Chapter 3

Stacy and her mother had departed a half-hour prior, the little girl clutching her heart-shaped napkin and skipping excitedly, her mother offering a small wave and a smile. No other customers had entered since, leaving Psyche and Cupid to discover an unlikely friendship cast in disparate worlds. The modest barista betrayed none of her underlying divine nature, but Psyche found a sympathetic ear, perhaps because the woman had no connection to the world of high fashion and photographs, and had never met Aglaura, or Walter, or Panthera, or Christian Dior.

Psyche glanced at her watch, biting at her lip regretfully.

“I really must go.”

Stereotypically, supermodels eschewed punctuality. Psyche possessed a stronger work ethic than most. Chatting here with Cupid appealed to her, but Walter would only tolerate her tardiness to a point. If she remained here, the watchdogs would intrude shortly.

Psyche stood and zipped her parka as Cupid returned to the counter and busied herself making four to-go cups, three espressos and one cappuccino. She watched lazily as Cupid bustled behind the counter. When Cupid finished, she presented Psyche with four coffees tucked into a cardboard serving tray. Psyche fished out her credit card, even while Cupid held up her hand.

“On the house,” Cupid said.

Psyche shook her head and laughed. “Please. It’s not like I can’t afford it.”

“We want you safe,” Cupid replied. Cupid had prepared the coffees for her security team, after all.

“I insist,” Psyche replied, pressing the credit card into Cupid’s hand. A strange blue aura shimmered when their fingers briefly touched. Psyche pulled her hand back as if the unexpected sapphire tingle shocked her. She glanced at her hand with momentary puzzlement.

“I really enjoyed talking with you,” Psyche said with a regretful smile. She doubted she’d see the friendly barista again. “Thank you.” It costs nothing to be polite.

Before Psyche gathered up the coffees, Cupid spoke.

“I enjoyed our talk, too. Perhaps we can continue another time?”

Psyche nearly declined, but honest and unencumbered conversation neared extinction in her world. She extracted her phone from her pocket, unlocked it, and passed it across to the barista. She watched as Cupid fumbled the interface, as if she normally avoided technology. Eventually, Cupid returned the phone to Psyche with an embarrassed smile.

Psyche nodded, replaced the phone in her coat, and gathered up the tray.

“Until next time,” Psyche said with a wave of her gloved fingers over her shoulder.

Psyche stepped out into the February air, her breath immediately pluming. Obliviously, she passed by Benny as she walked away, her thoughts preoccupied with the strange barista.

Psychedelic colours, a consequence of constant camera flashes, danced in Psyche’s vision as she pulled the thin robe about her naked chest, gripping the fabric tightly in her fist. She pushed herself from the comfortable designer linens to drop to her bare feet and finally stand. Hot lights illuminated the studio, exposing every pore and dimple of her high-priced body. Peering past the spotlights, vague human shapes stood observing or adjusting equipment. Even with the carefully controlled temperature here, Psyche shivered involuntarily. While everyone here acted professionally, her girls had breathed freely for seven solid hours.

Barefoot, only wearing the thin robe, she wandered from the prop bedroom, beyond the lights to find the coffee machine. Extracting a paper cup and pouring the nectar, she sipped. Unsurprisingly, The Lonely Heart Café brewed a much superior product, or perhaps the barista there simply flaunted finer skills when compared to the machine serving this studio.

Clutching her lacklustre coffee, Psyche wandered tiredly to the editing bay, her toes cool against the polished floor. Eyes followed her as she walked; she ignored them.

For a few minutes, she watched the glowing monitor. Tasteful images of her nearly naked form, draped from every angle, flashed across the screen in rapid succession. Most of the images would require some retouching, some to blur an unintentional nipple, some to hide an awkward knee.

Ian glanced up, noting her presence, but his eyes focused on her face. Having snapped most of the intimate images flashing across the screen, he retained no incentive to ogle her further. Regardless, Psyche suspected, Ian’s sexuality leaned significantly towards the male gender.

“Nice shoot, my dear,” he remarked. “Not much editing work here.”

She rarely needed much retouching, a fact Walter exploited at every opportunity. Clients preferred natural models who knew how to position themselves for the lens without considerable direction. That innate ability had always blessed her, even as a child.

“Is this a wrap, then?” she ventured hopefully. Professionally, she would continue, even if the answer returned negative.

Ian considered the next four photos and nodded in satisfaction.

“Until tomorrow, my dear.”

Midnight. Security abandoned her at the elevator, permitting her to walk the upper-floor corridor solitary. Since her outdoor walk to the café in the early afternoon, people had accompanied her constantly. As she approached her suite, animalistic noises emanated from the door opposite. Gritting her teeth, she flashed her room key at the knob, the little green light illuminated, and she pushed through, shutting the door and the noises behind her.

Honestly, she failed to understand the attraction between Walter and Aglaura. Perhaps opposites truly attracted. She shivered as she doffed her parka, hung it in the closet, and kicked her warm boots into a careless jumble near the foyer mirror.

Critically, she peered into the mirror. Her skin remained flawless and glowing, her hair cascading freely about her shoulders. Her eyes stared back at her. The weariness and doubts surfaced within their liquid core.

Biting her lip, she drew her thin t-shirt over her head and dropped it at her feet. In one fluid motion, she pushed her designer jeans and high cuts to join her top. Using her toes, she pulled the socks from her feet.

Bidding her mirror twin adieu, she strode naked into the suite, opened the mini-bar and extracted a bottle of McGillicuddy’s from the fridge. Walter might protest at the expense, but, at the moment, she didn’t care. The shoot had extended by three hours and her tongue desired sweet. Selecting a paper thin Baccarat from the shelf, she poured three fingers into the glass. Sipping at the liquid, the liqueur saturating her lips and tongue, she wandered to the opulent washroom. Setting the glass on the marble counter, she entered the shower enclosure, closed the transparent door, adjusted the temperature to boil, and stepped under the waterfall. Steaming water sluiced away the long hours and banished any thoughts of Aglaura, Walter, or Stephano.

Only one person intruded into her water-soaked mind.

Cupid.

Psyche sleeplessly stared at the speckled hotel ceiling. Even at midnight, city night chaos drifted towards her penthouse suite, drunken singing on the street below, taxi horns blaring. Somewhere in the distance, searchlights danced across the sky, advertising a midnight rave or a winter festival. Luminescent patterns roved across the ceiling like mating fireflies.

The scent of peaches tickled her nose as she lifted the delicate Baccarat to her dry lips. Sweet schnapps warmed her tongue and throat as the liquid trickled into her mouth. Her hair dripped clean and fresh, dampening the shoulders of her robe. A raucous couple passed the suite door, their raised voices penetrating even to the separate bedroom. Psyche listened to them pass, then fade as a door slammed further up the corridor.

Drinking alone on a Wednesday night. Schnapps counted, even if not whiskey.

Her life culminated in this simple reality: lying alone atop the linen sheets, ankles crossed demurely, sipping pathetically at McGillicuddy’s. Her thoughts meandered to the evening shoot, to Stacy’s wonder, to Panthera’s fur, to Madeline’s innocence, to Stephano’s corruption, to Aglaura across the hall fucking Walter.

She sipped at the schnapps again.

To new friends.

The barista. Cupid.

She’d treated Stacy, the child, with kindness and patience, absorbing the child’s infectious and wondrous view of the world. As she’d delivered the Americano to the table, Cupid had laughed, the sound of her voice sparking memories of happier times before fame and fortune. Her conversation had flowed as if they had known each other for years, despite the improbability. Supermodel. Barista. And as they had parted, awkwardly typing her number into Psyche’s phone before preparing coffees for her entire security detail. Yes, the barista certainly hailed from a different world.

And, Psyche reflected, the barista held an understated physical attractiveness, both in her defined features and in her fluid movement.

A siren warbled through the night. Fireflies danced on the ceiling.

Psyche picked up her phone and dialled.

“Security.”

“Daniel?”

“Miss, is anything wrong?” His voice betrayed his confusion, likely surprised she knew his name.

“Nothing is wrong.”

A puzzled pause. “Is there something I can get for you?”

“If a woman named Cupid shows up, please escort her directly to my room.”

“Cupid, Miss?”

“Cupid. Do you need me to spell it?”

“No, Miss. Cupid. Of course. Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you.”

She waited a long time, perhaps even fifteen minutes, before Psyche picked up the phone, searched her phonebook, and dialled once more.

A knock echoed through the suite.

Psyche pushed herself from the linen sheets and padded barefoot to the foyer. She considered replacing her clothing from the tiles, but pushed the jumbled pile to the side with her foot instead. Peering through the peephole, only Cupid stood beyond the thin door separating them, security discreetly melting away. The barista appeared somewhat nervous, shifting her weight from side to side as she waited. Behind the woman, Walter’s door loomed accusingly, securely closed and hiding its secrets.

This is crazy! It’s well after midnight. She’s not of this world. Why did she even accept?

Why call her at all?

Psyche seriously considered simply calling through the door. Sorry. It was a mistake. Go away, now.

Why even call her at all?

Because she’s kind and listens?

Why even call her at all?

Because loneliness shouldn’t dominate one’s life?

Walter wouldn’t approve. Not some anonymous barista. Perhaps an account executive at Prada would be more acceptable?

As Psyche hesitated, the woman in the corridor appeared to sigh and turned to amble back towards the elevator. Gathering her courage, Psyche held her breath, clenched the thin robe tighter between her breasts, and opened the door.

“Cupid?”

The angel turned, a smile gracing her lips.

“I thought maybe you’d fallen asleep, or changed your mind.”

Psyche held the door open and gestured Cupid inside, quickly closing the door behind her. If Walter had sensed or heard the interaction, he certainly possessed the same peephole into the hallway as existed in her door.

Psyche stepped back and regarded Cupid. The barista stood nervously, slipping her Keds off with her toes. She appeared the same as when they’d originally parted, ages ago in the café.

While her profession resulted in her exposure on a regular basis, suddenly, only wearing the thin hotel robe concerned her.

“Forgive me,” Psyche said, passing her fingers through her wet hair. “Let me grab some clothes.”

Cupid regarded her bemusedly, glancing at the small pile of jumbled clothing beneath the foyer mirror.

“You’re totally fine,” Cupid replied. “Don’t change on my account.”

She seemed sincere. If Cupid had been male, Psyche knew that look. For a moment, she tried to push it from her mind.

Psyche hesitated, then stepped back into the foyer, the polished marble cool under her toes.

“I didn’t expect you to call,” Cupid ventured. Barista. Supermodel. “Why did you call me?”

Because you were kind and listened to me? Because you spoke to a little girl as if she were a real person? I wanted to get to know you better? Because loneliness shouldn’t dominate one’s life? Because I want you? Pick one?

Psyche inhaled deeply, gathering her courage.

“Unless I totally misread this, I hoped you might kiss me,” she breathed.

Cupid’s hands wound into Psyche’s hair at the back of her head, water from her slicked hair dripping, coating Cupid’s fingers. With urgent pressure, Psyche backed up until her shoulders impacted the foyer wall and she could retreat no further. Her heart beat insistently below her breasts, her nipples hardening. Multi-coloured flashes revisited her vision. Breath lodged in her lungs.

“God...” she breathed.

And suddenly, Cupid’s yielding lips touched hers. Electricity flowed from the connection, awakening every nerve. The tingle reminded Psyche of the brief brush in the café, a river flowing to a warm sea. Psyche experienced the kiss from the tip of her nose to her bare toes.

One hand departed her hair, the other insistently applied more pressure until Psyche rose to her tiptoes. Her palms pressed helplessly against the wallboard. She closed her eyes, even while those lips continued to send electricity dripping through every nerve, every joint, every follicle. One finger descended from her chin, down her throat, bumped over her clavicle, traced like a feather parting her robe, down her sternum, through her navel to rest only a centimetre above her mons. A sapphire aura followed the finger, tingling relentlessly. It paused there, unmoving, demanding, feather-like.

“Please,” Psyche moaned. “Please.”

Her world narrowed to one finger and yielding lips.

Even she didn’t know for what she begged.

In her world, a distance existed between herself and every partner, a gulf created by power and by disparity. Sex existed as a cautious masquerade, passion muted by circumstance and transience. Impossible to surrender.

Her scalp burned with an urgent fire, every follicle alive and screaming, benevolent pain trickling into her whirling mind. No previous lover dared to release this unknown facet of her, ignite her ardour up against a wall, animalistic and close, her fingernails scratching at the paint, her arches aching.

Fuck.

Her sex clenched involuntarily as two fingers traced lazily over her right nipple, pausing, then squeezing, at first like velour, but gradually increasing the pressure, until mild discomfort caused a groan to escape her engaged lips. The pressure against her trapped nipple stabilized and transitioned to an urgent throb, beating in time with her hammering heart. Between her legs, fire simmered and a river gushed.

Carnal need rose from each new sensation, teasing and locating every erogenous zone on her blazing skin in a way no other had ever kindled. Her hips rocked without intent, unsatisfied with only diaphanous air.

The moaning voice ringing in her ears? Her own.

Cupid’s warm tongue slid across her exhilarated lips, pushing beyond, running along the sharp ridge of her parted teeth. Psyche’s tongue emerged, without thought, to greet the invader, welcoming.

Her nails departed the wall, sought Cupid’s face, caressing her delicate jaw as they continued to kiss. With little thought, she allowed one hand to descend, cupping Cupid’s perfect breast, squeezing impatiently. The other hand snaked behind and raked sharp nails down Cupid’s back, leaving crimson trails beneath the fabric of her shirt. Cupid inhaled sharply, but no protest emerged.

The fingers in her hair finally eased the pressure on her scalp and retreated, slipping through her wet hair like tendrils of mist. Even with the upwards pressure departed, Psyche remained on her toes, breathing ragged. Despite the release, she missed the sensation of those fingers.

Cupid’s lips parted from Psyche’s, the fingertip brushing her bare hip, leaving a void as Cupid stepped back.

Psyche opened her eyes, her lungs struggling for breath. Her sex screeched. Her breasts seethed.

Cupid stood close, regarding Psyche. Her pure, uneven breath washed over Psyche like a summer breeze in winter.

No masquerade existed. Cupid existed completely outside of her world.

She needed every touch, every caress, every kiss, without reservation.

Pressing herself against the foyer wall, her hands helpless at her side, the white flag unfurled.

“Bedroom?” Psyche breathed.

The bedroom observed from the other side of the suite, its door ajar, the interior darkened but for fireflies sparkling unnoticed on the ceiling. An empty Baccarat, smelling sharply of peaches, trembled near the minibar.

Cupid and Psyche failed to reach the bedroom archway, tumbling to the beige sofa in a tangle of limbs, groping and kissing like virginal teenagers experiencing sex for the first time. Psyche’s skin smouldered, afire to Cupid’s arson. Every centimetre of her exposed flesh craved fingertips and lips.

Lips. Teeth. Hair. Nipples. Shoulders. Ribs. Throat. Fingertips. Palms. Calves. Soles. Toes. Knees.

Each ethereal touch ignited dormant nerves Psyche never knew existed.

“More...” she breathed.

Her shoulder and hip lamented where she’d crashed to the marble tile of the floor. Bruises would certainly form in both locations, causing Makeup, Walter, and Aglaura considerable consternation, but their future displeasure fled from Psyche’s consciousness. Only pleasure, only Cupid, mattered.

Biting her lip to suppress another moan, Psyche rolled onto her back, raising her arms above her head, fingers entwined, pressing her nails against the cool tile. Her golden, still-wet hair haloed her head, a goddess reclining. She parted her legs. Lubrication dripping, her sex glistened, afire, ready. The scent of her sex tickled her nostrils, musky and sweet.

Cupid climbed from the sofa, kneeling on the marble near Psyche’s head.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. Her breath burned hot against Psyche’s ear, her voice mellifluous and concerned.

Psyche nodded. Her shoulder throbbed where she’d contacted the floor, the ache at her hip already fading.

“I want you,” Psyche breathed. “Now. Please.”

Cupid paused, as if unsure, but then shifted, trailing feather-light fingertips over Psyche’s hyperstimulated skin. Finally, she knelt fluidly between Psyche’s legs. She bent, her hair kissing naked thighs.

Seductively, Cupid blew cool air across Psyche’s sex, only enough to tease, to hint at heights of pleasure never before bestowed.

Stephano had never simply exhaled across her like that. Nor had any other former lover. They couldn’t.

“Please. God. Please.”

One single finger slid between her slick nether lips and pressed against her neglected clitoris. Urgently, she rocked her hips, desperately seeking further contact. Anything. Please.

That maddening finger simply followed her movement, denying her the stimulation she craved. Never before had she lacked such control, surrendered so completely.

“Not yet,” Cupid whispered. “Wait.”

“I can’t. Please.”

“You can.”

Fuck.

“Trust me.”

“I do.” Psyche harboured no idea why, but she trusted the woman kneeling between her legs. Completely.

“Hold it as long as you can,” Cupid breathed.

“I can’t. I can’t hold it if you move that finger. I’m so close.”

Cupid paused, and then gradually stroked, controlling every sensation, not enough to satisfy, but enough to cause a guttural moan of surrender to emerge.

“Try.”

Fuck.

Dense, polished marble pressed insistently against the bare skin at her shoulder blades, buttocks and thighs. The back of her head ached, though Cupid’s fingers had released her hair long ago. She wanted those fingers back tugging at her hair, but they journeyed elsewhere. In her vision, the sitting area sofa, where they had entwined before an ill-considered shift dumped her to the floor, rose like a beige tower from her vantage point. Cupid reclined beside her, fingertips teasing, wandering over her exposed skin, playing her like a divine harp, her t-shirt and breast pressing comfortably against Psyche’s ribs.

Descending from her breasts, the feather fingers located her sex again, teasing the exterior like an ethereal caress. Sapphire tingles dripped into her.

“God, please. Inside,” Psyche moaned. “Please. Now?”

She suffered for a few minutes with the feather touches. Without warning, warm fingers slid inside, still but for a moment.

“Please. God. Please.”

And suddenly the hand moved, lips kissed hers tenderly, insistent, close. Peaches.