Part 8 (2/2)
”She was Huntington's trophy wife. I think she is now thirty-nine.”
”Okay, but was she chasing you before or after they were married?”
”After. But she and Huntington weren't traditionally monogamous.” He chuckled as he slid a finger into me. ”She's the one who introduced me to the society.”
”Ah, right. Vanette told me she knew her but wouldn't tell me anything else.” I sucked in a breath as he drew his finger gently in and out of me.
”The other thing you should know about Ferrara, which hardly anyone else does, is that she took over the record company from her husband about two years ago when they divorced. She's a very hands-on executive, and she served as producer when I did a residency in Las Vegas called Bride of the Blue. A rock opera spectacle.”
”I imagine it was.”
”She grew increasingly difficult to work with over the course of the show. That was the last straw for me, why I decided to quit entirely.” He paused in his speaking to slip two fingers into me and lick my c.l.i.t at the same time. He kept that up until I started to tighten up, nearing o.r.g.a.s.m, and then he backed off. ”Her husband and I had made a deal that an earlier double alb.u.m counted as two, and then the farewell tour alb.u.m would be the final one on my contract. Unfortunately for me, it was a verbal deal, and the week before the Madison Square Garden concert, she began leaving me phone messages insinuating that would not satisfy her.”
”Satisfy her? You mean the record company.”
”She is the company now. She keeps her ex-husband around as a figurehead, and he continues to do whatever she says. Probably hoping she'll take him back if he's a good boy.” He clucked his tongue. ”So, quite literally, she owns me.”
”I had no idea being a rock star was akin to indentured servitude,” I joked.
”Oh, but it is,” he said seriously. ”Did you ever see George Michael's videos from the nineties?”
”I had a friend when I was like eleven who was in love with him, yeah.”
”He sued his record company in England, saying they had essentially turned him into a 'professional slave.' He lost the case, but it wasn't a frivolous one. At a certain point it doesn't matter what they pay you. When they can force you to do whatever they want, you're beholden to them.”
”I don't imagine you take well to being forced into anything.”
”No.” He dragged his fingers over my G-spot and my toes curled. ”Is that enough for now? There is more to tell you about my battle of wills with Ferrara.”
”You owe me the rest... later.” I tried to wrap my legs around him, but he put his hands on my knees, flattening my bent legs against the bed.
”You've gotten more flexible,” he observed.
”Some of my flexibility returned when I was training for the ArtiWorks performance,” I corrected.
”I approve. Anything that lets me do this.” He ran his c.o.c.k up my wet seam, levering himself up on his hands. ”Are you ready for me?”
”Yes, James.” I held my breath for a second, thinking he was going to plunge in. But no, he teased me with the tip, pus.h.i.+ng in an inch or two and pulling out, again and again. ”Oh f.u.c.k!”
”Mmm. Most sensitive part of my c.o.c.k and the most sensitive part of your opening. What's not to like?”
I groaned. The shallow penetration felt so good I was melting, but at the same time I wanted more. So much more. ”You're f.u.c.king me the way you give information, a little bit at a time!”
He laughed then and drove deep, exhaling and closing his eyes as he did. ”You don't know how hard it was waiting to do this.”
”I think I have some idea!”
”From the very first time we met, I mean.” He f.u.c.ked me slowly now, savoring every inch as much as he savored being back in control. ”That very first night. Ten years earlier, I would have had you six ways before we got to your apartment, and then I never would have seen you again.”
”Then I'm glad it's now.”
”Me, too.” He tucked his hands under my b.u.t.t and levered me up to meet each slow thrust.
”So what would the six ways have been?”
”It's just an expression.”
”Nothing is just an expression with you, James.”
He chuckled. ”Very well. Let's see. Six ways. Well, your mouth, your p.u.s.s.y, your a.s.s, with both my fingers and my c.o.c.k, that would count as six. But let's not count my fingers. Let's count my c.o.c.k alone. I could have also f.u.c.ked you between your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, against your tailbone, and between your legs but not inside you. That would be six, too.”
A year ago I wouldn't have counted being f.u.c.ked between the legs as ”s.e.x,” but after what I'd been through in London, I definitely counted it now.
”Oh, and, Karina, in case I wasn't clear, one of the reasons I want to leave the music industry is that I take my promises seriously.”
”I know you do.” I reared up enough to kiss him.
”And one of the things that I love most about you is that you do, too.” He moved his hands now to press my palms flat against the pillow on either side of my head, his hips speeding up as I wrapped my legs around him at last. ”We worked long and hard to reach this point, to be able to join like this.” He punctuated his point with a sharp thrust. ”To deserve each other like this.”
I nodded, feeling like liquid pleasure was pouring out of his body into mine.
”So here's the promise I want to ask for, and that I want to give. Explicitly.” He paused, though, as the sensations washed over him, too, making him shudder.
”Is that why they call it explicit s.e.x?” I asked.
He half laughed, half growled and kissed me to shut me up. When he raised his head he went on. ”This is for us alone. My c.o.c.k, your p.u.s.s.y, exclusively.”
”Meaning you won't f.u.c.k Ferrara even though she owns you?”
”Yes!” He raised himself up a little. ”And you won't let anything enter you but this. Well, and other things that I put there.”
”I promise,” I breathed.
”I promise,” he answered, solemnly, and then began f.u.c.king me so hard the bed shook against the wall.
This time after we were done we took a quick shower and he told me more about Ferrara's efforts to micro-manage the Bride of the Blue production the last time they were in Las Vegas. James's sense of outrage thrummed through the small room.
”Seriously, who does she think she is? I'm the artist. It's my vision. What does she know?” He toweled his hair dry and then shook his head, leaving short black spikes going every which way.
”Well,” I said, merely to play devil's advocate. ”What does she know? I thought she was a talent scout?”
”I suppose.” He calmed down slightly. ”She used to dance and do some ch.o.r.eography before she married Huntington, so she thinks she knows that side of it. But her knowledge only gives her license to meddle.”
”Does she sing?” I wrapped a towel around myself.
”Thank goodness, no. But honestly. I got quite tired of her trying to tell the dancers or my ch.o.r.eographer what to do, and they eventually learned to do what she said while she was watching and then go back to doing it my way the second she was gone. No company needs that kind of stress.” He pulled on a bathrobe. ”For the farewell tour, thankfully, she stayed put, and I have a much better relations.h.i.+p with the dancers than she does. And the band? They won't even speak to her unless they're forced to.” The smile on his face as he thought about his bandmates was relaxed and genial.
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