For the First Time: Twenty-One Brand New Stories of First Love Read online

  The pets are just one part of my day. Cooking three meals a day was easy for Mama and me. Now, our dinners are normally ten or fifteen heads deep, the staff is always invited, plus Ben and Justin, and any cast members who have followed Cole home from the set. It was an adjustment, going from cooking one pie to three, a pot of chicken and rice suddenly inadequate. But our kitchen makes it all easy. I have three ovens for God’s sake! SIX burners! I swear, I think I had a mini orgasm when I saw it for the first time. I definitely had one our first night in, boxes all around, the moving crew dismissed by Cole mid-unpack.

  I wiped a hand over my forehead and yanked at the window, expecting a fight, the glass sliding easily, the cool California air breezing in, bringing with it the scent of jasmine. So different from our camellias and pollen, no humidity or mosquitos, the dusk sky absent of a single frog call or cricket’s chirp. I inhaled the air and had a moment of homesickness.

  “Everything okay?” I felt Cole against my back, his arms wrapping around my waist, his lips gentle in their press against my neck.

  I nodded. “It’s just . . . different.”

  He pulled me away from the sink, turning me toward him, his eyes on me, concern shown in the pinch of his brow.

  “Stop.” I pushed onto my tiptoes and kissed his mouth. “Stop worrying. I’m fine.”

  “You like the house?”

  I laughed, glancing around the kitchen, counters everywhere, the island behind him big enough for ten to sit at, commercial grade appliances everywhere, a fridge that I would never be able to fill. So different from the white Maytag that you had to lift up on when you closed the door, the temperature regulator faulty, our butter always soft, things in the back half-frozen. Our chipped counter that always had a line of ants, no matter how clean it was kept, or how much spray was used. And this was just the kitchen. I glanced back, down a wide and open hall, and thought of the bedrooms, the huge vaulted ceilings, windows as big as doors, showers with steam and body jets and ocean views.

  “Yes, I like the house.” I grinned, and he moved closer, his hands sliding up my stomach, over my breasts and undoing the top button on my flannel shirt.

  I said nothing; I let him work. I let out a long sigh of pent-up stress and relaxed under his hands. He undid every button on the front of my shirt then slid the material open, pushing it off my shoulders and down my arms. Then my jeans, his fingers slow and unhurried on the buttons, then the zipper, and I assisted him, stepping from the legs as he crouched before me, then stood back up.

  “I love you so much,” he whispered, looking down at me, his fingers soft against my bare skin, ghosting over my curves, his gaze following his touch, and I closed my eyes when he lowered his mouth to my neck.

  Cardboard boxes that night got pushed to the side. He laid me back on that island and did sinful things to my body. Wouldn’t let me touch him the entire time. Not until every line of stress was removed and every muscle had relaxed. When my body was liquid, he carried me down to our room. Pulled me up into our new bed and under the covers. And there, he finally undressed. Took me to a final orgasm with his cock, his arms wrapped around me, his breath hard against our kiss, his body shaking when he came.

  I think Grace was conceived that night. Our first night in this house. I run my fingers over the granite counter. Realize our corner of the kitchen has gone quiet. I look up and realize that I haven’t responded to Fran.

  “Yes?” I say, a little belatedly. Cole raises his eyebrows at me, and I stick my tongue out at him.

  “Vanity Fair just passed through the security gate, and Jasmine is waiting for you in the sitting room.”

  Ben lets out a yelp of alarm, his watch making another stressful appearance.

  “Thanks,” I say to Fran. “Can you get a few of the guys to help Ben with the Slip’N Slides? They’re in the pool house. And please keep everyone out of the pool.”

  “The pool,” Grace cheers. She somehow seems to forget that we have a pool, the mere mention of it often a cause for celebration. Cole frowns, shifting her on his hip and I smile at him. Poor guy. He’ll have to keep her out of it all day long. I almost feel sorry for him.

  Almost.

  I kiss Grace on the cheek, then Cole. “I’m gonna go meet with Jasmine. Get my daily lecture. She’ll be coming to you next so you should probably change . . .” I glance down at him, noting his outfit. Grey pants, a white sweater, the sleeves pushed up, his hair rough and perfect, skin glowing. Absolutely no sign that he’s spent the last hour swimming and screwing, he looks like he has stepped right out of a photo shoot. “Never mind,” I snap, irritated at his ease.

  I try to pull my dress into place, to fluff my hair into some order but I know, before I even turn the corner, what Jasmine’s reaction will be. And she doesn’t disappoint me at all.

  Chapter Three

  “Holy Mother of Bengay, what happened?” Jasmine Auckers, a church-going mother of three, Cole’s replacement for Casey—who we determined to be Team Ex-Wife—stands from a chair with a start, her clipboard falling to her side, her eyes on my dress.

  “Cole got it wet.” I have learned from experience to blame Cole for everything. Regardless of whether or not he actually is guilty, no one seems to yell at him. Passing off blame to him has made my life significantly easier. In this rare situation, conveniently, he actually is guilty.

  “Wet . . .” Jasmine says slowly, “and wrinkled?”

  “Also Cole,” I assure her. One perfect brow rises skeptically, and she walks around me slowly, her eyes falling to my feet. Outside, there is the sound of car doors and she glances out the window, her stance more urgent when she turns back to me. “Where are your shoes?”

  “Umm . . . in my closet.”

  “Go get them. And brush your hair. Jesus, didn’t someone show up to do your makeup?”

  I let out a deep enough breath that she stops, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Where do you want to do the interview?”

  “The interview’s with Ben,” I remind her.

  “Well . . . yes. But they would love to get just a few questions—”

  “No.” I smile politely. “Ben’s running around right now. If you get them set up in the sunroom, I’ll have him meet them there.”

  “If you could just give them a few minutes—”

  I give her a strong enough look to shut her up. We’d been through this with her enough times. When Cole fired Casey, when we set out to find a new publicist, I was clear that I wanted one for two reasons: to keep the press at bay and to correctly manage the unavoidable moments of exposure. And there are plenty of moments of exposure. Any time we step out of this estate’s gates, we are targets: paparazzi hidden in bushes, in stores, waiting by our cars. But it isn’t paparazzi that is really the problem. It is the fans. Every single person out there has a cell phone, camera app easily accessible, every minute of our life captured, tweeted, shared. I don’t know how Cole does it, how he did it for so long. It is hard for me, will always be hard for me. Which is why Jasmine is important. Because one dirty look I give to an aggressive fan . . . one wrong thing said to the wrong person . . . and Summer + Cole will turn from Sole to Slum or Cummer or whatever other crappy combination America jumps onto.

  Right now, we are America’s darlings. While I’m not crazy about the attention, at least it’s love that pours through the air. For a girl that spent a long time being hated . . . it’s a nice change.

  “Summer! Summer!” I turned automatically at the name, my media training failing in my first two steps onto the red carpet. Cole’s hand tightened, and he pulled me forward, my eyes wincing against the flashing, so many bright bulbs, complete overkill when paired with the chorus of lights that beamed down at us from above.

  My first red carpet. In Japan of all places. My first international flight, one where my seat became a full bed, and we each had personal flight attendants that were almost annoying in their attentiveness. Our first Japanese morning was spent in back-to-back spa tr
eatments, the afternoon seated at a table before thousands of frantic fans, our answers to their questions barely heard over the resulting screams. I didn’t understand the hero worship. Grown women shrieking when Cole did something as simple as smile. People crying! I saw one woman faint, her body slumping down, the crowd swallowing her up and surging forward, an oblivious monster of energy. I had pushed forward, into the bodies, reaching for her, had grabbed the pale skin of her wrist before security pulled me back. But it was worth the effort. Someone saw, someone yelled, and a few black suits swarmed in after her. It had been so strange, so different than anything in Quincy. So against our culture of reserved and quiet. The last time I saw someone that excited in Quincy was when that adult store tried to open in town and all the originals got their floral panties in a twist.

  Cole got me through that first red carpet. Helped me remember when to stop, where to look when I smiled. His eyes were on me the entire time, a knowing upturn to one edge of his mouth. He kissed me frequently, soft brushes right behind my ear, or on my temple, his hand continually pulling, pulling, pulling me to him. It was reassuring, having him right there as we moved through the giant double doors and into the grand theater, into our suite of seats. I gripped his hand so hard he winced.

  “What if they hate it?” I’d whispered in his ear, terrified at the prospect of seeing my face on screen, hearing my voice—god I hate my voice—and . . . the worst . . . our sex scene. How painful would that be to watch? Seeing his hand on my body, hearing my gasp amplified through these giant speakers . . . I’d seen the scene before, this wouldn’t be the first, but that almost made it worse. Because I knew it was hot. Super hot. Way too hot for Mama to ever see. Way too hot for all of these strangers, dressed in their Sunday best, to sit through.

  “They won’t hate it.” Cole had responded.

  And he’d been right. They had been hooked with the very first scene. Had laughed with Royce, rooted for Ida . . . and shifted uncomfortably in their seat right alongside me during the smoking hot sex. And let me just stop for one red-hot minute and tell you that I looked good on that screen. I don’t know how they did it, the editing budget must have been ridiculous, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I was ready to turn lesbian for myself while watching that scene. And if they used any of that Florida State hoochie’s body parts, I couldn’t tell it.

  After Japan, Australia had been easier, London a piece of cake. By the time we made it back to America, I wasn’t the same Summer Jenkins who had left. I was confident. Sparkly. A proper movie star.

  Now, I crouch in bare feet on the plush white carpet of our closet, reaching down for the box from the stylist, the leather and gold stilettos sent over with the dress. I work them onto my feet and glance in the giant mirror. Run a few fingers through my hair. Step closer and examine my makeup. Smudged in places from my romp with Cole, my lipstick gone entirely. I lay a hand on the mirror’s surface.

  “Look at me, Summer,” Cole’s words broke from his throat, his fingers digging into my hips as he held me to him. I lifted my head, looked into the mirror, our eyes catching. I looked crazy, my eyes wild, hair everywhere, my jeans around my ankles, shirt half off. “Tell me you love me.”

  I pressed my fingers into the mirror’s glass, pushing back against him, the hard length of him bumping against me, right there but not where I needed it. “I love you,” I gasped. “Please.”

  “You are my wife.” He ground his hips against me and I whimpered, my need so strong, the look in his eyes so feral, so desperate that I almost begged. “You are my everything. Do you know that, Summer?” I watched him in the mirror as he reached down, adjusting himself, the head of him finally at the entrance where I wanted it. “Tell me you know that.”

  “I know that,” I whispered, staring at him. “I’m yours forever.”

  When he pushed inside, one hard slow push that broke apart my thought process and scattered all reason and sanity to the winds, everything in my vision went black.

  I push off of the mirror, taking a step back and looking at my reflection. What was it that Cole had said? That the dress made me look like a snobby trophy wife? He was right. This woman, staring back at me, she doesn’t look like me. There is a reason that ninety percent of this closet is casual. I will never be this, the prim and proper, perfectly put together movie star’s wife. I don’t want to be it.

  “What are you thinking?” Cole’s voice makes my head lift and I turn to him, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around his waist.

  “I’m thinking that I hate myself for agreeing to this.”

  “No, you don’t.” He looks down at me, shaking his head.

  “I don’t?” I raise an eyebrow.

  He steps away, my arms suddenly empty and pulls aside the curtain, nodding to the backyard. “Look.”

  I step next to him, leaning back against his chest, and look out the window, at our backyard.

  The pool, our beautiful turquoise bucket of temptation, is being guarded by Justin, who seems to be in very tense negotiations with a stern toddler with swimmies on. There is a streak of sparkly pink, and I follow it, Grace tearing across the lawn and nosediving onto the Slip’N Slide. Someone, probably Ben, has put all three head to toe, creating one long downhill experience, and I laugh as she spins on the wide plastic, her grin visible even from where I stand. Quincy has been found, his furry body chasing a hoard of boys, water balloons in hand, the entire painting is showcased by hundreds of bubbles. I laugh, covering my mouth. “Oh my God, Ben found the bubble machine.”

  “We need you out there,” Cole says. “You. Not . . . this.”

  “Meaning . . .?” I turn to him, holding the dress to my chest before it falls off.

  “Throw on a bathing suit and come save me from a hoard of children who don’t understand why they can’t get in the pool.” He leaves me by the window and walks to the closet, pulling open a drawer. “Please,” he adds, lifting out a faded-red one-piece bathing suit.

  I laugh. “You want me to wear that? Jasmine will have a heart attack.”

  He shrugs. “I have very fond memories of this suit. Jasmine can get over it.”

  “Hmm . . .” I say, letting the dress fall to the floor and lifting a foot, pulling off one heel, then the other. “I think I remember that bathing suit. I don’t think I liked you very much while wearing it.”

  “Really?” Cole scowls, the frown curling into a cocky smile. “Because if I recall, I liked you very much in it.”

  “Yeah?” I smile up at him and take the suit.

  “Yeah,” he says softly, cupping my head in his hands and pulling me to his mouth.

  And there, in our bedroom, a world of disastrous fun right outside the window, we share a true Hollywood kiss.

  * * *

  This short story was an extended Happy-Ever-After for Summer and Cole, two characters from the full-length New York Times Bestseller Hollywood Dirt. If you’d like to read the full story that prefaced this, please go to www.MeetColeMasten.com to find out more about their story.

  To read other titles by Alessandra Torre, please visit her website. A New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestselling Author, Alessandra Torre has written eleven novels, five of which have become #1 Erotic Bestsellers. Her erotic suspense, The Girl in 6E, is in production to become a full-length feature film. Alessandra also has a free erotic serial on Cosmopolitan.com.

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  Begging for More

  Kim Karr

  “It was an instant attraction…never intended to be more than a quick lay.”

  Chapter One

  Not Alone for Long

  James Ashton

  I was alone. I knew I wouldn’t be for long. I never was when I came here.

  Awash in purple and black, with sexy low lighting, huge-ass chandeliers, and an enormous pair of ridiculous angel wings overlooking the ever-present glitterati, I was in the kind of plac
e where finding company was, let’s just say—easy.

  Provocateur, the exclusive and super-swanky Gansevoort Hotel nightclub, was always filled with gorgeous party girls—models, socialites, scene-setters, and European jet-setters.

  Not to sound arrogant, but I had my pick.

  Leaning against the bar, I sipped my scotch and scanned the crowd, zeroing in on the house dancers gyrating on the poles amid pulsing blasts of artificial smoke. The DJ was really amping them up tonight.

  My gaze landed on the front door, where a vision in black had just entered with about ten other men and women—one guy, a little too close.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her hair the color of flaming fire. Wild. Messy. Untamed. Her feline eyes. Fierce. Wicked. They were eyes that could burn a hole in a man’s heart. And that body. She had a body that looked hard and soft, long and sexy, hot as hell. Oh fuck, that mouth. Lush lips. Full. Succulent. She was a mix of delicate, perfect, and oh so delicious. The devil and an angel all in one.

  “Hey, there you are,” Theo Lake said, placing his hand on my shoulder and wedging in beside me.

  Without looking at him, I pointed to the door. “Do you know who that is?” Theo knew everyone.

  “Oh, that’s Lindsay Mills and Jared Wentworth,” he said with a smile in his voice.

  The smile had to be for Jared. I glanced at him for a fraction of a second. “Introduce me to the girl.”