London Victoria Lester, the only daughter of famed forties film star Victor Lester, was no longer a virgin. Fair enough, this was a day that either came or it didn't, but she had grown accustomed to the idea of dying untouched and pure. There was almost something biblically romantic about dying pure of sexual touch; never to feel foreign fingers brush against her nipples, never to feel joined with a man like she had expected as did every other teenaged girl she knew. She never worried about the unnecessary matters of virginity nearly as much as other girls because more often than not, London's head was filled with appealing thoughts of death.

To pinpoint an exact moment when the depression began to seep would be of some difficulty, but London could examine a spot in time when she was stricken to a low point. Without any way of softening the blow, her father had cut her off – in a financial sense.

Before one would start to presume London as another one of the litter of spoilt spawns conceived by film stars who exceeded the term of 'legendary', it should be made clear London had been on living on her own for a long time without her father's money. For a little while in the early months of '65, London struggled to pay for her necessities. The important things like the rent on her studio apartment, the taxi fares to get from her home to the shimmering siren call of Broadway where she worked and – when it got really bad for her – to pay for food. The facade of work in Broadway at the time of early '65 was the dreamy, self-esteem blowing equivalent of trying to scrape ten year old gum off the sidewalk.

London had endured through unemployment in the past, but this was a whole other level for her. She was truly fortunate to receive a glance from the directors or casting agents unless she did one of two things: mention she was the only daughter of Victor Lester the giant film star of Hollywood or if she threatened to call her father Victor Lester, the giant film star of Hollywood, if they did not, at the least, consider her for an audition. Neither one of those two things she ever did with pride but times were hard for dancers who could sing a little on the side. Broadway and Hollywood aspired for types like Ann-Margret and Tuesday Weld: sexy, pretty, kittenish girls with a little spunk in their stride, a little sassiness in their talk and a twinkle in their eye. Girls who made teenagers feel alive, old men feel young, and the young men pitch tents in the theatres waiting long after the film was over to feel it was safe to move again.

To answer London's frequenting gaze of bemusement, they would simply say the reason wasn't because she wasn't pretty. It was more that it was painfully discernible to them, from her ballet roots to the thick layers of clothing she wore day in and day out, that London was a conservative little virgin. At aged twenty in 1965, this was a scandalous idea.

London would be the first to admit she wasn't much of an actor – unlike her father and three brothers who had all won more than two Academy Awards – but she could dance her ass off, she liked to tell herself. She studied ballet since she was three and she could sing opera with a little bit of vocal practice beforehand. She wasn't completely useless, she desperately believed. But Broadway thought otherwise and she didn't dare enter Hollywood – the man's territory in the family.

Soon enough – as expected – the stress of living independently began to beat her down the way one would crack a lobster with a mallet. Her knees buckled under the weight of her financial dues and as harmful as it was to her pride, having built something for herself alone in the past three years, she called her wealthy father at his home in Bel-Air.

She could picture the manor in vivid detail in her head while the phone rang: sleek white marble flooring, an enormous spiral staircase situated in the foyer, a pool sparkling underneath the L.A. sunlight outside, magnificent golden wallpaper depicting shapes of woodland creatures shimmering in the light cast by the magnificent chandelier hanging above. With her childhood home in mind, London turned her head with a studying gaze at the features of the home she had made for herself in New York. The walls were painted hot pink (by the landlady; London had absolutely no say in painting them another colour), the hardwood floors were stained and ruined by the cigarette ashes of the previous tenant, the kitchenette was covered in a grunge that London fought hard to get rid of with one hard sweep of bleach after the other and her bed was pushed to the side of the studio space that was the cleanest. Four walls was all she could afford on her own to call home but she managed it. Now, she was struggling to keep it.

Finally, a click sounded on the other line. Her finger twirled the spiral cord around her finger anxiously.

"Lester residence," came the exhausted drawl of the elderly butler, Martin. He was British to a fault; filled with his unique sarcastic quips which were often left unheard or misunderstood. But London knew what he was saying most of the time: how did I end up here?

She straightened on her little sofa in the living room space, crossing her legs underneath her. "Martin, this is London. Is Dad home?"

"Yes he is, Miss London. Give me a moment," he replied politely, a gentle tap being heard through the line as Martin put the phone down.

London was fully aware she would be a liar if she said she wasn't the least bit psychic of how her conversations with her would pattern. There was an underlying animosity between the two of them; before she decided to set up her independence in New York, London lived in the home and, like her father, would talk constantly on the phone. Though her father often used the phone to discuss offered parts for him, she talked about the latest man-crush craze in that new film to the older men in show-business she found darling and attractive. Her father repeatedly proclaimed he used the phone for work only and would often use the officiating catchphrase whenever his daughter tried to argue: "If it weren't for my work, you would have no phone to speak into!"

London, like any teenaged girl, would roll her green eyes agreed to a compromise with her often tenacious father. He would knock on her door, tell her the phone was free, and then shift off to memorise another script. This compromise between a father and daughter crumbled to ash one evening when London grew impatient. She picked up the phone in her room, holding it to her ear with her finger hovering over the dial wheel. What she heard through the ear was her father talking seductively in his low, velvety voice to an unfamiliar woman on the other line. London's mother slept on the leather lounge in the library downstairs, guarded by several empty bottles that had once been filled with whiskey – a relatively new trait of Catherine Lester's.

With rapid speed, it clicked in London's mind as to who 'Bert' actually was. 'Bert' was an important figure in her father's life and everybody knew – or more rather believed – the conversations between the patriarch of the Lester house and 'Bert' were going to be batshit boring. But following that evening, in full Nancy Drew mode, London started to connect the dots; 'Bert' was actually Bertha Boyd – wife of the director, Gerald Boyd. All it took was one act of impatience on London's part, one act of calling her father out on his affair, and suddenly she was the least favourite child of all of them. It also became clear her mother knew very well of her husband Victor's indiscretions – hence, the abrupt increase of her alcohol consumption. Like every other Hollywood wife some would drown in alcohol, some would fall into affairs of their own or all would do both. London couldn't bear the toxic dysfunction in the household and the vicious condescension she received from her father – as if she were the one who was in the wrong! So she moved to New York and cut herself of from her father. Until her money withered away to only a few dollars and she needed some backup support.

There was a ruffling of noise through the ear of her phone,  which caused her to stiffen in her seat.

Here it goes, she thought uneasily. When her father's voice came through one ear, her heartbeat drummed thunderously in the other.

"What is it?" He huffed over the line, pinching a nerve with his tone.

"Oh, hello to you as well."

The venom dripped out before she could stop it, smacking her forehead. Excellent start to what was to be a conversation of grovelling on one part, and arrogant gloating on the other. Unfortunately, her dreams of him on his knees begging for her to keep his affair a secret were thrown out of the window.

He chuckled sardonically on the other end of the line, "If you're trying to weasel some money out of me, London... You're doing a poor job of it by being a smart mouth."

I bet Bertha's got a smart mouth, she thought, shuddering quickly after. She did not want to think of her father having sex – no, as far as she was concerned babies were made the same way Jesus Christ was.

"I'm sorry," she muttered shortly after, running her fingers through her oily hair. She would've bought shampoo had she not had to pay rent to the pink-obsessed landlady. "I've just spent my last purse on the rent."

"Get some work, then. You live in New York, London, it can't be too hard for you."

"There's no work for dancers on Broadway, at the moment," she argued, her fingers curling into fists while her voice wavered slightly. "They don't want dances! They want actors who can belch out a tune – if they're lucky enough to have a voice in the first place. I can sing a little but I'm certainly not getting the lead in Oklahoma."

"Then lower your standards, London. Audition for talking parts – speaking roles. Audition for Cat On A Hot Tin Roof or whatever else is out there! How about you get an agent or a manager to sort this business out for you instead of coming to me with a sour note every time something goes lopsided."

Now... she knew that he knew she hadn't called him in months. She couldn't stand to and she certainly couldn't stand the utter arrogance of what he just said to her through the line, causing her to nearly snatch the phone cord from the phone's receiver. London could feel the hot steam shooting from her ears, still she bit her lip and held her tongue.

She inhaled sharply between her teeth, exhaling with a struggle. "I just... need some money to help me along my way until I get some steady work. Please, be a father, and help me."

"And why should I?" He challenged.

Here came the Ace card.

"I'll tell the press about you and 'Bert'."

The next Saturday she got her first paycheque from her father; it was sweet-smelling, blackmailed money and it was enough for her to pay for the taxi fares and to fill her fridge at least halfway. The next couple of weeks were like trudging through thick, heavy mud but she managed an agonisingly difficult spot as a dancer and backup singer on the Perry Como Show, the Andy Williams Show and even landed a solo spot singing a rendition of Someone To Watch Over Me on the Ed Sullivan Show. But the money, almost like cruel magic trick, disappeared from her bank account as the time of the rent came forward once again, she needed to pay for necessities and her father began taking interest out of her account to pay back his 'loans'.

The next month in the middle of April, he cut her off. There were no more jobs, there were no more options for her, there was nothing left but her bed and the approaching due date of her rent again. She spent most of her time eating out the last of her food, watching the television endlessly until eventually passing out in a sugar-filled haze on the floor of her living space. Her bathroom – or really the bathtub set up in the corner of her studio apartment – was unclean and unused. She'd forgotten to take care of herself in between crying herself to sleep, uncertain of what she was going to do and teasing herself with the idea of jumping out of her apartment window. Soon enough it became a very attractive idea – jumping out of her window. She was on the twentieth floor of the building, the pavement below was relatively clean... all she had to do was just slide the window open, go out onto the small ledge and just push her legs and she'd be flying straight into the ground.

On one particularly moody day, just a couple of hours after she had sold her television to pay for cigarettes and food, London looked out that window at the slightly whitened view of Manhattan outside. It was edging closer to May and yet the weather was still horrid – as if it were reflecting her mood or God was trying to make her mood even worse. London pushed herself off of the wooden floor abandoning a packet of cigarettes on the ground, shuffling barefoot toward the frost-covered window. Her fingers tugged at the latch of the window, pulling it upward just as she was whipped with a harsh chill of wind and spitting of rain. London pushed one leg through the window and then the other, sitting just on the windowsill for a silent moment.

She was just about to slide herself completely out when she abruptly thought of a plan. An idea that swiftly became a plan before she really caught up with her thought process.

Victor Lester, the oh-so very famous Victor Lester who had won four Academy Awards, was a tight-ass with his earnings. From an early age, when permission slips were sent home in nice, neat envelopes, London learned how to forge her father's signature.

All she had to do was pick a number, write a letter and she could run away. She could give life a second chance and if it crushed her once again, then that pavement will always be there.

Maybe it was her love of the ironic which set her on the path to London, England with her newly acquired ten thousand in cash. Neatly stacked piles of money were fixed in one of the two suitcases she brought with her on the plane, watching the mixing green and brown of America fade and disappear beneath her until she saw nothing but the ocean, then she saw clouds pass by her window and soon the stars were winking to her while she gazed out of the window. She sat next to an elderly woman dressed in a heavy mink coat – which she absolutely refused to remove from her shoulders. From the messy tresses of what grey hair she had left to the lack of makeup she wore, it was obvious to London this was all the lady had which was of any worth. She was pretty sure it was stolen but she didn't dare ask. She would be in Silver Hill – a well-paid sanitarium – if it weren't for her own quick decision to do some thievery of her own.

But because the elderly lady didn't speak to her or offer her a novel to read, London pondered whether she was really suicidal or not. How was it that one minute she was thinking deeply of how she could die – of how she wanted to die – then the next minute she was planning to fuck her dad over big time? To move to England – to start a new life? Did she really want to die or was it a moment of darkness that could've cost her her life?

She stuck a nail in the gap between her teeth, watching the soft, cottony clouds roll against the background of the inky black sky littered with twinkling stars.

London (the city) was a completely different world from New York and she knew she should've expected it to be. The shock of it all struck her hard like an anvil in a Looney Tunes cartoon; for a couple of days while she booked her hotel room and adjusted to the bewilderingly chilly weather, she felt as if she were out of her depth. What if this had been a bad idea after all? She stole $10, 000 of her father's money, left her studio apartment and occupational "legacy" behind, and simply flew off to a country she knew very little about other than it produced the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. The first adjustment she made to the culture shock was the zebra-crossings, people driving on the left side of the road rather than the right, and the television – it shut off at midnight! She'd never seen anything like that before: television being shut off at midnight. But as she had for her apartment back in New York, she adjusted and worked around it.

Her hotel was located close to Trafalgar Square; really, it was a ten minute walk away from the bustling of black cabs, multicoloured vehicles and some scooters and motorbikes rode on by people known as 'Mods' and 'Rockers'. The hotel management, probably pitying her obvious oblivion to the workings of England, were assisting to her and every morning called for a black cab on cue of her strutting into the lobby dressed in her modest mint-green coat and ever-alternating pair of shoes (she only brought two pairs of heels). London would thank them sheepishly every time at the administration desk before heading off to find work in this alien land.

Incredibly enough, the change of scenery – as it were – worked for London. She had hoped deeply to achieve her dream of being a legend in the ballet, but those dreams were ceased when she accepted she wasn't getting work as a dancer as she had hoped, but one man at an audition for My Fair Lady saw her and offered her some modelling work as a headshot beauty – not aware of who she was at all. London was especially stunned when one of the photographers she'd been seeing pulled a picture of her from '60 out of the blue, showing it to her with his impressive gaze set on her slender legs in the picture.

Before London had time to blink her career had advanced from simple headshot photographs for perfume ads to modelling miniskirts, short dresses and in a couple of circumstances, swimsuits. She was swiftly becoming accustomed to taking a black taxi from one place to another to get to her sessions and go-sees, building a rather modest portfolio of photographs. In each one of them the model-seekers eyes would shoot straight to London's sleek pair of legs, leering at them whether they were men or women. She certainly didn't think of herself as a Jean Shrimpton and she wasn't very sure of how long this interlude of modelling was going to last, but she took it while it was there. After all, the ten grand in her suitcase was paying for her hotel suite until she could find a decent apartment – or as many of the British bell boys called a 'flat' – in the city.

Still, she pined to return to work as a dancer. On a fairly frosty day in London, while she stood on the pavement in the busy hustle being produced from the live traffic in Trafalgar Square, she stared off toward the grey clouds in the distance with a consuming nostalgia for her teen years. Her teen years where she danced such dancing feats as Swan Lake and The Nutcracker and was regarded as a strong talent in the ballet. When the traffic began to slow at the flickering of the lights going red, a black car pulled up slowly to the sidewalk where London stood expectantly for the black cab the hotel called for her every day. She snapped out of her reverie long enough to curl her fingers around the door handle, clicking it open and slipping inside of the vehicle and onto the black seat. When she shut the door beside her, she tugged her gloves off of her fingers, a terrible melancholy swarming inside of her – familiar feelings which brought her back to that window in New York.

"I need to get to –" she glanced up and paused, her fingers stilling on her second and last glove.

The inside of what she believed to be a black cab was recognisably different from all the others. Instead of the usual filling smell of body odour and stale cigarettes, there was a faint smell of something else – could it be sex? She wouldn't know but it still struck her silent. There was a glass partition fixed between the driver's area and the backseat; her eyes travelled lower to find a mini television with shifting black and white images playing on its small, square screen and a small compartment of liquor beneath that. This definitely wasn't a cab.

"Wrong ride, luv," came a voice from beside her, London jerking her head in the direction of which it came. If her eyes were already considered wide from the humiliating terror of having stepped into somebody's person car, then they widened even further when she met the amused – albeit a little stunned – expression of the car's owner.

London would admit honestly to being a little unaware of England's culture, but the music scene in the city of London she was very much aware of. It was vibrant in the midst of the city and she often spent her afternoons and evenings watching one show to the next from Jukebox Jury to Ready, Steady, Go!

And she knew who exactly he was.

London was stunned by how pale his complexion actually was with only a few tones of pink and a little tanning around his cheeks. He had a strong, defining jawline she could run her gaze over repeatedly, studying his pinstriped suit worn rather casually with the front open and a white dress shirt underneath. He brought one booted leg high over the other, resting his back against the other door to get a better look of the sudden intruder who had stepped unknowingly into the back of his stylish vehicle. But it was his eyes that paralysed London in her place – they were a warm whiskey in a glass with a ray of sunshine piercing through. That was the colour settled in an almond shaped eye with a bemused stare reflected in its colour.

She inhaled sharply through her front teeth, struggling to keep the arising panic attack from erupting. Inside London it felt like a volcano threatening against its earthy barriers – daring to explode.

"Shit," she muttered harshly, smacking her palm against the window of the door on her side, feeling for the handle. "Shit, shit... I'm sorry... I'm... really shitting stupid – I'm so sorry..."

"Wait, 'ang on, we're moving! Don't open the door!"

"I want to get out!" She panicked, smacking the backs of her hands against the tops of her thighs.

"Ye can't! We're fucking moving!" John yelled back at her, pointing to the shifting scenery.

She smacked her hand against the glass window, "Fuck! Fucking main road – fuck this!"

"You break my fuckin' windows, lady, and I'll throw ye out onto the road," John threatened lowly.

London's forehead fell with an audible thud against the car window, her eyes closing. She wasn't going to make it to the meeting, she wasn't going to make it to her photoshoots today, she was going to lose money and all of this terrible stress overwhelmed whatever excitement she had for meeting John Lennon – in his own car!

"Just wait a bit and I'll get you to wherever ye need to go," John softened his tone a little. "In the meantime, don't hit my windows."

London pulled her head away from the surface of the window, lightly patting it with a guilty hand.

"They're nice windows," she apologised sheepishly.

"I had a job to go to..." she murmured, crossing her legs over, stroking inches of the inside of the car, feeling the rich textures.

The young dancer had been in her fair share of limousines and expensive cars being the daughter of Victor Lester, but she still felt a sense of amazement whenever she found herself surrounded by various magnificent materials she just had to feel. She felt like a curious eight year old again – an eight year old with hope and dreams for a future; definitely not a twenty year old woman having to fight for jobs with women far more gorgeous, taller and sophisticated than she was. But, according to the photographers, there was something there.

When she glanced over, she found John's eyes trained on her calves and pointed toes. He only confirmed what every of the other photographer confirmed: she had an attractive pair of legs. London bit her lip, struggling to hold back a pleased grin of having attracted the famed musician's attention.

"What kind of job?" He asked almost absently, his whiskey-coloured eyes running along the rest of her figure. She made a good decision to not wear her stockings today – as it turned out!

She crossed her legs over the other way, turning toward John in the back of his enormous car. She smirked at him with her fingers threaded around the ball of her knee, "Modelling. Not my first choice of occupation, but it's still money."

John's eyes abruptly snapped up to meet hers, his thin lips twitching at the corners. "Are ye American?"

She threw her hands in the air, her nails barely grazing the roof with a wide smile on her soft features. "He notices!"

"What're ye doin' in England? It's not as good over here, trust me."

"It's better than what I had in America, trust me," London rolled her eyes, adjusting to stare out of the window once more.

"No boyfriend? No friends? Family?" John inquired, intrigued. He leaned closer toward her.

She laughed, stroking the rim of her eye with a manicured finger. "No, no boyfriend – you're actually the first guy to really look at me! Although, I admit, there isn't a hot blonde you're looking at over my shoulder so that might be the secret of success. Friends... I wasn't very close with my friends. They were sort of there, really. My family... my family all suck dick, so I'll drop that before the inside of this car gets depressing."

God, she could really use a smoke right about now. It was quickly becoming another melancholy moment for her and she wasn't even alone this time! There was somebody there: somebody to drag her focus away from the darkness which swirled in her life and to keep her entertained – even if it was for a minute or two in the back of a car she had mistaken for a black taxi. She dug around in her handbag, trying to find a pack of smokes. But it seemed Mr. Lennon was telepathic.

"Here."

He held a pack of Marlboro cigarettes out to her. Between her nails she took a cigarette with a nod of thanks, holding it over the flame of his lighter, unintentionally feeling this was something intimate between the two of them. She adjusted herself in her seat, her cheeks flushed pink.

"Les! We're not going to the press conference," John yelled at his driver, attracting London's attention. She had forgotten there was a third person behind the steering wheel (well, of course) protected by the partition of glass between the two areas of the car. It must be a massive car, London thought with a drag from her cigarette.

Les was driving through a variety of different roads and streets London had never seen before. Some were domestic – shortcuts, probably – others were straight onto the main roads of the city where other cars were fighting to change lanes and dodge roundabouts as much as possible. He eventually responded to John.

"We're not?"

"Nah, I've got company with me now," John threw a glance toward London. "She clearly needs the company as well."

"I'm not lonely," she said confidently.

John gave her a stare which told her he wasn't buying it and she didn't have much of a say in the matter of his abrupt choice to spend some time with the stranger who had entered his car by mistake. It was a bizarre, almost impossible circumstance but London was too stricken with shock to understand her own reality.

Then something happened – something which stunned her into keeping her eyes trained on his, like a prey staring straight back at the predator. With the exception of it being anything like that; instead of something dangerous there was something empathetic in his gaze. It was a flash but she caught it long enough to recognise what it was.

He was lonely, too.

"Where are we going?" She asked softly.

John's smirk pulled wide into a mischievous grin. "Anywhere."

Nighttime had fallen outside on England when London and John had stumbled into the gold-wallpapered elevator of her hotel, his lips finding hers in a heated kiss while he pinned her against the corner, towering over her much smaller frame. How it got to the hotel elevator – the two parties weren't entirely sure themselves. 

The last thing London could remember was that after their spark of trouble in the back of the Rolls Royce – as she was amazed to see when she emerged from the car – then he took her to an expensive lunch, to a film in disguise (giggling all the way), then when night fell they went to a small club in central London. They were lead into a small booth in the very corner of the establishment, shadowed and silhouetted and hidden from the middle-class characters swarming in and dancing on the floor before a band of five men playing Rock n' Roll hits. John and London downed glasses of rum and coke – she wasn't as much of a fan of it as he was, but she didn't mind it – and chatted amongst one another about each other's interests. One song after the other, John seemed to be edging closer and closer to London in the booth until they were nearly nose-to-nose with one another. One kiss was all it took.

How they managed their way to the hotel she currently stayed in, stuck inside the elevator with John's hands moving over her figure and pressing her in the small space between the two walls. In the small surfacing-for-air moments where her mind collected itself long enough to process what was going on, she grew terrified John would notice she was an amateur kisser and be discouraged by her very evident inexperience.

"John..." she breathed, shifting her face away from his. Ever the enthusiast he seemed to be in this kind of situation, he just went for her neck instead.

She giggled when his teeth lightly brushed against a particularly ticklish spot on her neck, her fingers running through his surprisingly soft hair. London's worries came as quickly as they went as John's knee pushed between her legs, pressing against her heat. She gasped at the unfamiliar sensation, not entirely sure why she loved it so much. For years she thought she would be deeply uncomfortable with this level of attention. The kind of intimacy where somebody would touch her in her most private places, see her completely exposed and vulnerable to their expectantly hungry glare. But John snaked an arm around her waist, holding her against his broader frame while her hips shifted unconsciously on his trousered thigh, trying to get closer to that feeling. Her dress hidden beneath her mint green coat rode higher and higher on her thighs, John's hands shooting down to grab greedily at her lovely legs.

"Am I doing okay?" She managed, feeling his lips on hers again.

He smiled a wide, toothy grin which made her melt because she could feel him relax with her. No matter what happened when those elevator door dinged and slid open, this would be the moment she would remember the most vividly. She knew it.

"Yer doin' better than me," he laughed, stroking a strand of loose light brown hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink, her green eyes sparkling with a lusty haze that could've made any man swoon.

Between the two of them, they both knew that was not the case but London still appreciated the sweetness he allowed her. Almost like it was a part of him he was afraid to offer anybody.

Just then the elevator door dinged open, revealing a long, eerily empty hallway illuminated by chandeliers casting a golden glow onto the antique-styled white walls and the rich, scarlet carpeting below.

"Which room's yours?" John breathed against her cheek, urging London excitedly out of the elevator and onto the hotel floor. She fumbled around in her coat pockets for her hotel key, finding John's kisses to the back of her neck terribly distracting.

She giggled and cackled in the hallway, "I need to find... wait–wait a minute..."

"Hurry up," John replied sharply and she could feel him smirk eagerly against the back of her neck.

Just as London felt the sweep of her curls against the back of her neck and the cool metal of her hotel key brush against her fingertips, a shiver ran up her spine and she swiftly became very, very panicked. She was deluding herself! How could she possibly go through with this and come out with him pleased with her efforts? No boyfriend in the past, no romances long enough for her to have anything to give him. London froze standing outside the door of her suite, her hand still in her pocket. John's hand rested on her stomach, feeling the muscles tighten beneath his touch.

"What's the matter?"

She inhaled sharply through her front teeth, laughing anxiously.

"I'm a – I'm a bit of a virgin," she struggled, offering a rather sheepish expression to John.

Green eyes met whiskey-coloured eyes and in them she saw one of the warmest gazes she had ever been given – not from her father, not from her older brothers or even from her drunk of a mother but from a famous stranger who had impressed her in just one day and made her forget about those feelings she had of throwing the towel in. He kissed her on the cheek, taking a small step back.

"You can say no, luv, I won't get mad if yer not ready for this yet," he took another step back, leaning against the wall next to the door.

The famed musician looked marvellous; his thick, "Mop-Top" hair was pointing in all directions from London's hands running through it repeatedly. His own face was flushed bright red and she could understand the hunger in that moment specifically. Hell, she would've pinned him to the ground had she not been so insecure about her lack of sexual ability. Then she woke up to what he said.

Her eyes widened, "Oh, no! I want it – more than I ever thought I would! It's just... I know what musicians are like... I don't want you to think I'm so... useless because I don't... haven't..." She made a grimace, rolling her eyes at her silliness. She pulled the key out of her pocket and slid it into the keyhole, jutting the door open.

"I've killed the mood, haven't I?" She smiled sadly, leaning the side of her head against the door. "It was such a good mood, too. Dammit!"

But John didn't say anything in reply and London looked over to see him grinning that same grin that made her melt – the wide, toothy one with a glint in his eye. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"What?"

He shook his head, "Nothin'. Are ye gonna open the door?"

London turned the doorknob of her suite door, uncertain of what she was to expect from John. Would he still want her? Is that why he asked her if she was going to open the door?

Stop analysing everything!

She stepped into the darkness of her hotel suite, a faint moonlight illumination cast onto the messy sheets of her double bed and the suitcase kicked into the corner with clothes still packed away inside.

London had turned her head to ask John if he wanted to come in when she felt his lips on hers again, pushing her far enough into the room for him to shut the door behind the two of them. She felt his fingers go through her hair again, pulling her closer to him for a harder kiss. London quickly shrugged her mint coat from her shoulders and threw it on the ground, feeling the vibration of his growl against her mouth. His hand smoothed along her shoulder blades and toward the zip at the back of her dress, teasing it for a moment as if he were waiting for her to say 'no' or 'stop'. She didn't and she had no intention to. He pulled the zip down and pushed the dress from her shoulders, his lips trailing from her jawline, along the column of her neck, to the soft flesh just above her breasts.

"The bed..." she murmured against John's ear, shrieking in surprise when he lifted her and held her by the thighs. Her fingers rested against the column of John's neck, holding on tightly while he carried her toward the bed by the huge window. She was still dressed in her bra and underwear while he still wore his clothes and shoes. It was simply unfair.

"Take your jacket off..." She whined, provoking a chuckle from John.

"How dark can you make your room?"

Before she could give a reply to his rather ambiguous response, he threw her onto the bed. Her legs hung off the edge of the bed while John moved to hover over her. London laid flat on her back, feeling John press kisses to the inside of her knee. He trailed his fingers along the smooth curve to her hips, hooking his fingers in the waistband of her underwear and smoothed the garment down her thighs, over the balls of her knees and discarding it to the carpeted floor as soon as she got her second foot out.

A brush of cool air made her gasp and a nervous tightening in her chest when his hands returned to her knees, parting them. Was this it? He hadn't even lost one piece of clothing!

"Wait! What're you doing – John!"

He kissed the inside of her calve, offering her a smile as he lowered himself onto his knees. "Just relax, ye'll enjoy this."

"You look like you'll enjoy this more than me," she joked nervously, combing her fingers running through the soft tresses of his auburn her. For some reason that helped her calm down.

London sucked in a tank full of air when something soft gently pressed against the wet heat between her legs. She was struggling to keep her breath steady when his tongue stroked against her folds, lapping and licking at her as if he were drinking water in the middle of the Sahara. John's warm hand guided those lovely slender legs, which had gotten her so much work, over his shoulders, burying his deep between her thighs and adjusting to a more comfortable angle.

A tingling sensation shot through every muscle and nerve in her body while John worked on her below, brushing his tongue over her clit, past her folds and kissing the tender, intimate flesh like it was his business to do so. London's vision kept fading in and out of focus while she stared up at the ceiling; her neighbour next door played smooth saxophone music on their record player at maximum volume. It had begun to rain outside, the clouds rolling in front of the moon and dulling its light in the hotel suite. She didn't mind all that much. She didn't need to see anything to feel what John was doing to her.

The dancer wasn't conscious of the arm draped across her waist, holding her hips down on the bed. A powerful feeling climbed and climbed inside of her with every motion of his tongue against her, bringing her closer and closer to an unfamiliar edge she had never been aware existed before inside of her. Her nails scratched roughly against John's scalp, tugging him closer toward the source of her pleasure.

Then it happened. Waves rolled through her of some incredible explosion of euphoric feeling – as if it had been there the whole time. She hadn't realised she'd been moaning the whole time until she found herself screaming John's name, her back arching from the powerful sensations wracking her entire body. She never wanted to come down from this high and find herself on that windowsill in New York, imagining this whole thing. She didn't want to wake up and still be Victor Lester's daughter; struggling for work, for respect and most of all to survive on her own where she would never have to speak to her father again. She didn't want this to be a figment of her lucid imagination.

London could see the faint, dark outline of John's features when his head emerged from between her legs. He pressed wet kisses, his lips soaked in her arousal, against her thighs and calves.

"Fuck..." He laughed, pushing her ankles from their resting place on his shoulders. "Yer a gorgeous creature, aren't you?"

"Why do you say that?" She panted, feeling the sweat coating her hairline. Woah, she thought. I'm like a fucking waterfall.

"Ye've never been touched like that before, have you?" He asked simply, his fingers working on his trousers. He had dumped his suit jacket where her coat laid, his shirt left half-heartedly unbuttoned on his shoulders.

"You've never had a virgin before?" She quipped breathily, dragging herself to the end of the bed. Her head fell against the fluffed up pillows, taking a moment to breathe. She couldn't even be bothered to take her bra off.

John took his boots off, his shirt hanging. London felt a bit useless just lying there trying to catch her breath but John seemed unbothered – hell, he'd probably had lazier lovers in the past (he'd probably been one). He continued to undress himself until he was down to his socks, keeping to the dark as if he were trying to shield his body away from London's view. It was working because from her angle he appeared like a silhouette approaching her while she laid invitingly on the bed, waiting for him.

A gentle chill rolled along her naked legs, goose-pimples rose along her body. She reached to straighten the sheets and the cover at the end of the bed, tugging them over her body to keep herself warm.

"What're ye hiding from me..." John joked in a seductively low voice, tugging the covers and sheets back from her.

"I'm a little cold, that's all," she giggled. John slipped into the bed with her, hovering over London almost protectively. London's hands found John's shoulders to hold onto while he ran kisses along her breasts, his lips pursing around a nipple.

He dragged his lips back to hers, parting them and slipping his tongue past her teeth to find hers. London's arms snaked around his neck while she revelled in his affections, feeling his erection press against the inside of her thigh. A jolt of excitement shot through her – this was it! She was finally going to know what it felt like and why everybody else loved this so much.

"Eh, luv?" John perked her attention, pressing soft kisses to her face. "Some of the girls says it hurts a little, yeah? Just tell me if it does." He whispered, pushing her damp hair away from her forehead. She smiled at him – a wide, genuine smile John seemed to find infectious.

"What?"

She bit her lip, brushing his fringe out of his eyes with her fingers. "Nothing."

"Are ye ready?" He asked.

She parted her thighs wide, her knees pressing into his hips. "All good here."

John pressed his forehead against London's, lowering himself onto his forearms. She could feel the head of his cock move gradually inside her until he was fully sheathed inside, a slight discomfort there for a minute and then gone the next. But John stayed still, watching her face patiently.

"Does it still hurt? London?"

"It didn't hurt as much as I thought," she adjusted her hips. "I don't know what I was expecting."

He laughed brightly, giving her a quick kiss on her slightly swollen lips. "Trust me, that's a good thing, luv."

"Can you say my name again?" she murmured shyly, moaning to the feeling of him slide slowly out of her and then push in again, tentatively working into a rhythm.

His head fell in the crook of her shoulder, "London..."

London Victoria Lester, the only daughter of famed forties film star, Victor Lester, was no longer a virgin.