Chapter 15 #2
“Isn’t that one of the things we have in common?” I ask, inching closer to her. I heard her on Levi Frasier’s show earlier. I’ve heard and read every press junket she’s done this week.
“Maybe,” she sighs, and then her eyes drop to my mouth as I slide towards her, close enough that my knee touches her thigh. “Because sometimes I really think I do hate you.”
“That’s okay,” I say, and now I’m staring at her mouth because why would I look anywhere else, ever. “Sometimes I think I hate you, too.”
“Show me,” she says as she brings a hand up and tucks my hair behind my ear.
“What?” I ask, because that simple touch has made me lose track of the conversation.
“Show me how much you hate me,” she says, a little louder and a lot clearer.
It’s all the invitation I need. I jump up and straddle her. Cassie’s hands fall on my thighs as soon as I settle. My skin fires up in every single place she’s touching me. And I welcome it. I want her to burn me, mark me, scar me.
Her mouth moves towards me, and I open my lips, ready, ready, ready…
A card door slams, and the whole car rocks.
“Sorry, Cass,” a woman’s deep voice comes through the intercom. “Long line. Didn’t realise you were ready to leave already, and … oh, wait…shit, sorry, I didn’t know you had—”
I hold my breath and study Cassie. I brace myself for her instruction to get out. I wait for the sting of rejection that will bring. I’m already thinking about how many whisky sours I’ll need to take the edge off … but then Cassie’s face blends into a slow, wide smile.
“It’s okay, Heather. You can drive now. I’ll heat your tacos up for you when we get home.” Cassie’s voice is so smooth and level. And her eyes are pinned on mine.
“Oh, okay. Right. Yes.”
The car’s engine starts. “And Heather?”
“Yes?”
“No more interruptions.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Heather says with a definite smile in her voice, and then there’s a click and no other noise but our shared breaths.
“Thank God for cars with dividers, huh?” I say, more pleased than I would ever admit that she didn’t tell me to leave.
“I still think I hate you,” Cassie pouts at me, but her eyes are on my mouth again. The car pulls out and starts rolling along Santa Monica Boulevard, but we could be anywhere. I don’t care. As long as nothing or nobody forces me away from this woman.
“Same,” I tell her, and my gaze is on her lips too.
I don’t know who moves first. I don’t know if my lips land on hers before my hands are in her hair or if her grip on my waist is what I feel before anything else.
All I know is that in all the daydreams of kissing Cassie Everard that I’ve allowed myself, none of them were this good.
Not once in my fantasies have I imagined how warm and supple she would feel between my legs and against my chest. I seriously lacked creativity when I didn’t include how her hips would instantly start rocking up into mine.
I was an idiot to not let myself relive the way she sighs into my mouth, the way those sighs turn into moans.
And not one of my forbidden fantasies accounted for how fucking turned on I would be just from kissing this woman.
Because I am so turned on. My core is a tight coil, and when her hands slide up my thighs, pushing the hem of my dress up to my waist, I am convinced I’m going to come immediately if she even brushes a finger against my cunt.
That’s why I groan when she stops kissing me and her fingers pause, lost in my pubic hair.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” she gasps.
“Are you complaining?” I tease, desperate for her fingertips just a little lower.
“But your dress is so short and you were outside fighting like a…”
“Finish that sentence carefully,” I warn her.
“God, Pia, you really don’t give a fuck about anything, do you?”
I swallow instead of replying, unable to take my eyes off her bright blue eyes that sparkle every time we pass a bright neon sign outside.
“Can I touch you?” she asks, and I swear to God, I don’t think anybody has asked me that question before. It takes me completely by surprise. “Pia?” Cassie prompts me when I don’t reply.
“I will hate you more if you don’t,” I tell her.
Much to my dismay, she doesn’t move her hand. “Oh, but if this is what you’re like when you hate me,” she says and rubs her nose along my jawline, “maybe I want to keep you hating me a little longer.”
I grab hold of her wrist and shove her hand down, exactly where I need her. “Fuck me, Cassie, or I swear to God, I’ll…”
“What, Pia? What will you do?”
I dive down and bite her nipple through her dress. I know exactly where it is; it’s been staring at me for the last ten minutes. “I’ll keep doing this until you hate me as much as I hate you.”
She moans so sweetly as she throws her head back, but that doesn’t stop her fingers from playing with me.
It takes a minute or two, but eventually she has the heel of her palm on my clit and two fingers hooked inside me.
It’s not a deep penetration, but it’s enough.
I swear all I need is her between my legs like this, panting and sighing as I continue to suck one nipple and pinch the other.
I rock my hips into her hand, and I’m not surprised when my orgasm is blossoming out of me like those roses I think about in her garden, which she may have planted from the seeds a fan gave her.
My mouth goes slack on her breast as I spasm and shake and swear my way through more waves of pleasure than I expect for such a quick climax.
I’m still shivering when I shift off Cassie and sit in the footfall in front of her seat.
“Pia!” she exclaims as I put my hands and head under her dress. “What are you doing?”
“You know exactly what I’m doing,” I tell her as I bunch her dress up and find her underwear.
When I notice they’re frilly silk knickers, I can’t help but smile to myself.
Not that I will ever tell Jon he was correct.
I will never tell him anything about how sweet it is to have your face mere inches from Cassie Everard’s pussy.
“But, Pia, we’re driving…”
I poke my head out of her dress. “Do you not want me to eat you?”
That silences her.
“I would like to hear you say it, Cassie,” I add, and the second I say her name, her eyes brighten again.
She slides her hand into my hair, on top of my head. “I want you to eat me,” she says. “I’ve wanted that every day for the last two months.”
I feel the uncomfortable risk of my next question, but I take it, and I soften the potential blow by running my fingers over her pussy, through those silly frilly knickers. “Have you touched yourself while thinking about it?”
“Yes,” Cassie gasps. “It’s the only way I can get myself off. To imagine you giving me head or me giving it to you.”
I growl into her thigh, baring my teeth.
It’s a moment of the thinnest composure before I grab hold of her panties and pull them down with a rough yank.
Clumsily, I get them off her legs and tuck them into the top of my dress.
I’ll put them in my bedside table, next to that Polaroid of her that I have looked at too many times.
And then I’m eating her. My mouth covers her smooth cunt, and my tongue is searching and hungry.
It’s hard to hear Cassie’s exact reactions with the noise of the car’s engine, the traffic outside and with her thighs often clamping around my ears, but whenever I do hear her moan, I keep doing whatever it is that I was doing to get that noise.
Honestly, I want to do this for hours. Tasting her.
Kissing her. Licking her. Making her wetter and wetter.
But I’m aware this car journey has an end, and I’ve read enough articles to know about her house in the Hills, which we weren’t too far from at the bar.
So it feels like a gift when I feel her rolling hips get more erratic and her fingers dig into my scalp, keeping me exactly where she wants me.
I flatten my tongue and rub it over and over and over her clit.
She fucks my mouth so beautifully until there is no way even my broken ears can miss the loud moans she’s making.
Although it does take me a second to realise what she’s moaning.
“Pia,” she sighs. “Pia, Pia, yes, Pia.”
I keep my mouth on her until she stops because I’m convinced if I show my face now, she’ll see exactly how her moaning my name makes me feel.
When it feels safe, I get up and sit on the seat next to her. She rearranges her dress and leans back again, her head turned towards me.
“Stay here tonight,” she says, still breathless.
It’s only then that I realise the car has stopped. I glance outside and see we’re parked in the driveway of a Hacienda-style villa that is surrounded by a high white wall, topped with terracotta tiles.
Cassie’s home. Cassie’s little hideaway. Where Cassie Everard lives and sleeps and writes her soppy, but admittedly technically impressive, songs.
I think about being with her all night. And again in the morning.
I think about making her coffee. I think about her singing in the shower.
I think about wearing her clothes. I think about fucking her in her kitchen, in her lounge, in her bathroom.
In that music room that she’s told journalists about.
I think about her showing me where she planted those fucking English rose seeds she got from a fan.
I’d finally know what colour they are and if they are already in bloom.
I think about it all, and then I think about having to leave her after that, having to go back to who we are after playing pretend for the shortest while.
I know what it feels like to spend a night with Cassie Everard, and I barely recovered the first time. I’m not going to do that to myself again.
“No.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “I can’t. Got shit to do in the morning.”
“Really?” she asks, and those big blue eyes are trying to speak to my soul, I swear it.
“Go heat up Heather’s tacos,” I say as I pull down my dress. “But if you could call me a cab, that would be great.”
“No,” Cassie says after a moment. She adjusts her neckline, making sure she’s all tucked in. “She’ll take you home.”
“No, it’s okay, I—”
“I insist,” Cassie says, and she already has the door open. “I guess I’ll see you around, Pia.”
“Wait, Cassie,” I say, and I grab hold of her forearm. She looks back at me.
“This isn’t because I don’t want to stay,” I say, and it feels like I’ve just granted not just her eyes but her whole self access to my soul.
Her expression softens, and there’s almost sadness in her moist eyes. “I know.”
“Rumour has it we may make it to number one on Sunday,” I say, loosening my grip but not taking my hand off her completely. “What will you do to celebrate?”
There’s a glint in her eye as she replies, “Oh, I’ve had a few number ones before. It’s no big deal.”
I pout at her but can’t stop my eyes from smiling. “Fuck you, Cassie.”
“Fuck you, too, Pia,” she says, and then she gets out of the car and slams the door behind her.