by Evie Claire
An SUV slides to a stop in front of us. Devon holds the door and ushers me through the breaking dawn into the car’s warmth.
Filming the first Mighty—a time that feels about a million miles away now—driving to set was a freaking zigzag of emotion. Most days the miles couldn’t pass quickly enough. Other days a snail’s pace was too fast. Our relationship was a roller coaster of emotion and I never knew what the day might bring. Not anymore. We’re on a path. And at the end of that path lies everything I’ve ever wanted. I snuggle into his side. He takes my hand in his and kisses the top of my head. A soft sigh pushes out of me.
Devon’s phone pings. He pulls it from his pocket, reads the message and holds it out for me to see.
Heather’s attorney confirmed receipt of papers. I’ll circle back when I hear more.
My heart stutters in my chest. Holy shit. This is big. Really fucking big. He’s pulled the trigger. The bullet is flying. And there’s no stopping it now. Part of me is thrilled to read this. Part of me is terrified.
“Devon, how do we do this?” I ask, squeezing his hand, because honestly, this is way beyond the scope of life for me.
“Well, it’s quite fascinating. You just wrap your fingers around the palm of my hand and I do the same to you. And see—” he lifts our hands to show me “—we’re holding hands!”
“No, you smart-ass!” I dig my elbow into his ribs. “I mean this.” I wave a finger between us. “What is this supposed to look like? Especially when the story of your separation breaks?”
“The story breaks when we’re ready for it to break. Heather’s greed guarantees her silence. She can’t breathe a word about anything if she wants her money. And India’s working on the rest.” He tucks his phone away and pulls me closer, sensing my rising anxiety. “The crew aren’t stupid. They know something’s going on. That’s why we’ve put extra security measures in place. But don’t worry about anything. It’s all being taken care of.” He rubs his fingers gently over the backside of my hand.
“Okay.” I trust him because I have to. “But where’s our line? We can’t act like this problem’s already solved,” I say.
“You draw it. Where would you like the line to be?”
I stifle a disbelieving laugh by biting my inner cheek. He’s really leaving this up to me? A decision that could most definitely ruin our careers, he’s leaving to me. He’s either out of his mind...or crazy in love. I smile even wider at the thought and feel the overwhelming pressure to make a wise decision. A decision that will show him I’m ready for this. A choice that will let him know how seriously I am taking our relationship and our privacy. No one’s trusted me with something so big before.
“Roof and walls,” I answer.
He gives me a quizzical sideways glance. “Hmm?”
“If we are covered by a roof and surrounded by a wall, then we can do this. If we are out on public display, then no.” I nod at the end, deciding I am, in fact, a genius of paramount proportions.
“Okay...” Devon says the word slowly, thoughtfully. “Do cars count?”
“Roof.” I point upward. “Wall.” I pat the tinted window beside his shoulder.
“Good!” He practically tackles me, coffee breath and all, and pushes me backward onto the seat.
“Devon!” I scream in fake protest, pushing against his shoulders. Like I would ever want to push this man off me. His lips find that same spot from earlier. The spot that sends chills to all the right parts of me. I relax against the leather seat, letting him cover me up with lips and kisses and whatever else he wants to put on me. If this is what I can expect every morning of my life with Devon—being kissed to death in the back of cars on the way to work—I can certainly put up with a few moments of concentrated script practice.
I am thoroughly kissed, properly hot, beyond bothered and shamelessly begging for a quickie by the time we arrive on set. Where I’m disheveled and desperately trying to restore some semblance of professionalism to my appearance, Devon is hot as fucking fire. Something about bed head and kiss-flushed lips makes him the epitome of manly ruggedness.
He climbs from the back of the SUV and offers me a hand. I reach for it, but immediately recoil when I see every eyeball in a five-mile radius focus on us.
“Roof and walls,” I say to him.
“Roof and walls, Miss Klein.” His nod is all business, and he turns to leave. An involuntary frown creeps over my features. I always hate his leaving. Even though I’ll see him on set in an hour, it feels like he’s taking half of my heart in his pocket.
“Carly?” Jane snaps me back to attention because I’m staring after Devon like the biggest fangirl ever. “Are you okay?”
“First-day jitters.” I blow it off.
“Sure.” She consults a slip of yellow paper and looks around the lot. Set is humming like Grand Central Station. First days are crazy. There’re always a million last-minute things to get in place, coupled with the added distraction of the “talent” arriving. That would be me and Devon. Nothing has changed in the months we’ve been off set, but I still get ogled by every person we pass like I’m some kind of diamond-encrusted unicorn. I pull on my shades and a ball cap. No one understands how damn invasive a simple glance can feel. When you get the same simple glance from a million people, it’s like you forgot to put your pants on or something. It will forever creep me out.
“I believe your trailer is this way.” Jane places a hand in the small of my back to usher me through the crush of busybodies. God, it’s nice to have someone work out all the minor details.
“You’ve been an assistant before?” I ask, keeping my head down.
“Yep. I helped my dad for years,” Jane answers, holding out her free arm to push someone aside.
“Your dad was an actor?” The word dad pricks my ear in a hot, hollow way.
“No, he was a sports guy. I learned the business quick.”
“Where’s he now?” I ask absently, refusing to acknowledge any rising emotion. We arrive at the steps of my beautiful red-and-white trailer.
“He’s retired,” she answers, but I don’t really hear. I’m bounding up the steps to my home away from home. I rip open the door and devour the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla candles. It’s just like I left it, which does wonders for the nerves tumbling around my insides. I remind myself who I am...Carly fucking Klein. And who I’m fucking. I’m pretty much untouchable. Even if I screw up every line I deliver. I can’t get fired. It’s like winning back-to-back lotteries.
Sitting on the kitchenette counter is the largest bouquet of peonies, orchids, lilies and roses I have ever seen. Flowers like that don’t grow in subarctic climates. Jane plucks the card from among the blooms and reads it.
“Break a leg, love. DH,” she says, smiling at me like a best girlfriend should.
I squeal because that’s what a girl does when her lover sends her flowers, and bury my nose in the bouquet. “Let me see.” I hold out my hand for the card, frowning when I realize it isn’t his handwriting. Oh well. The flowers are from an L.A. florist, which means he had to bring these on his G650. Which means he was thinking REALLY far ahead. Which means he must REALLY love me.
“You are so lucky!” Jane leans in to smell the flowers, too. There’s a knock on the door and she leaves to answer it. It’s hair and makeup. My day has officially started.
Chapter Thirteen
“What do you mean we aren’t fucking for real?” I hiss through my teeth so no one hears me.
“No more, Carly.” Devon answers in the exact same way, his voice full of resolve.
We’re on set. Dressed once again as a king and a cheap whore turned courtesan. Every crew member is in place waiting for this first sex scene to take place. I’ve personally been waiting and preparing for it since I read it in the script months ago. It’s really hot. Fucking-
behind-a-Grand-Hall-tapestry-with-the-entire-court-mere-steps-away kinda hot. We’ve never had such an exposed sex scene before and part of me is looking forward to it. That weird part that likes everyone knowing Devon Hayes is mine wants to brand him for the world to see.
“Well, I want to,” I demand. “Besides, I’m not wearing a crotch sock. It might accidentally slip in.” I give him my best innocent oh-did-I-do-that look. Usually it melts him. Today it pisses him off.
“We need to break for wardrobe,” he says to Gavin. The room relaxes in a synchronized sigh. “Go put it on,” he whispers to me.
“No,” I say resolutely. In my mind, being such a damned slut is just getting into character. Method actors never let their character slip. And if I wasn’t so hot and bothered down there this scene wouldn’t be nearly as awesome. I rub my thighs together, taunting the needy parts of me with just enough pressure to remind myself how badly I want this, how badly I need him. “I want to fuck you. Right now.” I hold his gaze and bite at my lip.
He groans in a low, hot sigh. It’s either desire, anger or a delicious combination of both. Crew members file past for smoke breaks. They couldn’t care less about us. Devon clenches his jaw and he continues to stare at me with hot navy eyes. The next moment he grabs my upper arm and whisks me from set. I’m trying my damnedest to stay on my feet and in my crinolines and skirts, practically running at his side. We fly down the stone hallway, our footsteps echoing in loud, demanding strides. Is this a quickie? Is he going to fuck me in the hallway? My stomach tightens and my breath comes in short, hot pants.
But we don’t stop. Instead, we burst forth into bright, streaming sunshine. I shield my eyes. Our trailers are right next to set. He rushes me up the steps to his trailer, the insides of which I’ve only seen a handful of times. We fall through the door and his lips are on mine before it closes.
My hands are trembling. I’ve been obsessing over our scene since wardrobe. It’s the only thing on my mind. Last time, fucking him was the highlight of my day, because it was the only time I got to do it. I’m too conditioned not to want it. I’m so hot, so damned hot, I can’t control the needy feeling inside me.
His lips are hard on mine at first. Sensing how desperate I am for him, they relent and begin to taste me, stroke me, feel their way down to the spot on my neck.
I need him. I so desperately need him. We’re still in costume, which makes doing this lying down difficult. But I find a way. I always do where his cock’s concerned.
I wiggle under him, turning onto my belly. His lips leave mine. I hate every second they’re gone, but there’s another part of me that needs a bigger part of him more desperately. I bring an arm up to cushion my cheek against the carpeted floor and bite down on the soft flesh of my wrist. He knows what I need. He always knows.
Without another word, he pushes the skirts aside. Taffeta crinkles over my bare skin, teasing me with a touch that’s both rough and soft. Cold air wafts over my bare ass cheeks and the backs of my legs. The sound of leather slapping leather fills my ears. He makes quick work of his laced-crotch pants. Waiting, knowing what’s coming but not being able to see it has my insides knotted tighter than a French twist.
“Hurry!” I moan desperately, unable to control the needy spasms quivering through my body. I need him. I need to feel him or I may seriously pass out or throw up. My body is so overcharged right now that I cannot handle it.
“You want me, Sunshine?” His breath warms the side of my neck. I feel him, the tip of his cock resting its hot, silken head right next to where it needs to go. Oh, he’s teasing me and it’s so not fair!
“No!” I whisper in a strained way. “I need you,” I plead, desperate for his touch.
His hand snakes under my waist and pulls me to my knees. Looking over my shoulder I watch him lick a finger and slide it into me.
I moan and writhe against his hand, needing more, wanting more. He chuckles low and sexy. Putting a hand on either cheek, he spreads me wide. With his thumbs he digs into tightly clenched thigh muscles. I grit my teeth, not sure how much more of his teasing I can take. “Are you ready for me?” he asks low and sexy. I nod my head, eyes closed, unable to speak. A whisper of air rushes over my ass. I jump when he places a kiss down there. But he’s not done teasing me. I stifle a scream against my hand. He traces his tongue torturously slow up the valley of my vagina, then slaps my ass hard enough to leave a handprint. Okay, I am so over this teasing bullshit. Either he fucks me now or I’m going to have to do it myself.
Sensing my need about to explode like he always does, he leans back, guiding the tip of his penis to my center. My muscles immediately stiffen and I lean into him.
We groan with sheer pleasure as we slide together, him forward, me backward until we are so deep in each other I can no longer breathe. But who the hell needs air with bliss like this shooting through their body? No matter how many times I feel him from the inside it always seems like the first. He fills me so completely, touching every needy part with a caress so soft it quietly kills me. Every. Single. Time. I rub my ass over the hot, taut surface of his stomach muscles when he slides even deeper. Still not satisfied, he grips the curve of my hips and pulls me closer. I swear his cock is hitting my tonsils. He pulses himself here ever so slowly, gently working back and forth. It’s a minimalist movement, barely anything at all. But I’m so starved for him it’s enough to send shock waves radiating down my spine and guttural moans slithering from my throat. Honestly, I don’t even know what sound is coming from me. But I don’t give a damn.
I rise up onto all fours, a better position to push, and slide one hand down my belly. When I tug gently on his balls, he flexes inside me. I start rocking. He quickly picks up my rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“I love watching me slide into you,” he says. I look over my shoulder to find him licking his thumb. Oh god! I know what’s coming next. I bite my lip, waiting for the sensation he’s learned wrecks me. With pressure no stronger than a butterfly’s wing, he slicks his thumb over my asshole. I tense around him and cry out. God, I hate that I love this so. Our rhythm starts again but his thumb renders me incapable of keeping any pace at all. Every time it touches me I damn near explode on contact. He knows this, so he must be pretty close himself.
Inside me, the ridge of his penis is working itself against a spot that makes concentrating on anything an utter waste of time. Resigning myself to the fact that this in an orgasm he is totally claiming, I fall weakly onto my shoulders, laying my head against the carpet. I don’t dare move my ass from where it is.
It’s coming. It’s building so hard and so fast in the pit of my stomach I can’t do anything more than pant and pray. My muscles contract around his length, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to miss a single quiver. He knows what this means. And as if I’ve called its name, his penis grows inside me—harder, thicker, longer—putting even more delicious pressure on my insides. At the same time, he presses the tiniest tip of his thumb harder against my asshole. Game over.
I convulse like an epileptic under him, both loving and hating the pleasurable pain that rips through me. It’s the most mind-blowing feeling. On one hand, it feels better than anything has a right to feel. On the other, it’s like bathing in boiling tar, because you know it won’t last forever. I am beyond wrecked and collapse weakly against the floor, relishing every push he digs deeper into me. As soon as my own orgasm weakens, his comes on full force. His yell of pure pleasure rips into the empty trailer. He pulls against my hips, thrusting himself further into me. I tighten around him, threatening to come again. Why? Because something about this, something about him wanting to fill me so full, to spill himself so completely into me—knowing what could happen, and obviously not giving a shit—is a feeling I am not at all prepared for. He wants me so badly he doesn’t care how risky our lovemaking is.
I wiggle against him, coaxing him to keep at it. And
just like fucking magic, my own orgasm builds again. He moans, in pain this time, because he’s ridiculously sensitive after he comes. But he knows what I’m asking for and pushes through the pain. He stills, trying not to go soft inside me. I don’t need all of him for this. This is an emotional orgasm for me. Slowly, I rock against him. My mouth hangs open, afraid to breathe, afraid to do anything other than feel the lubrication of his juices swimming inside me. It takes no time at all. In less than a minute, I fall over the edge again.
It’s not a huge orgasm. It’s not one of the earth-shaking, ground-breaking, love-my-lights-out kind of comings. It’s soft and gentle. More heat than anything else.
“Ahh...” I say when the final push settles me into that hot, blissful place. I go limp. Devon’s arms circle my shoulders and pull me up flat against him. He gingerly slides out of me and holds me close while he leans back against the couch we couldn’t make it to.
“Better?” he asks, nibbling at my ear.
“Mmm-hmm.” I cannot move. Let alone think or speak. He has wiped me out in every single way. We still wear our costumes, though they are decidedly more wrinkled than before. Wardrobe will have a fit. Makeup will have to come for touch-ups. “What do we do now?” I worry that our secret will be obvious even if we did follow the whole roof-and-walls-rule.
“We go back and finish our scene.” He lands a kiss against my cheek. “The right way.”
“Why do we have to do it the right way now?” I ask, not because I am horny but because I’m still confused by his change of direction.
“It’s an unnecessary risk. Actresses are blackballed for less. You can have me any time you want me now,” he says with a wicked smile, smoothing a length of blond hair that insists on tangling in his stubble. His reasoning is only half true. Locked away in Siberia, I can have anything I want. That makes it very easy to forget that although the ball is rolling, I’m still the other woman in America’s eyes. I frown at the thought.