Madison

Do other people wake up to a wall of text messages?

>U OK, gurl?—Johnson

There's a tiny gap in the blackout curtains that throws a tiny stripe of light over the bed. Noah looks closer to my age when he's deep asleep, all the thinking smoothed out of his face and just the sweetness left behind. I don't want to wake him, but I can't help leaning in close enough to flutter my eyelashes against the side of his cheek.

The lightest of light kisses.

Yeah, I'm all right. So much more than all right. My heart throbs.

We shared something special, Noah and I, something too special to be shared in a text. I settle for shipping back a random reply about how I'm fine and we'll talk later.

There are no messages from Mom. Big fucking surprise there.

Mostly it's texts from the other members of Club Sugar Daddy.

>The club's going to Peppersalt tonight. Mandatory meetup.

>Dude, Ashlee's picked up a real prospect. We gotta talk.

>Maddy, your boyfriend gonna get us in the club, right?

Emily means Johnson. They all call him my boyfriend. Club Sugar Daddy humor. I guess you have to be there to figure out what's so fucking hilarious about it.

I send back the shortest replies I can reasonably get away with and put away the phone. When I look back at the bed, Noah's eyes have slitted open like that tiny stripe of light is something painful. “Time is it, beautiful?”

“Around two.”

“Come back to bed.” He opens his arms.

He's got a thin tangle of sheets around his lower body, the soft fabric the only thing that separates us. I feel every notch and twitch of the blood in his swollen cock. It presses through the fabric, presses into my belly. We're clasped together like that, me stacked on top of him, and it feels so lazy and delicious.

“If I'm dreaming, I don't want to ever wake up,” he says.

“Mmmm.” My hips begin to dance and dip. It's fun to slide down the sheet between us without using my hands.

After a minute, his hard cock pops free, and I feel the ungiving stainless steel of the Prince Albert firm against my belly. My bare legs grasp the muscular column of his upper thigh, and I rub my pussy up and down a few times to savor the tickle of the thick fur on those strong, hurry legs. So sexy. My hands run over the ridges of his well-trained torso.

“Definitely still dreaming,” he says.

“Me too,” I say.

The long muscles inside of my pussy are squirming in a most delicious fashion. I'm a little tender from last night's fucking, but it's a delicious kind of tender that leaves me moist and aching and desperate for even more. I want to be bruised. I want to be marked. I want to be his.

Instead, I prolong the tease by scooting down further so I can wrap my mouth around the proud stalk of his good-morning woody. Those big hands of his grasp the satiny-smooth globes of my ass and suddenly I find myself getting turned around on top of him. Now we're in the sixty-nine position, and his tongue is thrusting back into its favorite place. His piercing is hard but it isn't cold. Being in constant contact with his smokin' hot dick guarantees that much. I tease it a little with my tongue before I suck him to the back of my throat.

“The taste of you.” His breath tickles into my pussy with every syllable. “Dear sweet fuck, the taste of you.”

Working together, timing things so we'll come together, probably takes a little longer, but it's sweeter. Not to mention the fact that the resulting shared climax is a thousand times more powerful. I never, ever want to hurry.

Not with Noah. Never with Noah.

And so we laze around in bed, as if we had all the time in the world to be alone together. It must be hours before we collapse into sleep again. There's a vague memory of room service, a pot of coffee that goes ignored, pomegranate and orange juice, salmon and caviar.

“High protein.” He uses a silver fork to wrap a long thin slice of salmon around a dab of black caviar. “Breakfast of champions.”

When he extends the fork, I take a cautious bite. I've never had caviar before, and I don't think I especially like salmon, but there's something interesting about this.

“Tasty, but you taste better.” We both say it at the same time, and then we both say, “Jinx.”

And then we laugh, and then we're back in the bed, and then we're all tumbled up together asleep.

It isn't a phone that wakes me next time. It's Nailgun. He's barefoot on the carpet, but it's still a little scary that a big man can enter a locked hotel suite so silently. Especially when the entire floor was supposed to be private, just for me and Noah.

He doesn't say anything. He just touches my bare shoulder and holds up a kimono that can double as a dress. I'm sliding into it almost before I know what's happening.

I start to say something, and he puts a finger over my mouth. The star needs his rest.

Of course. Of fucking course.

Nailgun looks around for my purse and finds it. Looks around for my clothes from last night and finds them too.

Stuffs everything into a bag. A knockoff of the fifty-three thousand dollar bag. More like fifty-three dollars. I've thought about buying it for myself before but I didn't. Figured if I, an eighteen-year-old virgin, could tell it was a cheap knockoff, anybody could.

Virgin no more.

And I'm not so blinded by good fucking that I can't see what's happening here.

Noah has a routine, and this is part of the routine. The pickup, the seduction, the fuck, and then the leaving.

How many of those cheap knockoff bags does Nailgun buy over the course of a tour for the packing up of last night's girl's last night's clothes?

Fuck this shit.

Suddenly, I'm disgusted with my life. Disgusted with everybody and everything. This was one night like a million others in the life of a rock star. Everything to the fan, and nothing to the star.

At least, I've got one good lasting thing out of this night.

I'm no longer a fucking virgin. I know the score. Time to pull on my big girl panties and get the fuck out of here.

And, yes, there's a fresh pair of panties all plastic-wrapped so I know they've never been worn before. Three of them to the package, in my choice of blue, pink, or yellow nylon. I slide into the pink one and find my shoes, but the kind of shoes that go with standing in line for a concert don't look so good with a satiny morning-after kimono.

That's OK, that's all right. Noah's people have an answer for that one too. Nailgun holds up a shoebox.

I glide into a brand new pair of baby blue strappy sandals that are almost (but not quite) my size. Grab hold of the baby blue knockoff bag.

The hallway. The elevator. The lobby.

Sandals or no sandals, I'm practically running now in my haste to get away. Downstairs, in the lobby, Nailgun touches me on the arm. “The driver will take you wherever you want to go.”

“I'll take the fucking bus.” Not that I will. I say it just to say it and give me a chance to walk away and down the strip and over a skywalk. I say it because if I walk, I can fast-walk, and if I fast-walk, it's almost the same as running, and if I'm running I don't have to think.

But you can't run away from feeling used, and eventually I have no choice but to slow down and take out my phone to text Johnson.

>Hey, can you come pick me up in front...

I look around for a minute to orient myself. To figure out which of a dozen resorts I'm standing in front of. He must have been dying of curiosity. Must have been listening for my ping. Because he texts back right away.

>Sure, gurl. Can't wait to hear all about it.