face had taken on a slack, robotic expression. He sank to the floor and started rummaging about in his jeans, at last removing a coloured wrapper. So much for being a virgin. The second time he entered her Aurora was thrown back on to the table, scattering the pool balls wide. She raised her arms and grabbed each of the top pockets with her fingers, the boy pummelling into her, deeper and deeper, all the way in then driving back out, his hands under her ass. He was half up on the table now, one knee bent on the felt, the other foot steadying him on the floor. Aurora didn’t think she had ever in her life been nailed with such conviction.
He mounted the table, crouching, and flipped her round. She saw two of the yellow balls rush into the top pockets, heard the velvety plunk of one vanishing in another. Gripping under her belly with one hand, the boy pushed into her from behind, snatching her tits with the other, tugging them hard. She felt the slap of him against her and she grabbed one of the pool cues, sliding its length underneath till she could move the cold, flawless line of it back and forth, bringing her off. The boy took the lead, clasping its end and driving it between them. As she was on the cusp of coming he whipped it out from under her, slid his cock out and replaced it with the butt of the cue. With a strangled groan he ejaculated. Rocked forward with the motion, Aurora screamed aloud on the crest of her orgasm. The boy collapsed forward and they stayed motionless on the table, wrapped in sweat, gasping for air.
‘Fuck,’ was all Aurora could say. ‘You’re an outrageous fuck, Sebastian.’
He began kissing the length of her spine, from behind her neck to the top of her ass. She was still riding the gentle spasms of her first climax when he bent to lick her. Lazily she smiled, parting her legs to receive his tongue, feeling it flick and plunge between her till she was coaxed to the edge of another rising swell. He used his fingers, wetting them before, on the point of making her come a second time, he dipped the tip of his thumb into her ass.
Aurora cried in ecstasy, so loud she didn’t hear the door to the games room open.
Sherilyn Rose dropped whatever it was she was carrying. Sebastian clambered back off the table, tripping over on to the floor, struggling to get his jeans on, mumbling something incoherent in Spanish.
Shit.
Triple shit.
Aurora looked up, blew the hair out of her face. ‘Hey, Mom.’
9 Stevie
Linus Posen’s party, or ‘gathering’, as it was creepily called on Bibi’s invitation, took place in his penthouse New York apartment on a Sunday night. As soon as she saw Linus, Stevie understood he was exactly the sort of person who threw parties on Sundays, changing the rules simply because he could. He was a massive presence, tall and fat, and possessed a booming baritone of a voice and mean, quick little eyes that looked like raisins squidged into raw dough.
Stevie decided on sight that she didn’t like him. Typically she’d never be so quick to judge, but his air of bored arrogance sat uncomfortably with her.
‘Are you sure I look OK?’ trilled Bibi as they stood at the entrance to the sprawling warehouse, suffused with mood beats and the hum of conversation. It wasn’t like Bibi to be insecure about anything, but she hadn’t relaxed since they’d set off.
In the cab, Stevie had been surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you fancy him.’
‘Of course I do,’ Bibi had confessed, insofar as Bibi could ever make a confession, because Bibi never seemed to be embarrassed or apologetic about anything. ‘Linus Posen is shit-hot, Steve. He’s the director that could build my career! My agent says he’s casting for his new movie. Matthew McConaughey’s tipped to star.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to find him attractive.’
‘McConaughey? Gimme a break.’
‘Linus Posen, silly. Isn’t he old?’
‘Fifties, is my bet.’ Bibi had checked her face in her compact for the millionth time. ‘Frankly, I don’t care. He could be in a wheelchair and I’d still show him the Bibi Reiner magic!’
‘That’s sick.’
‘That’s sensible.’
‘What about whether or not you like him?’ She knew she was giving Bibi a hard time. Just because she’d succumbed to a man with power didn’t mean the disaster that had befallen her was going to befall everyone. It was just that she didn’t want Bibi getting hurt, and instinct told her that Bibi didn’t always think things through properly. Then again, that was hypocritical.
‘That comes afterwards,’ Bibi had explained patiently. ‘All I care about right now is getting him to notice me.’
The party was packed with famous faces, some of whom Stevie recognised and some she didn’t. The girls wound their way through the chatting, exclaiming sea of bodies. It reminded Stevie of the handful of celebrity soirées she’d attended through Simms & Court in London, but even she had to admit this was of a higher order. Back at Bibi’s apartment she’d teamed a pair of black skinny jeans with boots and a top: it was definitely her style, not that she’d admit to having one, of quiet, understated glamour. Bibi had tried to insist she borrow a dress but she’d turned it down, compromising by letting her hair loose and slipping on a pair of heels, to which Bibi had exclaimed, ‘We’re the same size, ohmygod, it’s meant to be!’
She regretted her decision. All the other women were in gowns and skirts and Stevie felt criminally underdressed, especially next to Bibi, who was clad in an imitation (a good one) Versace minidress and fierce heels.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Bibi, taking her arm.
‘Sure. Why?’
‘You seem a bit … I dunno, quiet. Is everything all right?’
It wasn’t the first time Bibi had attempted to get her to open up. Being a relentless gossip, she’d been on at Stevie about ex-boyfriends and past experiences pretty much as soon as she’d got here, and doubtless could tell something was the matter. It wasn’t as though Stevie didn’t feel able to confide in her—on first impressions Bibi was a live wire, but underneath all that was a deeply caring and unselfish friend—it was more that she didn’t want to think of it herself. She’d done a stupid thing, a reckless thing, and she regretted it. That was all there was to say.
‘Honest, B. I’m fine.’
Bibi accepted it: she knew when to push her luck. She plucked two flutes of gold champagne from a passing tray and nudged Stevie in the ribs. ‘There he is,’ she murmured, the champagne vanishing in one. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Will he know who we are?’ Stevie disliked feeling like a groupie. She had no desire to meet Linus and even less to witness his ego being fawned over.
Bibi grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the group surging around the director, nearly colliding with an oncoming array of canapés that was more artwork than food. ‘If he doesn’t now,’ she promised, ‘he will soon.’
They got held up by Bibi’s agent for a few moments, a flinty-eyed woman named Carrie Pearce, who had bobbed hair the colour of rat. From the way she spoke to her client it was clear she deemed Bibi incredibly lucky to have her representation. Stevie couldn’t work out why, since Bibi seemed to go for endless
