Reunion Girls (14 page)

Joaquin pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Those brief seconds that his mouth left hers felt like an eternity. But he was back now, lips against lips, hands busy divesting her robe, pelvis grinding against her.

Every prudish inhibition disappeared. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

His fingers were working on his five-button fly.

She glanced down, instantly amazed. The stories didn't do him justice. It was superb. Like a monster, it sprang from the denim cage, straining and twitching in anticipation, veins pulsating.

Joaquin watched her take in the eighth wonder of the world.

The act of going down on a man had always repelled her to a degree. Sometimes she acquiesced, but never with much enthusiasm. Even with Dean Paul she preferred making love. Yet right now she was not only considering the act, she actually
wanted
to do it.

As if reading her thoughts, Joaquin placed his hands on her shoulders and gently guided Lara to her knees, where she promptly tugged his jeans down to his ankles, her lips parting of their own volition.

For a fraction of a second, she knelt, statue-still, feeling the delicious sensation as he played with her hair, sensing the silky tendrils move between his fingers. His hands were on the back of her head now, pushing forward.

Lara needed no more prompting than that. Her mouth locked itself around him, and greedily, she feasted on the flesh, the sensation shooting erogenous pulses throughout her body.

It was shameful. It was delicious. And it was the last time she intended to see Joaquin Cruz. She would give him the chance to live up to his bold assertions. Just this one time . . .

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

How sacred are
your
previous relationships? Would you reveal everything and more about past intimacies to the highest bidder? A very glam shutterbug for the society set is doing just that. And the auction is expected to hit the sky. Why? Because her ex is a just-married famous name whose every move becomes the stuff of headlines. She even has naughty personal photos to ratchet up the offers from panting publishers. Some girls have all the luck.

Babe

ONCE UPON A TIME IT had been the Mercantile Exchange. Now it was Chanterelle, a refined French restaurant in the heart of TriBeCa on Harrison Street.

Babe stepped into the elegant space with the soaring ceilings. She noticed the spider-like brass chandeliers, the warm wood columns, and the Chippendale chairs. It was more private party in an exquisite house than public eatery. A pretty hostess made a religiously dedicated effort to guide her to the table.

Linda Lala sat there waiting with raven hair, blood red lips, a porcelain complexion, and a welcoming smile. "You made it. I was beginning to worry."

Babe checked her watch. She was almost twenty minutes late. Probably because her decision to show up had been finalized at the last possible moment. "I'm sorry." She felt a flush of heat and used the menu to fan herself, wondering if it was just her.

"It's too warm in here," Linda announced. She complained to a waiter.

He passed this on to a fastidious-looking woman. Then another server joined the fray. When a fourth person entered the mix, there was a hushed mini-conference about the temperature.

Linda laughed at the display. “Who knew it took four to adjust the thermostat."

Babe smiled as she kept a possessive hand on the archival photo box.

Linda gave it a covetous glance. "I see you brought the pictures."

Babe nodded noncommittally.

"May I have a look?" Linda asked.

Babe hesitated. "I'm still not sure about this." But she slid the box to the other side of the table anyway.

Linda began sifting through the images. "I placed a few calls after we talked. There's already a great deal of interest." She stopped and looked at Babe. "These are incredible shots. Better than I imagined. Please tell me you have a signed model release."

"Back in college, a department store in Providence used one of my images for a newspaper ad. Dean Paul was one of the models, and he signed a general release. The language is very broad. It covers all of my images of him. Not the most ethical approach, but it's lawsuit-proof."

"That settles the legal obstacle. What about your personal one?"

Babe paused to drink down a few sips of water. She flagged the waiter and ordered a glass of wine identical to Linda's. "If I do this book, it's going to cost me a few relationships."

Linda returned a diffident shrug. "How important are they?"

Babe was silent.

"You're not doing anything wrong." Linda closed the box and tapped the cover with her knuckle. "These are your pictures. And they're not cheap and pornographic and meant to embarrass. They're artistic and erotic. Dean Paul looks like an Adonis, and that's all anybody will be talking about. Trust me, a man like that won't stay angry long."

"A man like what?" Babe asked. The wine arrived. She was grateful.

"Come on, Babe. Dean Paul's an exhibitionist. He exploits himself. Why shouldn't you get in on the act? There's nothing damaging here. So he posed for some sexy pictures. It will only deepen the mass love of the women and gay men already fawning over him. Are you afraid it will hurt his career?" She didn't wait for an answer. "The brass at
Hollywood Live
better hope they locked him into a long-term deal, because when this book comes out, his price will skyrocket."

Babe could sense her reluctance fading.

Linda Lala was a savvy literary agent and the obvious conduit between Babe, the Dean Paul photographs, and megabucks. A former colleague at
212
had passed along her name. Paige Sheridan was now swimming in cash thanks to Linda's aggressive and enterprising negotiation of
The Class Reunion Diet.
The book had mushroomed into a merchandising phenomenon—calendars, journals, meal-replacement bars and shakes, even a reality show on cable.

Babe stared at the wispy calligraphy on the menu, but found it hard to concentrate.

"The pictures are enough for a good deal, but there's a way to juice it up to guarantee a bigger advance," Linda said.

Babe's eyebrows perked to attention.

Linda leaned forward to make her pitch. "The accompanying text should be as intimate as the pictures. Dean Paul is a fantasy icon. The people who buy this book will want to know what it's like to date him. How he smells, how he makes love, what his secret personality traits are—everything an ex-girlfriend would know. You're obviously a talented photographer. Can you write?"

"I graduated from Brown."

"So? I had a client once who finished at Penn State. She didn't know the difference between 'there' and 'their' or what the hell to do with an apostrophe. Her favorite word was 'amazing.' She used it a million times. I had to bring in a ghostwriter."

"I can write," Babe assured her. "And I promise to go easy on the number of 'amazings.'"

Linda smiled. "I thank you in advance for that." She scanned the menu. "How soon can you write a sample chapter?"

Babe drank the rest of her wine and instantly wanted more. "Not too long. I kept a journal during that time, and I still have it."

Linda looked up. "The photographs are so personal. You really feel like you're seeing him through the eyes of a lover. Maybe that's the way to approach the text. Instead of chapters, you could present your memories as expanded journal entries."

A goateed waiter in a crisp, white oxford appeared to present a taste sample of one of the chef's new creations—lobster mousse.

Babe fell silent until he disappeared. Then she regarded Linda. "How important is the journal text? I'm not sure if reliving the past that way is the best thing. It was a complicated time. There are other people's lives to consider."

Linda stared at her for a moment, unflinching. "The low-ball price for this book will be one million dollars."

Babe experienced an adrenaline rush. All her reservations faded into oblivion. She had lived without Lara and Gabrielle since college. She could live without them again. And as for Dean Paul, it was high time she got paid for that broken heart. "Give me a week to write the sample."

Linda Lala smiled.

Babe turned her attention to the menu, ordering the striped bass with red butter and fresh sage, and indulging in a sinful dessert—molten chocolate walnut cake.

The meal was delicious. The wine flowed. And the celebratory toast echoed in her brain.
To becoming a millionaire . . .

An hour later she was back at her apartment, organizing voice messages and e-mails that detailed her gauntlet for the night. There was a club opening, a ribbon-cutting for a new designer's boutique, the premiere of a Sundance-winning film, and a book launch for a former secretary of state who called himself a novelist now.

Shit. Tonight's agenda was really going to be a bitch. She couldn't wait to leave this rat race. And if Linda Lala got a good enough offer, Babe could do it. Oh, yes. She would leave
212
before the ink dried on the publishing contract.

Three fast knocks startled her. Peering through the peephole, she saw a sweaty Jake standing there in his boxing workout gear. She unhooked the security chain and opened the door. "What are you doing here?"

He pushed himself inside and flattened her against the wall with a bruising kiss, his breathing labored. "I just had a sparring match with a super middleweight. The guy's a pro, but I kicked his ass. What a rush. I felt ten feet tall. It made me so horny. All I could think about on the way over here was your hot little body.” Jake grinded into her, his mouth traveling down her neck, his hands kneading her breasts.

Even as she felt herself beginning to respond, Babe tried to push him away. "Jake, stop. You're sweaty and gross. And I've got work to do."

He silenced her with another kiss, angling his pelvis upward. "Come on, Babe. Be a sport. You feel how hard I am. I need it so bad it hurts."

Babe thought about the mystery bra from Jake's apartment. She twisted away from him and snatched it from her bag, then threw it down to the floor as evidence. "Go see whoever this belongs to. Maybe she'll help you out."

Jake didn't pretend to be ignorant about it. "She lives in Brooklyn. Too far for a quickie. That's why I came here."

"Get out."

“What? Are we an exclusive item now? Because I didn't get the memo."

"You can't just show up at my door without notice and expect me to take off my clothes.
 
This isn’t Cinemax."

"Why not?" Jake demanded. "It's hot. From what I hear, a lot of men aren't that interested in sex anymore. I know women who would love for a guy to be spontaneous like this. Your typical man can barely get it up. I'm like a college dude on spring break seven days a week. You don't know how lucky you have it."

Babe laughed in his face. "This is luck? You barging in smelling like a locker room and reciting porn dialogue?"

"This is bullshit."

Babe splayed out her hands. "Finally! Something we can both agree on." She rolled her eyes. "Next time, call first."

"I tried your cell three times."

Babe pointed at the bra. “Maybe you should’ve called her.”

He shrugged.
 
“She's just a girl. A college intern. I've banged her a few times. It's nothing."

"What a relief." Babe could smell him now, and she had to admit that he really didn't stink. There was an intoxicating salty musk emanating from his sweat-soaked body.

Jake leaned in and flickered his tongue across her earlobe.

Babe shivered.

"We always have the best sex when we fight," he whispered. "That's why we never break up."

"You know what they say. There's a first time for everything."

He sank down to his knees and gazed up. "Do you want me to leave, or do you want me to stay and eat you all the way to heaven?" His fingers started on the buttons of her pants.

This time she didn't stop him.

They never made it to the bed. He took her right there on the hard floor. All the rumors from college were true. Jake James was a champ at cunnilingus, his tongue thick, strong, and probing, every flick and whorl leaving her paralyzed.

Babe just closed her eyes and lay there, a willing, pliant vessel, the world light-years away. When he slid up his middle finger to work in concert with his mouth, she let out a soft mewl of breathless appreciation.

Jake handled her with such authority. He knew the machinery like a prized mechanic. Every move he made was the right one, sending a thrumming sweetness throughout her body. She loved him for it. She hated him for it, too.

Ultimately, they ended up in her bedroom for the final act. Like always, Babe clung to him in a jailer's grip, amazed at the steady voltage of Jake's energy. He hammered into her with steadily increasing amperage just as the chant began.

"Go Jake! Go Jake! Oh, yeah!" And with an arch of his back, a cry of release, and a convulsive body shudder, he collapsed on top of her, an inert tangle of muscled limbs.

Babe could almost hear their mutual hearts pounding against each other. It should feel so much better than this.

“Damn. That was great." Jake rolled off her and sighed, perfectly content. He placed a hand on the inside of her thigh. "Aren't you glad I didn't go to Brooklyn?"

"Thrilled." Babe jumped out of bed and took the top sheet with her to cover her body. The postcoital feelings were typical. Physically satisfied. Emotionally empty. Borderline shameful. Something had to give.

"I thought we could go out for dinner after I finish the show tonight," Jake said. "My producer loves Town. It's in the Chambers Hotel. We've never tried it. What do you think?"

"I've got four events to shoot tonight."

"Don't say I never try."

Babe looked at him, noticing the body-length sweat stain that had formed on the fitted sheet. When she went to sleep at three in the morning, his scent would still be all over the bed. "A lame dinner invitation passes for effort now?"