Naked Angel (18 page)

Gemma nodded.

“So let’s get down to business.”

The woman’s legs were spread and strapped down. Gemma took the dildo and stepped closer to the table. Slowly, she inserted the dildo into the woman’s vagina. She was surprised by how easily it slid in, but she pressed forward slowly. Unsure what to do, she withdrew it, and then pressed it in again, more quickly this time. The woman moaned.

More confident, Gemma maneuvered it deeper, then out, then back inside. The woman yelled out unintelligible things. To her shock, Gemma felt her own pussy grow wet.

And then she felt Violet unzipping her dress.

Her silver Brigitte Bardot dress fell to the floor, but Gemma did not break stride with the dildo. By now, the woman on the table was bucking against the restraints and begging Gemma to do it harder. Gemma complied, trying not to lose focus just because she was now wearing only her thong and heels.

From behind her, Violet cupped her breasts. A ripple of pleasure shot through Gemma unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She pressed herself back against Violet and felt the leather against her bare skin. Violet pulled down her thong and pressed two fingers into her pussy. Gemma bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. The vibrations of pleasure in her pelvis were shocking and caused her to lose control. She tried to focus on keeping the dildo moving in the redhead, because the woman was crying out now in the throes of her own orgasm. Finally, Gemma couldn’t hold off any longer. She withdrew the dildo, then grabbed onto the edge of the table with both hands, grinding her pussy against Violet’s hand. It was impossible to stay silent, and she hardly recognized the animalistic sounds emanating from her throat as she was overtaken by the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had.

With one last shudder, the sensation eased. Violet withdrew her fingers. Gemma felt wobbly on her feet and was breathless.

“Congratulations, Mistress London. You’ve got yourself a job.”

B
y one in the morning, Martha’s birthday party had broken up into small groups and couples. The revelry had spread from the first floor up to the rooftop pool, which was now filled with half-naked and drunken partiers.

Nadia sat with her legs in the pool, her high-heeled shoes in her lap. Beside her, an actor she recognized from a popular sitcom was arduously trying to get into her pants. She’d always thought he was attractive on TV—but in person, not so much.

“So who was that dude who ran up onstage?” the actor said. She would have to look him up on the Internet when she got home to learn his name. He’d never introduced himself, operating under the assumption that she already knew who he was.

“Oh, just this guy I’ve been seeing,” Natalie said, uncomfortably.

“What a dick,” said the actor.

“It’s not. . . . He just has issues with, you know, the idea of my taking my clothes off for a living.”

“Personally, I think more women should take their clothes off in public,” he said. “Speaking of that—isn’t it time for us to take a swim?”

“I have to get going,” Nadia said, standing up. She felt wobbly and thought, for a terrifying second, that she was going to lose her balance and end up in the pool after all. The actor reached and grabbed her arm.

“Where are you running off to? The party’s just getting started.”

“Not for me,” she said. In fact, the party had ended for her the minute Max got thrown out by security.

What had he been thinking? And why hadn’t he told her he was going to be at the party? She was dying to ask him these things, but had ignored his texts and calls since his involuntary exit.

Nadia knew she should say good-bye to Justin or Martha on her way out, but she didn’t want to spend a half hour wandering around trying to find them. She hadn’t even seen Mallory, Alec, Poppy, or Bette in at least an hour. She told herself she should just go home. And yet she knew she wouldn’t.

Outside, drunken tourists were taking photos of the dramatic front gate of Justin’s building.

“Hey, gorgeous, get in the picture,” one of them called to her. She ignored him and walked down the street, her feet hurting in her heels, looking for a cab.

She didn’t know which made her more furious—the fact that Max had ruined her performance or that he’d deprived her of the chance to see if she had the nerve to go through with the striptease. But she did know that she’d never be able to sleep that night until she found out what had possessed him to do it. She also wanted to tell him how pissed off she was.

She dialed his cell phone, and he answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” she said.

“Took you long enough to call me back.”

“Long enough? You’re lucky I’m calling you back at all after that little stunt you pulled. What the hell was that?”

“I think we should discuss this in person,” he said calmly.

“Where are you?”

“At the studio,” he said.

“It’s one in the morning. What are you doing there?”

“I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I spoke to you so I’m working. Meet me here.”

“I’m not meeting you there at this hour.”

“It’s on your way uptown. Just stop here so we can talk. Then I’ll put you in a cab home.”

She wanted to have the satisfaction of saying no, of saying “go to hell, I don’t want to see you anymore.” But the desire to see him and understand what he’d done was too strong.

In the distance, she saw a cab with its light on. She held out her hand.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Max met her out front. He paid for her cab and held the door for her. He wore jeans and a Ballet Arts T-shirt, and she could tell from the flush in his cheeks that he had been dancing rigorously. It was the way she used to deal with stress, too.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said. She said nothing, trying to ignore the immediate and almost overwhelming attraction she felt for him. She told herself it was just his post-workout pheromones playing on her senses. She attempted to put some physical distance between them as they walked past the twenty-four-hour security guard and made their way to the dark and quiet elevator banks.

The architectural elements of the building made it charming during the day but eerie at night. Max pushed the button for the second floor.

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “This needs to be a quick conversation.” The doors slid open, and she followed him to the one brightly lit studio. Inside, Ravel’s “Boléro” played over the sound system. The French composer was one of her favorites, but she said nothing. For one thing, she might have told Max already. There was already a breadth to their relationship that made her lose track of things they had or had not discussed. She felt as if she’d known him far longer than she actually had.

Max turned down the music and sat on a wooden bench in the back of the room next to the piano. She sat on the bench, as far from him as she could without falling off.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said, surprising her.

“You are?”

“Of course. I didn’t plan to do that. But I care about you, and seeing you put yourself in that situation had a very intense effect on me.”

“Max, I enjoy what I’m doing. At least, I’m trying to. And your attitude toward it is just so . . . judgmental, and reactive, and frankly, not something I can live with.”

He looked at her with a smoldering intensity in his dark eyes that made it impossible for her to maintain eye contact. She glanced at their mirror image across the room. With their dark hair and long limbs and height, they looked like they belonged together. And when they made love, it certainly felt like they did. But with Jackson, she had learned the hard way that if you compromise in the beginning of a relationship on things that are fundamentally wrong, those differences will come back to hurt you in the end. Badly.

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said. “Because I’m starting to care about you too much to ignore my feelings on this issue.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I guess we should stop seeing each other.”

His words almost knocked the wind out of her, and she was surprised by the intensity of her reaction. It was Jackson all over again, water in her lungs, the ground shifting beneath her feet.

“That’s bullshit,” Nadia said. “Don’t use what I do as an excuse. I know all about you and your track record with women. You should have just told me you wanted a one-night stand in the beginning. I would have been fine with it. But to pretend like you care, and then blame me for our not being able to continue seeing each other . . .”

“If you care about me, then why can’t you at least consider doing something other than burlesque? You haven’t been doing it that long—Jesus, you haven’t even completed a performance. . ..”

“Thanks to you! I felt good up there tonight. The only thing stopping me was you.”

“It was an impulse to jump up onstage. I told you I’m sorry about it. But that’s how strongly I feel about not seeing you make such a mistake. And the reason I went to the party without telling you was that I was curious to see if you were going to go through with it. I
thought
I didn’t want your decision tainted by me. I
thought
I wanted to see the truth of who you were in that moment. And then, I was the one who couldn’t stand the truth.”

“Why are you so against this? It has nothing to do with you. Why can’t you just be more open-minded? You barely know me. There’s more to my life than burlesque, but burlesque is the thing that has helped me the most since my injury.”

“I understand that it has served a purpose up to this point. Now I’m asking you to find the strength to let go of that crutch and get back to your real life.”

“You have no right to ask me to make those kinds of decisions. We barely know each other.”

He reached out for her hand, holding it for a moment before letting her go.

“And I guess we never will.”

A
t 7 a.m., Billy Barton had already completed his hour workout and was dressed in a Paul Smith shirt and pair of slacks. As he did at the start of every workday, he flipped through the
New York Post
, scanning Page Six. Though the gossip column had lost some luster since the days when editor Richard Johnson was at the helm, it was still part of Billy’s breakfast ritual, along with his Green Mountain coffee and an Acai smoothie.

“Listen to this headline,” he said to Tyler, who sat across the glass table picking at his egg white omelet. “ ‘Ballet Lothario Steals the Show at Burlesque Birthday Bash.’ It’s all about how a guest at Justin Baxter’s party jumped onstage during a burlesque show and dragged his girlfriend off. And the guy is the head of Ballet Arts! I would have had a photographer there covering the party for
Gruff
if I wasn’t on the outs with the Baxters over the Blue Angel. Of all the things that infuriate me about this situation, it’s not the money that bothers me most—it’s losing my connections.”

“It’s just one party,” said Tyler.

Billy was about to debate this, but stopped mid-sentence when he took a good look at the man across the table. His boyfriend’s beauty never ceased to move him. He took a deep breath and said, “If you weren’t so gorgeous, I’d be annoyed with you for trivializing this.”

“Look, babe—we go to parties most people don’t even know to dream about going to. We’re out every night.”

“True. Maybe it’s not this particular party so much as the fact that I really miss Justin. He’s a genuine character, and there aren’t many of those left in New York. And Alec Martin was a damn good writer for me. He has a better understanding of subcultures than anyone since . . . well, me. I know we have tons of A-list friends. And celebrities are great. I’m the biggest star-fucker. But when you lose friends who really speak your language—that’s a tough hit to take.”

“I don’t understand why they can’t be friends with you just because you own a rival club. It’s so high school.”

Billy shrugged. “It’s the secretive way the whole thing went down—which I never would have done if Violet hadn’t forced my hand. And she e-mailed me this morning that I have to meet her at the club tonight with a check for some costume designer we don’t need. . . . I’m telling you, Tyler—I’m this close to telling her I’m done.”