Hollywood Hot Mess (26 page)

In no time, we burst against one another and leave a wet spot on the seat. Our bodies are slick with sweat. We’re panting in the darkened backseat like high schoolers after prom, bodies still rocked by gasping breaths. I giggle in his ear and relish his returned chuckle. Good lord it’s glorious to be in his arms again. I grab him when he tries to pull away. I’m afraid I’ll lose him again, so I keep his dick inside me and wind up straddling him on the seat when he sits up.

“Easy, Sunshine. Give an old man a minute to recover.” He chuckles and nibbles at the curve of my jaw. I let out a sigh, voicing my disappointment, and slide onto the dark leather. He reaches up for my discarded pants, tossing them to me and then turning to tend to his own zipper. Maybe this is why Heather always wears slinky black clothes. Very easy access when a girl needs to be a slut in a hurry.

Tiny’s rap music has taken over the car, and he swerves through the freeway traffic in rhythm to the pulsing beat. I’m still shocked that I’m actually here. An hour ago I was considering checking into rehab again just to keep from giving in to Devon—my latest addiction. And now I’ve just fucked him in the backseat of his chauffeured car driving down the Santa Monica Freeway. After he came to me. I knew it was only a matter of time.

We zoom past the last exit that would have taken me home and Tiny turns the car onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Where are you taking me, Mr. Hayes?” Like I care. I’d go anywhere with this man. Especially right now, when the high of my orgasm is wearing off and the need for him is tapping at the back of my brain again.

“If I remember correctly, I think I once promised you a sunrise in Malibu.” He takes my hand and kisses the back of it, pulling me over to him. Our wet spot soaks into the back of my pants, but I don’t care.

Malibu? That’s ground zero for Hollywood royalty.

“Hmm...that explains the disguise,” I say, wiping at the harlot-red lipstick I’m sure is smeared all over my face.

He looks at me and frowns.

“Take that damn wig off.” He yanks at the black strands hanging over my shoulder and fake gags. My own blond hair spills out and he runs his fingers down it. “Much better.”

“It was your idea,” I say as I toss the wig on the seat beside me. “Where is Heather, anyway?” I can’t imagine she would be okay with this. Not after hearing their conversation over Thanksgiving.

“New York. She’s having some work done.” He taps his nose and winks at me. “Heading to the Hamptons for a week to recover.”

“A whole week out of the public eye? How very un-Heather.” I don’t really know Heather, but I know the type. She’ll be so barricaded in, the hired help won’t have a clue who they’re working for until the black circles leave her eyes.

“She’d die before she’d let those pictures get out,” he snorts, and pulls out his phone.

“Does she know I’m here?” I can’t imagine he would tell her, but part of me wants her to know.

“Maybe. We don’t talk about it.” He shakes his head as if this is no big deal in their fucked-up world, and I’m left to wonder if she assumes he’ll have some random woman over, or if she assumes he’ll have
me
over.

“What about Angel?” I ask, and immediately wish I hadn’t. His head flies up from his phone with a guarded look, like I’ve crossed some unspoken line in our no-strings-attached sex free-for-all.

“Jamie and Angel are with Heather.” He gives me a once-over and then leans up in his seat to study his phone without interruption. Arms propped on his knees and fingers flying over the keys, he doesn’t say anything else.

Chapter Twenty-Five

HeaVon’s gated beachside home is beyond palatial. I don’t know why its size surprises me. Tiny pulls the blacked-out SUV into a sleek underground garage, walls lined with vintage luxury cars, and opens the door for us.

“Will that be all for tonight, Mr. Hayes?” he asks as we climb out the far back. Tiny’s grinning at me. It makes me uncomfortable. Another glaring reminder that I don’t belong here.

“That’ll be all, Tiny.” Devon turns and takes my hand, leading me from the cold cement basement up a flight of carpeted stairs and into the brilliantly soft surroundings of his home.

I’m instantly greeted by the massive expanse of kitchen where floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto the water. It’s dark, but the sound of waves crashing onto the beach echoes through a few of the opened windows. The entire room is shades of light blue and gray with stark white accents. He grabs a bottle of wine and a glass from the counter and leads me on a tour of the house, pouring as he walks.

I trail behind him, carrying my bag and the Heather wig, dumbstruck once again by the difference in our lives. It’s easy to forget on set when you’re pretending to be someone else. But here, when we’re both home—just Devon and Carly—I’m reminded how far I’m reaching.

The house is everything a beachside mansion should be. Enormous enough to make me feel like a flea. It’s immaculately decorated, too opulent for my taste, but everything I expect from Hollywood’s power couple.

The ground floor is a fancy entertaining space. Normal people call them
man caves
. Here, it’s more like the Sydney Opera House. The second level holds common living rooms—kitchen, den, library, study, sauna, all grandly scaled. The third floor is full of bedrooms and relaxing spaces. Devon leads me through the maze of halls, ending in a master suite that is obviously his.

“What’s up there?” I ask, pointing to the next level of steps.

“That’s Heather’s floor.”

“You don’t go up there?” I step into his room and set my bag beside a chair.

“Not if I don’t have to.” He grimaces like it’s punishment. A small thrill tingles my spine to hear confirmation of how separate their private lives are.

“Your life is so ridiculous.” It seems exhausting, carrying on the charade behind closed doors. I fall into the chair, not thinking much of my offhand comment. Devon drops the custom Patek Philippe he’s removing against a carved horn tray. I startle and turn to face an ice-cold stare.

“You think it’s weakness that keeps me here?” His words are a low hiss. Whoa, this is not at all the reaction I expected.

“N-no,” I stammer, trying to figure out why he’s so pissed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Careers like mine are ugly to make. Heather’s been around too long. She knows where the bodies are buried.” His fists clench at his side.

“So? I’m sure your agent does too,” I snap, because his anger makes zero sense.

“My agent has a million reasons to keep my secrets. Heather would delight in ruining me.”

“Ruining your life ruins her life, too.”

“As long as we’re together, yes. The moment I leave, her vindictive ass would be on the phone with TMI.” He’s really getting riled up. Fighting over Heather’s crazy is so not worth it. I’m here to make love not war.

“Please. The world loves you. There isn’t a secret big enough to make them turn against their hero.” I up-down him with a finger and playful smile. It’s my attempt to defuse the situation. “Fuck Heather’s vindictive ass.” I am so sick of this woman getting her way just because people are afraid to piss her off. I’d love the chance to do just that.

He shakes his head, the anger melting from his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He rubs his temple. “It’s been a tough week.”

I shrug weakly and lean back against the chair. “Because you missed me?” The hope in my voice is pathetic.

“I always miss you, Carly.” He steps behind me, places his hands on my shoulders and massages. It feels divine. I should shut my mouth, but I can’t.

“So what? I’m here to fill the icy void left by your bitch wife?” I’m totally fishing, but since arriving in Devon’s world I’m once again confused by his wanting me here. His hands stop rubbing.

In one quick motion, he spins the chair around to face him. He sinks to his knees, pushes between mine, and takes my cheek in his hand.

“You’re here because I want you here.” A lover’s anger lights his eyes. It’s as terrifying as it is thrilling. He wants me. And even if he can’t admit it, he needs me, too.

“It must be nice, getting everything you want.” I lean into him, turning my head down and to the side. His heavy breath washes over me. Tension builds between us. The delicious tension that only leads to one thing. He licks his lips, raking a look over my face, down my neck to my chest, and back up. He pushes forward, our lips almost touching.

“I haven’t wanted like this in forever.” He should kiss me now. But he doesn’t. His mouth opens. His eyes find mine, hungry, heavy and needy. He’s teasing me. Making me want him. Trouble is, I already do, way too much. Two can play at this game. I push him away and lean back, biting the lip he should be kissing. He lets out an amused chuckle and stands.

Slowly, he pushes each shirt button through its hole, until his tanned abdomen—sectioned into an eight-pack—flexes over the waist of his pants. The fabric slides from his shoulders and puddles at his bare feet. He cocks his head to the side, watching me with playful desire. He takes one step, stopping when his waist is inches from my face. The need building in me is lethal.

“Would you like to help?” he asks, a smile twisting his lips.

“Very much,” I pant, pulling at his jeans and ripping them down his legs. I can smell us on him. The hot, sweaty love we just made in the car an hour ago still clings to his skin and it does crazy things to me.

“Your turn.” He reaches down for the hem of the black shirt and pulls it slowly over my head. Sinking to his knees, he tosses it to the side. My fingers find his steel-gray hair, and the exquisitely rounded muscles of his shoulders. Nerve spasms ripple through my belly, my body anxiously awaiting the pure pleasure that is about to consume me.

“So beautiful.” He kisses along the soft skin of my shoulder, lazy fingers slipping under the straps of a camisole I didn’t have time to take off earlier. We’ve never made love like this. It’s either been hot and fast or on-screen where we’ve got an audience and characters to play. I’ve never really known exactly how he feels about Carly.

His hungry mouth trails down my chest to my breasts, which are ready, waiting for him. My head rolls back with a husky moan, and I smother his face in my cleavage. His tongue licks and his lips kiss all the way up to my throat and back down again.

One expert hand slides between my breast and the lacy fabric of my bra, pulling it down so a taut nipple pops free. The other hand snakes around my side, reaching for the clasp. It flies free with little resistance and he sucks my freed nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue with a demanding force over the hardened tip of it.

I cry out with a hollow moan when the sensation crashes against my G-spot like a streak of lightning. Cradling my head in his hand, he lifts me and lays me gently over the bed. Again, the damn slinky black pants are off my body before I know it. Like I care! The heat of his body warms my legs as I wrap them around his middle, pulling him to me. My hands fly over back muscles that are about to get their second workout of the night.

Ever so gently he slides into me, slowly making his way to the top. It feels like he may never find the end of my depths. I inhale, pulling him deeper, writhing under him. He stops, swivels his hips, then slowly pulls away just as torturously as he entered. I cling to him like my life depends on it.

He pulls away to find my eyes then leans in for a kiss. Good lord his lips are glorious, soft and gently exploring mine. His kisses stop and he pulls away, finding my eyes again. Our fingers intertwine against the cool sheet. His motion starts again. I close my eyes to savor the moment and he stops.

“Look at me,” he whispers. So I look at him. Deep into hungry blue pools that seem capable of devouring me. “Don’t close your eyes,” he says, holding my gaze. When he starts moving into me again, our eyes locked on one another, I swear the man is staring right into my very soul.

He makes sweet, hypnotic love to me in the massive bed in his palatial house. So slowly and delicately he rocks me. Not at all the rough, desperate love we make on set. Coaxing the sweetest sounds from my throat. Our bodies tangle with each other so tightly I don’t think they’ll ever come undone.

But, they do. With one blissful shriek that has a neighbor dog answering, I moan his name and convulse along the length of him. He bites into the soft flesh of my neck when he releases after another thrust. Once again our bodies are covered in the salacious sweat of our love.

Two minutes later he’s snoring, but I can’t sleep. Even though he holds me tightly to him, I’m not at peace. Half of my mind is blissfully sated by the love we just made. The other half is racked with unease. Devon’s been so different tonight. He’s not the same laser-focused professional he is on set or the overly cautious star, worried our secret will get out. He’s changed. With Heather gone, and me in her place, it feels like a dark cloud has lifted from his shoulders. I hate the thought when it pops into my head, but I can’t ignore it once it’s there.

Dylan
.

So far, I’ve managed to forget about her. Now it’s impossible. Devon’s love has never been as sweet as it was tonight. After finding our new level of tenderness, I can’t help wondering if that’s the kind of love he learned from her. Real love. Satisfying love. Love that’s meant to stay, not rock your body hard for one night and vanish. I slip out of bed, pulling on Devon’s discarded shirt and retrieving my phone.

Tiptoeing into the moonlit hallway, I sink down the wall beside the bedroom door. I wake my phone and pull up the internet browser, going straight to Google. My search is simple—Devon + Dylan—remembering the tattoo he didn’t want to talk about. Nothing comes up but articles about a benefit concert Devon hosted where Bob Dylan performed. I click the Google Images tab and scroll through the photos.

At the bottom of the page I find an old pic of Devon. So old his hair is still black. He’s got both arms circled protectively around a pretty blonde whose head comes up to the same spot on his shoulder that mine does. Hair falls in her eyes, obscuring her face. Devon’s lips are resting softly against her temple as he looks into the camera. All I can see is her smile, which, coupled with the contented, honest look on Devon’s face, is enough to tell me all I need to know. My stomach somersaults—Dylan was Devon’s true love. His first love. The one that got away. One that touched him deeply enough to leave a scar that still hurts.

Ernest implied she left L.A. Which must have been what Devon meant when he said she had broken his heart. I drop my phone into my lap and curl my knees into my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Slowly, I rock back and forth, trying to make sense of it all. Because if I’m honest with myself, it doesn’t make
any
sense that Devon would want to be with me. Not like this. I mean sure, any guy in his thirties would gladly bang a hot twenty-year-old. It gives them a special yeah-I-still-got-it notch on their belt. Strokes their nearing midlife crisis egos in the way their age-appropriate significant others never could. But that kind of relationship is just a hit-it-and-quit-it no-strings-attached screw. Which Devon’s already gotten from me. It sure as hell doesn’t require sneaking said twenty-year-old into your house. Even if she is a gold medal pouter.

Devon obviously cares more for me than he has any of his other fuck buddies that have come before me. But now that I know—or at least suspect—why, I feel dirty. Is it me he cares about? Or is it finding a way to relive the love he’s lost that is driving him into my arms? It’s not an answer I want to know. Not now. Not sitting alone in his moonlit hallway. Probably not ever. Because if I’m right, how could I possibly stay? And more importantly, how could I live without the touch that has become my favorite drug?

I tiptoe back into the bedroom, stripping his shirt from my body as I crawl into bed. Still asleep, Devon immediately curls around me, pulling me into him and making a pillow of my chest. I stroke his hair, watching the evenness of his breath move the sheets.

Dylan’s gone
,
Carly
, a voice inside my head says. It reassures me the tiniest bit. Maybe she didn’t love him enough. Maybe she wasn’t willing to stick around and fight for him like I certainly would. I can’t help but wonder how it happened. How he could let go of something he loved so much and wind up with such a loveless life. Does he ever talk to her? Does he ever see her? Or has she vanished from his life like the tattoo?

* * *

“Wake up, Sunshine.” Devon covers me with kisses, and slowly pulls the sheets down my nakedness.

“It’s still dark,” I mumble, and roll over, pulling a pillow over my head.

“That’s because the sun’s not up yet. Come on, I want to watch it with you.”

How could I say no to that? He wants me. So I pull myself from bed and stumble into the huge closet to find something to cover my naked body.

I have little in the way of choice since there are no women’s clothes in here. I give up and pull on the first hanger that touches my fingers, slipping a cool button-down over my bare skin and shoving my feet into flip flops.

When I emerge from the closet, Devon holds the wig out to me.

“It’s pitch-black. Nobody can see me!” I protest.

“Can’t risk it, Carly.” He shakes his head and I’m too tired to fight.

“Fine!” I huff and tuck my blond strands under the jet-black cap of hair. With a nauseated snarl twisting his face as I become her, he hands me a travel mug filled with black coffee. I’m amazed he knows me so well. He’s never woken up with me before...oh...the island. That seems like so long ago now, I almost forgot.

The world is black outside Devon’s carefully guarded gates. We are led only by the soft crash of waves and cool soft sand, calling us forward until the ocean’s foam tickles our toes. We stop and Devon pulls me in front of him, wrapping his arms around me, burying his chin on my shoulder. Devon’s palace sits in a cove along with a few other castles. A coveted spot that faces toward the east, so seeing sunrises is actually possible.