UNTIL WE BURN

Part One

UNTIL WE BURN by Courtney Cole 

Part One

 “Harder,” the girl whispers. Obligingly, I slap her ass again.  Hard.

 The stinging sound echoes through the night, rippling through the silence of Mount Lee.  A hundred feet below, the giant letters of the Hollywood sign gleam ghostly white in the darkness. 

 I smile against the back of the girl’s pale neck and bite it.  Hard. 

 My teeth sink into her soft flesh, but she likes it.  She moans, twisting around so that she can clutch at my chest, twisting her fingers in my tux jacket. 

 “Dominic,” she sighs.  “I can’t believe I’m here with you right now.  Dominic Kinkaide is slapping my ass.”

 “Dominic Kinkaide is doing more than that to your ass,” I point out, remembering how I’d just pulled out of it a minute ago, how I’d rolled off the condom and flicked it away. 

 As the coatcheck girl from the black gala event I’d just vacated, she probably had no idea when her evening started that it was going to end like this:  with quick, hard anal sex in public….with me.

 Even though it’s two a.m and it’s unlikely that anyone will be hiking up Hollywood Ridge Trail, the knowledge that they could, the knowledge that strangers might stumble upon us and find us in this intimate situation, turned me on quicker than anything.

 I finished what I set out to do within a few minutes and now, I pull away and adjust my clothes as the girl pulls at her own. 

 I don’t know her name. 

 Her name doesn’t matter.

 The girl looks up at me, batting her eyelashes.  “That was nice.  If you want to… you know, um, actually sleep with me, call me, okay?  I’ll give you my number.”

 I look at her in amusement.  “Actually sleep with you?”

 She looks embarrassed.  “I don’t mean like… sleep in my bed overnight.  I mean, real sex.  Not just… what we did.”

 “Anal?” I raise an eyebrow.  We’re both adults here.  We can call a spade a spade. 

 “Yeah,” she manages to say, her cheeks flushed.  “Anal.  That’s the first time I’ve ever done that, by the way.”

 That’s what they all say and I have a hard time believing it.  This is the twenty-first century after all.  I grin at her though, deciding to humor her.   

 “And?  What’d you think?”

 She bats her eyelashes again, coy now, laying her hand against my chest.  “I think that you can do anything you want with me,” she purrs. 

 I fight to not roll my eyes at her sticky-sweet tone now.  She’s too compliant, too needy, too willing to do anything at all that I ask of her.  Why the fuck are they always like this?  Are they so desperate to sleep with someone famous, even one single time, that they’ll do anything for it?

 Nine times out of ten, the answer is yes. 

 And nine times out of ten, I capitalize on that.  I’d be an idiot if I didn’t. 

 But to be honest, the whole thing is getting tiresome.  I’m weary of it. I’m weary of the shallow people, I’m weary of people using other people, I’m weary of easy women who constantly throw themselves at me. 

 They only want to say “I was with Dominic Kinkaide.” They want to claim a tiny piece of me, no matter how small that piece or moment was. 

 In this case, Coatcheck Girl will be able to say that she claimed ten minutes of my time.  But from the look on her face, the wonderstruck expression, that ten minutes was enough.