L.A. Woman (15 page)

“Well, I think you’d better give up on the Raoul run tonight,” he said, making a big show of straightening the glasses that were accumulated in front of them. “Because I think he just went home with Sarah.”

“He went home with Sarah?” She blinked. This didn’t compute. This totally didn’t fucking compute. “What do you mean? He’s driving her back or something?”

Taylor coughed, delicately. “I don’t think they just had driving in mind.”

She now blinked at him. Raoul, the underwear model was going home with Sarah, the farm girl.

To have sex.

“That cunt!”

Taylor put a hand over her mouth, so the rest of her pithy sentence was muffled under his hand. Several people watched as she continued to curse and let out one final high-pitched wail.

When she was silent, just huffing quiet breaths of rage between clenched teeth, he let her go. “Tika, you would have done the same thing.”

“I had dibs!”

He quirked an aristocratic eyebrow at her. “Oh. And your reputation will be ruined all over Sweet Valley High when school starts on Monday.” He shook his head. “Get a grip, girlie-girl. I, for one, am proud that our little girl has moved up the food chain from boot-licking for bottom-feeders to free-fucking underwear models. We’ve instilled in her a sense of class, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think,” Tika muttered. “I thought friendship meant more than that.”

He clucked his tongue. “Sure. And the fact that a gorgeous, twenty-something underwear model picked our young frosted friend over you has nothing to do with it.”

She glared at him.

“It’s still all about you, sugar,” he said and laughed.

She saw Luis stalking toward them, and thought of warning Taylor, but was currently way too pissed at him to give him any sort of advantage.

He turned just as Luis slapped him so hard he practically got whiplash. Some cruel part of Martika’s heart actually lit up at that one.

“You slut!”

“What? What! What did I do?” Taylor said, yelling and protecting himself from the barrage of slaps that Luis was lighting on him.

“You’ve been fucking that DJ!”

Taylor looked up, scandalized. “No, I did not! I bought him a drink!”

“I’m through with you, Taylor. Completely!” And he promptly started castigating Taylor in Spanish and walked away. Taylor followed after him, Martika’s problem obviously forgotten.

Martika gritted her teeth. While she was glad that Taylor was going to be punished for even
suggesting
that she was jealous of her little Tinkerbell protégé, she still felt poison rushing through her veins. She needed to blow it off, mellow out. The buzz was running through her, and it made everything else seem possible.

She needed a sports fuck the way junkies needed a fix. She wasn’t going to find it here, obviously. She went to the valet, got her car and headed to Probe. Her club. Her turf.

She prowled out into the noisy, sweaty pulse of the first dance floor. People were moving frenetically, the trancelike pounding of the beat acting like a tribal aphrodisiac. She moved with it, feeling it through her, and she scanned the crowd for a likely candidate.

She found him, perversely, in a suit and tie, looking horribly out of place and, from the expression on his face, feeling horribly out of place. And on the make…she could gauge it from the hungry uneasiness that made him scan the crowd, much as she was. He was about twenty-seven, she guessed. Not as young as she would have liked, but still, she didn’t need him for very long, and nobody really needed to know.

She danced up to him, very conscious of what a well-trained body could do with a set of boobs. He was hypnotized by the time she was within three feet of him.

She didn’t even need to ask him if he wanted to dance…she
walked up and put her body on his, gently guiding him to mesh against hers in an erotic way. She also made sure to lead, keep him on the beat.
The best way to see how a guy is in bed is to take him on the dance floor,
she’d told Sarah ages ago. Sarah had apparently been a good student if a somewhat piss-poor friend. She’d show Sarah how it’s done.

He was breathing more heavily, and she could feel his prick all hard like a rod against her thigh. Good. He had some freight behind this package, she thought, as the rod stretched a little lower down her thigh. Time to try him out.

She leaned forward, brushing her cheek against his sweaty one, breathing in his ear, “Wanna go someplace private?”

He nodded, like a teenage boy, and followed when she took him out into the hallway. It was quieter there—although part of that could be the muffled deafness that came from being exposed to loud music. Club disease, she thought with a slow smile. The guy was pretty good-looking, and sort of dweebish. Like a virgin. She loved corrupting people. That same cruel part of her heart warmed.

“What did you want to talk about?” he said, his voice hoarse.

“This,” she said, and leaned in for a slow, lingering kiss. What she did with her torso was nothing compared to what she could do with her tongue. He gasped, and suddenly was all over her, kissing her sloppily, hungrily, with a frantic, fumbling eagerness.

When he gripped one of her breasts, she let herself smile. Smoothing her hand over his chest from where she’d been caressing the back of his neck (and trying to keep him from going completely spastic in his desire for her), she reached down and grabbed his dick.

He yelped.

“Want someplace to put that, baby?”

He blinked. “This isn’t going to, er, cost me, is it?”

She frowned. “Don’t look a gift horse, kid.”

“Here?” His voice rose to a higher pitch. He quickly lowered
it, glancing back at the dance floor where they had came from. “Right now?”

“Well…” She debated going back to the house, but knowing that Sarah was going to be there with Raoul was a little too much. In her admittedly competitive nature, she’d probably fuck this poor guy to death. “Wait a second.”

She took him by the hand again, leading him toward a back stairwell that Taylor had once shown her. It led up to an abandoned office, and to other various rooms…including the storage room. By luck, it was unlocked. “Manager’s going to be pissed,” she said, motioning him inside and shutting the door behind them.

Before the door was shut all the way, he reached for her. Within five minutes, her panties were off and her skirt was lifted up—what little there was of it. He practically ripped his zipper off in his enthusiasm.

“Condom?”

He reached—and she was sort of charmed by this—for his wallet, producing a foil packet. Wonder how long that’s been in there? The little light there was, was not that great, and she could barely make out the heavy need on his face, and her frustration as he struggled with the packaging. She leaned back against some boxes and he stepped forward, toward her, fumbling to put it on. He pushed into her with a grimace and a loud groan, and she was right—he was plenty big.

He wasn’t bad, either. He started to move, faster, and they were both pushing against each other, his pants around his ankles. A corner of a box dug into the small of her back, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to leverage herself up.

“Unh…unh…” He was breathing in her ear, pressing so deep she thought he’d stab her heart.

“Yeah. Fuck me. Like that.” She clawed at his oxford shirt, concentrating hard. She thought of Raoul, and grimaced, clenching tight enough to make him groan, part pleasure, part pain. She thought of the various guys that she’d fucked over the
past…how many years? How many rooms, how many scenarios?

This wasn’t helping.

She closed her eyes, and thought of her favorite fantasy—the gladiator/slave girl one. Thankfully, she came almost immediately, and bit his neck to stifle the scream.

“Ah…
AH….
” He pushed inside her. She pushed back against him, hard.

He pulled out and turned away from her, taking care of himself, putting the condom back in its foil packaging without really letting her see. Cute, she thought, pulling her skirt down and noticing she was pretty damned wet. She’d need to go to the washroom at this rate. Or go home and shower, then maybe go back out. She was tired, she realized, so maybe she’d just go home and stay there.
Oh, how far the mighty have fallen.
She pulled her panties on, hating that they would probably be damp for the rest of the night.

He turned to her. “So. Can I…did you want to give me your number?”

She laughed, suddenly feeling much, much better. “Why not?”

It was one in the morning, and Judith’s back was starting to get sore from sitting at the computer for so long, ergonomic chair or no. “Roger, I really have to go,” she typed.

Roger: Sleepy?

“Punch-drunk,” Judith replied. “Usually, I don’t stay up this late.”

Roger: It’s 4 a.m. here.

“Oh, my God. I’m sorry!” And she was. She’d been conversing with him for about…she frowned. Five hours. No, six. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”

Roger: It’s no problem. I got to talk to a pretty lady for a while…and correct me if I’m wrong, but you needed it.

Even though she knew he couldn’t see it, Judith blushed a little. “It’s been kind of bad these last few days,” she agreed. Not that it had been any harder than any other week—she just seemed more
aware
of it now. “Also, I’m a little afraid.” She thought about it. “Maybe not afraid. A little unnerved. I’m in the house alone.”

Roger: You aren’t used to it?

“You’d think I would be,” Judith answered, not quite sure
why
she couldn’t get to sleep tonight—why climbing into bed alone and closing her eyes seemed so daunting. “When David was on his internship with the circuit court, I barely saw him at all. It’s just tonight that I feel weird.”

Roger: A little lonely, maybe? (wiggling eyebrows)

Judith giggled, the sound echoing in the empty, late-night quiet. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Roger: I get it. Any port in a storm! :)

“Well, as you’re three thousand miles away, you’re hardly a handy port,” Judith typed back, feeling strangely daring. It was really late, and she was alone. The conversation was hardly real. It was more like an extension of a dream.

Roger: Ah, but I could be…even from here. (SERIOUS eyebrow wiggling!)

Now Judith laughed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Roger: That’s because you’ve never kissed me. I’m told I’m quite good.

“Oh, there’s a threat,” she shot back. This was just silly.
Little kid silly. “What, you’re some kind of Don Juan, is that it?”

Roger: Put it this way. Remember Bull Durham, when he talks about believing in slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days?

Judith felt a very teeny tingle at the words. She’d always loved that part. “Yeah, so?”

Roger: I’m not that hasty.

Judith was still laughing, but she felt a little warmer…and the laughter was just a bit more breathless. “So you believe in slow kisses. I’ve had slow kisses.”

Roger: And not just on your mouth.

Judith wasn’t sure she was reading that correctly at first. Then, as she put what he was saying together, the blush intensified. “You’re bad,” she typed back, albeit a little unsteadily. She was getting tired. She ought to wrap this up…

Roger: I just believe in being thorough. There’s a lot a man can do with two lips and a tongue, believe me.

She suddenly got an image…God, she couldn’t…she’d never. But for some reason, alone in her house, typing to a stranger, it sounded good. Hell. Sounded
great.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replied, trying to get the light tone back and not let on how unsettling she was finding his messages. “All men think they’re hell on wheels. For all I know, you’ve had a lot of women who were really good at faking it! :)”

Roger: Wouldn’t know till you tried, huh?

Judith was very, very warm. She shifted her weight nervously in the seat. She was getting a little—oh, hell. She was getting
really
turned on, which defined ridiculous. “Well, again, you’re three thousand miles away,” she typed in.
And even if you weren’t…

Roger: Well, I could walk you through it. :)

It was just the Internet, she reasoned. It wasn’t real.

No one would know.

“Give me an example,” she typed. She was almost shivering now, staring at the screen.

Roger: First of all, kissing is really important. Say, about an hour of kissing. Deep, slow kissing. I’d start taking your clothes off, and you’d start taking my clothes off, but the kissing would be the important part. That, and touching. I’d learn every inch of you. I mean EVERY inch.

Judith couldn’t believe she was reading this. Still, she didn’t want him to stop, either.
When was the last time I kissed David for longer than the ten minutes it took to get him hard?
And when had taking off her clothes been anything other than a means to an end? His touch had stopped doing anything for her for longer than she could remember. She just hadn’t really thought about it until just now, as a stranger typed sweet, graphic nothings on her screen.

Roger: Then, when you’re naked and I’m naked, I’d put you on the bed. And then I’d move the kissing lower. Your breasts—they’d deserve attention, but I’d definitely take my cues from you. Would you like me to pay attention to them?

Judith hadn’t thought about it. “Yes…but not too long,” she answered back.

She was playing along.

There was a pause, and Judith wondered if she’d shocked him—or if he were really just joking. Or if he’d fallen asleep.

Before she could think about what she was doing, or be embarrassed, the message came across: