Chapter Eight
“What do you want to drink?” Jarod asks.
“Champagne,” she says, without hesitation.
She only drinks champagne. In fact, she only drinks carbonated beverages, period.
Sometimes she even brushes her teeth with sparkling water.
Another girl at the Blue Angel, Poppy, shares her affinity for bubbles.
Poppy has gorgeous long legs, and Violet thinks about fucking her, but apparently she’s in a committed relationship with an unattractive corporate lawyer.
Jarod opens a bottle of Krug and pours her a glass.
“Ready for the tour?” he says. Violet does want a tour—is in fact dying to see the place. But she doesn’t want to become any more impressed. That would mean giving up too much power. She sips her Krug. It’s crisp and delicious.
“Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable and point me to the bathroom?” she says.
“Come here for a sec. Check this out.”
Reluctantly, Violet lets him steer her to a home theater, complete with a DVD library of what seems to be hundreds of films.
Now this is impressive. She loves movies. She bends down to check out the classics section. “Oh look—they have Blue Angel.” She pulls out the plastic case.
“Who’s in that?” Jarod says, taking it from her hands, no doubt wondering if it’s something his agent should have gotten him a part in.
“You’ve never heard of this movie?” she sneers. “Marlene Dietrich is the star. It’s the favorite film of my boss, the old lady who owns the club. Her inspiration.”
The film is German and from the 1930s, about a guy who falls in love with a beautiful cabaret performer named Lola Lola.
He’s a very rigid and in-control guy, but Lola Lola awakens a mad passion that ultimately destroys him.
That’s the thing about passion—it feels amazing but will kill you in the end. Better to feel nothing.
She thinks about her own Lola Lola but doesn’t want to get distracted.
“You here to talk about movies? Or to fuck a movie star?” Jarod says.
“I guess you’ll just have to wait to find out,” she says. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He tosses the DVD onto a chair.
“You are insanely hot,” he says, moving closer to her with a smile. He slips his hand under her top, running his thumb over her nipple. It’s not particularly erotic.
I’m hooking up with Jarod Marks, she reminds herself, trying to get into it.
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.
Yes, she’ll definitely come tonight.
She grabs the shaving cream and razor and pivots to face Jarod.
She pauses for dramatic effect, then slowly lathers up her pussy.
She feels Jarod’s eyes on her like physical heat but stays focused on the task at hand and slowly shaves off a patch of her pubic hair; the key to this act is really taking her time, almost making the razor against flesh a dance in itself.
After two strokes, she languidly reaches over and dips the lathery blade in the bucket of water. Jarod jumps up off the couch again.
“What did I tell you?” she scolds, unable to resist a smile. He takes the razor from her hand and kneels before her. She’s about to stop him but decides to simply go with it.
Jarod presses his left hand against her inner thigh, making sure her skin is taut enough for him to slide the razor without nicking her.
His movements are slow, cautious, but deliberate and confident.
She closes her eyes, trying to allow herself to give up control, if only for a moment.
As much as she would like to, it proves impossible.
“Sit,” she says, taking the razor from him. He rests back on his heels, and she resumes her methodical stroking of the razor against her pussy while he observes her with rapt attention.
When she’s completely bare, she dips a washcloth into the water, then hands it to him. Still on his knees, he reverently wipes away the last bits of shaving cream.