Best ass on the planet.
Best body on the planet.
Fantasy woman.
Most beautiful woman in the world.
A perfect ten…maybe an eleven. Maybe a fifteen…
I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap that?
Who wouldn’t want to tap that.
Who wouldn’t want to tap that…
These are only some of the things that run through my head as Veronica Romero climbs out of the black stretch limo that just pulled up in front of the Kodak theater in L.A. Everything I’ve ever read about her or heard about her, or yes, even thought about her, floods my brain as she waves to the crowd before starting her long trek down the red carpet.
In my (very) meager defense, I was a red-blooded American college student when topless photos of her in the South of France leaked and nearly imploded the internet. The epic horniness of the twenty-year-old male is a cliché for a reason.
I like to think that if the same thing happened now, I wouldn’t look. But that’s probably a lie considering I’ve spent the last year as close to obsessed with her as I can get and still stay on the right side of the law. Then again, watching her now in her natural habitat, dressed in a white gown that is anything but innocent and diamonds that rest in just the right spot to draw attention to her perfect breasts, who could blame me?
Certainly not the guy behind me who keeps telling his friend how much he wants to ram his cock down her throat.
Or the guy to my left who really, really wants to fuck her “perfect peach of an ass.”
Not her. Just her throat. Just her ass.
No, they wouldn’t blame me and it’s no use blaming them, not when all they’re doing is giving voice to the things that are written about her pretty much every day, pretty much everywhere. The tabloids. Wikipedia. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. The hundred and one unauthorized biographies that have come out about her through the years…
No, no one can blame them for the filthy things they’re saying. Or for all the dirty, disgusting, depraved things they’re thinking.
But I do it anyway. Fuck, yeah, I do. I blame them and myself and every other person on the planet who sees only what they want to see when they look at her.
The goddess.
The whore.
The “perfect ass.”
Her walk down the red carpet is painstakingly slow, her heels high and the demand for attention nearly crushing with its expectations.
I move along the rope line with her, shadowing her from the crowd. When she pauses, I pause. When she walks, I walk. When the fans call her name, I watch her eyes. Watch her smile. Everyone has secrets. Everyone has tells, little breaches of their own personal defenses that give away more than they want to share.
I’ve spent the last year learning hers.
A reporter stops her—one of many—and asks a question that makes her laugh. That makes her pat his shoulder and then slide her hand down his arm in a slow, lingering caress. His eyes glaze over and she blows him a little kiss before going on her way.
Because I’m nosy, I want to know what he said to get himself into that much trouble.
Like I said, everyone has tells…
A group of girls chant Veronica’s name from the crowd and she holds a hand out as she moves toward them. She signs their autograph books, smiles for their selfies, takes their hands and their hugs and their words. She takes all their expectations, gathers them like a bouquet—or an army—and gives out pieces of herself in exchange.
She moves on before they’re ready to let her go, but there’s always another reporter to talk to. Another picture to pose for. Another autograph to sign or fan to greet.
So many pieces to give out that I wonder how she has any left. If she has any left.
And still I keep pace with her. Still I want her attention—and the piece of her that comes with it. My own little piece of her to add to everything else.
It will never happen, I tell myself, as she gets closer and closer to the building and to freedom, away from prying eyes. She doesn’t know to look for me, doesn’t have a clue that I’m right here, watching her every move.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not disappointed. That I didn’t come here—to the craziness of her latest movie release—because I want anything from her. Because I don’t. I really don’t.
At least not until she turns unexpectedly, her eyes skimming the crowd until her gaze slides over my face. Locks on.
And in that instant, all my best intentions disappear. Everything disappears but her and me and the millions of battered, broken moments that stretch between us…
Love stories you’ll never forget
By authors you’ll always remember
eOriginal Romance from Random House
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Tracy Wolff, Accelerate
(Series: # )
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