Hong Kong Movie Star Love Match (Secret Dragon Dating App #2)

Chapter 1 Gallery Girl

Gallery Girl

Mr. Cho was sweating through his collar.

Mr. Chou was cleaning his glasses.

Neither was unusual. Mr. Cho sweated when business was bad.

Mr. Chou cleaned his glasses when business was worse.

For the last three weeks, they had been doing both at the same time, which meant Galerie Cho Chou had reached the stage of financial anxiety where everyone began asking Natalie questions they did not really want to know the answers to.

“Natalie,” Mr. Cho said, “the Cho Chou Salon of Contemporary Ink and Form Event. How many confirmed?”

“Three,” Natalie said.

Mr. Chou brightened. “Three collectors?”

“Three people.”

“Oh,” Mr. Chou mouthed inaudibly.

A few gloomy seconds passed.

Mr. Cho tried again. “Natalie, the Shanghai collector. He liked the Zhu Jia?”

“Yes.”

“Liked, or very interested?”

“He said the brushwork has emotional restraint.”

Mr. Chou made a soft, wounded sound. “That means no.”

Natalie smiled reassuringly. “It means he wants to sound knowledgeable before he asks for a discount.”

Both men looked relieved.

This was Natalie’s job in its purest form: interpreting art buyer behavior into something two anxious gallery owners could pin their hopes on.

She sat in the low chair in front of their desk, hands folded in her lap, knees together, face attentive. Mr. Cho stood on her left, short and round and damp at the temples. Mr. Chou stood on her right, equally round, slightly shorter, his glasses fogging every time he exhaled too hard.

The desk was tucked beside the gallery floor, shielded by a potted palm that had been dying for so long Natalie had developed serious respect for its survival instinct.

Beyond it, the gallery stretched white and cool toward the glass door: track lighting, polished concrete, over-priced artwork. Outside, Sheung Wan pressed against the windows—dried seafood shops, delivery carts, incense drifting from Man Mo Temple.

Mr. Cho asked, “Of the last twelve serious visitors, how many requested private viewing?”

“Four.”

“How many returned?”

“One.”

“How many purchased?”

“Zero.”

Mr. Chou removed his glasses. “Oh, dear.”

As the two men continued to debate, Natalie’s mind drifted away into a fantasy that anybody who knew her would never suspect.

It began, as these fantasies always did, with a customer.

Not one of the usual men with careful shoes, soft hands, and the defeated expression of someone about to ask whether a painting was something that his wife would approve of.

This man was handsome and knew what he wanted.

He walked through the gallery, surveying and then quickly dismissing each piece with a critical eye.

“Where is the really good art?” he asked.

Natalie looked him up and down.

“We keep the best art in the back. Only serious collectors can appreciate and are ready to engage with it.”

She led. He followed.

The backroom was narrow and badly lit, shelving at the back, its front crowded with wrapped canvases, spare frames, bubble wrap, old exhibition catalogs, and the ugly green sofa everyone pretended not to nap on. One cushion sagged. A strip of packing tape clung to the arm.

Natalie closed the door and locked it.

The man looked at the lock, then at her. “Where is the art?”

Natalie’s dress dropped to the floor. She had been completely nude under the dress.

Now she was completely nude. Completely. Bold. Unashamed.

“I am the art.”

The man looked at her naked body with a critical eye, looked at her tits and her pussy, then said, “You’re right. The best art is back here.”

“Are you ready to appreciate and engage with the art?” Natalie asked with flirty, teasing confidence.

“Yes. Show me.” The man’s clothes dropped to the floor. He had been completely nude under his clothes.

He was nude now, too.

Natalie looked at his long, thin, erect and aggressive cock.

Natalie walked to the sofa. She got onto it, her knees sinking into the cushions, her hands on one arm of the tiny, tired sofa. With the toss of her head, she flipped her hair over one shoulder and looked back at the man. She arched her back, thrusting her butt and pussy upward, ready for his cock.

“Engage with the art,” she ordered.

The man complied. In a moment, he was kneeling behind her, his hands on her hips.

Natalie shuddered as his cock entered her pussy. It felt good but she knew immediately that his cock was no match for her pussy.

None of them ever were.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

The man’s cock entered and left and entered again.

Each thrust, each fuck, was more energetic than the last. Each time his cock entered her, a delicious feeling spread from Natalie’s pussy to her chest and escaped from her mouth as a gasp. Each time, the man strained and grunted, trying to get Natalie to cum.

It wasn’t enough for Natalie.

She called out, “Engage with the art! Engage deeper and more fully with the art! Become one with the art!”

The man kept trying but his cock wasn’t enough for her pussy.

The man called out, fear in his voice. “It’s too much for me! The art is too much for me! But I can’t stop!” Natalie and the man’s bodies slammed together, his cock entering her pussy and causing a delightful feeling to pulse her body. Pull apart. Slam together. Apart. Together. Again and again.

Then, it suddenly peaked, Natalie felt her pussy spasm and cum. Natalie called out in a high shriek, not caring who heard, who knew.

To the man, the sensation of Natalie’s orgasm upon his cock made it impossible for him to stop. The man’s cock cummed into Natalie’s pussy and she felt the warm feeling of the cum inside her. Her pussy had swallowed it and, to her, it was another victory.

Then the man sagged, she felt him sag on her hips and his cock withdrew from her.

He fell off the sofa onto the floor. He lay sprawled on the floor like an injured animal, exhausted, unable to get up.

Natalie got off her knees and twisted around to plop down on the couch.

From the floor, the man groaned, “I thought that I could handle it but I can’t.

You look so polite, respectable and quiet on the outside but you are a she-dragon on the inside.

My cock is no match for your splendid pussy.

No Chinese woman’s pussy has ever overpowered my cock like this.

I have never had an experience like this. Never! How did you do it? Tell me how.”

Natalie puffed out her chest proudly. “I’m not Chinese,” she said.

“I’m American. That’s how.”

“Of course!” the man wailed. “American women know best how to satisfy a man! Please, please, please…”

“Oh, dear,” Natalie heard Mr. Cho say.

Natalie blinked, shaking off the fantasy.

Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou were not looking at her.

They had not noticed. They never noticed.

They were peering around the dying palm.

“A customer,” Mr. Cho whispered.

“He might not buy,” Mr. Chou whispered, worried.

“But he might,” whispered Mr. Cho, hopeful.

Mr. Chou turned to Natalie and made urgent shooing motions. “Natalie. Go. ” He fluttered his fingers at her for emphasis. “Warmth.”

“Not too much warmth,” cautioned Mr. Cho.

Shaking off the heated blush from her fantasy, Natalie stood, smoothed her skirt, and stepped around the palm.

The customer stood near the entrance, looking at the first wall.

Natalie walked across the floor and stopped behind him.

She watched the back of him: caramel linen jacket, dark hair, profile, hands in pockets. He was completely comfortable and at ease.

Then he turned his head.

And her knees nearly buckled beneath her.

Aaron Lam.

The movie star. The Rudolph Valentino of Hong Kong.

Suddenly, Natalie was fifteen again in Sunnyvale, California, supposed to be writing an essay about American federalism, laptop balanced on her knees while her mother called from the hall, “Still doing homework?”

“Yes,” Natalie had lied.

On-screen, Aaron Lam stood in a hospital corridor and looked at a woman for whom his love had become impossible to hide.

He had not even been the lead in the series.

He was the music teacher in a drama about a pianist going deaf.

He appeared in maybe half the episodes. But in Episode 7, around the forty-minute mark, he turned toward the woman who had come to find him and said, very quietly, “Natalie, I have always loved you. I just didn’t want to be the one to say it first.”

Aaron Lam had not originally said, “Natalie.” Natalie had used bootleg audio-mixing software to, one at a time, digitally replace whatever name he said with her own name throughout the entire series.

That way, she could watch the show, say the words of the other actresses and Aaron Lam would seem to reply to her.

Natalie had paused the video.

Then rewound it.

Then watched that scene again and again, mouthing her part, until the next morning.

For hundreds of nights until hundreds of mornings.

That was twelve years ago.

Now Aaron Lam was in the gallery.

Forty now. Older. Better. More handsome than ever. The camera had loved him, but the camera had been unfairly modest. It had not captured the line at the corner of his mouth or the way his body moved in the linen jacket.

The fantasy, still hot on her skin and wet in her pussy, flared when faced with this new situation.

Behind the palm, Mr. Cho made a tiny squeak.

Natalie spoke.

“Good afternoon,” she said in Cantonese. Her voice sounded normal. “Welcome to Galerie Cho Chou.”

Aaron Lam turned to face her.

His eyes moved over her.

“How may I help you?” she asked.

“I was nearby,” he said. “A friend mentioned the Zhu Jia series.”

His Cantonese was smooth and melodious. Natalie understood it perfectly. She answered in Cantonese because answering him in English would be grotesque.

“We have three pieces on the floor,” she said.

Aaron looked toward the first canvas. “May I see?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She walked him to the first canvas and then through the gallery.