Show Me Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  Critics Are Hot for Pleasure U

  “A highly erotic look at all aspects of human sexuality. Playtime, bath time, parties, orgies. Everything is covered. . . . Pleasure U is scorching hot and erotic. I even blushed at times.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  “Superbly written . . . a fabulous coming-of-age tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Tons of wild and crazy sex scenes of all varieties. . . . Go for it.”

  —Errant Dreams Reviews

  BOOKS BY CAROLE HART

  Pleasure U

  The Family Jewels

  HEAT

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Heat, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, January 2010

  Copyright © Carole Hart, 2010

  All rights reserved

  HEAT is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hart, Carole, 1965-

  Show me / Carole Hart.

  p.cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-15983-5

  I. Title.

  PS3614.E66S47 2010

  813’.6—dc22 2009030452

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  ONE

  “So,” said Emily Lister, looking up kittenishly from under thick black Slashes, “you started to play guitar because you were lonely?”

  “Yeah, pretty lonely,” Greil said. “I guess my parents were busy in those years. They didn’t have time to notice what I did.” His face was lit into handsome rakishness by a grin. “Not that I did much then. It was . . . Nebraska.”

  Emily laughed, noticing again that Greil, unlike most celebrities, was much better-looking in person—possibly just because in person you knew his good looks were real. Although they were still incredible. It was the kind of thing that made you want to rub your eyes. He was not only impossibly tall (he had admitted to six foot three) but so well proportioned that his height had a hint of the godlike. That impression of divinity was enhanced by his perfect skin, tanned to a golden sheen. Even the neatly trimmed beard he wore seemed too glossy, too ideally, immaculately black, to seem quite right. What was equally striking was his aura of athletic, boyish masculinity. He was the kind of man who couldn’t sit in a chair without rocking it onto its back legs, as if at any moment he was about to spring out of it with restless energy. It had been something of a problem in their earlier meetings, when he was always dashing out of a shot and having to be pursued by weary cameramen.

  Now, in bed, however, he looked completely at home.

  “So you’re glad to be in New York now?” she said, letting her voice dip into a purr.

  “I’m glad to be here with you.”

  “Is it how you imagined it?”

  His ice blue eyes narrowed with sly warmth as he said, “I never told you I watched your show.”

  “Well. Researchers.”

  He laughed and said, “Then you know I’ve had a crush on you for years.”

  He was lounging beside her on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt. The bed itself was a four-poster, double-king-sized behemoth whose pastel silken spreads were pulled aside in stylish disarray to bare a snowy sheet. On the art nouveau nightstand—a slab of marble supported by a crystal mermaid—two glasses of red wine stood beside a hardcover book whose cover featured Greil’s devastating grin and his name in red embossed capital letters. Emily herself was wearing a flimsy pink teddy just transparent enough to show a hint of the darker pink of her nipples. Her thick black hair was brushed back from her face and spilled down onto the pillow where she lay, propping herself up on one elbow to talk to Greil. He was half-turned toward her, and his hand was gently stroking her hip. His grin softened now as he moved to take her breast in his hand, the caress of his strong hand teasingly gentle. She half shut her eyes and arched her back.

  “Mmm,” she said, “that’s nice. So, you’re my biggest fan?”

  “Yes,” he said huskily. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I was eighteen.”

  As he spoke, he was pulling a strap of the teddy off her shoulder and tugging the satin down to expose the full curve of her breast, the softly protruding nipple already stiff from his touch. Then he bent over her, putting his lips to it. He began to lick it in circles, his tongue growing more eager as the nipple hardened. Then he sat back to pull off his T-shirt. Her breath caught as she saw his firmly muscled chest, smooth and golden.

  She said, “Well, I’ve been a fan of yours ever since your first album, Banshee Tracks. And before I forget what I’m doing—you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone this month, right?”

  “Yeah, life’s been good to me.” He looked down at her body and unzipped his jeans. “Can I . . . ?”

  “Oh, there are just two things I have to do first,” Emily said sweetly. “One—” Stretching with a practiced sinuousness, she raised her hips off the bed and pulled her panties down to her thighs and over her knees. He groaned, pulling his jeans and underpants down and hurriedly ste
pping out of them. Letting her knees drift apart, Emily licked her lips and winked at him. He sat on the bed again, wearing a darker, hungrier version of his raffish grin. Pressing up into his toned stomach was a beautiful, thick cock, so hard that it seemed tensed. Then he was reaching between her thighs, his fingers coming to rest lightly on her bared pussy. The fingers stroked there teasingly for a minute, raising chills in her as they passed over her mound of Venus and gently parted her cunt lips. Then, slowly, he slipped two fingers into her. As they entered her, she was aware of her own rich wetness, and instinctively arched her hips to meet him.

  “Yes,” she breathed with an almost wistful sweetness. “You can do that while I . . .” She shut her eyes for a second, her body stiffening as his fingers slid deeper into her and his thumb slipped impossibly tenderly over her clitoris. Focus, focus, she told herself, but her body was begging her, and she could barely tear her eyes away from his cock. In a second she could take it in her hand. Forcing herself to look away, she reached back for the book and held it up, turning her face, languid with sexual need, to camera one.

  “Greil Gage’s autobiography, Greil Gage—Playing, is out in stores tomorrow. And now Greil is going to show me some of the games he learned during his journey to stardom.” She let the book slip to the floor and turned to find him already over her, his hips poised between her legs.

  In the next instant, she felt his cock pressing against the outer lips of her pussy. Only the incredible professionalism she had built up over five years of hosting the show could account for what she did next. She reached down to cradle the shaft of his cock in one hand, rolled her head to one side as if in the throes of passion—and checked the clock. Damn. Only five minutes left. But she guessed (she thought, guiding his cock into her and feeling the faint, familiar chill as its silky head met the wetness there) that was why she got paid.

  That and her uncanny ability to convince rock stars, actors, and pro athletes to have sex with her on live television. In fact, Greil’s publicist had phoned that morning in a state of nervous collapse and begged her outright not to have him on her show. “We’ve got enough trouble as it is. That damned book. I could wring his neck. I can give you one of my other clients . . . anyone. . . . We were that close to a deal with Disney—you don’t understand the kind of money involved!”

  “But don’t you think you should work with your client’s strengths?” said Emily sweetly. Even if there had been time to get another guest, Greil Gage was perfect for In Depth. And she had the figures to show that guests on her show didn’t suffer from the extraordinary kind of exposure she had to offer. But even if they had, Emily was of the opinion that everyone should lighten up about “the kind of money involved” and live a little. What happened to good old-fashioned rock star decadence (Hollywood decadence, quarterback decadence), anyway?

  Or at least, that had been her opinion until just recently. Until Ralph Anderman entered her life.

  Her eyes were still on the clock’s digital display, its unforgiving numbers blurring as Greil’s cock slid into her. At this point, her body took over, flooding with a luxurious heat and sensitivity. He entered her slowly, with a slight turning movement of his hips that made her feel his cock’s thickness spreading her, filling her. Then he was all the way in, his balls pressing sweetly up to her ass. She met his eyes and at that moment the tip of his cock found her G-spot, and an electric trembling spread from her cunt down her thighs. “Oh . . . yes,” she said.

  He began to thrust into her with a wonderfully knowing expertise, his cock exploring her deeply, finding every spot of sensitivity inside her and waking it. Her hips moved to his rhythm, and the intensity of his blue eyes on her face made her long for him even as he fucked her. Greil Gage is fucking me, went through her mind, and then she was suddenly, unexpectedly, coming, a gentle orgasm that was like a foretaste of the stronger ones to come. He felt it and moaned, driving into her with force now, his skill giving way to a flowing, instinctive need that carried her with it. She was fucking into a sweet, prolonged play between orgasm and release, orgasm and release. All the while, the cameras in the background were like an extra, generalized desire—a sense of people everywhere feeling what she felt. The world was a place where people fucked and everything was loving and sweet; a stranger held you in his arms and—“Oh, God,” she said suddenly as a keener, more forceful orgasm stilled her, making her legs close around him, pulling him deep inside. That set him off, and he lasted only one more thrust before he came, moaning helplessly and fucking the last hot waves of her orgasm to a standstill.

  Then he relaxed down into her arms. She hugged him, looking over his shoulder at camera two to say, “Thanks for joining me for another edition of In Depth—real people, real stories, real sex.”

  Emily had never intended to be a porn star. Actually, she had always wanted to be a veterinarian—a fact that never failed to entertain people in interviews. One interviewer had narrowed his eyes and said, “Not a sex veterinarian, maybe? Or a veterinary gynecologist?”

  “No,” she had said regretfully, “that was long before I’d heard about sex.”

  In fact, when she looked back on her life before meeting Babylona, her younger self seemed so naive that she sometimes wondered if she had heard about sex—sex for fun and profit, anyway, sex that wasn’t about getting married and having children until death did you part. Sometimes she still thought she would have been a happier person if she’d been left that way. She would have finished college and gone on to veterinary school. She would have met some nice man and had nice children in a nice suburban home. (To which Babylona always said, “I’m sure nobody actually does anything so miserable. They just say so to frighten us.”)

  In the last days before Babylona, Emily had been going to NYU and working as a masseuse. It was a skill she’d picked up after high school, imagining it would pay her way through college—another idea that now seemed tragically naive. Working nights and weekends, she never made more than a living, and her tuition debts mounted alarmingly. This was so even though she turned out to be freakishly talented at giving massages. She had a deliciously soothing touch, with a hint of uncanny electricity in it—or so she was told. When she touched herself, it was disappointingly unelectric and unsoothing. But when she touched someone else for the first time, they tended to tense and then relax into bliss, muttering ecstatically, “That’s amazing. How do you do that?” One man had even refused to believe she wasn’t using some kind of machine. He’d said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in that stuff.” Nothing she could say would convince him that it was safe.

  But Emily could never say how she did it. And every attempt to teach other people amounted to her saying, “Well, you just have to feel their—you know. And then you—you know.” In fact, from her point of view, she was just rubbing their backs. Perhaps she did devote more attention than most masseuses. Touching someone’s body made her instantly rapt with that attention; she found the responsiveness of their skin and muscles fascinating. Perhaps she did fall into a dreamy state in which she was halfway feeling what they felt. Whatever it was, she couldn’t put it into words beyond “You know, you just try really hard. You know.”

  Her night job in her senior year at NYU was in the spa at a five-star hotel. It had the advantage of set hours, and the further bonus that even when she was propositioned, it was done in a tasteful way. Almost nobody was under the impression (as clients in the outside world often were) that the masseuse at the Regency Park Avenue offered happy endings.

  She first knew Babylona as her eight o’clock appointment. Sixty minutes without aromatherapy or hot stones. With any luck, a twenty-dollar tip. With good luck, possibly forty.

  Babylona was five minutes late, which Emily would later realize was her idea of politeness—she was always, punctually, exactly five minutes late. “Everyone likes an extra five minutes in the day,” she would say. Although the hotel was overheated for March and the spa was positively steaming, Babylona arrived wearing a s
now-white fur that hung to her knees. She was barefoot, and Emily couldn’t help noticing that she wore a toe ring that appeared to be a diamond solitaire—as if she were engaged to be married to a foot fetishist. She was also one of those rare women who could wear a toe ring with grace—her feet were as white as her fur, and had a sculpted elegance.

  In fact, with her exquisite features and glittering aqua eyes, she was the most beautiful woman Emily had ever seen, an impression that was only strengthened when Babylona smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and swung off her fur to reveal that she was absolutely naked underneath.

  “Oh, good,” Emily said, trying to seem unruffled. “So you’re ready for . . . I mean, there’s a hook there to hang your . . . clothes.”

  Babylona’s hair—long, wavy red hair that set off her pure white skin—had been tucked under her coat. That whiteness—alabaster, Emily thought—in turn set off the perfection of her hourglass figure. In a hotel full of fake tans, the pallor was subtly lewd. It was as if Babylona was more naked than those women could ever be. At the same time, she wore her nudity casually. Walking to the massage table easily and gracefully, she said, “I am sorry if I startled you. But, you see, I’m coming from work.”

  Then it was only natural for Emily to ask what her work was.

  “Well,” Babylona said with a modest pout, “I suppose I am a sex tycoon. Only for lack of a better word, you know.” And, draping herself on the massage table with a lithe provocativeness that immediately gave credence to her words, she explained in detail.

  In fact, if Emily had heard of sex—no-strings sex for fun and profit—she would have already known from the name on her appointment sheet. Babylona ran the largest and most diverse sex empire in the world. There were the string of sex shops, the touring burlesque show, the Institute for Sex Studies, and her new multimillion-dollar project, a television channel dedicated to erotic programming. “Not your usual porn channel, though. Our sex is tasteful. It’s not about close-up shots of organs, though of course those have their place. But porn is almost never sexy—don’t you agree?”