes to see JC’s face, only inches away, concerned and worried; she smiles limply. Here she is, returning to consciousness after the most intense orgasm she’s ever experienced, and he looks like he’s afraid he hurt her.

 

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, and opens her mouth to let water slide down her parched throat. And she sees his eyes focus on her mouth, and realizes she hasn’t kissed him yet.

 

He’s apparently thinking the same thing, because he cups her face, and he looks a little ridiculous, naked and crouching beside her in the shower, but those lips are approaching hers, and she gives herself over to them, taking his full bottom lip into her mouth, hungry and wanting to taste him, to taste all of him. He’s straddling her now, and they face each other in the shower, hands cupping each others’ faces, chests pressed together, trembling and wet. And she wants to taste all of him.

 

She grabs him by the elbows, and, still kissing, they stand, and she guides him to the far end of the shower; the water pelts her back and behind, splashing up to touch his face. She tears her mouth away from his, and when he twists his head to meet her mouth again, she twists her head and bites his neck. He arches his head back, the tendons of his collarbone standing out, and she grabs his ass in her hands, digging in her fingernails, pressing her breasts against the full length of him. He reaches out to her, and she pushes him back.

 

She steps back from him and looks at his body, really looks at it. His muscles are outlined against tanned skin; a light dusting of hair grows between his pectorals, and those horizontal shoulders of his are sculpted in a mass of muscles that would make David blush. She runs her arms down his arms, down his chest, toward his belly, and his head is still thrown back, water splashing down his neck, eyes closed, mouth half open.

 

She sinks to her knees.

 

He’s beautiful everywhere, she sees; perfect and standing at full attention. She’d seen this erection outlined against his pants in so many magazines, so many videos, but nothing compares to the way it looks now, naked and solid and smooth, like polished marble, standing out from his dark curly hair and the hollows of his hips. She lays a soft kiss below his bellybutton and feels his stomach tighten, his cock prods at her neck, twitching. She slides her hands around his backside and digs her fingernails in; he groans deep in his throat and shifts his hips forward. She kisses his inner thighs, his hipbones, and runs her tongue along the space where his torso meets his thigh.

 

She takes him whole into her mouth then, and he gasps, and she feels another rush of desire in her belly. She sucks on his cock, pulling hard, swirling her tongue around the tip, and he sucks air through his teeth, digging his fingers into her wet hair. She pulls her mouth across him, leaning back until only the head is in her mouth, drawing circles around the tip, and tastes his salt on her tongue. She removes her mouth, licks around him like he’s an ice cream cone, and she feels his knees bend. She feels a surge of wetness between her legs as she realizes his knees are buckling now.

 

She goes deep again, taking nearly all of him in her mouth, but he’s too big for that, so she wraps her hand around the base, squeezing and pulling, loving the taste and feel and sound of him. She gives herself a small break, taking her mouth away and grasping him in her hand, stroking and squeezing at the head, and he sucks in his breath through his teeth. She looks up at him through the shower spray, and her breath catches when she realizes he’s watching her, eyes hooded, lips full and bruised, jaw tight.

 

She leans back and grabs the shampoo bottle, still watching him watch her, and pours a bit of shampoo onto her hand. She rubs her hands together, and when she puts her hands back on his cock, he gasps and throws his head back. “Jesus,” he says, and she pulls her slick, lubricated hands across him, twisting her hands around and over the head. She leans forward and presses him between her breasts, loving the feel of his hardness against her softness; his hands dig into her hair and he says “oh my god,” and she stands, allowing her breasts to run along the full length of him, and still stroking him, kisses him, and his hands cut into her scalp, and he’s breathing heavily into her mouth, whispering oh my god and oh Christ and oh yes, and then feels him tighten in her hands, and then his body tenses and he shudders and his eyes roll back in his head, and she feels him come across her belly and up to her breasts.

 

She squeezes him gently once more, then lays her head against his collarbone; they’re both breathing to dizziness, choked by the steam and desire. He leans against the wall, eyes closed, water running in rivulets down his shoulders and collarbone, and after a moment, he blinks, shakes his head and opens his eyes.

 

“That was…” he says and she smiles.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“No, thank you,” he says, eyes closing again, and a grin plays at the corner of his lips.

 

“There was enough hot water,” she says, leaning her body against his, and he rests his hand on the small of her back, tracing his fingers along the curve of her buttocks.

 

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s a little hot in here.”

 

She laughs, because she knows he doesn’t mean them; it’s really hot in here, hot enough to overheat, and she steps away from him to turn the cool water on. He holds her wrist so she can’t leave, and she protests, and soon, they’re splashing each other with the water, rubbing shampoo on each other, snatching the washcloth to wash the stickiness off their bellies, screaming when he turns the water on full cold.

 

She steps out of the shower first, rubbing her hair with a towel, and wraps a towel around her body. As she rubs a space clear on the mirror, she feels a tug and her towel falls to the floor. “Hey,” she says, and picks it up again.

 

“I like you naked,” he says, and she blushes.

 

She wraps the towel around her head. “It is too hot in here.”

 

She steps out of the bathroom, naked but for the towel, and shivers when the cool, dry air of the sitting room brushes her flushed body. As she turns to don a fluffy white hotel bathrobe, she sees him step from the shower and wrap a towel around his waist; water drips from his hair, glistens on every part of his body, and muscles shift in his back as he bends to pick up a towel. She shakes her head. How did I get here?

 

“Do you want a drink?” she asks. His glass of red is still sitting on the bar, untouched; she swirls the wine, inhales its aroma, and raises her eyebrows. She closes her eyes to experience the fullness of it, the fruity, heavy body, the sharp tannins underlying the bitter spice of it, and brings the glass to her lips, holding it in her mouth for a moment before smiling. This is good wine; it’s perfectly balanced, rich, just about what she would expect from a guy who sleeps in a bed the size of a trampoline.

 

Or maybe it just goes well with semen, she thinks, and opens her eyes, giggling at the thought. That’s something to put on a wine label: Serve with game hen, red sauce, and fellatio.

 

She swirls the glass again, staring into its rich depths, and looks up after a moment. He’s staring at her, outlined against the white tile of the bathroom, white towel standing out against his tanned skin.

 

“Good wine,” she says, and smiles.

 

“I bought it in Napa yesterday.”

 

“Would you like a glass?”

 

“I’d rather watch you drink it again.”

 

Her body grows warm at the look in his eyes and the knowledge that he watched her swallow the wine like it was him, and she realizes that another glass of wine is exactly what she needs right now.

 

So she pours a little more into the delicate crystal and picks up the glass again. Swirls it, inhales it, sips it, tastes it, swallows it. Eyes closed.

 

When she opens her eye, he’s on the other side of the bar—how does he move so fast without making noise?—and she sees the shape of his towel has become distorted in the last minute. This guy has stamina.

 

“Sure you don’t want a glass?”

 

“Yes,” he says, and then grabs her glass and the bottle and carries it into the bedroom.

 

Audrey pauses for a moment, tasting the berry bitterness of the cabernet, the saltiness of his cock, the feel of him inside her mouth, and follows him into the bedroom.

 

He’s pouring more wine into the glass, and she watches as he repeats her ritual: swirl, sip, taste, swallow. He turns when he hears her enter the room and beckons to her. She approaches him, but when she tries to put her arms around him, he grabs her behind the knees and tosses her on the bed, sending her bathrobe flying open. She laughs.

 

He climbs onto the bed, glass in hand, all leonine grace and hooded blue eyes, and applies gentle pressure on her chest until she’s laying back on the pillows.

 

“Do you want more wine?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

He brings the glass to her lips, but before she can put her mouth on the rim, he pulls it away and dribbles a bit of it onto her chin. Eyes wide, she watches as his tongue snakes out and licks the redness away; and then he spills it down her torso, cool and liquid, licking it off. She can’t tear her eyes away; he meets her eyes as he pours more wine on her breast, sucking gently until it’s clean; and then he dribbles it down to her navel, licking slowly, sending delicious threads of sensation shivering up her belly. The bathrobe stains deep red where the wine trickles, but for the most part, he’s catching every drop.

 

She watches, transfixed, as he continues his path down, spilling wine on each place he’s about to kiss. She sees, feels exactly where his lips are going to be, and in each moment before he touches her, she’s sure it can’t feel as good as the last, but it always does. He shifts his position until he’s bending between her legs, trickling wine onto her thighs and knees, licking every drop away.

 

After a thousand years of spilling and sucking, he pours it onto her thatch of hair, still damp from the shower, and licks it away. She sucks her belly in, and she can’t see anything anymore; her back is arched, eyes closed, and her legs tremble under the anticipation of the next move.

 

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he dribbles wine back up her belly, and she whimpers in frustration, clenching her teeth, knotting her eyebrows. “please…” she whispers, and then he’s laying fully on top of her, only his towel separating her from him, their chests against each other, the sweet weight of him crushing her, the cool wine trickling down her neck. She feels his erection against her and moves her hips up to meet him; he thrusts his pelvis forward until she gasps, and she digs her fingernails deep into his shoulder blades. Please, god, she thinks, and nearly cries with desire.

 

But he won’t stop this, the friction of the towel against her hips and crotch, the hardness of him leaning into her, and at last, she opens her eyes, and his face hovers above hers, gazing with her with an intensity she’s never witnessed. She stares into those cloaked blue eyes from beneath her eyelashes, unwilling and incapable of opening her eyes any more than that, and cries out, “PLEASE…” and to her surprise, he sets down the wineglass on the nightstand and grabs her wrist.

 

You first,” he says, and she understands, and needs it so badly; he slides over until he’s laying beside her, and she slides her arms out of the sleeves and down between her legs, and his towel has slipped away, and he’s lying naked beside her, his cock pressing into the hollow of her thigh and hip, and she knows just where to touch herself; she loves it when a man does it for her, but it’s just so good when she can do it herself, and know someone’s watching.

 

He growls deep in his throat as her breath quickens, and just as she thinks she’s going to come, he pulls her hand away. Her eyes fly open, furious, blind with frustration and desire, but he pins her hands behind her hand and licks her ear.

 

“I want to be inside you,” he says, and her breath catches and she thinks she might come at the sight of him staring at her so fiercely, and she can only nod and whisper “please” again, and then he’s up and running for his suitcase, digging in a pocket, and a moment later, he’s kneeling above her, tearing open the foil packet, and she takes the condom from him and slides it onto the long hardness of him, and he puts her hand back onto her clit, and she begins circling slowly, then faster, feeling the build, and then, all at once, he slides into her, all the way, and she sucks in air, oh fuck, he feels so good, so amazing, such a perfect fit, and he’s leaning back so she has room to maneuver her finger, and she feels the build deep in her belly, and she squeezes her buttocks tight together, and hears him gasp as her muscles clench around him and she arches her back, the ferocity of the orgasm rocking her body, and the feel of him so deep inside her, and he slows down to let her experience every sensation, and she lies limp.

 

But then he begins to move again, and she opens her eyes, and he’s searching her face, mouth parted, eyes burning blue fire into her. She meets his gaze, and lifts her hips to meet his; she lifts her legs and wraps them around his waist, drawing him deeper, closer to her. He leans closer to her, grabs her hands, clasps her fingers in his and braces himself against her.

 

The intensity in his face is almost too much for her; he looks so dark with need, so focused, like she’s the only thing he’s ever needed or wanted. Fear and yearning course through her. She closes her eyes and turns her head; she can’t look into the dark light in his eyes, it’s like looking into the sun. But a moment later, his hand is on her chin, turning back to his face, and she hears him whisper “look at me,” and she has to, she can’t tear her eyes away from him. Every sense in her body is consumed with him: she sees the craving in his eyes, along the clenched jawline in his face; she smells the salty aroma of their sex; she hears his breath, washing over them like storm waves; she tastes the flavor of his kisses in her mouth; and every nerve in her body thrums with the push and pull of his cock.

 

He slips one hand under her hip and pulls her up to meet him, and she thrusts her hips forward, taking him in as deep as she can. He gasps and slows the circling motion of his hips, and suddenly she realizes he’s pouring all of his willpower into making this last.

 

She doesn’t want it to. She can’t survive much longer in this swirling vortex of sensation. He’s carrying her to a place she’s never been, some kind of Oz of pleasure, all violent colors and hidden evils and long journeys. Then, without warning, she feels the tightening in her belly, and a moment later, another orgasm wracks her body. She screams out, bites into his shoulder hard enough to taste blood, and he groans deep in this throat. Black stars dart in and out of her eyesight, and she realizes her fingers and toes are tingling.

 

“I can’t… no more…” she gasps out.

 

“What do you want?” he breathes in her ear.

 

“Oh, god, JC,” she moans. “I want you to come, please, oh, god, please come in me—”

 

He whimpers and straightens his back a bit, bracing himself hard against the pillow as he lengthens his thrusts, pulling all the way out, thrusting back in, faster, faster, and she hears him whisper you’re so beautiful and then he’s lying full against her, moving only with his hips, sweat fusing their bodies together until she doesn’t know whose skin is whose, and with a shudder, he pushes himself deep inside her, shudders and cries out, and collapses against her.

 

The black stars swell, fill her vision, and Audrey fades from consciousness.

 

 

 

Some time later she swims back from Oz, aware that JC has pulled out of her and is beside her. His temple rests against her collarbone. He just lays there against her, allowing her to drift along, not asking how she feels or how many times she came or giving that little-boy “I was OK, right?” look. She’s never understood why women get pissed off at men for sleeping after sex. So many of her other lovers have worried about her at moments like this; this is the one time when she does not want to talk. It’s only now that her mind’s completely blank, the only Zen moment in her life, when she’s all sensation and peace and no thought. And JC, whose silence drove her crazy earlier, is a welcome change.

 

Hours or seconds pass as she breathes shallowly, feeling the sensation return to her toes and fingers. Eventually, Audrey wonders if he’s still wearing his condom.

 

JC,” she whispers, trying not to disturb the delicious feeling of his cheekbone against her breast.

 

He sighs.

 

“JC…” she says, and strokes her fingernails down his face. “Do you have to—”

 

She thinks she hears him say “mm-hmm” but can’t be sure.

 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she murmurs, and begins to slide out from under him.

 

He moans and slips one arm across her belly, sighing softly.

 

Of course. What else? He’s sleeping.

 

She lifts his arm from her belly, his head from her breast, and slides out from under him. The ferocity she saw in his face during the sex is gone now, replaced by a sleep-softened mouth, smooth jawlines, and long eyelashes resting against the fading flush in his cheeks. She smiles, kisses his forehead, steadies herself on the nightstand, and switches off the light.

 

After the bathroom, she splashes water on her face and studies her reflection. Now what? the eyes in the mirror ask her.

 

“How the hell should I know?” she mumbles. She pushes open the bathroom door, watching the light spill across the dark carpet and his bare back, sculpting shadows from his muscles. He’s truly beautiful, she thinks. And that face, the cheekbones, the full mouth, the strong nose. Yes, she decides. He’s beautiful.

 

“Where’d you go?” she hears a sleepy voice mumble, and in response, she crawls back onto the big bed and slides up next to him. He opens his eyes a bit, smiling in that sleepy way, and her heart gives a tug.

 

“Bathroom,” she says, and kisses his collarbone. “Don’t you have to go, too?”

 

He sighs deep in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, and she laughs at the sad look on his face.

 

When he crawls back into bed, he lays back against the pillows, and Audrey nestles into nook of his collarbone, inhaling his masculine scent. “You smell good,” she says.

 

He nuzzles her hair. “It’s probably a little late to be asking, but what do you for a living?”

 

Audrey chuckles. “Never too late. I’m a writer.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Silence closes in around them, and Audrey feels herself about to drift off when he speaks again.

 

“So. What do you write?”

 

“I’m a non-fiction writer.”

 

“You gonna write my book?”

 

“Let me know if you ever do anything worth writing about.”

 

“’Kay,” he says, and she hears the smile in his voice.

 

Silence again.

 

“So.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Do you read a lot?”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“Me too.”

 

Audrey opens her eyes. “Really?”

 

“Yeah. I like to keep informed.”

 

“Me too.”

 

Audrey allows her eyes to drift closed again.

 

“Who’s your favorite author?”

 

Audrey opens her eyes and sighs. Clearly her earlier estimation wasn’t accurate. Even Sleepy Spice gets in the mood for pillow talk. They begin talking about books and movies and television in soft voices. He plays with a lock of her hair, twisting it through his fingers; she runs her fingers along his chest.

 

“So are you really the music writer of the band, like all the magazines say?”

 

“Yeah, I guess.”

 

“So… what do you like writing the best?”

 

She feels him shrug. “Well, I’ve been getting into the two-step, you know that, and I’ve written some ballads. It’s all experimental at this point. I’m still trying to find my voice.”

 

“I know what you mean. The writing thing’s hard for me sometimes, since I’m always writing for someone else.”

 

Audrey feels a familiar warmth growing somewhere in her center. She likes him. Really. And as the warmth grows, a lead weight in her stomach grows in direct proportion. She expected to want him; she expected him to be interesting.

 

She didn’t expect to like him so much.

 

He really is what he seems like in live interviews, she thinks: talented, intense, smart, perfect… and utterly unattainable. “They just don’t understand they come second…” she’s heard him say again and again. She knows herself, and she knows from experience that the best part of a relationship is the down time. And he’s JC Chasez, she thinks. He doesn’t have down time.

 

And do you really want a relationship, anyway? she thinks. No. She doesn’t. She likes being single. She likes the freedom of dancing in hotel bars with strangers, and she genuinely likes JC, but she’s not an idiot. Entertaining the idea of anything more than a really great time would lead to nothing but disappointment.

 

And we sure had a great time, she thinks, flushing at the thought of the incredible sex they’d just had. She’d never felt such intense pleasure in her life, or felt so much like the focus of someone’s world. But maybe that’s the problem, she thinks. JC’s so intense, so talented, that he pours everything of himself into those things: the group, music, performing, dancing, and sex. Pours so much into those things that there’s little leftover for anything else.

 

Regret seeps into her. Should she not have had sex with him? Fuck that, her mind answers. Regret’s useless. But she knows she doesn’t regret the sex; she regrets that they couldn’t possibly have any kind of lasting relationship, sexual or otherwise.

 

Audrey sits up from his chest, leaning on an elbow, and listens for a moment. “So the Joey’s like, bleedin’ all over the place, you probably heard about that—hey, are you OK?”

 

She looks at the fine line of his jaw, the beauty in his blue eyes, and desire surges through her again. Fuck. She wants him again. All the time, in fact. She could keep having sex with him until they both waste away to nothing, just two entangled skeletons on this mausoleum-sized bed. She touches her finger to his lips.

 

“What?” he says past her fingers, and Audrey sighs. She has to decide.

 

“You’re amazing,” she says, and he smiles.

 

“So are you,” he says, touching the tip of his tongue to her finger.

 

Audrey swallows. This isn’t going to be easy.

 

“That was the greatest sex I’ve ever had, honestly—”

 

He blushes.

 

“—but I think I should go home.”

 

His eyes darken, but he remains silent.

 

“I don’t want to leave here tomorrow morning. I’m too old to be doing the Walk of Shame.”

 

“I’ll send the driver home with you.”

 

“Thanks, but I don’t want to feel like a groupie slipping out of here.”

 

JC leans up on one elbow, eyebrows knotted. “You’re not a groupie. Please stay.”

 

He looks so sweet, so vulnerable, that she can’t help but smile.

 

“You know there’s going to press parked all around here. What if someone saw us in the bar? I don’t want to end up on Access Hollywood.”

 

JC casts his eyes down. “You won’t.”

 

“You can’t even look at me when you say that.”

 

He shrugs. “But you’d be with me… would you really mind then?”

 

“I do mind, though,” she says, and suddenly, she realizes she’s telling the truth. If someone sees them together, they’ll be an item or some ridiculous thing, and she doesn’t want any kind of boyfriend. She’s always wanted to be famous, but not like Bobbie. Not as The Girlfriend.

 

And certainly not as The Hookup.

 

“And it’s not just that, JC,” she says. “What do we know about each other? We both like wine. We both like dancing. We both like ‘NSync and Stevie Wonder. We both like our respective art forms. And we have really fucking amazing sex.

 

“And that’s not enough for me to be seen with you in public. You know that.”

 

He lays back, and folds his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

 

“I guess you’re right.”

 

“I am,” she says, relieved. Really, truly relieved.

 

“So are you leaving right now?”

 

Audrey looks at the clock. It’s only 2:30; she’d swear they’ve been here for at least six days. Maybe it has been six days, she thinks.

 

2:30. Enough time to leave without it officially being a Walk of Shame… maybe even enough time to call Noelle… definitely enough time to grab another drink in the bar, assuming it’s still open.

 

Audrey leans over and lays a soft kiss on his lips. “I think I should go now.”

 

He rolls over on his side, cups the side of her face in his hand. “Stay. Please?”

 

His eyes are so blue, so sad, so sexy. But she hates breaking promises to herself. Once she makes a statement like “I should go,” she has to stick with that; anytime she hasn’t, she’s always regretted it.

 

“JC—”

 

“Call me Joshua, please?”

 

“Joshua… I can’t stay. I really can’t. Don’t know if you noticed, but you’re a superstar with half the world’s women at your beck and call, and I’m a struggling writer who lives in an apartment the size of this bed. I’m a jealous person. I like attention. I like being my own star, especially in a relationship.”

 

He looks down and picks at an invisible piece of lint on the sheet.

 

“You know I couldn’t be any of those things with you.”

 

He shrugs.

 

“Besides, we’re both Leos. Our egos are too big for each other.”

 

He smiles a little at that.

 

“JC—Joshua?”

 

He looks up, and her heart nearly breaks at the sweetness in his face. All the intensity of his onstage persona, the ferocity of their sex, has been replaced by a little boy who looks like he’s lost his dog. “But it was so good,” he says, and she laughs.

 

“I know.”

 

“If you don’t want to stay here, can we at least see each other again?”

 

“When?”

 

“Tomorrow night?”

 

Audrey grins and gets out of the bed, reaching for the hotel stationery.

 

“Here’s my cell phone number,” she says. “If you still want to get together tomorrow night, call me. Otherwise, I’ll assume you’ve found a pretty young thing to occupy your time.”

 

“I won’t—”

 

She claps her hand over his mouth. “Gimme a break, JC. I’m not an idiot. Just do yourself a favor and be safe.”

 

She feels him smile beneath her hand, and she leans over. “One more for the road?”

 

He pulls her head forward and gives her a soft, slow kiss, tasting her like he tasted the wine, and she shivers. He pulls away.

 

“Are you sure—”

 

Yes,” she says as she steps back. “I’m going to go get dressed. I’ll be back in a second.”

 

Moments later, she’s dressed, suitcase in hand, and giggling at the sight before her: JC Chasez, the sexiest man alive, splayed across the sheets, face buried in her bathrobe, sound asleep. Are you nuts? her vagina whispers.

 

Probably, she answers back. But I got to turn down JC Chasez. And there’s still time to get a drink.

 

“Bye, Joshua,” she whispers, then lets herself out of the hotel room with a small sigh.

 

 

 

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