The blonde at my feet looks up at me through false lashes as she licks her lips like she’s ready to swallow me whole. Luckily for her, I have just the thing to satisfy her appetite.
I groan in pleasure as she slides my cock into her mouth with the eagerness of a porn star. It isn’t unusual for a fan to track me down after a signing, but it is unique to find one waiting half-naked for me in my hotel room. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all. My agent, Marcy, isn’t happy about the number of women I sleep with, but I think it’s mostly because it creates more paperwork for her. More nameless women to track down, more non-disclosures to get signed, and even more messes to clean up. If I didn’t pay her as well as I do, I’m pretty sure she would drop me as a client.
After several delicious minutes in the blonde’s hot, wet mouth, she pushes me back against the king-size bed and crawls on top of me. It doesn’t take long for her to slip off the rest of her clothing to straddle me. A satisfied smile sits plastered to her face as she reaches down and palms my cock. I smirk at the way her eyes grow wide at my girth. It’s all real sweetheart.
The best part about fans is their eagerness to please. I’m never short on women in my bed. And they cream themselves just at thought of meeting Declan Hart, author of the world’s filthiest erotica. Yup, you guessed it baby, that’s me. I take pleasure in feeding into their fantasies. The man they see is just a facade. A carefully constructed persona with an air of mystery.
“I’ve been fantasizing about this for months.”
The blonde pulls a condom from the pocket of her discarded jeans, tearing the package with her teeth before slipping it on me. She moans, lost in pleasure as she takes every inch of me inside her.
“Ride me, baby,” I say with a cocky smile.
Her pussy clenches tight around me as she rocks back and forth, her plastic tits swaying in my face. I smother a flicker of annoyance as her hands tangle themselves in my black mane. I’ve never been fond of being touched, as ironic as that sounds. But that doesn’t stop me from getting lost in the feeling of my high. It isn’t long before she’s screaming my name. A rush of endorphins hit me at the sound of it. It’s the same rush I get from a great run, from a ride on my motorcycle, or from jumping out of an airplane at 30,000 feet. I crave that high, chase it like a junkie.
The blonde’s nails claw my chest as I jut my hips up to meet her. My grunting only seems to push her over the edge as her ass bounces on top of me.
“Are you going to come for me? I ask, pulling her hair. “You filthy little slut.”
“Fuck…oh, God,” she moans.
She convulses around me, and a second later I feel hot cum pumping into my rubber. A sense of regret fills me as I detach myself from the woman in my bed. After several awkward seconds of the blonde trying to cuddle me, I roll her off me and walk over to the bathroom.
“Where are you going?”
The voice purrs, beckoning me to come back. I don’t answer her, hoping that she’ll get the hint that it’s time to leave. We’re just finished and I’m already bored with her. I flush the condom and wipe off with a hot towel, trying to rid myself of the smell of her. After taking several long, appreciative glances in the mirror, I return to the bedroom. To my surprise, I find the blonde spread out across my bed, still naked.
I frown. She’s still here? Her eyes widen with surprise at the blatant irritation on my face.
“How about another round?”
“You need to go, sweetheart.”
“What?” she asks, her overly made-up face scrunched in confusion.
“You don’t want me to spend the night?”
I smirk. “I enjoyed you sucking me off, and I definitely enjoyed the ride, but that’s where it ends. I don’t get involved with fans.”
Her cheeks flame with anger as I turn back to my hotel closet to change. It isn’t until I’m halfway there that I hear something whizzing through the air at me. I duck out of the way just in time to avoid a bottle of Dom Pérignon whirling toward me. I was saving that to celebrate my latest release. The bottle crashes against the wall, sending shards of glass flying across the room as the bubbly liquid poor down the wall. Damn it. Marcy will be on my ass if there are any damages to the hotel room.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she seethes. “No wonder your wife left you.”
I roll my eyes, despite the ache I feel in my chest. All of the women I sleep with have this same reaction, but thankfully the number of bottles flying at my head is low. Their expectations are just so far removed from the reality of what I’m willing to provide. The only relationships that last are the ones in books. I may spend almost every waking moment writing about love and romance, but the truth is that I don’t believe in either.
“Do you want an autograph before you go?” I ask.
“Fuck you and your tiny dick,” she spits back at me.
“We both know that ‘tiny’ isn’t the right word to describe it. Do you need a reminder before you go?” I challenge.
She scoffs as she hurriedly dresses. She pushes past me and grabs her clothes and heels off the floor before quickly dressing.
“I hope your dick falls off,” she says.
“Now, that isn’t very nice, sweetheart.”
She turns to face me, her face as hard as stone. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, asshole. You think the world revolves around you, that all you have to do is flash those baby blues and women will fall for your charms. But one day you won’t have your good looks to rely on. Karma catches up with everyone, even the great Declan Hart.”
“Careful, sweetheart, frigid bitch doesn’t look so good on you.”
She makes no answer as she storms out, leaving me with a full mini-bar and a sour mood.
Two hours and three obnoxiously tiny bottles of whiskey later, I’m still stewing. She has no idea what she’s talking about. No idea who I really am, underneath all the money, the fame, the sex appeal. Is it my fault that I was blessed with a strong, square jaw, thick, wavy brown hair, and blue eyes that more than one woman has said she wanted to get lost in? I worked hard for all that I have. I do all I can to maintain my body well. I eat right, I exercise, I don’t smoke. I don’t make excuses.
But I also know women don’t fall at my feet simply because I look good. No, most of them want the trappings of fame. They want the money, the notoriety, the status. They want the cars and the clothes and the jewelry, all the material excess I can provide. They want the glamor of being with a famous author. I could look like a monster, and I’d still be drowning in pussy. Because at the end of the day, money trumps all. Money trumps love.
The word turns to ash in my mouth. All women want is a cookie cutter relationship. They don’t want the real you. They don’t want the problems, and they sure as hell can’t accept failure. My ex-wife is the perfect example. She left as soon as she could take half of my money. Besides how can anyone hold any semblance of any kind of relationship when my whole life’s on display like a fucking circus? The women I do seem to attract are shallow gold-diggers. Women who look at me and see dollar signs.
I grab another bottle from the mini-bar without looking, not caring what it is. It tastes like fruity shit and burns as it makes its way down my throat. I quickly down the whole thing before I can taste any more of it. Maybe I should go out tonight, try to find someone new. Someone who won’t see me as a meal ticket. Someone who doesn’t know me as Declan Hart, international bestseller and notorious playboy. Someone who’ll make me forget all the empty, meaningless sex I’ve had, all the nameless, faceless women before her.
Yeah, right. As if such a woman even exists. As if I’d even deserve her.
After the sixth bottle, my head is blurry, my thinking is fuzzy, and it seems like an excellent idea to head down to the hotel’s parking garage and find my rental car. The first few miles take me out of whatever-the-fuck city I’m in this week. The full moon limns the tall pine trees surrounding me, and I catch a glimpse of snow-capped mountains in the distance. Seattle, then? Maybe Portland? Fuck if I know. All I know is that it’s not an endless sea of brown like Vegas, where I live.
A sign tells me there’s a sharp curve in the road ahead. If I were in a better mood, the writer in me would probably have something clever to say, some insight about foreshadowing or my life’s journey. But mostly I just feel tired. Achingly, bone-deep tired.
My eyes flutter closed for a moment. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a moment I’ll feel better. Just a brief moment, that’s all I need.
By the time I realize it’s more than a moment, that maybe I’m too drunk to be behind the wheel, I’m already careening off the road and straight into another black blur.
The last thing I remember before everything goes black is the awful smell of something burning. It seems what’s-her-name was right. Karma does catch up to everyone.
Even me. Declan Hart.