A Taste of Utopia Page 3

  I’m not claiming to be a martyr who only sees the beauty beneath. I also admire a babe when I see one. However, I don’t attach beauty to body size, hair color, age and all that. It’s a crap idea prepackaged by the media and shoved down the throats of willing victims. No, my vision of beauty is unhindered and unveiled.

  Mindlessly, I stroll across the lobby. And that’s when I see her . . . standing under a dome decorated with a perfect replication of the Ursa Major constellation.

  My body comes to a halt. Then my mind, my heart, even the air surrounding me seems to come to a standstill.

  I cock my head and examine her. The red dress she wears dips low on her back. I haven’t seen her face yet, but it doesn’t matter. Something about her tugs at my heart, a magnetic pull of sorts.

  Another girl is standing next to her and glances at me. She looks familiar, but my mind’s fogged. I can’t remember from where.

  I continue to stare at her back, willing her to turn around. My palms become damp. What in the fucking hell is wrong with me?

  The girl with the familiar face whispers something in her ear. Both girls look my way.

  My eyes fix on the girl with the red dress. Wow. She’s breathtakingly beautiful.

  A shy smile blooms on her cherry lips. There’s no pretense in her face. It’s pure and sincere and wildly demure. Her gaze casts down, and her alabaster skin turns an adorable shade of pink. The brilliant lights of Ursa Major dim before her beauty. She’s the brightest star I have ever seen. Her light is blinding.

  Finally, my heart lurches back into gear and I resume breathing. I offer my two-thousand-dollar-an-hour smile and wink at her. My feet, as if disconnected from my brain, take a few steps in her direction.

  Then the memory of who I am, and what I’m doing here, rolls into my head like a bulldozer. An insane thought tumbles with the awareness—I can call in sick. Oh, that’s fucking brilliant! I pull on my hair. For the first time in years, I resent what I do for a living. I must be delusional to think I can act like the typical nine-to-five person.

  Sobering my mind, I shake off the urgent desire to approach her. I plunge back into my reality and stride away.

  I enter the gilded elevator that will take me to the nightclub where I’ll meet my client. It’s almost eleven, the appointed time. Kissing those cherry lips isn’t on tonight’s schedule.

  I bypass the line to enter Neptune and give my name to the bouncer. He swings the door open, allowing me in.

  Inside the club, my eyes do a quick scan. Although this isn’t my first time here, I admire the outer space meets shabby-chic decor.

  From a blue sphere simulating the planet Neptune, a DJ plays a Lady Gaga remix. The crowd, with their arms raised, swings their bodies on the dance floor.

  The vibe reeks of exclusivity and money. Neptune is the go-to hot spot for locals with fame and fortune.

  The VIP section where I’m supposed to meet my companion is empty. So I buy an overpriced vodka tonic with lime and head out to the patio.

  Outside, the sound of music is quieter. A warm breeze washes over my heated body. I lean on the wall that snakes around the ledge of the building, soaking in the magnificent view of the strip. My mind reels back to Cherry Lips.

  No longer caring about my preppy and perfectly styled hair, I run my fingers through it. That smile. My heart skips another beat at the thought of seizing those lips into a kiss.

  My mind wanders and I imagine her face flushed with desire, her eyes staring up at me as I take her. Then, I picture her hair tousled from sex, her lips turned up in a sated smile. Shit, I’m hard as fuck.

  I adjust my pants and chug my drink. I have to purge her out of my mind. I’m not about to fail to perform with a client because I’m pussy whipped by a girl I saw for less than two seconds, a girl I’ll probably never see again.

  I head back inside the club.

  With another glance at the VIP area, I see my companion has yet to arrive. I weave through the throng of people on the dance floor, matching my body to the tempo of the song and crowd.

  The DJ plays a remix of “Star to Fall” by Cabin Crew. With my eyes closed, I join the dance. My body pulses to the energetic rhythm of the music. I feel the same electric tug I had felt earlier. Damn, I have to get Cherry Lips out of my head.

  I flutter my eyes open. That’s when I see her. Again. My mind goes numb while my body continues to move to the beat of the song.

  She’s standing at the bar, her friend talks and flirts with the bartender as if they’re close friends. They must be regulars.

  Time stretches, bends, and twists as I battle to resist the pull drawing me to her.

  Oblivious to my internal turmoil she stands as if she’s the very star I’d been waiting all my life to emerge in the sky. Yes, I do feel like an idiot. Shit like I’m thinking is the makings of a Hallmark Channel movie.

  I rake through my hair with two exasperated hands. The direction of my thoughts irritates me.

  I cast a last glance at the VIP session. The client remains a no-show.

  On an impulse, I decide to introduce myself to Cherry Lips. Perhaps talking to her would break the spell I’ve fallen under, demystify the allure surrounding her.

  I push through the throng of moving bodies, heading toward the girls. When I have a clear vision of the bar again, she and her friend have disappeared.

  Relief floods me. It wasn’t meant to be. I spin back to the dance floor and resume dancing. Again, I glance at the VIP area. For the second time tonight, my body goes rigid. Cherry Lips stands inside.

  In total dismay, I study her. With her hips swaying to the beat of the music, she watches the crowd. Her friend says something in her ear, and she tilts her head back in delighted laughter.

  In my head, I recapture the conversation I had with Adriana.

  “A threesome?” I asked.

  “No, no. Her best friend’s birthday. And you are the gift.”

  “Do I add a bow to my dick?”

  “Querido, your cock is gorgeous as it is. No need for embellishments.” She lets a throaty laugh out and continues, “Now, get this, the girl hiring your services is Chloe Greenberg, the heiress to Constellation. I’m sending her picture so you can identify her at the club . . .”

  No fucking way.

  Cherry Lips’ eyes find mine, bringing me back to reality. Damn. It’s her birthday, and I’m the gift. A slew of mixed emotions swamps me. I need another drink.

  That’s why her friend’s face had been familiar earlier. But my mind was too infatuated for me to make the connection.

  The perspective of fucking Cherry Lips senseless hits me. My cock stands at attention. However, for some unfathomed reason, I don’t want to be her hired fuck. Not hers. Well, fuck me.

  Better make that drink a double.

  I push my way to the bar and order two drinks to send over to them and another double vodka tonic for myself.

  I toss the liquor back hoping for liquid courage. It burns my throat. I grimace and slide the cup across the bar top. “Another one, please,” I call over the loud music.

  Perched on the barstool, I inconspicuously study Cherry Lips.

  She and her friend remain in the VIP section. After what appears to be an argument over the drinks I had sent, the server points to me, and they accept them.

  Chloe Greenberg raises her glass my way. She probably knows I’m the hired fuck.

  I raise my glass back, my eyes never leaving Cherry Lips. She looks down. Either she’s painfully shy, or is playing coy. Either way, I snap into my role of predator.

  According to Adriana’s directions, I am to pursue her with the casualty of a regular guy out clubbing and hunting for the night. And I am never to mention the word escort. I understand. The word can be a killjoy. Well, I can live with that. I’m used to role-playing.

  They pay for fun and sex and I always deliver. For the next few hours, I would be a typical guy. I would flirt and score the girl with cherry lips. At the end of the night
, she would writhe under me, moaning in pleasure. Life would go on.

  Lottie

  “WE CAN’T ACCEPT drinks from a stranger,” I remind Chloe.

  “Who sent it?” Lottie asks the server.

  “The gentleman leaning against the bar. The taller one.”

  “Oh my God, look! It’s the guy that we saw in the lobby earlier. He’s the one who bought us drinks.” Chloe nods in the general direction of the bar.

  I follow her gaze. There he is, in all the splendor of his divine beauty. Our eyes meet. The lights flash on his face, revealing his intense gaze.

  “Who prepared the drinks?” I ask. The server certainly knows who Chloe is. I mean, everybody here must be under orders to keep an eye on us.

  “The bartender, ma’am. I witnessed.”

  With a surge of giddiness dizzying my head, I agree with Chloe, and we accept the drinks. I hold an elegant glass filled with a red liquid that matches my dress and sip from it. A bittersweet taste floods my mouth.

  He bought me a drink! In the movies that’s the cue a guy’s interested. Oh my, I can’t bring myself to believe he’s interested in me.

  I glance down, breaking eye contact. If I continue to look at him, I’ll drool and make a fool of myself.

  Still inside the VIP area, I dance and people watch. From time to time, I steal glances toward the bar.

  Chloe sweeps the fancy red drink from my hand and places it on a center table. She collects two tequila shots, gives me one, and says, “Bottoms up!”

  In unison, we drain the liquid. It scorches my throat and sears through my bloodstream like wildfire.

  “Let’s dance,” Chloe yells, snatching the empty cup from my hand and placing it on the table. She grabs my hand and drags me to the dance floor.

  “Rain Down Love” blasts from the speakers. The tequila I gulped goes straight to my head, giving me a slight buzz.

  Chloe and I are full-fledged geeks. Unapologetically. We proudly wear our thick glasses and bury our noses in books. However, there is one un-geeky thing about us. We can dance.

  Honest to God truth: Beyoncé doesn’t hold a candle to us when it comes to shaking our booties. Though we rarely go out, when we do, we dance the night away.

  I follow Chloe. Instantly, the fear of tripping over my heels dissipates. I morph into my alternate ego I like to call “Rita”—as in Rita Hayworth, one of the greatest film noir actresses and dancers.

  Waves of vibrating energy zing under my skin as I walk through the throng of beating bodies. We stop at the center in the middle of the writhing dancers. Every muscle in my body coils, ready to spring to life. Shyness be damned, whenever I dance a rush of confidence surges through me.

  I raise my hands and close my eyes, overtaken by the tempo of the music. That’s when I feel it. The air crackles and an electric energy hums through my flesh. A warm hand slides down my waist, settling on my hip. My eyes flash open. Before I can react to whoever is touching me, a charming smile gleams down at me. Mr. Adonis, in the flesh, materializes before my eyes.

  He dips his head to my ear and asks, “May I join you for this dance?” His voice is loud, but deep and husky, sending another wave of energy that reaches down to my marrow.

  I open my mouth to answer. His eyes drop to my lips. He swallows which causes his Adam’s apple to move in an erotic way. I picture my tongue running over it and dampness floods my panties. What’s wrong with me? My body’s reaction is unprecedented. Well, in my defense, the man before me is more like one of those Greek gods than an actual human.

  The already heated temperature of the room rises to a suffocating level. I want to say something, but manage only to produce an ungraceful sound. Thank God for small favors. I’m sure the loud music muffled it and saved me from dying of embarrassment.

  I give up on producing speech and eagerly bob my head in agreement. Maybe I seem a little too eager because he chuckles before moving his other hand and planting it on my hip.

  I swoon. My legs tremble, threatening to give out.

  He must sense the pathetic state my body is in. With a firm tug, he pulls me closer to him and threads a muscular thigh between my legs. Whoa! Is this too close too soon? Ah, who am I kidding? He feels good, and I have no intention of stopping.

  My body flushes against his and we start what is certainly the most erotic dance of my life.

  If I thought I was a good dancer, I have finally found my match. Mr. Adonis, to my delight, is exceptional.

  Even though I don’t even know his name, we dance with the intimacy of lovers. And the feelings! It’s as if we’ve known each other before, maybe in another life.

  A siren blares in the back of my mind as it fiercely tries to bring me back to my rational self. Vainly reminding me that this is way out of bounds. I blissfully ignore it.

  We continue the provocative dance.

  This stranger enthralls me. His body, his stare, and the way his hands possessively hold my waist, it’s all like a concoction of a strong hallucinogen. At this moment, I have no desire to be cautious or sober.

  My body moves with reckless abandonment, throbbing to the commanding beat of the drums. The music, the lights, and his radiant heat all serve to transport me to an alternate world composed only of our mingled bodies.

  Song after song, we dance, throb, pulse. Our bodies, beaded with sweat, cling to one another. I slide my hand around his neck. He slides his hands over my ass. We grind and grapple shamelessly.

  If this were under different circumstances, I would be mortified. I’d never behaved so uninhibitedly toward a guy. Somehow, this stranger unhinges me to the core. Not even my alter ego, Rita, would ever behave this way.

  My body floats on a cloud of lust and desire. My hands travel from his neck to his chest to his shoulders. I writhe and twist with the beat of the music. All my senses are hyper-aware of his proximity.

  I lose track of time. We could have been dancing for years, or hours. I don’t have the slightest idea. I do know, however, that the instant lust and chemistry we initially had quickly shifts to something strangely deeper. It’s like returning home after a long journey. I shake my head, questioning my sanity but immediately discard the concern. We’re just dancing for crying out loud. People do this all the freaking time. No overthinking allowed.

  I decide to focus on the here and now.

  His hands, flat and warm over my bare back send flames blazing across my skin. I unconsciously hook my arms around his neck and press my bra-less breasts against the vast expanse of his chest. I’m apparently granting him a green light to any advances.

  He moves his hands under my arms, his fingers grazing lightly against the side swell of my breasts.

  I gasp for air. My tummy muscles clench as my hands fist his hair. I glance up, offering my lips.

  The tip of his tongue glides across his lips, but he doesn’t kiss me.

  I could die of disappointment.

  His hands return to my hips. His fingers dig into my skin and with a firm pull and a sudden thrust, his obscene erection presses against my lower abdomen. The pressure is so immediate and perfect that I feel my legs tremble, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

  I must admit, this is the closest to an orgasm I have ever come in the arms of a man. And I want more. As bright as the sun on a cloudless day, the awareness that I want this man—this stranger, hits me.

  I barely recognize myself. And I don’t care.

  With my body singing with desire, time passes. I’m unsure of how long it has been, but all too soon Mr. Adonis leans in and asks, “You want to get something to drink?”

  My descent is fast and violent.

  I blink my eyes, realizing where I am. Dang. Where’s Chloe? I look around and see her parked on a barstool, talking to Roberto. She knows the bartender from when she used to live in the hotel.

  I bite my lip, momentarily unsure of what to do. But I brush the uncertainty aside and nod.

  He clasps my hand and pulls me toward the door,
only stopping to order some drinks from a waitress.

  He releases my hand and pushes the patio door open. The cool night breeze touches my warm cheeks, sending a shiver through my hyper-aware body.

  With a hand on the small of my back, he guides me to a small gazebo.

  A cascade of golden lights cast a dim glow on plush chairs. I’m uncertain if I should sit or not. A feeling of ineptitude reminds me of my inexperience in the dating department. Not to mention that under the golden light, his face gleams with astonishing beauty. I’m way out of my league here.

  “You must forgive my rudeness.” He flashes his perfect teeth. His voice is deep and confident. “The noise inside kept me from introducing myself.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Seth Phoenix.”

  “Hi,” I say. Lame, lame response.

  He raises a perfect brow, and a glint of amusement fills his eyes.

  “Oh. Uh.” Geez, what’s with me? I’m on the shy side, but I pride myself of having my wits about me—most of the time. “Sorry, I mean.” My cheeks burn. I’m certain my face is bright red, only deepening my embarrassment. “I’m—”

  “Lottie?” Chloe’s voice snaps me out of my stupor and rescues me from continuing my babbling.

  I turn to see Chloe as she sashays our way.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says with a note of mischief in her voice. She comes to a halt and looks at us with expectant eyes.

  She clears her throat and nods slightly toward Seth.

  “Uhm . . . Yes . . . Sorry. Um, this is Seth. Seth this is Chloe.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she says, offering her hand.

  “Likewise,” he says, displaying another killer smile.

  “I’m going up to my room.” She miserably pretends to stifle a yawn. “But before I go.” She leans over, pushes a square plastic card in my hand, and says into my ear, “This is your third gift. Stardust Suite.” She plants a kiss on my face and adds a, “Happy birthday.”