Starlight (Peaches Monroe #2)(60)
Author: Mimi Strong

Finally, I just gave in. You win, Keith, you sex-a-thon-having meditation-nut. Do to me what you want, because it’s your birthday, and when we’re done I’m going to acquaint myself with the massaging shower head in your bathroom.

Once I was as compliant as Silly Putty, he climbed on top of me, his penis against my stomach, and kissed me until he was as hard as ever. We sat up together, wrapping our arms around each other and kissing. He put a condom in place, then sat up with his legs loosely bent, forming a circle with his knees under mine.

We were both still sitting, facing each other, legs interwoven. My butt was still raised on the pillows. I leaned back on my palms and raised my h*ps as he slid forward to merge with me, moving easily into me as a thrill raced up my spine. I wrapped my legs around him, sitting upright and feeling him completely within me, from his root and all the way up, his upper body wrapped in my arms.

We rocked back and forth like this, and when my legs started to shake from the position, he gathered up the pillows that had escaped and propped me up under my butt.

Now we were really in our groove, barely moving, but fully in contact. We stared into each other’s eyes, and I wondered what he saw that made his expression so raw and serene at the same time. He kissed me, and we both kept our eyes open, as if we were afraid the other might disappear, like a dream in the morning.

CHAPTER 22

Monday morning, Keith drove me to the studio for the commercial shoot, and I wouldn’t get out of the van. It wasn’t nerves that got the best of me, but I was addicted to that man! I couldn’t stop kissing him and grabbing onto his sweet, sweet ass, and other parts.

“What have you done to me?” I said.

He growled and kissed my neck while fondling my boobs through my zip-up hoodie jacket. “Me like pretty girl.”

Finally, I pulled myself away and reluctantly opened the van door. “Wish me luck,” I said.

“Break a leg.”

“Anyone’s leg but mine.” I leaned back over to his side for one more kiss.

What had he done to me? Quite simply, he’d subjected me to a marathon tantric sex session the night before, thus ruining me for all other regular sexual encounters, for the rest of my life. Keith’s super-slow lovin’ fried out some of my dopamine circuits, and now I craved him like a chocolate addict craves the good stuff from Belgium.

I dragged myself away from the old green van and in through the austere door of the photographer’s studio. The same guy who did the photos was directing the commercials, so at least I got to work with the same crew again, including…

“Mitchell!”

He stopped where he was, at the opposite end of a long corridor just inside the lobby. He started running toward me in slow motion. Laughing, I did the same, lifting my knees high and pretending I was racing frantically toward him, but in slow motion.

We collided together in the middle, hugging and pretending to sob.

He pulled away and went back to regular Mitchell mode. “You, Miss Thaing, were a handful Friday night,” he said, his blond eyebrows raised high.

“I sure was. Then Keith picked me up from the bar and I went home and got myself a handful.”

“You did better than me! I went home and microwaved two Jenny Craigs and ate them both. For dessert, I ate jam straight from the jar with a spoon.”

“That’s quite the sad tale.”

“I’ve had worse nights.” He shook his head. “Come Christmas, everyone thinks it’s so funny to dress me up like one of Santa’s elves.”

“You would make a cute elf.”

“I know.” He wrinkled his nose. “True confession? I like being an elf. I own three different costumes, but if anyone asks, they’re rentals.”

We started walking toward the hair and makeup room, where the illusion I was a professional model would begin.

“Hey, speaking of quirks,” I said. “Do you happen to remember why I got a tattoo that reads Doves Cry?”

He gasped. “That happened? I thought I was dreaming.”

“Any clue what it means?”

“Give me a minute,” he said.

I got into the makeup chair, introduced myself to the sleepy-looking makeup girl with a pixie haircut, and got comfortable as Mitchell ran off to make me a mocha.

He came back with the drink and told me the story.

Apparently, we were listening to Prince songs in the limousine that first night we went our partying, with Gunner and Daniel, the models. I had really enjoyed Prince’s When Doves Cry, and how the opening ba-wang sounds moved around the car’s surround sound speakers. At my request, they replayed the song a couple of times, until finally I told the guys I was confused, because I still didn’t understand what it sounded like when doves cry.

Daniel, the straight guy with the shaggy brown hair, said, “What it sounds like? You mean when the doves cry? It’s a seven-note melody. Doot-da-doot. Doot-doot-do-doot.”

As Mitchell relayed the story, making the pixie-haired makeup artist snicker, I dimly remembered all of that happening. I’d had one of those moments you only get when you’re drunk or over-tired, and not yourself. That night, I realized I over-think everything. The key to life seemed so simple in that moment, as we were all laughing and playing music in the limousine. I just had to let go. If I had to cry, I’d cry.

Then I did start to cry, right there in the limousine. Messy tears. Snotty nose. The whole drunk-girl-crying experience. But they were happy tears. My only fear was I worried I’d forget my revelation when I sobered up.

We then did the only logical thing. We drove straight to an all-night tattoo parlor—not the nice kind with attractive people who won’t tattoo you if you’re drunk, but the seedy kind with scary dudes who can’t spell, where you watch closely to make sure the supplies are sterile—and I got my tattoo.

Mitchell finished the anecdote, assuring me I didn’t complain at all about the pain.

The makeup artist applying my extra eyelashes begged to see the tattoo, so I pulled my loose-fitting shorts down and showed her. The ink was looking less black and more blue every day as it healed.

“That is so cute,” she said. “I’m, like, totally jealous. You have a great tattoo and an amazing story. All I have is a f**king tramp stamp.”

She turned around and bent forward to show us a thorny mass of roses on her lower back.

“Um, the flowers are pretty,” Mitchell said.

“It’s nice,” I lied.

She turned around, her lip curled up in a sneer. “You know what my guy does? He pulls out at the last second and says, ‘Water the roses. Pew, pew.’”