Tease Me, page 9
His hair tumbled around his face, framing him in a dark, messy halo. His nipple ring was right there, and I reached up and tugged on it, but he winced, and I quickly let go.
“Non, non, le faire à nouveau, il est bon.”
I wished I hadn’t touched his piercing and with no idea what he’d said, I rose my hips, showing him I was ready.
“It’s good. Do it again.” He spoke in English this time.
“Oh.” I reached up, and with the diamond between my finger and thumb, I gently tugged on it again. He groaned, his eyes rolled, and the head of his cock nudged my opening.
I parted my legs, ready for his glorious masterpiece to give me my birthday present. Hovering above me like an act in a magic show and maintaining eye contact, he entered me. He plunged slow and deep, allowing me to feel every throbbing inch of him until he was right up to the hilt.
He paused there, our eyes still locked, our breathing mingled, and deep inside me his cock bulged. It was an exquisite move that had my insides tingling.
He pulled out, pausing when his cock was right at the very tip. The heat of his crown nudged my pussy, and I adjusted my hips, silently begging him to drive that jackhammer into me again.
And he did. All the way in, fast and hard, once, twice, three times. Then he stopped, pulled out to the edge, closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and sucked air through his teeth. His torso was as hard as his swollen cock. Every magnificent inch was loaded with tension. His long, dark hair cascaded over his shoulders and tickled my breasts.
This time, when he entered me, he rotated his hips as he penetrated, and that simple move touched something unique inside me. He pulled out and did it again, pivoting his hips, and with each stroke I grew more sensitive.
Is that my G-spot?
I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Whatever he was doing, he could go right on doing it.
And he did.
Over and over, he corkscrewed into me, increasing his pace with each plunge. I pulled my knees up, raising my bottom off the bed, and that set off a firecracker.
I clawed the sheets. I clawed at his back. I was at his orgasmic mercy, and he drew out every ounce of my lust.
My birthday orgasm was everything it should be—out of this world. Epic.
Sebastien cried out. His final thrusts were fast. Hard. And performed like a perfectly choreographed dance.
He fell onto my chest, and as I drove my fingers through his hair we remained as one until our breathing returned to normal.
It was a very long time before he rolled off me. With a jolt, I remembered where I should be and pushed up from the bed.
“Wow,” I said as I rolled my legs off the side and planted my heels on the floor. Then I stood on wobbly legs and set about finding my bits and pieces scattered around the penthouse.
Sebastien propped up on an elbow and pulled a pillow down to cover his groin. “So, is it really your birthday?”
Not bothering with my teddy, I pulled my dress on, and as I did the knot at my hip, I turned to him and smiled. “Yes, it is. Thank you for the dance. You dance beautifully.”
He tilted his head, and his hair fell to one side. “You’re the one who is beautiful.”
“Pfft.” I waved him away. “I bet you’re surrounded by much more beautiful women than me every day.”
“True.” The certainty in his voice was undeniable, and I wanted to slap him.
“But,” he said quickly, “they are so obsessed with leur apparence, they’ve forgotten how to feel.” He thumped his chest with his fist. The sound was like punching a board. He reached out for my hand, and I stepped forward and took it. “The beauty within you allows you to feel, and that’s what makes you beautiful. Don’t ever lose that magic.”
Okay, he’s forgiven. His words sent my heart fluttering, and when his green eyes drilled into me, I wondered if the enchanting Sebastien De Marco was caressing my heart.
A flush of heat flamed my neck, and it took all my might to pull away from him. I made my way to the door, ready to dash for the elevator.
“Please.” He stopped me with the pleading in his voice, and I turned back to him. “Please tell me your name.”
I clutched the folds of my dress and curtsied. “I’m Memphis. It was lovely to meet you.”
He inclined his head. “Happy birthday, Memphis.”
I stepped through his doorway, raced for the elevator, and after jabbing the button a million times, I plucked my phone from my purse to check the time. It was eleven forty. I’d been away from reception for more than an hour. My ride took forever to arrive, and with every ticking second my heart elevated a notch.
By the time I reached my room, I was just about having a heart attack. I raced into the bathroom, stripped off, plucked out my contacts, scrubbed off my makeup, pulled off the wig, and jumped into the shower.
Within five minutes, I was redressed in what I’d worn earlier. I grabbed my bag, shoved my diary in, and raced out the door again.
Back in the elevator, I fixed my hair and inhaled several deep breaths in an attempt to ready myself for whatever was waiting for me downstairs. I closed my eyes and actually prayed for the lobby to be empty.
The doors pinged. My eyes shot open, and an overwhelming sense of relief just about triggered my legs vanishing beneath me. I poured myself onto the reception chair, plonked my head down on the desk, and counted the seconds until my heart had a regular beat again.
It was midnight when I opened the diary and turned to the 28th of July. And as I thought about my highly erotic dance with Sebastien De Marco in Room 50, I wrote, Titillating Tango in the top margin.
I detailed the start of my day with the wonderful picnic with Clayton and how pleasantly our conversation had flowed and the perfect white-gold pendant he’d given me.
Then I wrote about my other birthday present, my sexy Frenchman who’d had me gliding across the floor as if I were in slippers, not ridiculously high heels. Everything about him had oozed sexuality. I thought about what he’d said about the beauty within me and smiled.
Two men in one day. Two magical experiences.
Best birthday ever.
Chapter Eleven
I had a love/hate relationship with Friday nights. I loved them because they were usually busy with people coming and going through the lobby, which meant the hours whizzed by quickly. I hated them because I was working while it seemed everyone else in the world was having fun.
Tonight, it had settled down a little after midnight, and I only saw about ten people until three o’clock in the morning. At quarter to four, my shift changed. For the better.
Five people tumbled into the foyer: three men and two women. The girls were scantily clad despite it being winter and the early hours of the morning. Tattoos covered their arms and chests—actually, nearly every visible part of their flesh except for their faces. Each girl had her arm around a man. The third guy hung back from the two couples.
They all wore eyeliner, the men and the women. They looked mean or angry or something, and as they waltzed right past my counter without even a glance in my direction, I wondered if they were in a band.
The last guy was different from the other two men. He was slightly shorter, square in the shoulders, and his hair was styled short at the back and sides, with a side part that led to longer hair that swept from left to right with a high top.
Unlike the rest of the group, he appeared to take pride in his clothing. He wore black like the others, but his skinny jeans didn’t sag around his thighs, and the button-up shirt with square gold buttons looked expensive. His leather jacket was such a good fit that I wondered if it had been custom-made.
At the elevator, one couple started kissing, and it wasn’t just a little peck. Even from my distance, I saw their tongues. They weren’t shy with their hands either, and within seconds his hand was up her skirt, and based on the amount of ass cheek I saw, I doubted she was wearing underwear. The other three seemed oblivious to the action.
The third man turned to me, tilted his head toward the sexed-up couple, and scrunched up his face. I waved a timid little hand-in-the-air move that said I saw them, but I wished I hadn’t. The woman raised her knee, giving the tall man even more of her to play with, and thankfully, the elevator pinged, and the five of them disappeared from view.
The second they were gone, I pulled the check-in cards off the back counter and riffled through, trying to find the five mysterious strangers. There were fifty-two rooms in the Hot Horizon Hotel, and tonight, forty-four of them were occupied. At this time of year, it was mostly businesspeople here for conferences or international guests enjoying our glorious winter weather.
I found one of the tall men first. Zenon Justice. I huffed. With a name like that he was destined to be in a band. He was twenty-four years old and visiting from Melbourne. The second tall man was Dallas Cole, same age as his mate and also from Melbourne.
The last guy, the one who’d held back from the others, was Mason Cole, also from Melbourne but twenty-six years old. I slid over to my computer and Googled their names. Within a couple of searches, I’d discovered that three of the five strangers formed the band Empire Angels, which consisted of two men and one woman.
I recognized the men as the two taller ones, and the woman in the band had to be one of the two I’d seen; however, I couldn’t tell which one. According to their website, there were four members in the band, but the fourth one was not with the men who’d walked through my hotel. Ten more minutes of searching revealed that the bass guitarist who usually played with the band was currently in rehab after a near-fatal drug overdose.
It was a search on their Facebook page that put the final piece of the puzzle together. Mason Cole had agreed to fill in until their usual bass guitarist recovered. I shuffled the check-in cards back together, leaving Mason out.
“Well, hello, Mason.”
I’d rolled in the hay with a lead guitarist once before. Literally. When I was seventeen. Joel Parkinson and I had spent an evening in the hay barn situated right above the room where the Blue Light Disco was held. The fact that he was a lead guitarist in a band and that he’d picked me over every other girl in Mildura had me as horny as a virgin on prom night.
We’d kissed until my lips were bruised, but other than him manhandling my previously untouched boobs, that was where the barnyard romp had stopped.
As I thought about that night in the hay—uncontrollable breathing, feverish, groping hands, the smell of his leather jacket, the taste of rum on his tongue—I realized this was my chance to improve my claim of having slept with a guy in a band.
I giggled as I decided that Mason Cole, the fill-in bass guitarist for Empire Angels, had just become my thirty-second sexual challenge.
I spent the final hours of my shift searching Mason Cole on the web, but the man was an enigma. Unlike the other members in the band who had pages and pages of pictures, usually with women hanging off them, Mason was a virtual unknown. By the end of my shift all I knew was Mason’s age, address, that he played bass guitar, and that he was about to meet Memphis.
I just hoped he wasn’t too tired.
The end of my shift came and went with no sign of Needledick. Half an hour after he was due to start, I rang him.
“Hello.” His groggy voice confirmed my assumption.
“Are you still asleep?”
“Oh, shit. What time is it?”
“It’s seven. You should’ve been here half an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry I’ve had—”
“I don’t want to hear it, John.” His name snapped off my tongue like a whip crack, and I couldn’t believe I’d spoken to my boss like that.
“I’ll get in there as quick as I can.”
“You better.” I hung up the phone. Anger coursing through my veins made it impossible for me to sit still, and I paced behind the reception desk like a caged lion. My boss was paid more money than me and had better hours than me, but he had no commitment to his job whatsoever. My blood continued to boil as I paced out the minutes until he arrived.
It was quarter to eight when he finally crawled through the door.
“I’m sorry, Jane,” he said halfway toward reception.
I flung my bag over my shoulder, put one hand up, and shook my head. “Please don’t talk. I’m so angry, I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.” I strode away, and with my back to him, I waited for the stupid elevator to arrive and jumped in the second it did.
As it rolled slowly upward, I furled and unfurled my fists. When I looked in the mirror, my flushed cheeks dominated. I looked as angry as the Empire Angels had looked. My mind flicked to the third guy. Hopefully, he was ready for some action because I had a bit of fury I needed to work off. Lolita had once told me that sex was the best medicine for anger. I was about to test that theory.
After a long hot shower, I toweled off and stood before the mirror. Just like the band members must have done, I glided my black eyeliner both above and beneath my eyes and smudged it into the corners with my finger. It was a completely different look for me, although maybe a little too dark.
Fishing through my makeup, I found an eye shadow set, and for the first time, I applied the sparkly gold eye shadow to the top of my eyelid and a touch beneath my eyes, too. I darkened and lengthened my lashes, and if ever there was a time to try out my violet contact lenses, then this was it. I reached for the box and popped the purple disks onto my eyeballs.
The finished result was stunning. I was truly amazed at the whole new style I’d created for myself.
My black wig was the obvious choice for my sexy rocker look. I pulled the sorry sight off the shelf. I hadn’t actually had a good look at the wig since my sizzling electrician had stomped all over it. The hairs scrambled in all directions, and a good chunk at the back stood up like I had slept with it on for a week. But as I turned the wig around on my hand, I realized that this was probably the ideal hairstyle for a groupie.
I plaited my hair, pinned it up, pulled the black wig on, and burst out laughing. I looked as if I’d already had a wild romp, which, I realized, was exactly the kind of look I was going for. Rather than smoothing it down, I tipped my head over, tousled it more, and attacked it with hairspray.
I stood up and laughed long and loud. Tina Turner, eat your heart out.
Now for my outfit. I scanned my closet, looking for something suitable. As I tugged the clothing aside, disregarding each one, I paused at one of the last items in the closet. It was a stretchy black dress with a square neckline and capped sleeves, hemmed just above my knee.
It was what most women called a little black dress.
I called it a disaster.
Last time I’d worn this dress was three and a half years ago. I remembered the night distinctly because I’d worn spanks underneath, which hadn’t been that unusual for me. But the second I’d sat down to dinner, the damn elastic had rolled from beneath my bra strap to my waist.
Throughout the evening, as I pretended to enjoy the conversation with my new Hot Horizon Hotel work colleagues, I’d fought with the damn elastic that had crawled down my body to form a hideous roll the size of a tire at my waist.
I’d stayed in that seat all night, dreading the moment I had to stand, and I remembered my agony as my bladder grew to mammoth proportions. It was a wonder I hadn’t passed out as my growing stomach strangled me in a death-like grip by the industrial-strength elastic.
When I’d eventually waddled my way to my room, I’d just about peed my pants in my frantic struggle to get out of the straitjacket. It had been a life-changing experience as I hadn’t worn the torture devices labeled as shapewear since.
People could take me as I was or not take me at all. Yeah.
Thanks to Lolita and her obsession with exercise, I have lost weight, which hopefully meant I wouldn’t need spanks to make this dress look good. I eased the stretchy material over my head and pulled it down. It molded to my figure like a glove but wasn’t too tight that I would be trapped like I had been in the silly sequined dress I’d worn for Billy, my sexy cowboy.
I looked in the mirror and turned sideways. It didn’t look too bad. Actually, that was an understatement. The dress looked pretty darn good. After today, this dress was going to have a much better memory and would return to the center of my closet.
I stepped into a pair of chunky black heels that sported a one-inch platform at the front but scowled at my big toe poking through the peephole. My nail polish, as usual, was a disaster. With my shoes still on, I strode to the bathroom, fished out the same nail polish I already had on, and painted my toenail right through the peephole. Once finished, I smiled at my ingenuity.
With my bag over my shoulder containing my master access card, emergency cash, condoms, and phone, I headed out the door. I stepped into the elevator and giggled at my reflection. My wild hair made me look crazy. Given my life this year, maybe I was.
I strode to Mason’s room, did my usual final check, involving plumping up my boobs and rubbing my lippy, and then knocked. A minute or so later, I knocked again.
He’s probably fast asleep. This is a stupid idea.
Two minutes later, I decided that if he didn’t open the door this time, I’d give up.
With a deep breath that I let out in a big gush, I knocked again.
The door cracked open, and Mason squinted at me through the small gap. “What?” he barked.
I jerked back.
“Sorry. I thought you were my brother.” He opened the door a fraction more and stifled a yawn.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his left eye.
“Oh damn, I’m really sorry.”
“Who are you?” The door opened a fraction more, and I could see him better. He wore only a pair of tight black trunks, which allowed me to see all the lovely muscles lining his torso.
I felt terrible for waking him. I knew exactly what it was like to have little sleep. “It’s okay, I’m sorry to bother you.”
