Page 11 of Fallen Angel

They lock eyes, and he kisses her like a college boy, overly eager and a little sloppy. He moves down to kiss her breasts over her shirt, cupping them hard and pushing against her so she feels his stiff cock against her waist.

“The bathroom,” she repeats.

“What?”

“Where is the bathroom?”

Time to get down to business. She already has an idea about what her “performance” will be. It’s something she’d been considering for the Angel but realizes it’s too avant-garde for Agnes. The woman may be a legend, but she’s a creative coward. Or maybe, like all old people, she’s just stuck in the past. A problem Violet doesn’t have. She never looks back—only forward.

“Upstairs.”

She takes Jarod by the hand and leads him up the central steel-and-glass stairwell. Out the window the Empire State Building glows green and purple, the rest of the city splayed beneath it like a tableau created solely for her personal viewing pleasure. She’s tempted to stop right there, to fuck Jarod Marks in front of all of Manhattan. But she’s a pro, and as a pro she knows that the key to a memorable experience is delayed gratification.

Jarod is clearly not with that program. He stops ascending the stairs and puts an arm around her waist, pulling her close and unbuttoning her jeans. He strokes her over her panties, and she feels herself get wet. Thank god. If the hottest actor in Hollywood can’t get her going, she’s in trouble.

Violet admires the glow of the lights in the distance and wants nothing more than to lean over the railing and let him put his movie star cock inside her.

“Stop,” she says, pulling his hand away. He draws back, a questioning look on his face. She slowly, teasingly removes her jeans, then tosses them over the side of the stairs to the floor below. She stands there wearing just her black top, thong, and combat boots—highly aware of what a great visual she is in that space, on those stairs, against that view. She knows what an amazing sight they will be together, fucking, hot on hot. It’s a shame no one else will get to see it. Sometimes, she understands the appeal of doing porn.

Jarod kneels down and licks her pussy over her underwear. She puts one finger under his chin.

“Not yet,” she says, then takes him by the hand and leads him up to the third floor, where she finds another living room. “Wait here.”

Violet makes her way down the hall to the bedroom. It’s sleek and spacious, all neutral colors with cherry wood floors and a sleigh bed with pristine white linens. She can’t wait to dirty them.

She finds a stocked wet bar, grabs the black ice bucket, then indulges in a peek into the walk-in closet, where Jarod’s clothes are in a pile on the floor. Good—he doesn’t mind a bit of a mess.

On to the bathroom, an entirely next level of spectacle—all Italian mosaic Bisazza tile, glass shower and walls, and, best of all, a Japanese-style soaking tub.

She looks through the bath products (REN of London), pocketing a Moroccan Rose Otto bath oil. Then she finds what she needs for the evening activity: High Glide Cooling shave cream. In the shower, she finds a Gillette razor.

She fills the ice bucket with water.

Violet strips off her shirt and bra, leaving just her thong and boots, and scrolls through her phone for some music. She decides on the song “Phone Call” by The Faint. She hopes Jarod is familiar with it: guys who like The Faint usually fuck well.

Maybe she’ll finally break her sexual-satisfaction dry spell and actually come.

She cranks the music loud enough to reach the common area where Jarod is waiting; grabs the shaving cream, razor, and ice bucket; and makes her way back to him.

Mr. Movie Star is sitting on the couch messing around with his phone, but promptly puts it aside when Violet appears, bare-breasted and holding her supplies.

Violet sets the bucket of water and the shaving cream down on a beveled glass end table across from the couch.

Jarod, meanwhile, is smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Violet begins to sway her hips, circling the couch, dancing as if she’s the only one in the room. She feels Jarod’s eyes on her but ignores him. After a minute, she stands in front of him, easing off her thong off and tossing it aside. She runs her hand over her slight patch of pubic hair, just an inch-wide landing strip, as if wondering how it got there. She glances at Jarod, who’s already breathing heavy. She loves when the guys in the audience look at her like that, like they could come just from the sight of her. It makes her want to start fingering herself, not for his benefit, but because blatant adoration is the best aphrodisiac. She can really only appreciate it at the beginning of a performance; once she gets too far into the zone, she tunes out and feels almost numb. But to stop now would ruin the rhythm of the performance, so no, she won’t indulge herself. Tonight is work, not play.

She turns her back to him and bends over to retrieve the shaving cream, giving him a full view of her ass.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re perfect,” he says.

Her back still to him, she sets the shaving cream aside, props one leg up on the coffee table, and eases her index finger inside herself. She barely gets three strokes in when he comes up behind her and puts his own hand on top of hers.

“What are you doing? No, no, no,” she says, turning around and guiding him back to the couch. God, you’d expect more from an A-list movie star. But in the end, Jarod Marks is just a guy—like every other guy. They are simple creatures.

“Just watch,” she tells him.

He opens his mouth to protest but, thinking better of it, simply smiles at her. The last time she saw him smile like that it was directed at Emma Stone on the big screen.