Eternally Seduced(53)

"You're getting as manipulative as I am, you little cheat."

I beamed. "Aren't you proud?"

Constantijin gave me a short, sweet, hard kiss. "So proud I think I love you even more."

Returning the gesture and adding a little nibble afterwards, I pulled  back and said cheekily, "I love you, too, but don't think you're getting  off the hook. Let me do that to you, too?"

He rolled to his back, laughing, tucking his arms under his head. "We'll see, schat. If I think you're good enough."

"But I am! And on that note, what does ‘schat' mean? I keep forgetting to look it up in the dictionary."

He groaned, grabbing a pillow and slamming it over his face. "To think I used to hate how quiet you were."

I pulled the pillow off with a grin. "Now you know better. So, what do  you say? When can I do that? And you haven't said yet what ‘schat'  means? Constantijin? Constantijin?"



###





WHEN FANGIRLS LIE




How (Not) To Be Seduced By Rockstars,

Book 1





Prologue





"That's him, isn't it? Staffan!" Carmina Virgil was the first one to  spot the limousine driving out of the underground parking lot. Thousands  of women who also lined the street echoed her scream, all of them  waiting to catch even just a glimpse of Staffan Aehrenthal.

"I effing love you!" the brunette next to her yelled as the limousine  inched nearer, its journey impeded by the fans doing their best to get  past the human barricade that stood in their way. The hotel management  had called police officers to the scene, their private security unable  to handle the hysterical fans that did everything short of murder to get  closer to their favorite rockstar.

The brunette started sobbing. "Love you, oh my God, love you!"

Carmina rolled her eyes even as she continued recording the limousine  moving in front them at a snail's space. Typical fangirl bullshit, she  thought as she irritably pushed her red locks away. Why couldn't they  say it like it was? They didn't love Staffan Aehrenthal. They just loved  the idea of loving him.

It was a good thing she had no such misconceptions. She was a fan of  Staffan because he sang well, danced well, and  –  according to the other  Gs  –  he fucked unbelievably well, too. Maybe if she was lucky, she'd  learn about it firsthand, too.

A wide-eyed teenage girl with glasses next to Carmina asked in a shaky yell, "Is it always like this?"

"Like this what?" Carmina's head started to ache. With the throng of  crazy obsessed fans jostling behind them, it was a challenge to keep eye  contact with the younger girl.

The younger girl waved a hand. "Is it always this crazy?" Her voice was  slightly muffled as a more aggressive wave of incoming fans tried to  move past her.

Giving up recording, Carmina slipped her phone back in her jacket's  inner pocket and yelled back, "Is this your first time going to his  concert?"

The girl nodded. Or at least Carmina thought she did since the younger  girl had started to drown amidst the chaos. Taking pity, Carmina grabbed  the girl's hand, uncaring of who she elbowed in her way. She pulled the  younger girl to her. "It's bitch-eats-bitch every time with the Sex  God's concert, hon. And this? It's nothing. You should have seen his  concerts in Europe. I went to his concert in Netherlands once." Her  scalp tinged at the memory. It wasn't a good tingle, not when she  remembered a German chick pulling her back by the hair just to catch a  closer glimpse of Staffan's crotch-grabbing move.

She said feelingly, "Freaking insanity! Half of the audience went topless in hopes that he'd pick one of them to fuck!"

Somebody accidentally knocked the younger girl's head from behind, and  Carmina shrieked furiously, "Watch your hand!" She glanced at her  companion, who was doing her best not to be swept away by the tidal wave  of other aggressively adoring fans. Almost every woman in the crowd was  chanting his name like they only needed to see Staffan Aehrenthal  trademark smirk to have the most stupendous orgasm.

The younger girl shrieked again, and Carmina immediately reached out to  rescue her companion from the crowd. She sighed. "This isn't the place  for kids like you."

"I just wanted to see him in person, and I didn't have enough money to  watch his concert." There was a faraway gaze in the younger girl's eyes  as she looked up. Carmina didn't have to look the same way to know what  made her companion lose herself in a dreamlike state.         

     



 

God.

Or rather the Sex God.

The larger-than-life tarpaulin hanging from the concert venue's front  wall showcased an obviously tall man with longish blond hair, an angel's  face and an utterly sinful look in his hazel eyes.

His black blazer was exquisite in its cut, just like the silk shirt  underneath it, almost completely unbuttoned to reveal more than an  eyeful of his muscular chest. The matching trousers he wore were just as  stylish, but there was nothing elegant at all about the more than  noticeable bulge under his pants.

He had been photographed leaning against the wall, hands inside his  pockets, but the ordinary posture did nothing to diminish the bold and  vibrant energy he emanated. Staffan Aehrenthal was a classically  beautiful man, as perfect as a marble statue, but there was nothing at  all elegant about the raw sexuality burning in his eyes.

"Don't fall in love with him, hon."

The teenage girl blushed.

Carmina suppressed a sigh. "Do you know John Lennon and Yoko Ono?"

"Umm, are they, like, a boy band?"

Save me from Beliebers who just discovered what sexy truly meant,  Carmina thought. There should really be sexier boy bands. There had to  be some kind of middle ground between The Bieber and Staffan Aehrenthal,  some way to prevent young girls like the one in front of her from  losing their virginity to the first tattooed guy they met and resembled  their favorite rockstar.

"Umm, no. Let's just say that John Lennon used to be a really popular rockstar and Yoko Ono was this really infatuated fan."

The girl gasped. "And they fell in love?"

"Yeah, but that's not the moral of the story."

"So … what is it?"

"She became the most hated bitch on the planet." Carmina turned back to  face the street, where the limousine had only managed to move past them  by several feet. "Staffan Aehrenthal isn't something you can order for  yourself. He's like this magnificent exotic hotel buffet, something  that's only for sharing."

The teenage girl didn't answer. She was too busy gazing dreamily at thirty-foot tall poster of Staffan Aehrenthal.

Carmina shook her head. Oh well, at least she had tried. She gazed back  at the poster. It was really those eyes' fault. No one could ever be  immune to the message glinting in those beautiful fuck-me hazel eyes.

I can make you scream with just one touch.

~~~

Half-sprawled on the custom-designed seat of his limousine, with a glass  of whisky in one hand and his iPad on the other, Staffan Aehrenthal  cursed out loud when he read the dozen or so headlines staring back at  him.

Outside, hundreds of fans lined the road leading into the airport, screaming his name and a lot other words.

Do me. My virginity is yours. I'm your #1 groupie.

Ten years ago, Staffan would have paid attention to them. At twenty-two,  he had believed he really was the king of the world, and that he could  have anything he wanted. Back then, he did have everything  –  or he  thought he had.

But things had changed now, so much so that he had been living like a  bad-tempered monk since the start of his first world tour. Sex was his  only stress reliever, but for the longest time he wasn't able to find  someone who could stir his cock to life even just an inch. All he needed  was a fucking inch, and he could make any woman happy.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Staffan returned his attention to the rest of the headlines.

The Three Pussketeers

He rolled his eyes when he caught sight of what the press had dubbed him and his friends. What the fuck did that even mean?

The other headlines were just as bad. What was it with American media  and their inexplicable obsession over the most absurd titles? The U.S.  leg of his tour had barely started and already they had a dozen  nicknames for him.

Mr. Fucktastic

Europe's badass version of Justin Timberlake

Sweden's #1 Sex God

These people were insane. They made it sound like his countrymen were so  fucking obsessed  –  literally  –  that they actually kept a list for man  whores.

He clicked on the next page that Constantijin  –  a Dutch billionaire who  had been his friend since their boarding school days and was also one of  the so-called Pussketeers  – had emailed.

This one you will love, Constantijin had typed on top of a red arrow pointing down.

Staffan almost choked at what he had read. Clearly, his friend had saved the best for last.

Mr. Rockstar Chic.

A fan-made collage created by someone named Starry Eyed had been pasted  below the title, featuring rows and rows of his red carpet photos and  paparazzi snapshots.