It Stings So Sweet (8 page)

He’s already pulling me into
his lap, hands fumbling for the fastenings of my dress. “Clara, you’re a fine actress, but I’ve already
told you. I’m not about to finance a film produced by a woman.”

I pull away. “Don’t be so old-fashioned.
Mary Pickford’s been producing films for almost ten years.”

“But she’s America’s Sweetheart,”
he says, moving my hand onto the growing hardness beneath his pants. “Whereas you warm people up
somewhere far south of the heart . . .”

My eyes narrow at the challenge. “I bet I can get you
excited in more ways than one. Why don’t you drop by the little studio I’ve been renting and take
a peek at some of my projects? I think you’ll agree that I should have control over the production
of my films.”

“Behave yourself, Clara.”

“I didn’t get anywhere
in life by behaving.”

His voice lowers an octave. “Then, by all means, let’s misbehave . . .”

He unfastens his
pants and I take a good look. Teddy Morgan drinks too much and he’s going a little soft in the middle—but
his giant erection is a thing of wonder. He’s wide, thick, and dangerous. He could hurt a woman
if he isn’t careful. I don’t mind though, because I’ve always wanted the best and biggest of everything.

I know what he wants and I find that I want it, too. I shimmy out of my drawers and kick them
onto the floor. My body is already pulsing in anticipation when I hike my sparkly gown up around my
waist and climb aboard. I like to to feel the width of him between my thighs. My bracelets jingle
as I grasp the back of the couch, gasping a little when I feel his bare flesh press against mine.

“You’re not the first woman to rub against me tonight, you know. That vamp, Mrs. Richardson,
was like a cat in heat on the dance floor before her husband took her on my desk like a common strumpet.”

It surprises me that he seems genuinely angry. “Why are you so upset about having caught a woman
having sex with her own husband? Who was it that got slugged, anyway?”

“Only the most eligible
bachelor in the country,” he says, fleshy hands caressing my hips. “The ambassador’s son.”

Robert Aster, he means. The youngest of the Aster brothers, heir to a fabulous fortune. I caught a glimpse
of him earlier in the evening and thought he had boyish good looks. “Well, I hope he wasn’t hurt
too badly. I’d hate to think of that face being bloodied.”

“I’m just sorry the incident nearly
ruined your party.”

“Oh, I had a grand time. Everyone will be talking about this party for
a while to come.”

Teddy chuckles. “I suppose you’re right. You know, I got an eyeful of Mrs.
Richardson spread out under her husband . . . does that make you jealous?”

I can’t afford to
be jealous. Men can be possessive of their mistresses, but if you turn it around on them you’re a
shrew. Worse, he might use my jealousy as an excuse to take the relationship more seriously, and I’m
not the serious kind. Not about any man. So I smirk and say what we both know is a lie. “Of course
I am.”

Our entire relationship is built upon such polite lies. Like the lie that he bankrolls
my movies because he’s a great appreciator of the arts and not simply because the more money he sinks
into my career, the more often I let him fuck me. I’m going to let him fuck me tonight. He knows
it. I know it.

But we both pretend it isn’t a foregone conclusion.

I tease him, pulling
back like I’m having second thoughts. “I can’t say that I approve of Mrs. Richardson’s behavior.”

“I’m surprised,” he says, sliding the strap of my gown down over one shoulder to nip me there.
“After all, I’m told
you’ve
been caught having sex on
film
.”

“No one’s ever produced the reel
to prove it,” I say, but it’s not a denial.

“Good thing, too. It would ruin you. So you’re
hardly in a position to judge Mrs. Richardson.”

“Oh, I’m not judging her; I just don’t approve
of anyone causing more of a scandal at a party than I do.”

“You caused plenty. Your dress is
cut so far down in the back you can see where the Lord split you. The gents couldn’t tear their eyes
away. Leo Vanderberg was like a hound on the scent . . .”

So he
did
notice our flirtation.
Now that he mentions the dashing pilot, I flush with heat. I said I was jaded, that I’d done it all,
twice. And that’s true, for the most part. I’ve been sleeping with men since I was fourteen, when the
landlord forced me to do it or be kicked out into the street. I decided then and there if a man thought
he was gonna use me, I was gonna use him right back. I learned to like it. I learned to love
it. I did whatever I wanted . . . every position. Every taboo. But Leo Vanderberg somehow latched on
to the one thing I haven’t done. Now his words swirl deliciously in my mind.

Pretend that my
cock is buried in you from behind and that I’m grinding you against him.

As I lower myself
onto my lover’s erection, I hiss. It always hurts a little at first, no matter how wet I am, but soon,
the pain will turn to pleasure, so I screw up my courage. Teddy’s eyes go heavy-lidded when I’ve
got only an inch of him inside me. He likes to watch me work at it.

Sometimes we do it in front
of a mirror so I can watch, too.

Tonight, it’s easier.

While Big Teddy squeezes my breasts,
I’m imagining another man’s hands on my hips. I’m imagining Leo Vanderberg behind me. Yet, how
is it possible that there’d be room inside me for two men? There’s not even room enough for this one.
But the fantasy makes me slick with arousal. I can feel the flutter of my heartbeat as if it’s dropped
between my legs.

I get another inch into me. Maybe two. I moan at the feeling of fullness.

“Good god, woman, I love the way you move your hips,” Teddy says, while I perform for him.

Pretend that I’m making you take him deeper. Trapping you between us so you’ve got nowhere to
go but where I tell you to.

I work myself on his cock, but get only halfway down the shaft.
I hold back; I tease. This is usually as far as I can take him, and it’s usually enough to bring Teddy
off. In fact, I’m near the edge now myself. His thickness presses deliciously in every direction.

Pretend that I’m pushing you to see how much you can take.

I want more. Tonight, I want
to take my lover deeper. Letting gravity pull me down, I fill myself. His big throbbing erection stretches
me to the limit. “Oh god, you’re so big . . . ,” I moan, but it isn’t a complaint.

Teddy’s
red in the face with arousal, his hips making awkward little jerks off the sofa. He palms my ass cheeks
as he looks down between us. His voice is husky. “Do you think you can take it?”

It’s a matter
of pride now. “Yes. I want it all.”

My words force a shudder of arousal from him, his eyes
suddenly burning with lust. I worry that he’ll finish too fast. Instead, he flips me onto my back. I
grab the arm of the sofa for balance as the big man rouses himself to pump into me. He’s not used to
this kind of work and the sweat beads on his brow, but he’s like a man possessed. I won’t deny him.
God, I don’t
want
to deny him.

He uses his tool to open me and I cry out. Again and again,
I’m impaled until the pain melts into pleasure. I’m stretched so wide now that he’s gliding in and out
of my pussy with ease. I look down between us, quivering with the thought that his belly might touch
mine. He’s fucking me with a strange jerking rhythm, as if he were afraid I’ll ask him to stop at
any moment. But he can’t stop. Not now. “Please take it all, Clara . . .”

The start of his
orgasm robs him of all self-control and he slams home.

I scream fearing that he’s torn me in
two, but when I feel his thatch of pubic hair wet against mine, when I feel it scratch my thighs,
and the press of his sweaty belly against my own, joined together so tightly that we’d have to be pried
apart . . . my screams turn into something else. I’ve done it. I’ve taken all of him and the filthy
satisfaction with myself makes me come.

It’s going to drive you right over the edge.

I don’t care that I owe it to Leo Vanderberg; I’ve never been one to turn down a free gift.

I clutch at my lover while waves of orgasm wash over me, my muscles contracting then giving out with
fatigue. I’m aware of Teddy grunting over me, driving his seed into me with wild strokes and spasms.
We’re locked together for several minutes afterward, until he’s soft enough to withdraw from my aching
body.

He grunts, then pants, rolling to the side to stroke my hair with unexpected tenderness.
“If I weren’t already married, Clara, I’d be down on one knee.”

“Horsefeathers,” I pant. “Wouldn’t
you rather marry a nice girl?”

“You
are
a nice girl, Clara. You just don’t want anyone to know
it.”

“Don’t be sweet.” I give his shoulders an affectionate squeeze as I’m fonder of him than
I’d ever admit.

Which means it might be time for me to start thinking about moving on.

CHAPTER

Two

“
Whore
.” She spits at me.

Taking a deep breath,
I root around in my pocketbook for a handkerchief, then wipe the spittle from where it landed on my
arm. Then, so as not to frighten her, I smile. “Are you feeling any better?”

Her heavy metal
chair slides against the cement floor. “Don’t sit there and pretend you can’t hear me, girl. I know
what you are.”

I tuck the cloth back into my purse, smooth the long wool skirt over my legs,
then squint into the sun streaming in from the high window, watching the dancing specks of dust she
thinks are angels. “Are you sleeping? Last time I asked your doctors, you weren’t sleeping.”

“We have her on a regimen now, Miss Cartwright,” the orderly says. “The sedatives help.”

She
begins rocking, staring at me, scrutinizing my prim appearance and
old-fashioned straw hat. “Let
me see you, Clara. You know I don’t like it when I can’t see you.”

Removing the pins from my
hat, I slowly unfasten it, though I leave the gossamer scarf around my neck. When I look up at her,
I say, “There. Now maybe I can read to you. Would you like me to read you a story?”

“You washed
your face.”

I wish I hadn’t. Without the ruby lips, the dark-lined eyes, and the rouge, I’m
somehow more vulnerable. But I can’t leave my house like that without being recognized; people sometimes
follow me on the street and I don’t want them to follow me here. So I made myself as plain as
possible. “Every girl needs to give her skin some time to breathe, don’t you think?”

She says,
“I can still see your sin even without all your harlot’s paint. I know what you do at night with
the men who pant after you. Those men who give you all your baubles. I know any man can have you on
your knees by giving you something that sparkles, and they know it, too. You should be on your knees
begging the Lord’s forgiveness.”

I tell myself that her words can’t cut me. I won’t let them.
Still, I pull my hat back from the table for fear she might grab at the pins. It would not be the
first time she left me bleeding. “I’ve brought you some crossword puzzles. I know you like them. You
can do one every day and when you’re done, I’ll send you more.”

Normally, working at the puzzles
steadies her. Today she throws them on the floor. “One day, you’ll be sitting here alone, just
like me, Clara. Just like me. Except that at least I have a husband, worthless as he is. When your
nerves are shot and they lock you up, who will care?”

Unable to bear it even one more moment,
I leap up from my chair and flee for the door, murmuring, “Hopefully, I’ll drink myself to death
long before that happens.”

At home, from the safe height
of my fancy penthouse apartment with its gilded furniture and velvet drapes, I find my stash in
the sideboard and pour myself a shot of hooch. Downing it too quickly, I cough at the burn. Then I
wipe my lips and hurriedly hide the evidence of my distress only moments before the doorman brings me
the red roses and the note attached.

The man who sent them is waiting downstairs.

“Can’t
you shoo him away, Charlie?”

“He’s not the sort to be given the bum’s rush, madam,” the doorman
replies.

No, I don’t suppose he is. Leo Vanderberg has come at the worst time, but I find that
I want to see him. Maybe the reckless aviator is just the tonic I need. “Alright, send him up. Wait
fifteen minutes, then have the car brought around, won’t you?”

The penthouse, the doorman,
and the driver are all perks of being a kept woman. I can affo
rd them without Teddy Morgan’s generosity,
of course. But like I said before, I never turn down a gift. The days when I was clawing for
crumbs in a cold one-bedroom apartment are over, but I haven’t forgotten them and I’m never going
back.

When I hear the aviator’s footsteps in the hall, my pulse quickens. I can see his lean
body in my mind’s eye, and those dark looks, hot and heavy. I still remember what he whispered in
my ear, and it makes me a little shaky to think of it. I don’t have to guess what he wants.

When he comes in, I don’t turn around right away. “Why, Mr. Vanderberg, I didn’t expect to see you
again so soon, much less bearing gifts,” I say, arranging the roses so the blooms are on fine display.
I have to admit, their perfume lifts my spirits. “Are you falling in love with me?”

“Of course
not. That would ruin the whole arrangement.”

I want to turn around and look him in the eye,
but I don’t. “What arrangement would that be?”

“The one where I’m planning to debauch you and
you’re planning to let me.”

My lips part in amusement. “I’m afraid I was
thoroughly
debauched
long ago.”

“I’d like to test that—” He catches his breath when I finally turn around. He has
both hands in his pockets, a languid slope to his shoulders, a snappy hat shadowing his face, but
he can’t hide his surprise.

And his wide-eyed astonishment makes me laugh. “What’s the matter,
Ace? Haven’t you ever seen a girl without powder on her nose before?”

“I—I just . . . I just
need a second to get used to it, is all.”

“Is my skirt too long, my hat too wide, or don’t
you recognize me without my war paint?”

“You look younger . . .”

“Like a farm-fresh, freckled
milkmaid? Like a sweet daisy ready to be plucked from a field?”

He shrugs. “Something like
that.”

“Well, don’t let the baby face fool you. I only go out like this when I don’t want anyone
to recognize me.”

“You’re Clara Cartwright. Why the devil wouldn’t you want anyone to recognize
you?”

There is nothing I can do but lie. “Because, I’m going to a matinee at Grauman’s Chinese
Theatre. I can’t go there looking like myself. My handprints are in the concrete forecourt right
next to Charlie Chaplin’s. I’d spend the whole afternoon signing autographs.”

He smirks. “Must
be hard to be you.”

“Positively a trial.”

He’s still smirking—and I see it’s his natural
expression, as if he has the utmost contempt for the whole world. “If you’re going to the matinee,
Clara, let me take you. My treat.”

My voice is low and husky with regret. “I’m not interested,
Mr. Vanderberg.”

“Yes you are. And like I said before, you can call me Leo.”

“I haven’t
decided if I want to be on a first-name basis. At the party I got the impression you weren’t just
another wet blanket . . . you seemed reckless. A little bit dangerous. But flowers and a movie? Rather
conventional, wouldn’t you say?”

“The courtship’s for your benefit, doll, not mine.” Then he
leans in and everything turns deadly serious. “See, it’s like this. When you’re in bed with me, squirming
in embarrassment for all the filthy things you’ve let me do to you, it should comfort you to
remember that I did court you as a lady . . . even though I intend to treat you as anything but.”

There’s something about him that’s so potent, so alluring, that I can hardly stand up straight.
It’s not that he’s such a brash pursuer; I’ve been pursued by brash men before. It’s that I think
he means it. He means every word he says and that sends the blood rushing past my ears. “You don’t
need to try so hard, Mr. Vanderberg. I assure you, it’s more difficult to make me embarrassed by anything
I do in a bed than to get me into one.”

He leans close enough to kiss me. “Now that sounds
like a challenge . . . so, what do you say? Are you gonna see a picture with me or not?”

I
tilt my head, look him in the eye and smile. “Not.”

This doesn’t dissuade him. “Oh, good. I
was hoping you’d make things difficult.”

“I wish I could say that I was playing hard to get,
but the fact is, I’m spoken for.”

“I don’t see a handcuff on your finger,” he says.

“I’m
not the marrying kind.”

“That makes two of us. See? We’re a matched pair. Last night, you said
I wasn’t likely to make you a better deal than the one you’ve got with Teddy Morgan but—”

“Oh boy, did you prove me wrong,” I say with a saucy tilt of my hips.

That admission earns me
a big toothy grin. “How’d you like it?”

In spite of myself, I grin back, remembering the pleasurable
fantasy. “It was swell.”

“
That
gift didn’t come with any strings but the next one will.”

“The next one?”

“I’ve got something that I think belongs to you, but if you want it back,
it’ll cost you.”

“Now I’m intrigued . . .”

His shoulders tense as if he’s bracing for
something. “It’s a stag film. You know the kind.”

He’s bluffing. He has to be. I call upon
all my acting talent and hide behind a facade. “And what makes you think it belongs to me?”

“Well, I could give it back to the fella I got it from, but it seems like the kind of film that should
only fall into the hands of the girl who starred in it.”

My chest rises and falls and I think
I should say something, but I can’t think of a good line. I can’t think of much of anything except
the fact that he might
not
be bluffing. If he really does have the film that could sink my career,
what am I going to do about it? “I’ve made a lot of films, Mr. Vanderberg. I can’t remember them
all.”

“Oh, you’d remember this one, I think. Two flappers walk up to the bartender in a Parisian
nightclub—”

“And you have the film?” I ask flatly, all business.

“I do. And I’ll give
it to you tonight if you want it.”

“In exchange for?”

“A private screening,” he says.
“You arrange the showing and I’ll bring the reel at eight sharp. Watch the movie with me and you can
keep it.”

I can’t decide if I’m offended or fascinated by his nerve. “So, you intend to blackmail
me.”

He makes an indignant sound. “Blackmail requires a threat. I’m not threatening you with
anything.”

“The threat is implied.”

He puts a hand over his heart as if wounded. “Do you
always attribute such sinister motives to people?”

“Nearly always. This way I’m seldom disappointed.”

My hard-boiled attitude only seems to charm him, and he plucks one of the roses from the vase
and taps it against my cheek. “Call it blackmail, then. Or call it smart business. Either way, it’s
a one-time offer. Take it or leave it.”

The decision is already made, but a girl has to keep
up appearances. “You just want to watch the movie with me. That’s your price?”

“That’s right.”

I eye him dubiously, taking the rose, careful to avoid the thorns. “You’re sure you don’t want
more than that?”

“Oh, I
want
plenty more. I’m just not willing to bargain for the rest.”