We landed at Sugar Land Regional Airport a few hours ago, went to our hotel to clean up—porn stars on planes make for dirty travel—and headed to the mansion. For the party and for a tour of the state-of-the-art studio.
My rebellion surfaced days ago, so I fucking declined to see the studio before absolutely necessary. Instead of satisfying me, my insolence leaves me emptier. Ghosts and demons chasing me, I grab two highball glasses from a passing waiter. Refusing to allow my left hand to envy the right, I fill both of them.
Drinking and dancing my way across the patio—a careless act to the naked eye—I finally escape to the interior of the house. Cold air from the A/C blasts me and I grunt at the pleasurable discomfort. After carousing in the hellish temperatures, the coolness is welcomed but against the sweat clinging to me, it chills me.
Not paying attention to the décor—really, who gives a fuck?—I roam the first floor of the house until I come across a room with the door ajar and muted light bouncing in the darkened hallway.
Though I need a little solitude, I can’t resist pushing open the door and walking into the room. Curiosity fucks me up every time.
Instead of witnessing a tryst, I discover something more intriguing. A beautiful, little creature, who’s high as the fucking moon.
Reddened eyes surround her dilated pupils. Purple. Her irises are purple and framed with thick, long lashes. Blue-black hair falls carelessly around her, deepening the flush of her skin.
Make-up doesn’t disguise how young she must be. No one under eighteen is allowed at our parties, but staring at this barely legal girl in a very small skirt and a midriff baring top makes me reconsider the rule. Does she realize the wolves she’s amongst by being at this fucking party? Me especially. I eat up little lambs like her and recycle them.
A step toward me and she teeters over her heels that are strewn in her path. She giggles, ending with a huge smile that lights up her already gorgeous face, and trips towards me.
I drink half of the contents of one glass, finish off the other, and set both down on a table. This is some type of sitting room. Or tea room. My mother had one of those and an assortment of other rooms utterly useless except to demonstrate how monstrously my father spoiled her.
“It took you long enough,” the girl chirps.
My brows lift as she reaches me, pressing her palms against my chest. She smells of alcohol, flowers, and spice.
“What did you give me?” she continues before her eyes widen. “Holy fuck, you look just like Sloane Mason.”
Her hands are roaming over my chest, discovering my skin through the holes in the mesh. Her slender fingers are cool against my clamminess and I jerk at the sensation of her exploration. A frown draws her dark brows together as she studies me, her unusually colored eyes taking in every angle of my face.
Seconds tick away and, for clueless reasons, I remain still, allowing her to absorb my features, so she’ll have no doubt as to my identity when I introduce myself. After gorging myself on my usual type on the trip from LA, boredom has chased me all evening.
Boredom is dangerous to a former addict like me. Coupled with all the other sentiments slamming me and the shit is treacherous. This little beauty is different. We all need a change every once in a while, to keep our lives interesting. Otherwise, we end up lost in a fucking rabbit hole.
“I am Sloane Mason.”
She grabs my biceps and hangs onto me. Her fingers are small and white against my inked arms.
Still, she protests. “No fucking way!”
My teeth gnash together at her language. She needs her mouth cleaned out. She’s too fucking young and gorgeous to speak like a whore. Unless she’s pleasuring me in bed, of course.
Clamping her face between my palms, I angle her head one way and then the other. She looks so…fresh, like a girl playing dress-up, a delicate little fairy. Not my type at all.
My hands nearly cover each side of her face. I grimace. There’s a reason I choose tall women. I’m fucking tall and blondes offset my dark hair. Big tits and nice, round hips fill my large hands and keeps me occupied. Long legs easily wrap around my waist, my neck, my back…
Fucking a girl not my usual type is better than finding other activities to cure my boredom. As long as she’s eighteen, the little thing in front of me will amuse me for the night. In the morning, I’ll focus on the album, the tour, and the press.
I turn her face again. At this angle, her look changes into just another female out for a good time. Young, yes, but old enough to legally fuck.
She chews on her lip. “You’re Sloane?”
I nod and counter, “How old are you?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, still too busy contemplating my face. Suddenly, her study of me changes and I decide I’ve passed muster.
“You are him,” she whispers in awe. She staggers out of my grasp. I grab her to keep her on her feet. Her eyes narrow and she looks at her toes before meeting my gaze again. ”I’m eighteen. My birthday was two months ago,” she says gravely.
Relief slamming into me, I nod with the same solemnity. My dick and me mentally high-five.