Anna could take her pick of millionaire playboys or Hollywood A-list celebrities. The fact that she had fallen instead for this scruffy rock urchin set the gossip columnists on fire; journalists speculated endlessly about their enigmatic relationship. Forget column inches. Anna and Joey had column yards devoted to them. But these writers never hit on the truth of the matter, which was, in a world full of men willing to be Anna's slave, all she craved was to be mastered. While richer, taller, better-looking men had wined and dined her in the finest restaurants, Joey just took her back to his studio apartment in the East End and fucked her. He'd kissed her roughly, then thrown her back on a dirty mattress, pinned her arms by her sides, and fucked her until she succumbed to a rippling orgasm that brought her close to tears. With characteristic charm and arrogance, he bit her on the neck, slapped her ass, called her a little slut (which Anna had loved), and wrote a song for her. No other man had stood a chance since.
She walked a few paces, sticking out her slim hips, noticing the way the little bump caressed her clitoris with each step. Even sitting still, she was aware of it, although she had to move to feel any real stimulation. So she kept moving, crossing and uncrossing her legs, swaying her hips, dancing, allowing the little nodule to grind against her clit. If she wasn't careful, she'd come before she even was dressed. Anna was saved by a knock on her door.