Read Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) Online
Authors: Logan Belle
Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) (4 page)
4
V
iolet was a visual person. She had seen a lot of beauty in her twenty-five years—not the least of which greeted her in the mirror every morning—and she was difficult to impress. And still, Ryan’s three-story, 3,200-square-foot penthouse suite at the Hotel on Rivington made her gasp.
iolet was a visual person. She had seen a lot of beauty in her twenty-five years—not the least of which greeted her in the mirror every morning—and she was difficult to impress. And still, Ryan’s three-story, 3,200-square-foot penthouse suite at the Hotel on Rivington made her gasp.
Floor to ceiling glass walls. A panoramic view of the city. The room was glass, dark wood, and steel. It was elegant, masculine, and very, very, hot.
Ryan opened the bar.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Champagne,” she said, without hesitation. She only drank champagne. In fact, she only drank carbonated beverages, period. Sometimes she even brushed her teeth with seltzer water. Another girl at the Blue Angel, Poppy, shared her affinity for bubbles. Poppy had gorgeous long legs, and Violet had hit on her one night, but apparently she was in a committed relationship with her hideous dyke girlfriend.
He pulled out a bottle of Krug.
“Cool,” he said. “I didn’t even know that was in there.”
He poured her a glass.
“Ready for the tour?” he said. Violet did want a tour—was dying to see the place. But she didn’t want to become any more impressed. She was losing too much power as it was. She gulped her Krug. It tasted amazing, and she wondered if it was very expensive.
“Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable and point me to the bathroom?” she said.
“The big one is upstairs, but come here for a sec. Check this out.”
Reluctantly, Violet let him steer her to the back of the loftlike first floor to the home theater, complete with a DVD library of what seemed to be hundreds of films.
“Holy shit,” she said. She loved movies. She used to collect DVDs but had realized it was a huge waste of money—so much more practical to collect sex toys. But this ... It was the most luxurious thing about the suite. More movies than she could sift through.
“Very cool,” she said, pulling out a selection from the “classics” row. “They have
The Blue Angel
.”
The Blue Angel
.”
“Who’s in that?” Ryan said, pulling it away from her, no doubt wondering if it was something his agent should have gotten him a part in.
“Marlene Dietrich,” she sniffed. “It’s the favorite film of the old lady who owns the Blue Angel. Her inspiration.”
“This is really old,” he said.
“I know. But it’s amazing. Really.” The film was German and from the 1930s, about a guy who falls in love with a beautiful cabaret performer named Lola Lola. He was a very rigid and in-control guy, but Lola Lola awakens this mad passion that ultimately destroys him. That was the thing about passion—it felt amazing but would kill you in the end.
She thought about her own Lola Lola, and that was the last thing she wanted.
“Where’s the bathroom?” she said.
He looked up from the DVD, as if suddenly remembering that he had a woman in his suite who had promised him an alternative to the Slit. He tossed the film onto a chair.
“You are insanely hot,” he said, moving closer to her with a smile. He slipped his hand under her top, running his thumb over her nipple. She didn’t feel especially turned on.
I’m hooking up with Ryan Ellison
, she told herself, trying to get some mental heat going.
, she told herself, trying to get some mental heat going.
They locked eyes, then he kissed her mouth. He kissed like a college boy, overeager and a little sloppy. She pushed his face down to her breasts, and he kissed them over her shirt, cupping them hard and pushing against her so she felt his stiff cock against her waist.
“The bathroom,” she repeated.
“What?”
“Where is the bathroom? The master one.”
Time to get down to business. She already had an idea about what her “performance” would be. It was something she had been planning for next week at the Angel, and she couldn’t do it twice in the same week. But tonight was clearly a better use of the particular creative expression she had in mind. Besides, it was probably something that would make Agnes completely furious.
“Upstairs.”
She took his hand and led him up the steel and glass stairwell in the center of the floor. Turning to her left, she saw the Empire State Building glowing green and purple, the rest of the city splayed beneath it like a tableau created solely for her personal viewing pleasure. She was tempted to stop right there, to fuck Ryan Ellison in front of all of Manhattan. But if there was one thing she knew, it was that it always, always paid to delay gratification.
But Ryan Ellison was clearly not with that program. His arm circled her waist, and he started unbuttoning her jeans. He stroked her over her panties, and she felt herself get wet. Thank God. If the hottest actor in Hollywood couldn’t get her going, she was in trouble.
Violet looked at the green glow of the building in the distance and wanted nothing more than to lean over the railing and let him put his movie star cock inside of her.
“Stop,” she said, pulling his hand away. He drew back, a questioning look on his face. She pulled off her boots and jeans, throwing her pants over the side of the stairs to the floor below. He looked at her standing in her tank top, thong, and combat boots. She knew what a great visual she was in that room, on those stairs, against that view. She knew what an amazing sight they would be together, fucking, hot on hot. It was a shame no one else would get to see it. For the first time, she understood the appeal of doing porn.
He knelt down and licked her pussy over her underwear.
“Follow me,” she said, leading him by the hand up to the mezzanine and planting him on a couch.
Violet walked through the spacious bedroom, all neutral colors with cherry wood floors and a sleigh bed with pristine white linens. She couldn’t wait to dirty them.
Next to the bed was an iPod in an iDock. She turned it on and scrolled through Kings of Leon, the Black Eyed Peas, and Duffy, wondering if she was getting a glimpse into Ryan’s musical taste or the whole thing was courtesy of a Rivington staffer. She clicked on Duffy.
She grabbed the ice bucket from the bar, then indulged herself in a peek into the walk-in closet. Ryan’s jeans and shirt were in a pile on the floor. Good—he didn’t mind a bit of a mess.
On to the bathroom.
“Holy shit.” The bathroom was an entirely other level of spectacle—all Italian mosaic Bisazza tile, with glass shower and walls, and, best of all, a two-person Japanese-style soaking tub. She was tempted to jump in for a soak, but decided against it. Ryan would probably come looking for her and join her, and that wasn’t the direction she had planned for the evening.
She looked through the Ren of London bath products, making a mental note to pocket a Moroccan Rose Otto Bath Oil before leaving. Then: down to business.
She picked through the basket of bath products and pulled out the High Glide Cooling Shave Cream and a washcloth. In the shower, she retrieved Ryan’s Gillette. Then she filled the ice bucket halfway with water.
She took off her tank top and and returned to the iPod to select her performance music. Nothing, nothing, nothing.... bingo: the song “Phone Call” by the Faint. She hoped the music was Ryan’s: guys who liked the Faint usually fucked well.
Maybe she’d finally break her losing streak and come.
She cranked the music loud enough to reach Ryan, grabbed the shaving cream, razor, and ice bucket, and made her way to the couch.
Mr. Movie Star was messing around with his BlackBerry, but promptly dropped it when Violet appeared with her bare breasts and her props.
Violet set the bucket of water, razor, washcloth, and shaving cream down on a beveled glass end table across from the couch.
Ryan was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Violet swayed her hips, circled around slowly, dancing as if she was the only one in the room. She felt Ryan’s eyes on her but ignored him. When she was ready, she eased her thong off and kicked it aside. She ran her hand over her light pubic hair, just an inch-wide “landing strip,” as if wondering how it got there. She glanced at Ryan, and she would have sworn he was already breathing heavily. She loved when the guys in the audience looked at her like that, like they could come just from the sight of her. It made her want to start fingering herself, not for his benefit, but because that blatant adoration was the best aphrodisiac, and she felt it most intensely at the beginning of a performance. Once she got too far into the zone, she tuned out and was almost numb. But to stop now would ruin the rhythm of the performance, so no, she wouldn’t let herself come. She was sure Bette Noir hadn’t lost her discipline when she scored that skanky musician. Now it was her chance to shine, and she wasn’t going to lose her game.
Violet turned her back to Ryan and retrieved the shaving cream with an exaggerated bend so he could get a full view of her ass.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re perfect,” he said.
That was it—she couldn’t resist. She had Ryan Ellison as a captive audience staring at her ass. When would she get an opportunity like this again? She hadn’t had a good orgasm in weeks. What would Bette do? Ah, fuck it.
Her back still to him, she set the shaving cream aside, propped one leg up on the table, and eased her index finger inside herself. She had barely gotten three strokes in when he came up behind her and put his own hand on top of hers.
“What are you doing? No, no, no,” she said, turning around and guiding him back to the couch. God, you’d expect more from an A-list movie star. But in the end he was just a guy, like every other guy. But it was her own fault—she was putting her pussy before professionalism. “Just watch.”
He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it and smiled at her. The last time she had seen that particular version of his smile it had been directed at Reese Witherspoon.
Yes, she would come tonight.
She retrieved the shaving cream and the razor, turned back to face Ryan, and lathered up her pussy. After one sharp stroke, she languidly reached over and dipped the lathery blade in the bucket of water. The key to this act was really taking her time, almost making the razor against flesh a dance in itself.
But she wouldn’t have that kind of time tonight, because Ryan was already off the couch again.
“What did I tell you?” she scolded, but she couldn’t help but smile. He took the razor from her hand and knelt down. She was about to say no, but decided to simply go with it.
Ryan pressed his left hand against her, making sure her skin was taut enough for him to slide the razor without nicking her. His movements were slow, cautious, but deliberate and confident. She closed her eyes, trying to allow herself to give up control, if only for a few minutes. It was impossible.
“Sit,” she said, taking the razor from him. He leaned back on his heels, and she resumed her methodical stroking of the razor against her pussy. He watched her with rapt attention. When she was bare, she reached back, dipped the washcloth into the water, and then handed it to him. He took it and, on his knees, reverently wiped the last specs of shaving cream away.
She sat down, setting her bare ass on the cool glass table. He pushed her legs apart and dipped his face to her pussy, licking her in strokes almost identical to those of the razor just moments earlier. She looked down at his shiny dark hair and let herself run her fingers through it. He was beautiful, no doubt. And she couldn’t wait to see his cock.
He pressed his tongue against her clit, and she groaned, arching back against the wall. She put one heel up on the table, opening herself to him more fully. If he stuck his finger in me now, I would come, she thought—but of course he would not know that about her. That was the trouble with sleeping with random men—they rarely knew the right buttons to push. With women, you had a better chance of them intuiting what to do right off the bat.
She thought of her Lola Lola, imagined her tongue inside of her. But no, not tonight. Ryan Ellison was lapping at her pussy, and she was not going to waste it.
She cupped her hand under his jaw, tilting his face up. He stood, and she ran her hand over his erection straining against his jeans. She liked what she felt. Ryan undid his fly and pulled his pants over his hips. She slipped her hand inside the flap of his plain white boxers, her fingers circling around his thick cock. He pulled the boxers down and smiled at her. She knelt, closed her eyes, and ran her tongue slowly along his cock from the base to the tip, then took the whole thing in her mouth. He was big, but then she remembered she might have read that about him somewhere. Nice to discover you
could
believe some things you read in the tabloids.
could
believe some things you read in the tabloids.
She took him out of her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Let’s go back downstairs.”
“You sure do like to move around a lot,” he said, but he helped her stand. He kissed her mouth, better this time, then her neck, his hands on her breasts then sliding down to squeeze her ass and pull her pelvis against his. The feel of him hard against her stomach made her pussy throb, and she knew she had to get him in place to fuck her properly.
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