
“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.