Page 65 of Paparazzi

A cry slips from her lips while, helped by the movement of the armchair, Iris moves sinuously on me, dictating a rhythm that leaves me no choice but to follow. She doesn’t feel like playing, pausing, and prolonging the pleasant agony; her movements are determined and make me sink into her like never before. She is the first to orgasm, with her eyes closed and her lips open in an expression of pleasure so sensual I plunge with even more vigor until I explode.

Panting, she slumps on my shoulder, her breasts against my bare chest. I wrap her in a hug and hold her tightly, thanking her in silence for not asking me more about my tears, for not forcing me to confess something I wasn’t ready for.

I get up from the chair with Iris in my arms and, taking her back to the bedroom, I lie next to her, clutching her to my body until we both fall asleep.

I open my eyes, and for a moment, I’m lost. I’m not in my room, and only after a few seconds do I remember sleeping at Thomas’s. It wasn’t planned, but after making love twice, I wasn’t physically able to stand up, get dressed and take a twenty-minute taxi ride back to the apartment. When I reach out my hand, I feel only the cold sheets. He must have gotten up a while ago.

I get up and use the master bathroom, with a shower so large my entire bathroom could fit in it. Hell, my whole apartment would fit inside this room. I smile at the idea as I wash my face and get dressed.

When I get to the kitchen, I find Thomas drinking a cup of coffee while reading the newspaper, shirtless except for a pair of basketball shorts. His back is toward me, and I could spend all day admiring that perfect body full of muscles, those arms and shoulders defined by years as a drummer. I feel like nibbling on that perfect body while I stick a hand down those shorts.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks without turning around, a smile in his voice.

I blush violently at getting caught staring at him. “Yes, definitely.” It’s useless totry and act demure after two out-of-control orgasms in his bed last night.

Thomas turns around, giggling, reaches out, kisses me on the lips, then goes to the coffee maker and pours me a cup, adding two tablespoons of sugar the way I like it. “I took the liberty of baking some croissants,” he says as he beckons me to the lit oven.

I give him a wide-eyed stare and shake my head. His culinary ability is getting downright overwhelming. “Did you make those too?” I ask, astounded.

Thomas laughs and shakes his head. “No, that would be a little over the top. I became friends with the pastry chef of a cafè I love here in Manhattan, so I convinced him to make croissants and freeze them before baking them so I can take them home and put them in the oven whenever I feel like it.”

“The perks of being famous,” I tease him, raising an eyebrow and folding my arms across my chest.

“If I don’t take advantage of these things, what’s the point of being a rock star?” He raises his hands innocently.

I can’t help but smile and approach him, kissing his chest before peeking into the oven. “How many of us are there for breakfast, exactly?”

“Just the two of us, why?”

“There are six rolls in here!” I point, stunned.

Thomas smiles and drinks some of his coffee. “I didn’t know what kind you like, so I made two of each: berry, cream, and chocolate.”

My mouth is already watering. As I expected, breakfast is nothing short of fantastic, relaxing, and a glimpse into a routine that I could get used to very willingly. That’s why I’m particularly annoyed when the phone vibrates in my pocket insistently and, when I pull it out, my heart stops for more than a beat. Albert’s name flashes menacingly on the screen. I get up and move away just enough not to be heard by Thomas.

“What?” I answer briskly.

“I have information for you. It’s big, huge, apocalyptic.”

The excitement in his voice makes my legs tremble. It must be bad news, at least as far as my relationship with Thomas is concerned. “I told you to let it go,” I reply in a low voice, hoping Thomas won’t notice anything strange. I look at him, but I see him intent on reading the paper.

“I suggest meeting in person. I can’t talk about this on the phone, trust me. I’ll text you the location of the coffeeshop I’m at.”

My stomach tightens in a vice. I want to yell at him that he’s a complete idiot, but then I’d have to explain to Thomas what the hell I did. “I’m coming,” I tell Albert in a choked tone, and the panic overtakes me. I should scream at him that he didn’t have to do any research, that I didn’t ask for it, that he should have listened when I told him to stop, but who am I fooling? I knew he would do it, I was just hoping he wouldn’t be able to find anything out, given the little information he had.

When I get back to the table with Thomas, I put on a fake, tight smile.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yes...no...it was Emily. She said she stopped by my apartment, and Dexter made a mess with the litter. I have to go back before the little devil decides to destroy my house.” I’m surprised at how easily I’m able to lie to him.

Thomas chuckles while he gets up and takes away our now empty plates. “I love that cat.”

I should smile, or at least make some sarcastic joke, but I’m paralyzed on the spot, my heart pounding in my chest and the bile rising up my throat. The reasonable thing would be to tell Thomas that a friend of mine has some “bombshell news” about him, so he can unleash his lawyers and his press office, but I’m still hoping to persuade Albert to keep his mouth shut. I’m going to have to sweat to convince him, use his feelings for me to get what I want, but I can’t tell Thomas I betrayed his trust again. This time he could never forgive me.

*

I enter the café feeling like I’m going to throw up. It’s one of the big chains where everyone has a MacBook, and no one really drinks coffee. I immediately spot Albert in the corner and make a considerable effort not to punch him. I told him not to snoop. And at the same time, I know this is my fault. That nausea I feel isn’t anger at Albert it’s my own guilt. I realize now that I was colossally wrong to be so casual about the information Thomas shared with me in confidence. I’m terrified the situation is getting out of hand, and I don’t know how to fix it. To silence my brain, which was trying to piece together information that didn’t make sense, I planted suspicion in a person I no longer trust and who scares me. I don’t know how bad the news is, but if Albert wants to see me, it must be huge.

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