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through him- shot from the head of his cock in bursts of fluid cannon-fire. And she- her lips caressing, taking him at that moment, as he shuddered and breathed, feeling himself deconstruct, rupturing against the back of her throat. Blaise threw back his head. "Fucking…Christ…" he hissed, overwhelmed. He felt her swallowing. Another twinge. Violetta pulled back, as if she meant to give him space, but he recaptured her hands and held them to his chest. He gazed at her through half-lidded eyes. Her hair fell around her face in cataclysmic disarray, very new wave, looking almost orchestrated in its imperfection. Blaise kissed her, suddenly, hungrily. Violetta opened her lips and he ravaged them, without thinking- it was beyond him at that moment. His hands ran down her back, up to her hair, over her arms. At last he released her, blinking, breathing. He could only think of one thing. "Fuck," he said, "you do that to him?" "Maxwell? Christ, no." Blaise smiled, vaguely. "No?" He rubbed his thumbs slowly beneath her eyes, smoothing the black circles of her make-up. "He curls up into the fetal position if I so much as touch him." Blaise could picture that, and he immediately did, enjoying it immensely. She sighed, wiping her lip with a stroke of her finger. Then she smiled, slowly, as if she were discussing something slightly more or less important than what she ate three weeks ago on Thursday. "Maxwell. What the fuck ever." She shrugged, yawning. "We share a nice, big loft on the beach. Its largely an image thing with him- not sex- and for Christs sake, not love." "You live with him?" "On and off. I also have my own place. A roommate, Marina." She rose slowly and pushed back her hair. Blaise raised his head and watched her hourglass shape unfurl. "Shes a glass-blower. Schooled in Venice," she added. "The real Venice. Anyway, Im going to head there tonight, so Max can be alone with his tantrums." "Immolation." "What?" "Alex said he was threatening self-immolation." "Oh, yeah," she said, vaguely. "Thats a popular one." Blaise ran his fingers through his hair, and wondered if Paul Mitchell had forsaken him at last. "Sleep here," he said. Violetta paused. "What about Pauline?" Blaise laughed, wearily. "I would be hard pressed to explain exactly how little I give a fuck." He closed his eyes. "Stay if you want to stay." Blaise had never been a contact sleeper; Pauline had even accused him of being "cold", of coveting, and jealously guarding his personal space. Yet Violetta was something else- wasnt she? Hed just fucked her like a wild animal- cliched, but Christ, what else was there to say about it? It wasnt so odd, wanting to touch her body, to fall asleep enveloped in the olfactory fusion of sex and sweat and Coco Chanel. Kind of primal, really. Blaise thought about Maxwell Cox. About fucking Happening in Green and rainbow macaws. "Lets have dinner sometime," he said. Violetta laughed quietly. "Is that upper-crust semaphore for lets fuck? He smiled in the dark, drifting. "With the acceptance of a dinner invitation, the ensuing sex is implicit." "Arent you protozoan." "If by that you mean streamlined, wide-spread and efficient, then, yes." "Your over-developed cock


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is less of a mystery, when viewed beside your atrophied heart and withered humanity, Blaise." "You said my name," he remarked, mildly. He leaned on his elbow. Violettas hand was stroking his hair. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Isnt that a gold standard of the pack?" she whispered. True, all true, thought Blaise, until he was no longer thinking. He couldnt place exactly where he ceased to think and started to sleep, but his sleep was deep and dreamless. He was awakened by a call from Alex. "Hey- sorry about that fucking message I left last night." "No problem." Blaise said, rubbing his hair and sitting up. "Maxwell was just having kittens. I had to make him shut up, you know?" "Mmm-hmm." "Hes all tweaked out about some gallery showing on Friday." Alex paused. "Anyway, at least you got a laugh out of it." "Yeah," said Blaise slowly, glancing around the room. "That I did." Violetta was gone, had left, probably hours ago. He wanted coffee. "Wanna meet for breakfast?" asked Alex. "At the club?" Blaise lifted his eyebrows, trying to rouse his face. "Yeah. That sounds good. Can we make it an hour?" Alexs voice was cheerful. "Sure thing, buddy- Ill see you there." "Alex?" "Yes?" "Did you sleep last night?" Alex laughed. "Not that I recall." "Christ." "Ill see you in an hour. Well play racquetball." "Breakfast." "Right." Blaise hung up and climbed out of bed. He showered, shaved, blow-dried his hair, which was almost blond, but didnt quite make it that far. What the French called aussi blond. In France, you didnt get to have anything but "blond" or "brunet", and brunet didnt mean brown, god no- not in France. Brunet was dark brown, and blond was blond. Everything else was "aussi blond", or- also blond. However, as usual all bets were off at the designer level. Yves St. Laurent would doubtless call it fawn. Pauline would probably call it "serval" or "crème brulee". Actually, Pauline probably had several choice adjectives for him at this moment. He doubted they involved color. He took his keys from the armoire, and his eyes fell on the bed. It was a jumble of down and hundred dollar throw pillows. The pillows were his Waterloo. Even had he wanted to, he couldnt have reassembled them to their original battle formation. Not that it mattered. The maid would be here at ten, to wrangle the innumerable pillows, take his laundry, change the sheets. Blaise frowned, and looked closer. On one side of the bed, the white silk Gautier pillowcase was stained with feathery black smudges. "Holy fucking Christ on a catamaran," he sighed. The pillowcases alone had cost two hundred dollars. He picked it up, catching the faint hint of Chanel. Blaise sighed, pulling the case off the pillow. He eyed it, from one angle, then another. The dry cleaners had gotten out worse. His finger traced the stains, slowly. He should leave this pillowcase, with a note for Melinda about dry cleaning. He wondered about Alex, and whether they were actually having breakfast. Slowly, Blaise folded the pillowcase into a silken square, absently matching the corners. He put it in the bedside table drawer. It probably wouldnt come out anyway, he thought. Running a hand over his hair. Taking