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Dale slid out from under me and I collapsed onto the couch, still trying to catch my breat. He stood looking down at me, his eyes so full of lust it was almost scary. He licked his lips, then his fingers, tasting me still.
“I want you.” His voice was hoarse.
“How?” I smiled up at him, so sated and sleepy now.
He grabbed the comforter, folding and folding it, tossing it onto the wood coffee table.
“There.” He pointed. “On your hands and knees.”
“Ohhh.” I got up, climbing slowly and carefully onto the coffee table, afraid it might not hold my weight, but it did.
“Hang on.” Dale grabbed my hips and I gasped, looking for something to hold on to! I gripped the edges of the coffee table with my fingers, feeling his cock sliding up and down, teasing. It was the perfect height and with one, swift motion he was inside me. I cried out, biting my lip. I was sore, but oh, it hurt so good.
He went slow at first, easing himself out only half way before sliding back in. There was another couple on the screen, doing exactly what we were doing, a mirror image. Dale gripped my hips and thrust himself in deeper, using longer strokes, really driving into me now.
“Dale!” I cried, gasping for breath. “Oh God. Oh!”
The way he did that, using all his force to take me, made me tremble all over. His thighs spread mine and the sounds of our sex mingled with the sounds coming from the television, moaning and slapping, the hot, aching sound of fucking.
“Sara,” he panted. “Oh sweetheart, I’m… Ohhhhh nowww!”
I cried out when he came. I wasn’t going to climax again, not this time, but the force of his orgasm shuddered through me as he thrust, thrust, thrust, hard, fast strokes, emptying himself into me with a force that threatened to tear me apart. I whimpered when he slid out of me, glancing back at him over my shoulder.
His eyes were glazed, his look dreamy. He grabbed the remote, turning off the sounds of sex, almost as if it was an affront to the senses now. He helped me off the coffee table, grabbing the comforter and wrapping us both in it.
“Think you can sleep now?” he murmured, kissing the tip of my nose.
“Like a baby.” I rested my cheek against his chest.
“Come on.”
He scooped me up like it was nothing and carried me to bed. I listened to the sound of his breathing, both of us snuggled under the covers. His hand was on my breast, his thigh over mine, claiming me, even in his sleep. I closed my eyes and decided to count blessings instead of sheep, but as my eyelids grew heavier and heavier, I realized it just wasn’t possible to count that high.
* * * *
“Fuck!”
I sat straight up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The first light of morning crept across the plush hotel carpet, not quite reaching the bed. Dale’s side was empty.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Dale’s voice, growing louder.
“What is it?” I croaked. My throat was dry and I was incredibly thirsty. Either I was a little hungover from the lure of last night’s open bar or I was dehydrated of all bodily fluids after our wild night of homecoming sex. Probably both.
“Look at this.” He burst into the bedroom wearing just his boxers, tossing something on the bed. I was far too interested in him standing there shirtless—how could I possibly be thinking about sex after the night before was beyond me, but I was—to really pay attention. “That goddamned wedding photographer sold pictures to the paper!”
“What paper?” I grabbed it, scanning the top. It wasn’t the Times—they wouldn’t have bothered with it. It was the New York Daily News, a complimentary copy slipped under the door by hotel staff for light breakfast reading. We weren’t on the front page—Dale had it opened to the entertainment section, where they’d printed a fuzzy photograph—me pressed against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist like a monkey, our mouths slanted in an open mouthed kiss.
“Fuck.” I swore, skimming the article. There were more photographs—Dale sliding the garter up my leg, my dress pulled up sky high, another of the two of us dancing together, bodies pressed close. The article named me and speculated that I was the girl Dale had proposed to during the Battle of the Bands.
Dale’s manager and pubicist had done everything they could to quell that incident, telling all the tabloids and teen mags we’d broken it off. Reporters had never found out my name and the story had died off. Besides, whenever Dale jetted off to L.A. to do television spots or interviews, he always denied being involved. Whenever someone asked him about me, he said, “It’s over. I don’t like to talk about it,” giving the world the impression he was a now-a single broken hearted rock star on the rebound—which is just what his manager wanted everyone to think.
I hated it. It was like a knife twisted in my gut every time I heard him say it. But Dale hated it even more. I remembered the first time his manager had broached the subject, me sitting between John and Dale, sipping wine at a restaurant so fancy they had bathroom attendants. Fancy shmancy, Dale didn’t let that stop him. It was the manager’s fault—he was like a dog with a bone, he just wouldn’t let it go. He insisted I be kept a secret, hidden away.
“You can still see her, I don’t care,” his manager had said. “But we’re telling the media you broke up. I can’t sell a married young rock star to the buying public. It’s not the image you’re going to need to project.”
“I don’t care about my image,” Dale had scoffed.
“Then you’re done before you even got started.” The manager had thrown his napkin on his plate, pushing away from the table. “She goes or I go. And if I go, all your dreams of fame and fortune go with me. Bye-bye!”
