“This is Alexander McQueen!” she scoffs.
“It’s ugly as day-old sin. Fuck the labels.”
Her eyes grow wide at first, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Then my words sink in, and pain creeps onto that porcelain canvas of sandy brown freckles. I don’t want to hurt her, but shit, the truth hurts. Life hurts. Hell, it hurts like a motherfucker.
Before she can protest, I’m touching her hair, pulling out the silver pins that secure it in a practical bun. Flames cascade down her back, spilling into her face and kissing her shoulders. I coil an auburn lock around my finger and inch my face closer to hers so only she can hear these words I shouldn’t say. These words that threaten to eat away at the once steel fortress of my logic.
“I think you’re sexy as fuck, Ally,” I whisper, my breath tempting the skin right below her ear. “You just don’t know it yet.”
Just as swiftly, my touch abandons her, and I’m hurriedly making my way to the lectern, away from her. Away from the temptation to rake my fingers through that fiery mane before fisting the hair at the nape of her neck—pulling her head back so she has no choice but to see me. But is that what I really want? For her to see who I really am? Or do I continue to spoon-feed her, and everyone else, the illusion that will provoke their own inner temptress?
I clear my throat, fidgeting with the lapel of my linen suit jacket. Allison is still standing, still looking at me with eyes wide and mouth agape. That was necessary. I had to tell her that. Who knows what spin the tabloids will put on her absence from the public eye?
Yes, yes, all part of my teaching methods.
I’m full of shit.
A hand goes up, saving me from the turmoil of my fucked up inner monologue. “Yes?”
The sound of my voice prompts Allison to take her seat, and I force my eyes to Maryanne Carrington, the portly, middle-aged woman from Day One who has proved to be the mother of the group. Probably because her husband likes to fuck girls young enough to be their daughter. “It’s evident that I’m no longer a spring chicken,” she says in her endearing southern drawl. “I’m not a size 2, and gravity has taken its toll. There’s only so much nippin’ and tuckin’ I can do without looking like a circus clown. How can I be tempting? What can I do to make my husband find me sexy again?”
“Mrs. Carrington, forgive me, but do you have tits?”
“Wha-what?” she stammers, clutching her chest with phantom palpitations.
“Tits? You have them, right?”
“Well…yes. Of course.” Her cheeks heat with crimson, and she lets out a nervous chuckle.
“And ass?”
“Why…yes.”
“Then you can be sexy. You aresexy. You just need to believe it enough to make your husband see it too.” I scan the tops of every coifed head, speaking to no one, yet needing everyone to hear me. “It’s not about being the skinniest, or having the biggest breasts, or the best ass. We don’t give a fuck about pumping your lips full of collagen or threading extensions in your hair. We just want you. We are simple creatures, ladies. Give us something that makes our mouths water. Strut around in that frilly lingerie and heels while you dust the furniture, pretending to be totally oblivious to our stares. Bend over to pick something up with the top buttons of your blouse undone so we get a peek of that cleavage. Wear your hair down so we can imagine the feel of it between our fingers, pulling it while you cry with passion.”
Almost as if it were rehearsed, my eyes meet Allison’s lively gaze. She thinks these words are for her. She probably thinks she’s somewhat special. But what she doesn’t see is the real reason I am so drawn to her…so tempted to taint her perfectly poised façade.
I pity her.
Just as she believes that I’m an outsider, a mere spectator to her world, she suffers the same fate. This life of glitz, glamour and garishness is not for her. She and I are cut from the same cloth—misfits among millionaires.
She may have the money and the status, but she’s faking it. She can’t even be honest with herself, and that is why, as much as she intrigues me, she disgusts me just the same.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I finish the class, shoulders tight with agitation, counting down the minutes, the seconds, until I can escape to the one place where I can be free. I’m already stripping off the restraints of Calvin Klein by the time I hit the front door. But I don’t change into my swim trunks or running shorts like I’ve done almost every evening. I head straight to the shower, setting the water to scalding temperatures even though it’s warm outside, the dry desert heat sucking the life out of my parched skin. The water burns, but I don’t register the pain. A different kind of heat consumes me right now, my body aching to extinguish the flame.
I take my cock into my slick, wet hand and squeeze, relieving some of the pressure. I feel it throb against my palm, urging me to put it out of its misery. Eyelids heavy and muscles taut, I stroke it slowly, grunting out a curse. That’s all I should give myself for being such a careless fucker, but I need this. I need to rid myself of this longing. I’m no better than those cheating bastards—I amthose cheating bastards—but at least my alternatives don’t hurt anybody. Stroking my dick doesn’t make Page Six. E! News won’t show clips of me coming inside my palm.
I grit my teeth as I tug my shit, chanting the fire out of me with deep groans. Eyes tight, I come so hard that my knees buckle, hot seed spilling into my hand before dribbling down the drain. Under the scorching spray of water, I stand panting, bracing myself against the marble-tiled wall. Even with my skin flush and pink from the water, I feel cold. I feel empty. I feel…alone.
Hours pass before I resurface, towel draped over my shoulder and dressed for my nightly swim. It’s quiet tonight. Still. Not even a breeze to keep me company under the opus of sparkling, luminescent stars.
I swim until exhaustion greets me and my lungs burn. My muscles ache and quiver until they feel like jelly. Yet, I prolong my torture, pushing my body past its limits. Past pain, and pleasure, and feeling, altogether.
She doesn’t come tonight.
Maybe she pities me too.
“THERE’S ONE THING that a man wants you to stroke more than his cock: his ego. Throw in the money and power, and you’ve got a Hulk-size ego that needs to be fed around the clock.”
I step around the lectern, a devious smirk playing on my lips. I’m better today. My head isn’t clouded with bullshit thoughts that I shouldn’t be thinking. My balls don’t ache every time my gaze touches her. And, after killing myself with running and swimming, my body is just sore enough to be a physical reminder of why I shouldn’t give two shits about her, or her perfectly flawed face, or the waterfall of silken red that’s draped down her back.
It’s not for me. None of it is.
Allison didn’t come here because she wants Justice Drake to fuck her. She came because she wants Evan Carr, her spineless fraud of a husband, to fuck her. She wants him to want her. She wants him to love her. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
“Feed the beast, ladies, and it’ll come to you every time it’s hungry. Make your man feel like he’s the biggest, baddest motherfucker on earth, inside and outside of the bedroom, and he’ll adore you.”
Lacey raises her hand and speaks up. “So what if he’s not? What if he’s an old, wrinkly has-been that can only last 5 minutes before blowing his load?”