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4
Dreaded Security Alert
When I bought my penthouse,I’d thought it would just be temporary. I figured it’d be one of three or four properties I’d own, maybe along with a chalet in Switzerland, a flat in London, and a regular home someplace where I could pretend to be anyone other than Lacey Connor, pop star and masturbation fantasy to half the world’s music listening population under the age of thirty. I wanted to be a nobody. Just a twenty-five-year-old woman who liked her cat, dog, and yoga.
But celebrity life got in the way. Albums meant tours, and the higher I rose in the charts, the busier my life became. At that point I had plenty of money in the bank, even with the highway robbery that was my recording contract, which put more money than I cared to think about into the pockets of all the people who ‘made me what I am.’
But so far, all I had was the penthouse. It was big of course, with two levels, five bedrooms, and a cavernous entertainment space that was half living room, half dining room, and half whatever. The kitchen, which I loved to play around in, was any chef’s dream, and the interior designer someone on my team had insisted I must have, fancied up the bathrooms with marble fixtures, heated Japanese toilets, bidets, and an inground tubs.
I guessed it was like any penthouse should be, big enough and showy enough to entertain guests or show off for press vultures like People.
At that moment though, I wasn’t thinking about flats in London or ski chalets in Switzerland. Instead, now that I was thankfully home, I was curled up on my big leather couch in nothing but an old knee length T-shirt and yoga pants, my hair pulled back and my face totally scrubbed, my stomach finally settled after practically inhaling a turkey club sandwich I’d had delivered from the deli around the corner.
I was ready for a nap, the cat and dog snuggled up to me on either side.
My body’s internal clock was so fucked up, I was running on three months of grabbing sleep here and there, and working until one or two in the morning only to jump on a plane at the crack of dawn to do it all over again. So inwardly I knew that I couldn’t get some real deep sleep until I either had some time to reset my clock, or drive myself to the point of physical exhaustion.
I’d been through it after every big tour. It was why I took the advice that an older star once gave me, to take a break between each leg of my tour. Too many young talents tried to operate off their youthful energy and enthusiasm, only to get terribly burned out. Or mixed up with prescription pills.
But youth, even when you were young, had limits. I had no intention of becoming the next fucked up young star laughingstock, so I did what I could to take care of myself. Whenever I could, I ate well, tried to get rest, and didn’t drink or party unless my label needed me somewhere.
In short, I was pretty fucking boring. And that’s how I liked it.
Aside from my lack of sleep, I was probably in the best shape of my life. My thought process demanded it. Growing up, I was the sort of girl who never stopped thinking, never stopped dreaming, never shut down. I got into singing and dancing because I needed something with structure that allowed me to channel my mental energy. My public persona might have been a tease, a girl with boy toys lined up out the door, but in reality, I had no one.
I didn’t have time. My last boyfriend, a comedian who was much funnier on film than he was in person, broke up with me when he realized what we each wanted in bed was on opposite ends of the spectrum. Like when his ‘anniversary’ present to me was a strap-on harness and dildo, for me to use on him. No judgment, just wasn’t my thing.
I might have worn black leather and carried a whip for the performance of Make You Mine at the Grammys… but that didn’t mean I actually wanted my boyfriend to be my pegging bitch. I guess I could have considered it, but I wasn’t that into him anyway.
So when you added up the recording sessions, the promo video making and publicity blitz, then the American leg of my tour, there was just no time for a romantic relationship. Hell, I was so busy I hadn’t even had time for a ‘side guy’ in six months. And my last one was highly unsatisfying. Not that he didn’t try, but his fingers were like sausages, and both his tongue and dick had about two minutes of stamina before he was spent. If he hadn’t been so sweet, I wouldn’t have cared as much. But he was such a nice guy, I reassured him he was fine… and that maybe we should just remain acquaintances.
So, lying on my couch, I was half sleeping and lightly dreaming. In my dream at least, I was getting what I hadn’t in too long… total physical pleasure.
I couldn’t see faces, like in a lot of my dreams, but that was okay. I didn’t really want one particular guy, anyway. I wanted an experience. A feeling. Satisfaction at a deep, visceral level, which, in my imagination, would make me feel like I was flying above the earth, my entire body pulsing with the sensation of having the stuffing fucked out of me.
I just wanted release.
What I could see was hazy, like looking through a pulsing golden fog lightly glowing like far off lightning. I was floating, fully supported but by unseen means, and totally at ease with being touched.
And god how I was being touched. My skin tingled and body hummed like I was being brushed with a hundred soft feathers.
There were at least two sets of hands, strong hands both totally in control but at the same time gentle. They were hands that had just the right amount of work calluses, hands belonging to men who knew what it meant to use their muscles. They were hands that, at that moment, were totally dedicated to me and what I needed.
Just what the doctor ordered.
At one end of my body, powerful thumbs kneaded my insteps, releasing the tension that built in my arches after days of running around in five inch heels. I hated it, but my public image said that I had to be at least a certain height, and so the only time I didn’t wear heels was at the gym, or in my penthouse. Because of that, I built up intense knots in my calves and feet, knots and tension that required release. And the hands were doing just that, rubbing and easing my aches, finding nerves that had parts of my body warming in ways that more than just a foot rub should.
“Yessss,” I murmured, my pussy starting to pulse as the hands found a spot that made me convulse, it felt so good.
A gasp tore from my lips as the hand continued squeezing and tugging on my toes, rubbing between them, and making me giggle.
“You know I’m ticklish,” I said, and the guy in my dream chuckled in a deep, sexy voice that sent tremors through my body. It was a chuckle that said he’d remember what I liked, and use that knowledge for both fun and pleasure when the next time rolled around.
The other set of hands was just as strong and gentle, stroking my stomach before cupping my breasts. Another deep, pleasurable hum came to my ear, and I could feel the warm presence of someone as he stroked my sensitive skin, teasing my nipples as I arched for more….
“Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!”
An ear-splitting cry ripped me from my slumber, icy fear jolting my body.
That wasn’t any random alarm. It wasn’t the smoke alarm in my kitchen, or anything like that.
It was my personal safety alarm. The alarm that was installed when I started getting death threats. The alarm that meant only one thing.
I was in danger.
* * *
