Smut for Chocoholics Page 8

  “All that messing with my head, and it was just salt.”

  Mark comes up for air from my other tit. “I told you, she’s good at the mindfuck.”

  I let myself come out of the mood I got into during the scene. No more posturing. I touch both their faces, enjoying all the differences between them, brimming with affection for them both.

  Josh narrows his eyes. “I’m going to punish you for this, Hermosa.”

  I smile. Maybe I understand enough about BDSM now that I might let him sometime, because I love him, and because Mark would like to watch. But no need to press that now, when we’re still recovering from one fantasy.

  “You’re not my master.” That old line tastes better in my mouth than it ever has before. Must be all that chocolate I just ate.

  Red Carpet Sweat

  By Lily Harlem

  The devilish thing had been taunting me since I rose from my mahogany four-poster. Hanging there, in the colossal wardrobe, all sleek, perfect and tiny and the most intense shade of claret imaginable.

  It took the designers months to create and is, of course, very limited edition, haute couture, a coveted catwalk piece, the label alone worth hundreds.

  Throughout the day its intricate sparkles and delicate sequins had been catching the Californian sunlight pouring into my hotel room. Spreading sprinkles of light over the plush-pile carpet and antique furniture like some kind of magical fairy dust.

  But one thing stands out the most, to me at least.

  It’s a damn size zero.

  Surely if you’re a zero you’re dead, invisible, stick-thin, bones, nothing more. Who the hell thought it okay to write ‘0’ inside a dress? Madness doesn’t begin to explain it. Delusional is a better word. It must have been a man!

  But the dress is mine and I have to wear it on the red carpet outside the Kodak Theatre in less than five hours.

  And I will fit into it. The last eight weeks of being a slave to my carefully structured, wheat-sugar-fat-free diet has ensured that. Plus being bullied by my evil gym-bunny personal trainer into rising at dawn for jogging, skipping, swimming, boxing, phew, I’m tired just thinking about it. And that’s before the twice-weekly full body wraps; some mud and seaweed concoction that smells like rotting leaves and supposedly removes toxins.

  And for what? For one night and for one dress!

  I fingered the material, light and silky, a little rough on the neckline where the five hundred Swarovski crystals are embedded. I do love it. Can’t wait to wear it while I’m smiling and waving at my adoring fans. I keep having a wild fantasy, a vivid daydream of myself on the huge stage, accepting the Oscar for Best Actress.

  I will, as is expected, tearily thank my co-stars, my family, my manager and the director. Butterfly is a masterpiece of a film, a deep, twisted psychological thriller about a reformed woman, once a perfect wife, now a serial murderer; her victims cheating husbands.

  A knock on the door captured my attention.

  “Come in.” I moved away from the dress and pulled my pale blue, chenille dressing gown a little tighter over my flat, empty stomach.

  Krane, my bodyguard, stepped in. Behind him a hotel porter carrying an enormous bunch of flowers - lilies, gerbera’s and sweet pea, all of the palest pink and set amongst graceful moss-green fronds.

  “Oh, how lovely,” I said, rushing over and clasping my hands beneath my chin. “Who are they from?”

  “Card,” Krane said, his whiskey-rough voice echoing in the quiet room as he plucked a small pink envelope from a plastic stalk.

  He wasn’t a man of many words despite speaking four languages.

  “Thanks.” I took it, and with fumbling fingers, opened it up.

  Tatyana, good luck for tonight, all at Mallium Film Studios

  “Oh, how thoughtful,” I said, pointing to a space on my dresser, next to three dozen yellow roses sent from my co-star, Damon Battise - a stunningly handsome, closet gay. “That’s so kind of the studios.”

  Krane tipped the porter, who bobbed his head and disappeared.

  My stomach growled a low, rumble that echoed around my innards and vibrated into the room.

  “You okay?” Krane asked with a frown.

  I rubbed my belly and swallowed. “Perfectly fine.” I looked at him standing before me in his smart jet-black suit. It was Armani and I’d ordered him to have it made especially for tonight; naturally at my expense.

  Krane was never far from my side so I liked him to look good, it reflected on my carefully constructed image. I never used to bother with personal security, but when a stalker started getting too close for comfort last spring my agent signed Krane Wallis to shadow my every move.

  At first I was snarky about having him around, nearly ten years older than me and with constant frown, he cramped my style. That was until a year ago, almost to the day, and he took a bullet for me.

  I realized then what a diva I’d been. Feeling him lying heavily over me, his body a shield, a protective barrier between me and the mad guy taking pot shots across the lot, was a big wake up call. If it hadn’t been for him...

  He was just doing his job, so he told me and still does. But he could have ducked out of his duty at the last second, pleaded the timing had been wrong for him to save me, shirked his responsibility and made a half-hearted attempt to protect me, but not. He could have made it look like he’d tried and failed.

  As it was he stopped a bullet with his right shoulder, spent four hours in surgery, a week in hospital and two months in a sling. Then he was right back at my side, brooding and quiet, and also with a new, mysterious sexiness that appealed to the very core of my womanhood. He’d saved my life. It was such a valiant thing to do. He was Tarzan to my Jane, Jack to my Rose, the real life hero who I now couldn’t imagine living without.

  “You eaten today?” he asked gruffly.

  “Egg white omelet for breakfast and a green leaf, soya-shake for lunch.”

  “And you think that’s enough?”

  “It’s what’s on my plan.”

  He rubbed his palm over his cheek, his black stubble creating a scratching noise, like sandpaper on wood. “Ah, the plan.” He nodded slowly.

  I shrugged and turned away. His aftershave smelled of woody spice and was settling in my nostrils, stroking my throat and lacing my tongue. It reminded me of my favorite Texan BBQ restaurant. I hadn’t been there for years. The ribs and the beer-can chicken were my favorite, so was the creamed-corn and the cilantro burgers.

  My stomach twisted, a tight knot of hunger. I felt a little dizzy.

  Fuck!

  “Tatyana, you should eat before the long evening ahead.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What if you faint on the red carpet?”

  “Then you’ll have to catch me.” Irritation swarmed over me, a prickling sensation. As if I didn’t have enough to cope with!

  “And that would be a good thing? You fainting?”

  “You know I can’t eat.” I huffed. “I have to wear that damn dress in a few hours.” I flicked my hand toward it. “The world will be looking at me, all eyes on my waist and my hips, peering with critical meanness to see if my stomach sticks out, just a little, the tiniest amount. If it does that will be it, tomorrow’s headlines will be Tatyana lets herself go, or Blubbering Oscar Winner displays her blubber. I was on a roll. Fatyana shows us how not to wobble down the red carpet. Can you just imagine it, Krane, really? How would I ever recover?”

  Krane did that thing with his lips - tightening them into a straight line until they paled - that he always did when he wasn’t happy with something I was doing.

  “Think of your blood sugar.” He delved into his pocket. Pulled out a slim foil wrapped bar of chocolate.

  I gasped. “Seriously. You dare bring that in here?”

&
nbsp; “It’s the best quality. Maybe you should consider eating it. For health reasons.” He set it on a small oval table with a Chinese vase in the center.

  I turned, stalked to the bed. My fists clenched at my side. My vision was floaty, a little blurry, the wavy, gold-thread pattern on the eiderdown wobbling all over the place.

  Chocolate was my biggest weakness.

  Kryptonite to a size zero actress like me.

  “Tatyana, it wouldn’t make any difference. You’re so slim anyway. Fragile.”

  Saliva was collecting in my mouth, pooling beneath my tongue, causing my cheeks to tingle.

  Chocolate!

  “It’s the look they expect,” I said, swallowing tightly.

  But how long could I resist? How far would my willpower stretch?

  “The sugar would keep you going.”

  “For god’s sake, go will you.” I whirled around. “And take that damn...” I couldn’t even say the word, just that on my tongue might make me fat. “Thing with you!”

  He tipped his head and folded his arms. “You’re pale, your stomach is growling and I’ve never seen you so thin. Please, eat it. The press will have a field day if you keel over out there.”

  “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

  He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Scowled and turned. He strode to the door leaving the chocolate bar on the table.

  “Krane,” I said, exasperated. “Take it.”

  He ignored me, and all I could do was look at his wide shoulders, neat jacket just skimming his cute butt and his long legs taking ground-eating paces across the room.

  The sound of the door shutting seemed to be an invitation for the manic voices in my head.

  Chocolate...

  You love chocolate!

  Eat it!

  Who said being thin tasted good, it doesn’t, eat the chocolate, that’s what tastes good?

  I stalked to the window. Stared down at the busy LA Street below and tapped my long, freshly manicured nails on the sill. Cars and cabs weaved along the street, shoppers weighed down with bags meandered along the sidewalk and tourists stopped to pose and take shots of Rodeo Drive.

  How dare he?

  My dietician had gone to great lengths to make sure there was nothing in this room that I could eat. No savory enticements in the minibar, just still water. No baskets of fruit, didn’t want to bloat with apples and bananas, did I? Certainly no sweet treats on the pillow when the bed was turned down. All that effort and then Krane walks in here and delivers the ultimate temptation, right there, as though it’s nothing.

  Fuck!

  I glanced at the clock. I still had one hour until my hair and make-up ladies arrived for the final preparations.

  My guts shifted again, a sharp stab of emptiness.

  Perhaps I could have just the tiniest nibble?

  No!

  What the hell are you thinking?

  I let my gaze settle on the shiny, silver wrapper. My attention drawn to it like a magnet. The rich smoothness, the thick melting goo on my tongue, the feel of it slipping down my gullet was in the forefront to my imagination. It was almost happening, for real.

  Just one square. What difference would that make? I wouldn’t even really swallow it, just let it absorb through my cheeks. That would be okay, surely.

  Drawing closer to the chocolate, sitting so innocently on the table, I was convinced I could smell it. Full-bodied cocoa that was sweetly bitter and intense. My mouth was watering again, my fingers twitching, the feel of ripping foil a pre-empted sensation.

  I can’t.

  I can.

  It was light in my hands. It really wasn’t a big bar of chocolate, but it was from an exclusive chocolatier in Beverly Hills. One of the best.

  Had Krane gone there especially?

  No. He doesn’t leave me. He’s always sitting outside my door.

  Perhaps he sent a porter?

  Eighty-six percent cocoa, it said on the wrapper. Perfect for me, not too strong, not too sweet. The ideal taste to melt at blood temperature on my tongue.

  I flicked it over, checked out the calorie content, as was my habit. One hundred and seventy-five.

  Fuck!

  But that was the whole bar. One small square would be much less. Carefully I rubbed my fingers over the wrapper, counting the number of grooves.

  Okay, seven, that meant each square was twenty-five calories. Barely anything. Hell, brushing your teeth, eating a bit of toothpaste wasn’t much less, was it?

  I held it to my nose. Inhaled deeply. A waterfall of delicate flavors hit my nostrils - liquid gold, swirling cream, a cacophony of childhood memories. The warmth of the scent was like cashmere wrapping around me, a delicious perfume that flicked all the pleasure switches in my brain.

  Hunger was clawing at my insides. My inner voices were tempting me with whispers of seductive satisfaction.

  One square.

  One square.

  I peeled back the wrapper. Looking at it wouldn’t count, would it?

  Perfect, glossy, deep brown stared up at me. Enticing in its texture, the hint of a crumble along its sheer edge. I could just imagine its faint crunch, the snap of it breaking free from the rest of the bar.

  I turned it over, it was slender and light. How it could be fattening, so fattening? Such a thin wedge of excellence. Refined over centuries and adored by so many.

  With a sudden flourish I broke off the first square and shoved it in my mouth. I crunched noisily, greedily until it was too destroyed to pull out in a chunk. Oh, the heavenly essence of chocolate. It was spreading, thick and luscious. Gliding over my cheeks and gums. Leaving no corner of my hungry, wicked mouth untouched.

  I closed my eyes, savored the moment. My first taste of chocolate in weeks, no make that months.

  I’ve missed you.

  All too soon that chunk was gone, dissipating and melting away, slipping, sylph-like down my throat.

  My heart was racing, my breaths short. If my nasty gym bunny trainer or rake-thin holistic dietician saw me now, what would they say? What would they do? Back-flips and cartwheels no doubt, while they screamed and pulled out their hair, their faces purple with horror, their screeches high-pitched wails of despair.

  I couldn’t help but giggle at the image. The very thought making me high. I snapped off another square, shoved it in my mouth, quickly, before I could change my mind.

  Delicious.

  Instantly I was seven years old again. Stealing a purple chocolate bell from the Christmas tree and hiding under the stairs to secretly munch it. That had been cheap-and-cheerful chocolate, nothing like this exclusive bit swirling around my mouth. But what they both had in common was they were illicit, pinched, pilfered and they tasted all the scrummier because of it.

  Damn that lump had gone. I hesitated, but only for the briefest of moments, and then the next portion was in. I gobbled fast. A dribble ran from the corner of my mouth, onto my chin. I caught it with the tip of my index finger and sucked it back into the hot cave of goo. Shut my eyes and sighed at the fullness in my mouth, the absolute covering of chocolate on my teeth, tongue and inner cheeks.

  I chomped and slurped, swallowed and shoved in more. I could hear groans of pleasure rumbling up from my chest, but they sounded distant, I was lost to my own pleasure, the sheer bliss of the taste sensation. On and on it went, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate.

  All too soon the empty wrapper glared up at me. Feeble, creased, torn, holding but a few, sparse crumbs. It floated to the floor, I stepped back, still licking my lips but horrified as my surroundings returned and time, place and person once again came into perspective.

  Shit!

  What had I done?

  Nausea gripped me, my abdomen moaned. I gasped and w
alked quickly toward the window. Changed my mind and headed to the wardrobe. No, the bed, no, the door.

  Shit!

  What was I going to do? I was one hundred and seventy-five calories too heavy. The dress would never fit. I would sweat and bulge and wobble all over the place.

  I blasted out ten star-jumps. Dropped to the floor and heaved through ten press-ups. That should be a few calories done in.

  I was hot, feverish. Panic running through my veins, adrenaline pumping.

  The hotel gym. That was where I needed to be. Find myself a cross-trainer, or a running machine, perhaps lift some weights, join a class; something strenuous and exhausting.

  I glanced at my watch.

  Fuck, no time for that. I had less than an hour until my ‘people’ started fussing over me.

  Calories, I needed to burn calories, fast. My head spun, my knees were weak with fear.

  Oh, why did I do it?

  Sex.

  The word hit me like a steam-roller.

  Sex was what I needed. Sex used up calories with amazing efficiency. I’d once read that it was easy to burn one hundred and seventy calories in half an hour of sex. It was an impressive statistic, and right now, exactly what I needed.

  I paced across the room. My trusty vibrator was in my hold-all. Did that count? Rational thinking wasn’t my best friend, but a few seconds of thought brought me to the conclusion that laying on my back, with buzz speed three doing its thing, wasn’t likely to burn much fat.

  No, I needed, wild, passionate, sweaty, sex. Sex so energetic I was panting and gasping, using all my muscles and having a real good workout.

  Where the hell was a hot, hard man when I needed one?

  I tutted, stomped left and right, looked at the phone. There was no one to call.

  I paced again and found myself at the door. Resting my hands on the cool wood, I peered through the peephole. My heart was beating so fast I swear it was rattling against my ribcage.

  Krane was sitting, as usual, opposite my door. His arms crossed and a steely look on his face.

  A tremble of lust went through me. Yes, Krane would do. He’d been appealing more and more to me lately. His strength, his sheer determination to protect me, had been sending shivers of desire through my thin body for weeks.