10

The car pulled up to a twenty-two-foot aluminum gate that looked more like a vast modern art sculpture than the entrance to a residence.

“Wow,” Poppy said.

“I know. Very Gaudi-esque, right?” said Justin. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she nodded anyway. The structure practically glowed. Behind it, was the glass façade of a building that was straight out of a Woody Allen movie where people lived in impossibly perfect houses.

Although she and Justin had chatted easily in the car, the awesomeness of his home made her uncomfortable, and they fell silent. For the first time since leaving the club, she wondered why Bette had warned her not to go.

“Sounds like the party has definitely started without us,” he said. Sure enough, the sound of loud music and laughter greeted them. Poppy tried not to look too impressed with the huge entrance foyer. She was thankful she didn’t know anything about art, because she had a feeling that if she did, it would be impossible not to betray how utterly out of her depth she was.

And then she saw it: a giant fish tank hanging high across the room. Except it wasn’t a fish tank—it was a glass cube with a girl inside. She wore a tank top and camouflage cargo shorts, and her dark hair was in a high ponytail. She seemed quite content up there, flipping through a thick, hardcover book and painting her toenails.

“What . . . is that?” she asked him.

“Cool, right? Martha and I kind of stole the idea from André Balazs, but we just couldn’t resist.”

“Does she . . . live here?”

“No! She’s an NYU student. We pay her by the hour. It works for everyone—gives us some nice, live art, and she gets paid while she does her chemistry homework. I’d offer you a shift, but I’m sure we couldn’t afford you.” He winked.

Poppy was speechless.

Someone took her coat. (A butler? Did people still have butlers?)

“Please remove your shoes, madam,” the man said.

Poppy looked at Justin.

“Yeah, my wife is very protective of her floors. They cost a small fortune, so I can’t really argue with her on this one.”

Poppy bent down and reluctantly removed her heels. Thank God she was five foot nine and didn’t need the height boost. But they did do wonders for her calves. Luckily she was wearing jeans.

Justin steered her to an enormous living room, and she could see what he meant about the floors. They were the darkest, shiniest wood she had ever seen, covered here and there by super shaggy, white area rugs. Pale, low to the ground couches were punctuated with small glass tables. Sure enough, the half dozen or so guests were all shoeless. Poppy was happy to gauge that she was the tallest woman in the room.

She tried to guess from the crowd which woman was Justin’s wife. Maybe the well-dressed, slightly older woman with the carefully coiffed blond hair. Or the other blonde—not as put-together as the first, but with a pretty smile and a quicksilver laugh that she could hear across the room.

But then she saw her—with a wink and a wave she greeted her husband. One of the most unattractive women Poppy had ever seen in her life. It wasn’t just that she was grossly overweight, or that her stringy brown hair was in great need of a shampoo, or that her sausage feet were stuffed into ugly shoes (shoes!) that had to be orthopedic or otherwise had no reason to exist. No, it was her facial resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

The woman hoisted herself from her perch on one of the cream couches, and ambled over to greet them.

“Poppy, this is my wife, Martha. Martha, this is Poppy LaRue—the new girl at the Blue Angel.”

“Welcome! Delighted to have you.” She took Poppy by the elbow and led her around the room, introducing her to the other guests. After each name Martha would tag the person with a profession or accomplishment—“Poppy, this is Alan Mackler, editor-at-large at Vanity Fair. . . .” When people asked her what she did, she replied, “I’m a burlesque dancer.” And they nodded and then smiled at each other with looks that said, stripper.

Justin showed her to the bar, where a bubbly young woman named McKenzie poured her a glass of champagne. Poppy told Justin it was her favorite drink.

“Hand me a bottle, McKenzie. We’re going to take it to the roof if Martha needs me for anything.”

Poppy had to admit she was relieved to escape the living room crowd. And if she was being completely honest, she was anxious for some time alone with Justin. She was hot for him. He was better looking than she had even realized at first, with thick, glossy brown hair and a devilishly cute smile.

They took an elevator to the top of the building, and the door opened to a deck with a pool.

“I wish it was summer so you could see how great this place is,” he said.

“I can imagine. I can’t believe you have a pool! I didn’t know this even existed in Manhattan.”

So much for playing it cool. What could she do? It was the most insane place she’d ever seen. She thought about her tiny apartment in the Village and cringed.

He held out his hand, and she placed her hand in his. It was big, and when he closed his fingers around hers, she knew she had to have sex with him. It had been a long time since she’d wanted a guy like this. It was different from what she felt for Bette—that was a curiosity, a new type of attraction, and a little careerism. For Justin she had the kind of gut-level attraction that made her feel out of control. It was scary and thrilling—that rollercoaster in the pit of your stomach feeling.

“It’s freezing out here—I’d better get you back inside.”

She let him lead her back into the elevator. They didn’t return to the ground level, but instead stopped on the third floor.

Poppy knew they were headed to his bedroom—and she didn’t mind one bit. The only question was—would Martha?

The room was all sleek dark wood and chrome. One entire wall was mirrored, as was the ceiling. Poppy could feel herself getting wet already. And from the looks of Justin’s crotch, he was hard for her—again.

He closed the door.

“I wish I could have a tank in here and just watch you all night long,” he said. “That is, after I fucked you.”

Poppy looked at him, startled. His crudeness made her want him even more.

“Show me what you’re wearing under those jeans,” he said. She undressed down to her black bra and black lace thong. “God, you’re perfect,” he said. She loved hearing it. She let him pull the strap of her bra down over her shoulder, freeing one breast. He sucked one nipple while cupping her ass.

He moved up to kiss her mouth, and she felt his erection through his pants. She ran her hand along the length of it. He was huge, and this made her a little nervous. She hoped he didn’t want her to give him a blow job. She didn’t like doing that when the guy was too big, and Justin Baxter definitely fell into that category. She didn’t even know if she’d be comfortable with him fucking her, but he was hot enough that it was worth a try.

“Get on the bed,” he said, his voice thick.

She climbed onto the king-size bed. She felt weird being on the expensive-looking comforter in her underwear. And wasn’t his wife wondering where the hell they were?

“On your stomach,” he said.

She stretched out on her stomach as he asked.

He knelt on the bed beside her and slowly pulled down her panties. He gently pressed her legs apart, and she spread them for him, feeling slightly uncomfortable to be splayed out like that on her stomach. His face pressed between her legs, and his tongue, then a finger delved into her pussy. She was instantly wet.

“I want to tie you up—is that okay?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said, uneasy.

“I’ll do it very loosely—it’s just for fun. You can pull your arms out if you really want to.”

“Um, all right.”

He pulled a red satin box from a bedside table.

“I’m going to put this on you first.” It was a black eye mask, like the kind people wore on airplanes when they wanted to sleep.

“Justin . . .” Of course she knew people did stuff like this, but she’d never imagined it for herself.

“Let’s just try it. If you’re uncomfortable, we’ll take it off. No big deal. And it will make me incredibly turned on to know I am looking at you but your eyes are closed, and you are just feeling what I do to you.”

Well, when he put it that way!

“Okay,” she said.

She sat up, and he secured the cover over her eyes, carefully adjusting the elastic band so it didn’t get tangled in her hair.

“Lie back down,” he said softly. She got back on her stomach. “Stretch out your arms.” She complied, and he gently tied them to the bedpost. Her powerlessness was shockingly exciting. The nervous anticipation she felt was so intense, she knew she would come the next time he fingered her.

Minutes passed, and he did not touch her. She wanted to say something, but felt like she would be breaking the mood. So she waited. And waited.

Finally, she felt his tongue. He lapped at her pussy, his tongue soft and gentle. She moaned, but needed him to penetrate her to give her release.

“Fuck me,” she said.

“I want you to come from what you feel right now,” he said.

“I don’t know if I can.”

The tongue pressed deeper inside her, and her pelvis moved of its own accord. She felt her mind detach in that floaty way it got when her body took over completely. A finger pressed into her, maybe two. She groaned.

“I want you to come,” he said. “And when you do, I want you to tell me while you’re coming.”

She felt it building, as his fingers worked in and out, one on her clit. He ran one along the rim of her asshole but didn’t press it inside of her. Still, it was enough to push her over the edge.

“I’m coming,” she moaned. Suddenly, he pulled off her mask and was in front of her. But it was impossible, because the fingers were still working inside of her, pressing rhythmically with her orgasm.

“What the fuck?” She turned around the best she could manage with her arms restrained.

No.

There, at the foot of the bed, leaning over her, stood Martha. Her gaze was fixed intently on Poppy’s ass and pussy; she was oblivious to Poppy’s shock.

“Stop!” she yelled. And yet, the spasms continued inside her pussy. Justin moved behind her, taking Martha’s place. She felt the tip of his cock against her ass, sliding against her wet lips; she couldn’t stop.

“I want to fuck you now,” he breathed against her neck, his body pressed against hers, one arm underneath her, bringing her pelvis into position for himself. “And Martha is going to watch,” he said.

His cock was poised at her pussy, brushing against her but not going inside. Her head was spinning, but her body was arching back to him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered. And with that, he plunged into her, and the size of him made her gasp. He moved slowly enough for her to get used to him.

Martha started untying her wrists.

“Press up on your knees,” he said. She listened to him, and with her ass tilted up to him she felt his thrusting grow faster and knew he was going to come—and he did, loudly.

He pulled out, and she immediately turned over onto her back. She looked over at Martha, who was perched on a chair, her gaze glassy and her mouth slack. Poppy pulled the bedspread over herself.

“We’ll give you some privacy,” Justin said. “The bathroom is right through that corridor. Take as long as you like. We’ll be downstairs. We hope you have time for a drink. The night is young.” He winked at her, and opened the bedroom door for Martha.

He closed it behind them.

When Poppy was sure they were gone, she reached onto the ground for her handbag. She hoped she had her MAC compact and maybe some eyeliner with her, because God knew she needed a major touch-up after that crazy romp.

And then she saw them fanned out on the edge of the bed: five hundred-dollar bills.

Motherfuckers!