Faking It (22 page)

We swim toward the island, standing when we reach the sandy shallows. The turquoise water is so clear, I can see a school of tiny silvery-blue fish swimming nearby. I am wondering when I have felt more content, when Luc comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. His chest rises and falls against my back.

“Are you happy?” he asks, his lips brushing my ear.

“Crazy happy.” I turn around and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “This is just what I needed, Luc. My life in San Francisco, all the stress of the last few weeks, it seems so far away, like a long-ago nightmare.”

Luc kisses me, long and deep. I am glad he has his arms around me because I don’t have the strength to stand alone. I could melt into the sea and be carried away on the waves.

He pulls back and we stare into each other’s eyes.

We’re going to make love. Today. Soon.

Without saying a word, we swim back to the sailboat. By the time I reach the platform, Luc has already climbed aboard and is holding out his hand to help me up.

He hoists me onto the platform, and then, before I’ve had time to wring the water out of my hair, we are lying on the deck, kissing and touching each other with heated urgency.

I know this is crazy, that it’s happening too fast, but I don’t care. I don’t want to think about what’s right and what’s wrong. I just want to feel Luc between my legs. I want to lose myself in his kiss. I want him to lose himself in me.

He drags his lips from mine, presses them against my ear, and says something in French.

“I don’t know what you just said.”

“I said”—Luc’s deep, accented voice teases my ear—“unless you tell me no right now, I am going to make love to you,
chérie
.”

I slide my hand inside the waistband of his trunks and wrap my fingers around his long, hard shaft.

Luc groans, low and deep in his throat. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He reaches up, grabs a long bench cushion, and pulls it down beside us. I pull my hand out of his trunks and he lifts us onto the cushion.

I should probably ask him to stop. I have pink hair, a ridiculous tattoo on my ass, and I smell like the sea. I’m not exactly bringing sexy back. Do I want Luc to remember me as I am at this moment?

He slides his hand inside my bikini top, cups one of my breasts, and gently pinches my nipple. Who cares if I look the Little Mermaid and smell like her friend Flounder? Flipper? Whatever. I have never wanted anyone as much as I want Luc at this moment. What’s more, he wants me, too. His erection presses against me. His chest heaves with each labored breath.

Luc unties my bikini top and tosses it aside. A stray breeze blows over my breasts, teasing my already hardened nipples. He stands and hurriedly pulls off his trunks, affording me a snapshot I will carry forever of his tanned naked body. Broad chest. Washboard abs. Big, hard cock.

I close my eyes and wait for him to pull off my bottoms, but he doesn’t. Instead, he claims my breast with his mouth, sucking and licking until my bikini bottom is moist between my thighs.

This isn’t going to be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Luc’s a lover. He’s going to take it nice and slow. Make me ache for it.

And I am.

I run my hands over his chest, his sides, his abs, feeling each muscular knot, memorizing them with my fingers. His body is amazing, hard and smooth, like a finely chiseled statue. He’s David in the flesh.

He moves his mouth slowly down my body, kissing and licking, tracing the outline of my bikini with his tongue. It’s crazy erotic. I want him. Now.

He pulls off my bikini bottoms and positions himself over me. His cock presses against me, coaxing me to open for him.

“Look at me, Vivia.”

I obey his command, looking into his brown-green eyes, falling into him, and that’s when he pushes inside me, one swift, hard thrust that has me clutching at his broad shoulders. He waits, stiff and still inside me. The boat rocks, the sails flap in the breeze, but we just stare at each other. It’s erotic. He pulls out, slowly, and then starts a rhythm that mimics the waves lapping the sides of the boat.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

A fine bead of sweat appears on Luc’s forehead, breaks, and slides down his face, dropping on my breast. It’s sexy hot. An electrical charge forms deep in my abdomen. The current flows to my limbs and they begin to vibrate. I close my eyes and let the current build and flow until I orgasm again. I can’t stop myself from thrusting my hips up, urging him to grind faster. Luc lowers himself onto me, chest against chest, thighs against thighs, and we make love faster, harder until we’re both exhausted and panting.

He rolls over and pulls me on top of him. I rest my head on his chest, feel the smooth skin against my cheek, and listen to his heartbeat. I wish I could bottle this moment. I want to remember the way it feels to be lying naked on top of Luc, the Mediterranean breeze kissing my back, the waves rocking us.

“What are you thinking?”

Just the sound of his low, lyrical voice makes me want to orgasm again. Is there anything sexier than a French accent?

“I’m thinking this is a perfect moment and how I wish we could gather all of our perfect moments, so we could relive them, again and again, whenever we wanted.”

Luc squeezes me tighter. “Me too.”

Neither of us moves. Shaded by the sails, we hold each other, listening to the wind and the waves.

This is the first time I’ve slept with someone honestly. No lying about my sexual history. No pretending to be the wide-eyed virgin. Maybe that’s why I climaxed so many times. Who knew honesty could be such an aphrodisiac?

Take that, Saint Vivia. I’m a sexually liberated woman. No moral hang-ups. No worrying about eternal condemnation. From now on, I’m just me, Vivia Perpetua Grant. Pink haired, ass tatted, sex loving Vivia.

A gentle breeze billows the sails and our bodies are bathed in warm liquid gold Mediterranean sunshine. I can’t help but think this moment, this powerfully beautiful and true moment, is a metaphor for my new self. A cleansing breeze lifts my sails and exposes my lies to the light. I am naked and vulnerable.

I press a grateful kiss to Luc’s salty lips and snuggle my head into the hollow of his shoulder. I don’t know if I will ever be able to thank him for helping me embark on this exhilarating, terrifying new journey, but I can think of a few ways I would like to try.

Triple Nipple

Fanny pounces on me the minute I walk into the suite.

“Where have you been? My phone has been blowing up. What happened last night? How did you meet Jett Jericho? Did you really get a tattoo?”

She stops to take a breath so I jump in.

“With Luc. I got crazy drunk. A new friend introduced me to him. Yes, on my right ass cheek.”

Fanny stares at me through wide, unbelieving eyes.

“You met Jett Jericho?”

“Yes.”

“
The
Jett Jericho? Jett Jericho who started his career playing Willy Wonka in
The Madness of Ronald Dahl
? The same Jett Jericho who played Lucas du Courday in
Vampire Chronicles
?”

“The same.”

“Shut up!” Fanny slaps her hands on her cheeks. “Is he hot?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s this new friend?”

“Geneva de Prideaux.”

“The heiress?”

“Yep.”

Fanny drops her hands.

“You met one of the world’s richest heiresses, she plied you with champagne, introduced you to Jett Jericho, and talked you into getting a tattoo?”

“Mmmm.” I drop my bag and flop down on the bed. “That’s pretty much it.”

Fanny flops down beside me and we both stare at the ceiling.

“One day, Vivian.” She holds up one finger. “I leave you alone for one day, and look what happens. You become a wild child. Next, you’ll be telling me you had sex with Jean-Luc.”

A pregnant pause stretches between us as I try to craft a response.

“Oh my God! You had sex with Jean-Luc!” Fanny sits up and looks at me as if I’ve suddenly grown a third nipple.

Since she said “you had sex with Jean-Luc” more as a statement of fact than as a question, I remain silent.

“You did, didn’t you? You boffed Jean-Luc?”

“Boffed? Who uses that word anymore?”

“The divorcees.”

“Really, Fanny? Do you really want to pick up slang from the forties set?”

“Whatever! Stop trying to change the subject. Answer the question.”

“Which question? I’m sorry; I’m still back on
boffed
.”

“Did. You. And. Jean-Luc. Have. Sex?”

I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “Yes.”

Fanny hoots and jumps on the bed, bouncing up and down like a five-year-old. Her giddy enthusiasm is infectious. When she finally wears herself out, she drops back down beside me and we sit cross-legged on the bed.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Was he good?”

“Sorry, Fanny.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not talking about my sex life with Luc.”

“That means he was.”

“Still not saying.”

“Fine, whatever.” She laughs. “I guess this means you’re over Nathan.”

“I have to be.” I frown. “He sent me an e-mail calling me a whore. He threw down a bunch of legal jargon and demanded I return the engagement ring. That pretty much killed any love lingering in my heart.”

“What?”

“Read for yourself.”

I grab my iPhone out of my bag, hit the power button, and hand it to her. It vibrates and chirps and bings for a long time.

“I’ve never heard a phone do that. You must have a skazillion texts and e-mails.”

I shrug. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

Fanny reads the e-mail, shakes her head, and hands the phone back to me. I wait for her to call Nathan a pompous, self-absorbed, priggish asshole, but instead she says, “Where’s the ring?”

“Over on the table. Why?”

“Because,” she says, snatching the ring off the table, “we’re going to FedEx the ring to Nathan. And we’re sending it C.O.D., Collect On Delivery!”

Measuring Wonka’s Willie

The hair dye must have been temporary because the rest of it washed out when I took a shower. The Jett Jericho scandal is still raging, though.

Before we left the Hotel Martinez this morning, I turned my iPhone on just so I could send a reassuring text to my mum and a terse response to Nathan. I had 216 new e-mails, eighty-nine new texts, and 193,975 new Twitter followers.

193,975! How is that possible?

Honestly, I am not flattered. I’m stressed. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having such a large following. Like I need to entertain. I wonder if this is how Marilyn Monroe felt when she wiggled and shimmied on the stage in front of a thousand GIs. Not that I am comparing my recent “celebritydom” to Marilyn’s. I know damn well this is a temporary blip on the radar screen. The storm will pass and I’ll go back to being boring old Vivia Grant
@PerpetuallyViv
, tweeting pictures of pig cookie jars.

People even sent me private messages asking if I am Jett’s new girlfriend, if I am the reason he broke it off with his on-again-off-again model girlfriend. A few super creepy people asked me to describe Wonka’s Willie. Is it big? Does he shave? No lie. Fucking freaks.

I remember the sweet, earnest man who sat on the beach, puffing cigarettes and spouting his philosophy on life and love. Poor Jett! It must be miserable to have your every move documented and scrutinized.

Wanting to set the record straight (and satisfy the masses), I tweeted a few messages about my time in #Cannes.

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

Everyone is asking me about my “wild night” in #Cannes with Jett Jericho. So, here’s my answer: NO COMMENT. #LeaveJettAlone

Vivia Perpetua Grant @PerpetuallyViv

@NathanEdwardsIII Returning the engagement ring, keeping the new, hot French lover. Who said breaking up is hard to do? #OverIt

When I finished tweeting, I read a new text from Cowboy Big Balls. His bravado really knows no bounds.

Text from Travis Trunnell:

Let me know when you're ready to ditch Captain Black. Why would you want a pretend pirate when you could have a real cowboy? Love the tattoo, btw.

“Dude, like you’re all over the web,” Gabriel says, dropping onto the empty seat beside me. We’re on the bus, winding our way up a hill to some Tuscan farm that will be our home for the next five days. “Kayla said people are even pinning your Jett Jericho picture on Pinterest. It’s epic!”

Kayla, seated across from us, has her nose in a worn hardback copy of Tolkien’s
Children of Hurin.
She ignores her brother and keeps reading.

“It’s not epic.”

“I don’t know. It’s pretty major.”

“Glad to know the wreckage of my life is providing ample entertainment for the gawkers. The thing is, it’s not epic or major. It’s miserable. I’ve lost my fiancé, job, home, and now I have an international reputation as the pink-haired hussie who hooked-up with Willie Wonka.”

“Guys suck,” Kayla says from behind her book.

“Don’t listen to her. The only guys she spends time with are in books.”

Kayla lowers her book enough to pierce her brother with a sharp stare. “Fictional guys are the best kind of guys, moron.”

I laugh. Kayla might be slightly emo, but she’s funny.

“Did you know Bruce Banner tried to kill himself and Tony Stark suffers from anxiety?” Gabriel says, recapturing my attention. “The Hulk and Iron Man. They have
serious
issues, but they’ve both saved the world from complete destruction. I like to think of that when I get down.”

“You’re kinda random. Did you make that up?”

The kid grins. “No, I read it on Twitter or something.”

“Okay. So, the Hulk and Iron Man are head cases. What’s your point?”

“Your fiancé dumped you. You’re unemployed and homeless. You cycle slower than everyone else on the tour. And the whole world thinks Jett Jericho banged you on the beach.”

“Your point?”

“The point is, even superheroes have their issues, but in the end they always end up saving the world. I like to think of that when things are bumming me out.”