Marisol's wet as hell, her knickers soaked through, and she leans her face against mine and moans softly as I draw my fingers back and forth, between her lips and up to the nub of her clit. She wriggles off the table, her legs unwrapping from me as I lean her back, over the table.
I stroke her again, and she gasps raggedly so I keep going, circling my fingers around her clit, rubbing her harder and faster, too far gone to tease.
We kiss again, her hand wrapped around the back of my head, pulling me down as she takes my cock in her other hand. She unzips my jeans and before I know it she's grasping my erection, fist around the base as she strokes me long and hard.
"Jesus," I whisper, and her other hand closes around my hair, her body tense and tight, a wire ready to snap, her fist stroking my cock.
"Don't stop," she whispers. Her hand tightens in my hair, loosens, slides down to my neck.
As if I'd stop.
"Oh," she says softly, and gasps, our foreheads together, eyes closed. Her nails dig into the back of my neck and she makes another noise, like she's trying to swallow a moan.
She comes. Her whole body tightens at once, her hand on my neck, her grip on my cock. She sighs and gasps for breath, moaning in a whisper, her face against mine. I keep circling her clit with my fingers as her chest rises and falls against me, until her mouth finds mine again and she kisses me deeply, her mouth opening under mine.
It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. I want to make her come a hundred more times, but now she's stroking me harder, faster, her fist around my cock as needy and urgent as her mouth on mine.
Fuck, I can't take this.
"Marisol," I murmur, pulse racing, breath coming in hard gasps. "I'm gonna-"
She bites my lip and strokes me harder.
I explode.
I have hardly any warning, just barely covering my cock with my hand in time so I don't come all over this supply closet. Marisol's lips are on my neck. I have to force myself not to shout as I come so hard I feel like I've been hit by a train, my toes curling, every muscle in my body bunching and tensing again and again.
When it's over, Marisol takes her hand from my cock. She kisses me again, slow and long, until finally we separate.
We look at each other in the dark, and I realize that neither of us planned this far.
"So..." she whispers.
"You haven't got a tissue, have you?" I ask. "I could use one."
"Shit," she says, looking around.
Then she starts laughing.
"I didn't quite... hold on," she says, and slips away from me. I can hear her zip her pants and can just barely make out her outline in the dark.
I stand there, softening cock out, one hand full of jizz, hoping that she's got a plan. I certainly haven't. I haven't got much of anything besides a lazy, satiated feeling and the desire to do this again as soon as possible.
"Here," she says, her voice low. I reach out with my non-jizz hand and she presses a warm piece of fabric into it.
"It's a sock, isn't it?"
"It's all I've got," she says. She sounds apologetic, but I can tell she's trying not to laugh.
I wipe my other hand. The sock's not very absorbent, but it's better than nothing.
"I feel like I'm thirteen," I whisper.
"You did this when you were thirteen?"
I can hear the smile in her voice.
"I certainly thought about it," I say, turning the sock inside out. My hand's still sticky, but at least I'm no longer dripping. "The end result was the same."
I tuck my cock into my pants and zip up. Marisol puts her shoe back on. Electronics hum around us as she stands and I skim her back, pulling her in for one more kiss with my non-sticky hand.
"We should go," Marisol murmurs. "Now we're really late to the meeting."
The thought of going upstairs and talking to Nigel and Valerie, having them pick Marisol and I apart like we're characters in their story, actually makes my stomach turn.
"There is nothing I want to do less," I say. "Let's not."
"We said we'd be there."
"I don't think I can stand it," I say slowly. "I can't sit there while they discuss what angle we ought to be kissing at or whether we should hold hands or what physical affections markers will be most palatable and convincing to the American public."
She hesitates.
"Run away with me," I say.
"I can't just leave," she says. "I'm supposed to be-"
"We've just broken into a closet in an unknown building and rounded third base," I tease. "Don't start being the good girl now."
Marisol sighs.
"A proper date," I say. "No fucking cameras, no tabloids, no reporters, no trying to convince onlookers that this is real, no one watching or listening. Just us, together, on a date."
There's a short silence, filled with the hum of machinery.
"Okay," she finally says, and in the dark I can barely see her smile. "We'll go on a date."
24
Marisol
Miraculously, the hallway is still empty. I can hear a door open and then shut behind us as we walk out, Gavin gingerly holding my sock in one hand, and my blood pressure spikes at the thought of being caught.
But nothing happens. We leave the building, cross the alley, throw away the sock, find an entrance to the parking garage, and get into Gavin's car.
I check my phone. There's a solid wall of texts, emails, missed calls, and voicemails, and my stomach plummets. I hate not following through on things I said I'd do, even for good reasons.
Good reasons like Gavin's mouth on mine, hot and hungry. Good reasons like hand jobs in a closet and coming so hard my face went numb.
I can't believe I did that, I think, staring blindly at my phone. We could have gotten caught, we could have been arrested and then we'd both be felons as well as on the sex offender registry...
"How bad is it?" Gavin asks, pulling out of the parking space.
I swallow, focusing on my phone.
"Bad," I say. "I've got sixteen missed calls from Valerie and ten from Nigel, plus a ton of text messages about how I need to come in for damage control, put out fires, reassure the American public, asking if I know where you are..."
I scroll.
"...asking if we're together, saying that we can't be seen together before we've got a strategy for re-gaining the media's trust and goodwill..."
Gavin just laughs.
"Is that irony? Now we're supposed to pretend to no longer be seeing each other?"
"It's sort of ironic," I say, distracted.
One minute ago, Valerie forwarded something that isn't in all caps, and that's weird for her. There's no panicked commentary on this email at all, which makes me nervous, so I click the link.
Gavin's Lady Love A Lie?
Drummer dishes dirt!
Shit.
I freeze. Gavin pulls out of the parking garage and then stops in the driveway, looking over at me.
Then he takes the phone from my hands.
"No, wait," I protest.
He pops it into the cupholder on his side of the car.
"I promise it'll all be there in the morning," he says.
"Eddie told someone we were faking," I blurt. "I think, I only read the headline that Valerie sent."
"That fucking cock," Gavin says, pulling his own phone out. I reach over him and grab mine, and for a few moments, we're both just reading and scrolling.
After Gavin punched him, apparently Eddie got drunker, there were cameras, and long story short, he spilled the beans on us, trashing us to the paparazzi who were waiting outside the party.
I hold my breath. A car honks behind us and Gavin rolls down his window, waving them around.
"I don't know that they believe him," Gavin murmurs.
"I can't tell either," I say, scrolling back up. There's a blurry picture of Eddie above the headline, his eye dark, though it's hard to say whether it's a bruise or a shadow. "The article at least sounds... skeptical."
"He was quite drunk as well as angry with me," Gavin says. "I wouldn't believe what he said."
"Even if it was true?"
There's a quick pause as we look at each other, and then Gavin smiles slowly.
"Well, it's not true any longer," he says, and my heart does a little flip.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs to bursting, then tilt my head against the headrest and exhale. The last twenty-four hours have been almost too much - the concert, the bad kiss, getting stoned, Gavin taking care of me, and now to have it suddenly become real, very real, bodily fluid real only for Eddie to tell everyone it's fake?
"Am I living in a telenovela?" I ask, eyes still closed. "This is absurd."
"Hard to say, given as how I'm also in it," Gavin says. "But you've not fainted dramatically nor met your long-lost twin who's turned out evil, so I don't think you are."
"I did think I was dissolving."
"That's less telenovela and more after school special about the dangers of drugs," he teases. "I should have filmed you, could have scared a whole generation off the devil's weed."
"They had those in England, too?"
"Of course," he says. "And they didn't work there either, trust me."
Another car honks and then goes around us, squealing its tires as it turns onto the main road. My phone buzzes, another regularly-capitalized email from Valerie, something more about Eddie and Gavin's supposed feud from the looks of it.