Lauren Weisberger - Chasing Harry Winston

The gentleness lasted only a few minutes, just long enough for Emmy to lose herself entirely, and then George enveloped her in his arms, pressed his bare chest against her T-shirted one, and tugged her lower lip with his teeth. He buried his face in her neck and for a second-just a second-Emmy was pulled out of the moment and thought, My god, this is straight out of a bad romance novel. But the next minute she threw her head back in pleasure, all subtlety gone out the window, and practically begged him to keep kissing the sensitive skin on her neck and shoulders. She wrapped her legs around his waist and ran her fingers through his hair as George breathed heavily, and then, without any warning at all, lifted her butt off the cement, pulled her entire body against his, and lowered them both into the water.

This was, finally, sufficient to rouse Emmy from her dreamlike state.

“George! Oh my god. I’m fully dressed. What are you doing?”

He answered her by pressing his mouth to hers. She continued to protest until he did that thing with her lower lip again. All the moisture from their mouths and the rising steam and the unique sensation of the hot water soaking through her clothes made Emmy feel like she was melting. Floating. Which is why she noticed when George pulled her sopping wet T-shirt over her head-it was, after all, heavy with absorbed water-but didn’t completely process this event. Tonight, like always, she was braless, the single perk of being boobless, so they both felt the immediate gratification of bare skin on skin, and it was this moment of intense contact that made Emmy wonder why on earth she had never felt this way before. If it weren’t so goddamn fabulous, she would have been humiliated to be thirty years old and not really understand what all the fuss was about. Not that it had ever been anything less than perfectly pleasant with her previous three boyfriends, but this ? Who needed pleasant when there was this ?

From that moment on, George ceased to exist as a separate person, or really as any person at all. He wasn’t a law student or the guy playing backgammon or a stranger she’d met minutes earlier; he was merely the body she desperately wanted to be near. It felt like the most natural thing in the world when he expertly removed her capri pants and cotton thong and allowed them to float away, and then, using only one hand while the other held her head to his lips, slid off his own shorts. He lifted her back out of the water and laid her gently on the pavement. The cool surface and air were a relief from all the heat. Emmy forgot she was completely naked in the presence of a total stranger and in view of god knew how many apartments; she didn’t worry for a single second about the state of her bikini line (just barely acceptable), the way her face flushed when she was excited (a deep wine color), or how flat her breasts looked when she lay on her back (very). She thought of absolutely nothing except how much she wanted him, and feeling him against her thigh, she maneuvered in every possible manner to get him closer, but he seemed to enjoy teasing her. It was only after what felt like an interminable amount of pressing and kissing and kneading each other that a condom materialized from his shorts pocket and George pushed into her, and Emmy knew, at that moment, she could no longer live without this.

It always baffled Adriana why people hated flying so much. Really, what was so awful about a few hours spent curled under a cashmere travel blanket sipping champagne and watching movies? The food was hideous, of course, even in first class, but when you came equipped with the staples (Zone bars, a Whole Foods mixed-fruit salad, and an Evian mister), it could actually be quite enjoyable. Especially when, like today, your seatmate was a handsome, famous, unattached actor. A TV actor, admittedly, but still a star on NBC’s most popular primetime series, a show even Adriana watched. He’d just gone through a very public breakup with a twenty-one-year-old trashy daytime soap star with a knockout body. Adriana had followed the whole tawdry affair in US Weekly , right down to reprints of the angry BlackBerry messages they’d exchanged one night from opposite coasts, and she was convinced he could do better. She’d thought it then, but now, sneaking subtle glances at his pretty profile and his sculpted biceps, she was quite positive.

Too bad she was taken, Adriana thought with an audible sigh. This caused her seatmate to glance up, a gesture Adriana consciously ignored. Lord knew there was no more challenging species than the ego-inflated entertainer-Adriana had dated enough actors, musicians, comedians, and professional athletes to consider herself an authority-and any girl worth her La Perlas knew that they responded to one and only one thing: a challenge. They were more like children than real people, Adriana always said, and so it stood to reason that the only thing they desperately wanted was what they couldn’t have-which is precisely why Adriana pretended he didn’t exist.

She had immediately recognized him when he claimed the aisle seat next to her but had provided only a “hmm” when he politely said hello. Filling the time between boarding and takeoff with as many chatty and upbeat phone calls as possible, and switching on her iPod the moment electronic devices were permitted-before he could make the decision to drown her out-Adriana felt as though she’d done an adequate job so far. And when the cheerful flight attendant asked if she’d like a drink, a request that Mr. TV Actor repeated to Adriana, she smiled only at the flight attendant, ordered another champagne, and once again donned her headphones.

Minutes later he pulled out a script and made a big show about flashing the telltale CAA cover. He began to read, although Adriana got the feeling he was really just flipping the pages for appearance’s sake. For her benefit, naturally-she was supposed to be impressed. She rolled her eyes and allowed herself to smile, a gesture he picked up on immediately. Adriana wasn’t the least bit surprised. He was, after all, just waiting for an excuse to talk to her.

“Are you listening to something funny?” he asked, flashing a pretty decent smile of his own.

Adriana wasn’t actually listening to anything at all. The headphones were merely a prop, something that indicated her disinterest in talking, and as she’d predicted, they’d done their job to perfection.

She glanced at him, waited a moment, and slowly pushed the left one off her ear.

“Pardon?” she asked with wide eyes. “Did you say something?”

“I was just wondering if you were listening to something funny. You were laughing…”

Adriana waited a few seconds longer than necessary to throw him off balance and then stepped in to save him. “Oh, did I? No, I was just remembering something really fun.” Vague. Suggestive. Mysterious. All Adriana’s specialty.

He grinned. Christ, he was cute. “Well, I’d love to hear about it. We’ve got nothing but time,” he said, extending his arms. “Four and a half hours, to be precise.”

“I might take a rain check,” Adriana said. Slowly, she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, making sure that he got a good look at her delicate, feminine hands, with their elegantly long fingers and pale pink lacquered nails and unblemished skin, and then offered one to him. “Adriana,” she said, giving her name a little extra Brazilian inflection.

“Dean,” he said, swallowing her hand in his.

Of course she already knew this, but Adriana made no sign of recognition. “So, Dean, what brings you to LA today?” she asked innocently.

“Just some meetings. With some directors and studio people, that sort of thing.”