Chapter Twenty-Four
Dinner concludes with warm chocolate lava cake drizzled with raspberry. Poppy has managed to keep up with the conversation Billy continues to lead, but she’s afraid once they leave the table he’ll forget about her.
“So you’re gonna put your writer in touch with me?” she says.
“Absolutely.”
Justin appears, touching her shoulder.
“Hello there.”
She can smell his scent, something like linen and tobacco, and she remembers how good he was at eating her out.
“A stellar evening so far,” Billy chimes in.
“High praise coming from you,” Justin says. “I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your tablemate for a moment?”
Justin extends his hand to help her up from her seat and leads her to an adjacent room with its own bar. She recognizes it as the spot where they first talked alone the last time she was at the house.
“What did you think of the show?”
“It was interesting,” she says carefully.
“Just interesting? Come on,” he says with a sexy grin. “I bet you’re wet.”
She shakes her head, trying not to smile. He has a way of saying outrageous things that give her the urge to giggle. She knows she has to keep her guard up around him, but she finds him thrilling. Still, she’s not looking for a repeat of last time.
“Dinner was great,” she says. “But I’m going to leave soon.”
“Did I offend you in some way?” His face is the picture of innocence.
“I told you: You offended me the last time I was here.”
“Let me make it up to you.” He leans closer and whispers. “I’d love to lick your pussy.”
The words, his nearness, his scent … she feels a quiver of desire. But she has to resist. Like Agnes said: The Blue Angel isn’t a bordello, and she’s not a prostitute.
“Seriously, Justin. I’m not some fuck toy for you and your wife.”
“I’m not talking about my wife. Just you and me this time.”
“Good night, Justin,” she says. She knows she’s probably blowing her chance at the L.A. trip, but maybe that’s not so important anymore. Meeting Billy Barton and possibly being featured in the burlesque article makes the whole evening worth it.
Then, as if reading her mind, Justin says, “Maybe your tablemate Billy would like to watch us. You know how curious those media types can be.”
“You can’t be serious.” But from the look on his face, clearly he is.
This is her chance to seal the deal with the magazine and the L.A. trip.
“Well, maybe I don’t have to leave just yet.”
“I’m very happy to hear that.”
“But I’m not making any promises.”
“Understood,” he says with a smile, then offers her the crook of his arm to return to the dining room.
The truth is, the thought of having the dual attention of these two rich and powerful men is thrilling.
Billy is still in his seat but stands after Justin whispers in his ear. Poppy takes a minute to retrieve her handbag. She assumes she won’t be returning to the table anytime soon.
The three of them make their way to the exit, to the hallway leading to the elevator.
They’re whisked up in silence, broken only when Justin shows them into a private room.
“Make yourselves comfortable.”
The room has several minimalist white couches, dark hardwood floors, and a crystal chandelier. A gleaming, black baby grand piano sits in the corner, and Poppy wonders if anyone actually plays it.
Billy, clearly familiar with the space, opens up a cabinet to reveal a full bar.
He pours himself a whiskey, then takes it to one of the couches.
It faces another identical couch, and that’s where Justin indicates she should sit.
She can feel Billy’s eyes on her, and she keeps her gaze averted. Why didn’t he offer her a drink? Rude.
Justin kneels in front of her. She really could use that drink.
“You look exquisite tonight,” he says, hiking up her dress and easing her panties off.
She feels the air kiss her pussy, and she tries not to think of the view Billy is getting.
But at the same time, the idea of it makes her feel powerful.
This is someone who could be in any room, anywhere in Manhattan, with almost anyone. And all he wants is to look at her.
She rests her head back on the couch, and Justin nudges her legs apart.
She feels the flicker of his tongue against her clit.
She remembers his technique from last time, the way he pressed his fingers inside her first and then followed deeply with his tongue.
Just the thought of it makes her squirm, and she reaches for one of his hands resting on her thigh, urging it toward her wet, aching center.
He allows her to guide his hand, and complies by inserting his finger deep inside.
She moans and arches her back, forgetting all about her audience. Just as she starts to peak, he stops.
She opens her eyes and looks at him, and finds him watching her intently, his mouth slack.
“Don’t stop,” she says.
“Why don’t you finger-fuck yourself for us,” he says. Before she can respond, he moves to join Billy on the couch. The two of them look like they’re in front-row seats at an off-Broadway play.
She’s so close to coming she has to finish herself off anyway, so she decides she’ll simply pretend they’re not there.
It’s a mental trick she’s mastered since performing at the Blue Angel.
Of course, this is a whole different level of performance.
But her little trick works the same. At least, she hopes it does.
Again, she rests her head back and closes her eyes.
She moves her hand between her legs, rubbing her clit but realizing she’s so aroused she doesn’t really need the warm-up.
She moves straight to pressing two fingers inside herself.
As she works herself toward orgasm, she finds that she doesn’t need her mental trick after all; the thought of Billy and Justin watching her actually heightens her excitement.
She moves her fingers faster and harder, imagining the big media guy and the billionaire playboy thinking about her and this moment for days.
Weeks, even. In a way, this moment is making her famous.
With this thought, she shudders in ecstasy, rocking against her own hand.
Justin returns to his spot in front of her and takes her wet fingers into his mouth. Then he presses her thighs apart further and laps at her pussy like a cat with fresh cream. She looks up to see Billy Barton and finds him with his pants down to his ankles, his cock in his hand.
And that’s when she knows she doesn’t have to worry about getting the interview. In fact, she might even push for the cover.