I rub my neck, facing the water as it sprayed down the front of me, down my breasts that are now throbbing, nipples hard, heart surging.
God, that man! That mouth. That tongue. Never in my life, even in my short, failed marriage, have I met a man that could work his tongue like that.
The way it teased and tickled, awakening every nerve, pushing me towards arousal. Then want. Then need. Hunger.
As I fall back into the memory, my fingertips find my nipples, teasing them like his tongue did. Tugging on them like his mouthdid. Meanwhile, my other hand finds my pussy, rubbing and stroking between the layers of sensitive skin until pressing into my clit. I flutter my fingertips over it, imagining that it’s not my finger at all sending waves of pleasure through my body, but that magic tongue.
Then, as I cry out, giving into the orgasm, my knees nearly give out. But they aren’t the only thing that gives out.
With a gurgle and spurt, the water shuts off. And a confusing moment later, the lights shut off too.
Shit.
I suppose the utility company really did mean final notice.
And as I fumble out of the shower, nearly falling on my ass, groping around in the darkness for a towel and my phone. The screen offers the only light in the room. But with my battery at a skimpy fifteen percent, I’m going to lose this too. And suddenly it’s not about gray morals. It’s about survival.
I just hope I can survive Zane Calloway.
Chapter 9
Zane
I’ve beenin the modeling business a long time. Ever since I was voted “Most likely to become the next Fabio.” I never did ads for fake butter, but I did land my first gig at a department store when I was twenty. I was the topic of conversation at every bachelorette party in the country before I was even old enough to drink.
All of that said, it shouldn’t be this hard to stay relevant. I’m pretty sure the number of stores with photos of me in my underwear can vouch for that. So the fact that I had to ask a photographer for the paparazzi to be my better half really takes the cake in terms of things I never thought I’d have to do at the age of forty-five.
I don’t need a better half. I’ve seen enough centerfolds to know that my whole self is the better half. I didn’t get here based on someone else standing next to me. Between Nigel and everyone else who’s megaphoning an opinion from the peanut gallery, I’m beyond done with all the drama.
So I do what I always do when I need a break from my life as a model. I run three extra miles on the treadmill to make up for all the vodka I’m going to be drinking at the bar tonight.
Noir Heights is a rooftop bar in the heart of Los Angeles. It’s a swanky little spot that everyone knows about, but not everyone can get into. It is perfect for me because I’m really not in the mood to see anyone I know.
I head straight to the bar and pull up a stool. The girl behind the bar is a tiny little thing with black braids and a nose ring. But it’s her eyes that could turn on a man and turn him to stone at the same time. I know Liza well enough to know that she isn’t going to bring up the tabloids. She also knows that her tip tonight depends heavily on not bringing up my recent scandal from the other night.
“Somebody looks thirsty,” she says, placing a coaster in front of me.
“Parched,” I tell her, and she gives me an easy smile.
“So what’ll it be tonight? Light beer? Vodka rocks? Or maybe you’ve given up on the eleven percent body fat scheme and you’re going to treat yourself tonight?” She asks and I have to chuckle.
“First of all, it’s nine percent, thank you very much. And second, getting away from the shitshow that is my life is treat enough. I’ll take a vodka rocks. But make it a double,” I say, and she does a little shoulder shimmy.
“Well, rebellion has to start somewhere, I suppose,” she says, reaching for a glass.
“Baby steps,” I say. Liza sets my drink down in front of me, and I take a sip, wincing when the gasoline disguised as biodegradable liquor hits the back of my throat. It’s not that I like vodka, but it does the job without making me bloated. If there is anything an underwear model may never be, it’s bloated, and Nigel checks. He has a measuring tape that goes down to the millimeter.
As I sip my drink, the room blurs around the edges just enough that I can finally relax. Or at the most, slouch. Slouching is another thing my manager hates, and the importance of having good posture has been ingrained in me like a military soldier. The best part is, I don’t see anyone I know on a personal level. Even the people I know who I am don’t care because the room is full of people in the same industry. They are all here to escape their day-to-day lives.
On more than one occasion, I am approached by women who flirt and banter, make a point of touching my arms and hint at wanting to see my abs. It’s a simple move that gives me a lot of satisfaction. Normally, this is one of the places I’d hit up if the other side of my bed was getting a little cold. But even as girls come and go all night, the interactions are briefer than I think they’d like them to be.
I realize my mind is occupied with a certain someone from a couple nights ago. In fact, if I am being brutally honest, she’s been living rent free in my head ever since she walked out my front door wearing my clothes. It’s hard to forget something like that. It’s hard to forget a girl like that.
I don’t know if I’ve ever met a girl like that.
And I’ve met a lot of girls.
But something about Ashlyn was different. The moment I fished her out of my hot tub and saw how attractive she is, I was intrigued. And then, when she started talking…
