We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (31 page)

Oh, I nodded politely as he told me about the budget overruns, and how today’s photo shoot was saving their bacon because they had no promotion money, but his gorgeous body paired with my freak-girl lust was stealing my attention. Was it the suit and tie? Fuck me. I couldn’t wait to get him back to my place, or even to his ridiculous Airstream trailer.

I was quite surprised when he led me into the log cabin, then to a small room, where he started kissing my neck like he meant business. We were in a room full of cameras, with a bed in one corner.

“What are you doing?” I moaned as his lips traveled up and down the side of my neck.

“Blocking out a scene.” He reached for my layers of tops and lifted them up. My hair was still in braids, but I’d changed back into the green lace top I’d arrived there in, what seemed like days earlier but was in fact only hours.

Down to just my bra on top, I shivered in the cool evening air. The room was lit by just one table lamp, next to the bed, and the house was eerily silent.

“You cold?” he asked. “I’ll warm you up.” He rubbed his palms together, the sound like fine sandpaper, then rubbed his hot palms up and down the outer edges of my arms.

With a nudge, I was backing up, stopping only when the backs of my legs touched the bed.

I whispered, “We can’t mess up the film set.”

“A bed can be re-made.” He reached for my jean shorts and deftly unfastened the button and zipper. The denim hit the floor, the sound resonating through the empty cabin. Dalton’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh-oh.”

I glanced over his shoulder, at all the cameras and equipment, staring at us with their dark eyes. All the power was off, but the devices were still menacing. Watchful.

“We could go to your trailer,” I said, my voice hopeful.

A shadow passed over his green eyes, already dark and mysterious in the low light of the room. “I can’t wait that long.”

“Mr. Impatient.”

“Undress me.” He stood absolutely still before me.

Okay.

I reached under the suit jacket, finding his heat trapped beneath the fine wool and silky lining. Slowly, I removed the jacket and lay it on the bed behind where I stood. The tie came off next, and I got flustered because of how he was staring at me. I lay the green tie on the bed next to the jacket.

Next, I unbuttoned his shirt, slowly revealing his perfect body. I pulled the fabric away and then draped it gently on the bed as well.

“Should I put your clothes somewhere other than the bed?” I asked.

“That’s fine.”

What did he mean? It was fine that we’d be rolling around on the clothes, or that we weren’t going to be using the bed, or what?

“Keep going,” he said.

Silently, obediently, I started unbuttoning his trousers.

“On your knees,” he said.

I thought about it for a moment, then got down on the wood floor, on my knees. His cock was already thick and hard for me as I eased down his trousers and boxers. A bead of dew awaited me on the tip.

Slowly, enjoying the torture of drawing it out, I draped the remaining clothes on the bed.

He didn’t say a word, and his mouth didn’t twitch with any expression.

I could smell the musky scent of his pubic hair, his smell intoxicating. He was rigid and pointing at my lips, the bead gleaming.

Leaning forward, I took him into my eager mouth, relishing the slightly bitter tang of his fluid, followed by the earthy, saltiness of his cock.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, and he buried his fingers in my hair as I took him deep in my mouth. He didn’t push my head, but encouraged me to bob faster, then slower.

He groaned as I sucked his gorgeous cock. I reached up with one hand to grasp the base with gentle pressure, then using my other hand to give feathery strokes to his balls. I could hear the lip-smacking sounds of my mouth on his flesh, and the noises only turned me on more.

He groaned and clutched his hands more tightly at the base of my skull.

“I’m going to come,” he said, which wasn’t news to me based on how pressurized and big his cock felt.

“Mmm,” I moaned, my mouth full of him.

He murmured, “Look at me.”

I tilted my head to the side to make eye contact, my lips still around his thick rod.

“I want you to touch your pussy for me,” he said. “Touch it the way you wish I was touching you.”

I didn’t have to think about that request for long. My hand practically dove down into my panties. I whimpered again as fingers slid easy into my silken crease, back and forth across my clit.

The flesh in my hand and mouth matched the heat between my legs, and soon everything was in motion.

Just as I began to release, the delicious waves of toe-curling pleasure pulsing through my arms and legs, he also began to pulse in my mouth. With a groan, he thrust against me, captive of his own sweet ending.

After I swallowed, he relaxed in my mouth, conforming to my shape, his balls now loose in their skin. I gave them a gentle tug, and he moaned again, then let out an embarrassed laugh.

I pulled him out and finished with a kiss, right on the winking little eye. I’d already pulled my hand out of my underwear. Resting back on my heels, I gazed up at him, waiting for what he’d say next.

Would he make a joke about not having to make the bed, after all? Would I say something about the cameras, and surprising footage they could have shot?

He tilted his head to the side, and simply said, “Your house?”

“Sure. My house. My roommate’s there, but she won’t mind if we make a little noise.”

He looked around, then gathered up his clothes and started getting dressed. I took his cue and gathered my clothes as well. My panties were so fucking wet, I felt like I had a wading pool between my legs. Damn him and his garden-watering powers.

Once I had my clothes back on, he grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss.

“I hope that wasn’t too weird,” he said, grinning at me. “I was watching you with that other guy, Charlie, during the photo shoot. I got all these feelings, like I wanted to fuck your face.” He looked away from me, as if embarrassed. “I don’t know why I say stuff like that to you. I think you bring out my inner porn star. I hope you’re not too disgusted.”

He was so tall, and my floral ballet flats weren’t helping me get up to where he was. I reached up with both hands to tilt his face so he was looking at my eyes.

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “I think everyone has a little porn star in them.”

“You’d make a great porn star.” He reached down and cupped my buttocks, pulling me closer in our embrace. “You already have a great name, and you could totally be a star, but don’t get any ideas, because you’re mine now, and I ain’t sharing.”

I wheezed with laughter over the idea of being a porn star. “Right. Like people would pay to see me bounce around.”

“They would! There’s a huge market for…” He trailed off and didn’t finish.

“BBW?”

“Hot, confident women,” he said.

“Let’s not pretend my body shape doesn’t put me into a certain category. A certain fetish. And one you seem to have, yourself, mister.”

“Honestly, Peaches, you’re my first…”

“Fatty?”

“I was going to say you’re my first
regular girl
, but now I’m worried even that’s going to come out sounding wrong.”

I shrugged. “You’re my first pretty boy.”

He grimaced. “That’s a little emasculating.”

“So ver-y pret-ty.”

He made an amused noise as he crossed past me to flick off the lamp, blinking the room into darkness.

His voice soft and disembodied in the blackness, he said, “How pretty am I now?”

“About as pretty as I am fat.”

“I don’t like that word,” he said, and we both knew he didn’t mean pretty.

“Dalton, tall people are tall. Short people are short. It is what it is. I’m okay with the word, because I’m okay with myself. But are you?”

“Some days I hate every single thing about myself.”

My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, and I could make out the whites of his eyes and the moon light from outside the window glinting off them.

Every fiber of my being wanted to make a joke to fill the awkward silence. To say something flip, and change the subject.

Instead, I asked, “Do you really hate yourself?”

After a pause, with our breathing as the only sound in the room, he said, “No, but it would explain a lot. I guess I’ve been working so hard, for so long, that I forget what it is I wanted in the first place.”

“I thought you were doing this indie movie because you wanted the challenge of a different acting role.”

“Sure, but to what end? Maybe get an award? So I can get bigger roles and work even harder?”

“Dude, I work in a bookstore. In the morning, I live for getting my mocha from Java Jones. And then in the afternoon, I live for locking up and going home to read or hang out with my friends, or maybe even less. The night before I met you, I was cat-sitting for one of my mother’s friends. My mother didn’t even ask if I was available before she pimped me out. It was just assumed I had nothing else going on Friday night. So, let me ask you this, Mr. Dalton Deangelo, famous actor, do you really think I, Peaches Monroe, responsible cat sitter, have all the answers?”

He drew me to him in the darkness, a warm body in a cool, dark room.

“You seem so happy,” he murmured.

“To you, sure. I’m happy whenever you’re around, you big, stupid monkey.”

He took in an audible breath. “That may be the greatest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Good.” I reached up on my tiptoes and kissed his lips in the dark. “Now take me back to my house and do some seriously nasty porn star stuff to me.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

He took my hand and led me out of the dark room, moving slowly so we didn’t trip over the many cables stretched across the pathway.

Outside the cabin, we made our way toward the car by the light of the moon. Along the way, Dalton popped into one of the trailers to “liberate” a bottle of champagne for us from craft services.

As predicted, Vern was napping in the car, sleeping like a kitten behind the tinted windows. It took a moment of us rapping on the windows to wake him up.

Dalton and I climbed into the back seat, and I snuggled next to him for the ride home.

It had been just over twenty-four hours since I’d seen those photos and awful comments, yet it felt like a distant memory. Being with Dalton made me feel like fame was our problem, shared, and not mine or his to worry about alone.

“Do you like champagne?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Isn’t it just sparkling wine?”

“Hah!” He popped open the bottle of champagne, the cork banging into the rounded ceiling and ricocheting into my forehead.

“I’ve been shot!” I joked, then I acted out a dramatic death.

“Oh no,” he said. “My girlfriend’s dead, and what’s worse, we don’t have any glasses to drink from.”

I sat up and swiped the champagne from his hand, raising it to drink from the bottle.

“You are one classy dame,” he said as I was drinking. This made me nearly spew champagne all over him, but luckily I fought the bubbly drink down.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I said, “I’ve never been a dame before, much less a classy one. I like it.”

“Cheers.” He tipped up the bottle and drank noisily.

“Who needs glasses, anyway,” I said.

He turned and gave me a sly look. The world beyond the car’s windows was black and cozy, and inside we were lit by pale blue interior lights, from an LED panel running along the ceiling. Dalton’s skin looked cool and blue, his eyes shining.

“You’ve got the perfect champagne glass,” he said, eyeballing my cleavage.

“Naughty boy.”

Another sexy look, his eyes shining.

“I want a taste of your sweet, sweet champagne,” he said, still eyeballing my cleavage like mad.

“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation? Come get some.”

He slid closer, then tipped up the bottle and poured champagne between my breasts, where it pooled in the small triangle next to my chest.

I squealed as the cold champagne trickled down between my breasts, to my stomach and the hem of my jean shorts. My champagne glass wasn’t water-tight, but did hold, somewhat.

“Better drink fast,” I said.

He grabbed my funbags with both hands and started lapping at my bubbling boob-crack.

I shook with giggles. “You sound exactly like Howie, this old wooly sheepdog we used to have.”

“Ruff, ruff.” More slurping.

The cold champagne and his hot mouth and tongue were not an unpleasant combination. The front of my tank top was now completely drenched in sweet booze, and the damp layers of fabric weighed down at the front, skimming below the edge of my bra.

He pulled back. “Your turn.”

I shook my head. “Oh, baby, you don’t even have one squishy bit, let alone two to squeeze together.” I pulled up his shirt and probed his shallow navel playfully with my finger. “This little valley wouldn’t hold much more than a teaspoon full, but I suppose we could try.”

We pulled his shirt up, and he lay back on the bench seat. I got on my knees on the dark carpet interior of the car, feeling wet and sticky from the waist up, and even more wet and slippery from the waist down. My P-town was ready for visitors.

Vern the driver continued to smoothly steer the car toward my house on Lurch Street, taking corners ever-so-slowly. I was pretty sure he knew we were up to hanky panky in the back seat, but I didn’t care. In fact, the whole having-a-driver situation was starting to feel almost normal to me. Good things are surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to.

Dalton’s smooth, muscular abdomen was certainly a good thing. I poured champagne into the valley of his navel, and then got to work slurping it out. Now it was my turn to sound like a wooly old sheepdog, between giggles.

After my third or fourth refill of the valley and subsequent lapping, I said, “Despite the inadequate size of this champagne glass, I think I may be drunk. Or drunk-ish.”

“I’m confiscating this,” he said, swiping the bottle from me and polishing off the remainder himself.