Hollywood Hot Mess (21 page)

“I just got tested. You?” My voice raises an octave higher
waiting impatiently for his answer.

“I always use condoms.” I’m so relieved by his answer I turn my
head and plant my lips at the base of his neck. He sighs heavily and moves his
neck, showing me where he likes to be kissed.

We say no more, and my heart is hammering so wildly in
anticipation against my chest I’m sure it’s about to beat right out of
there.

Chapter Twenty

So it’s not like I’m some awkward, touched-for-the-very-first-time virgin. Losing my V-card like I did forces me to view sex differently than the rest of the world.

I’ve slept with three people in my life that I remember. The first still gives me nightmares. The second was a drug dealer who preferred fucking me in pigtails to cash payments. Lastly was a paparazzi who snagged a picture of me beaming a line of blow up my nose back before I had fallen too far to care. Plenty of mornings I woke up naked in a strange bed without a single memory of the night before. Those don’t count.

But I’ve never had sex like this—sex I actually want to have with a man who can make unfamiliar juices start flowing in me with just a smile. And it rattles me to feel so ecstatically out of control; so sober during a moment when booze would certainly make things better.

I relish the lazy way my body responds to his touch. So much so, I happily forget about the booze. It’s like I’m floating along on a soft pink cloud, still coming down from the high of my orgasm. He pushes his way between my legs, pulling the soft flesh of my thighs apart and settling the length of his love directly over exactly what wants it.

“My turn,” he says wickedly, and I bite my lip at the frenzy this stirs up inside.

Much to my shock—and utter delight—the sex-starved woman he’s awoken in me leaps to attention, ready to go again.

How has this man turned me into such a salacious slut with a few expert flicks of his tongue? I can’t be bothered answering stupid questions like that. His touch is finding that part of me only he can reach and I give myself completely to the moment.

I never thought I could ever want anything as badly as I wanted a drink or a line that first night of rehab. Turns out...I was wrong. I want Devon more than that. But it’s a different wanting. It’s not the insatiable searching for something to fill the empty parts of me like before. It’s more like the parts of me that have been dormant for most of my life are suddenly alive, seeing the light that is Devon, and pulling me to him with a gravitational force I’m helpless to resist.

Lying still against the bed isn’t possible when each slow flick of his tongue finds its way to the center of my belly, down low...really low, and I have to move somehow to stop the spasming waves crashing over me. All I can manage is to weakly arch my back away from the mattress, which provides little relief and only forces my body closer to his.

He kisses his way up my abdomen, each one deeper than the last. Sensations I’ve never felt radiate from between my legs to meet him. Cast in shadow, Devon’s rippling, tanned muscles are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. He crawls up the length of me, taking his time, certain nothing goes untouched. I ball the sheets to wrinkled wads of white in my fists, pulling at them with mounting frustration, hoping maybe they can hold me to the bed because nothing else seems to be working.

When the torture becomes too much and I can’t wait any longer, I have to take matters into my own hands.

I grab his head and pull him up to me. Planting my lips firmly on his, I wrap my legs around him, pushing against his ass with the heels of my feet, grinding my hips into his, hoping to force him into me and get this horrible nauseously needy feeling to go away.

“Not so fast,” he teases, and pulls himself back, denying me the thing I want most right now. “What about foreplay?” He nibbles on my ear. His breathy words make my hair hot and swampy.

“Later. Please later!” I’m begging now, and I don’t care.

“Do you want me, Carly?” he asks. I whine impatiently, because I’m thinking I’m being pretty damn obvious at this point. My whine quickly becomes a moan of pure pleasure when his hand slides between us and into the slick spot that is pressing against him now that my legs are spread-eagle, wrapped around him. His finger flicks inside, hitting some spot that feels so good I come dangerously close to falling over the edge of orgasm bliss again. “So ready.” He chuckles. “So wet,” he hums into my ear, reaching down for the length of his penis—which has made its own wet spot against my thigh.

Gripping himself, he slowly strokes his tip up and down between soft pink valleys and peaks. My body quakes with desire under him every time the silken-fleshed tip pops over my clit. The delicious tickle he’s creating in the tiny space where forbidden flesh meets reverberates like shock waves to the farthest reaches of my body. I don’t know how much more I can take.

I grab my bottom lip hard between my teeth and reach up for the headboard in anticipation of what’s coming next. Nerves are now flying around in my stomach with the hot desire and desperate wanting he’s created. Nothing compares to the delicious torture of this moment. Anticipating what comes next creates an addiction I will never shake. But who the hell would want to?

His body pulls away, tenses and pushes slowly into me.

This is pleasure and this is pain, but I never want it to stop. Our unsated moans rip through the dim, candlelit room, a mix of hedonistic indulgence and animalistic desire.

His motion is slow, rhythmic rocking, like he doesn’t want to break me. I tighten my grip on the headboard slats—not caring if I break them. The feeling of him inside me is so satisfying and filling it has stolen my breath and I lie back and let him move me against the sheets.

The tension immediately leaves my body. My death grip on the world loosens and the clarity with which I can now focus on Devon’s penis inside me, stroking all the places that have been crying out for him, seems like hard-earned relief.

He ventures deeper and I cry out when I swear he’s touched the back side of my belly button.

“Does it feel good, Carly?” he whispers in my ear. I want to scream, but all I manage is a weak whimper from beneath him. My life has become some surreal, out-of-body experience. An hour ago I was considering jumping out of the window so I would never have to hear this man say goodbye and now I’m wrapped around his dick, rocking like a boat in an ocean of sheets. Oh, my life is such fucked-up beauty!

His hands slip under my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. Wrapping his lips over mine, his tongue invades my mouth in a heavenly way. But his hands don’t stop, they continue up and he interlaces his fingers before he rests them on the top of my head.

“Are you ready?” he whispers, and I don’t even answer because I’m so confused. Ready for what
?
Aren’t we already doing it?

In one motion he pushes down on my head with his hands and slams his hips into mine, sending his full length charging into me, filling me all the way up to my throat, and I cry out in pain, tears immediately pooling on my lids.

It is so intense I bite down hard on the first thing I can find, which happens to be his neck. His throaty growl rattles my ear and I lick the salty skin where my teeth have left a mark. He places his elbows above my shoulders, holding me down so I can’t squirm away.

Again and again he rushes into me. Stealing my breath once again as he goes. I dig my nails into the rounded flesh of his ass, wanting to make him stop, but hoping he never does. It feels like he is ripping me wide open with each thrust.

It’s way more painful than I remember, until a tightness inside me builds and wraps around the length of him. With each thrust, the tightness squeezes my insides harder. And despite the initial pain, it is the most body-rockingly real feeling I have ever experienced. Something deep down grabs hold to the feeling of Devon inside me, and every muscle from my waist to my ass clenches around him, not wanting to miss a single quiver of his penis.

Something changes when he picks up the pace of our lovemaking. It actually feels like he has grown infinitesimally larger inside me. It puts even more pleasure on my poor G-spot, which is struggling to keep stride.

This time I’m not carried by the gentle sweep of his tongue to the edge of orgasm. Instead, his thrusting picks me up and hurls me from the cliff like a thousand-pound gorilla. I don’t have a chance.

My insides explode against him and I’m useless in his arms, my body convulsing under the command of my orgasm. Over me, he has gone as rigid as his penis. One more stroke and he releases his own orgasm with a long, low grunt he muffles in my hair before collapsing on top of me.

We rock in the sheets with the force of our breath, bodies suctioned to each other with the slick musky lather of sweat and sex. We remain frozen, not daring to move while the hypnotic trance of euphoria dances between us.

* * *

There’s a special level of hell reserved for the idiot who created this new call schedule. Devon was already gone when I awoke, which wasn’t surprising considering the chickens aren’t up yet in this godforsaken country. I slide from the back of a town car in frozen darkness, my plans for ditching the film completely erased by a delicious ache between my legs. Every step reminds me of all the ways he used me last night. First-time sex is rarely good. It’s awkward at best, awful at worst.

Not with Devon.

If sex is a drug, I’m Scarface high right now, introducing the world to my little friend. I stumble into base camp like a bumbling junkie, scanning between the trailers and extras for my next fix. No way can I hide our love now. And after last night, I don’t give shit. It’s a damned neon sign tattooed on my forehead, and I’m just fine with that.

When I see that my trailer couldn’t be farther away from his I stamp my foot like a little kid. Don’t these idiot crew members realize we’re trying to have an affair here? Have they not read the tabloids? I roll my eyes at the nearest production assistant. It’s probably not her fault, but that’s a detail I can’t be bothered with.

In the warmth of my shiny new trailer I try to compose myself into the professional actress I am these days. I give no indication I notice the sideways glances that follow me. Everyone’s looking for some sign that the TMI rumors are true. Normally, scrutiny like this is cause for a full-on Carly bitch fit. But not anymore. Because now? I give zero fucks what they say about me. Devon Hayes is in my bed and the world can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.

Assistants crowd around, styling me and fixing me and turning me into a medieval prostitute worthy of banging a powerful king. They chatter like lively little birds, either oblivious to my headline or trying to keep me calm.

“How was your holiday, Miss Klein?” a new assistant asks. I should probably answer, even though I have my nose buried in my script, the universal Do Not Disturb sign. But what’s the point? I ignore her, and continue obsessing over every detail of last night while I pretend to study lines.

I’m almost ready for set when my door opens and a courier scuttles in.

“Here’s your shooting schedule for today, Miss Klein.” He offers me a piece of mint—green paper. “And projected times for the rest of the week.” He hands me a pink sheet.

I rip these from his sadistic hands. He immediately recoils from the danger of paper cuts and stares at me with a nasty snarl. He must be joking, looking at me like this. It’s his dumb ass making everyone’s lives miserable with this ridiculous schedule. I smack my lips and scan the paper.

“This is wrong.” I ball it up and throw it back at him. A chorus of giggles echoes around the room.

“Wrong, Miss Klein?”

“My scenes with Devon? The king? The star?” I wiggle my head with each question, eyebrows raising and eyes flying wide at his obvious stupidity. The assistants recognize the anger building in me and scurry to the corners like trained cockroaches.

“No, ma’am. Mr. Hayes isn’t due back on set until next week.” The idiot bends to retrieve the balls of pink and green paper, straightening them and placing them on my makeup table.

“What?” My nostrils flare and I swallow hard to keep from spilling the fact that he slept in my bed last night to these menial peons.

“He stayed in L.A. to finish up another project,” he says in a tiny voice, and then disappears before I have a chance to light into him. I don’t even try to hide my shock at this news flash.

My mouth gapes open and I fall against the chair, struggling to process what he’s said.

I’m the only one who knows he was here? No way. Devon flew all the way here just for me? That’s not possible, is it?

I don’t have time to consider the possibilities. With my mind in a tailspin, I’m herded off to set.

Today we’re shooting a sequence of scenes with me and the queen. She’s a no-name European actress who’s happy to show her titties to anyone who’ll look. That’s why she got the part. It’s one of the hardest days I’ve had on set. Retake after retake forced by my own inattention. Concentration flew out the window the moment I learned he wasn’t on set. I’d much rather be smoking cigarettes and dissecting what it does or does not mean that he flew all this way just for me.

Gavin is beyond exasperated by the time we wrap for the day. He’s grinding his teeth harder than a Jonesing crackhead. Despite my own frustration, it’s hard not to laugh in his face because there is no way in hell he can fire me now. He’s just the director. I’m fucking the producer.

The moment I’m back to the safety of my hotel room I light a cigarette and click through every internet tabloid site searching for any news of Devon’s whereabouts, because by now I’ve almost convinced myself it was all a dream. Though that doesn’t explain why my vagina screams every time I clench my muscles down there.

No doubt the rags are still abuzz with the alleged infidelity between Devon and me, but I’ve had way worse things printed about me. I grimace every time I pull up a new page, just waiting to come face-to-face with headlines slamming me for chasing after Devon. Ironically? There’s nothing.

On the final site there’s a photo of me. It was taken the day I met Maria and faced the paps at the front door of the coffee shop while she snuck out the back. I wonder if it’s been airbrushed, because I look damn good.

The beautiful Carly Klein stopping for coffee at Common Grounds in West L.A.
while on break from filming
The Mighty Fall,
costarring Devon Hayes.

My name before Devon’s? And not a word about the alleged affair we’re having. Did the harshness of Devon’s statement backfire and cast a little sympathy my way? Did Jerrie pay them? I’m totally unsettled by my discovery and have to sit down.