We all get a big laugh out of that.
The second half is about to start. We each take one more quick drink, then head back to join our women and children.
When I reach the blanket, I see Raven sitting there, her hand on her big belly. In that belly is our son, Rowan, who will be joining the family in about a month. Amy is waving a Popsicle stick around in the air, melted red Popsicle all over her face and hands. Raven looks up at me and laughs, and the sight of the two of them is almost unbearably precious.
I can’t speak for the other guys, but in that perfect little moment, I know I’ll be completely content to only have one women in bed with me for the rest of my life.
More in this series
The Hollywood Bad Boys Club
is a four-part series.
Available now
Book 1: Drake
Book 2: Mason
Book 3: Marcus
Book 4: Link
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Alexis
“Clandestine Affairs” - Free Sample
Enjoy this free sample from Book 1 of Alexis Adaire’s thrilling erotic romance-suspense series, Clandestine Affairs…
Chapter 1
After only twenty minutes, I already knew this Dante guy wasn’t boyfriend material. Perfect — I only needed him for a couple of hours of sex anyway.
Little did I know at the time that Dante Gutierrez would irrevocably change my future, far beyond the next few hours. Hell, I’d just met him. In retrospect, it’s bizarre how one tiny decision, made for reasons having to do purely with physical pleasure, ended up altering the trajectory of my entire life. At that moment, though, the only future I was thinking about was the rest of my night, which held a small amount of promise if I could get Dante to invite me back to his place for a bit of naked fun.
“So what do you do for a living, Anna?” He leaned toward me on his bar stool, probing me with his piercing blue eyes, violating me with the obviously nasty thoughts percolating just behind them.
His tanned face and short razor stubble made those baby blues stand out. He had a dark complexion and longish dark brown hair that he had to keep brushing back from his face, a move I paradoxically found both ridiculous and sexy. I’d met Dante over a game of pool, which I suspected he let me win when he scratched on the eight-ball.
“I’m with the Secret Service,” I said, arching an eyebrow playfully. “I protect the president.”
Dante laughed skeptically and raised his beer bottle, clinking it against mine. “Here’s to secrets then,” he said.
He might not have found it so funny if he’d known how close that was to the truth. I actually was a government agent, kind of. As a member of the CIA’s Office of Technical Service I helped support the exciting careers of international spies. My duties included providing “physical cover” for agents on assignments — wigs, makeup, clothing. A select few people in OTS were asked to travel overseas where an on-site disguise technician was needed to give in-field assistance to agents. I, however, was among the ninety-five percent of CIA employees chained to a desk at headquarters in Langley, an unincorporated area of McLean, Virginia, across the Potomac from Washington, DC.
I compensated for that by finding adventure and excitement elsewhere, like looking for a one-night stand on a Friday night at Dave’s Hardtail, a dive bar outside of Leesburg, VA. The bar was half an hour from my home in Reston — far enough so that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Besides, the place catered mostly to bikers, so there was little chance anyone from the office would be there.
I had driven out right after work and stopped at a gas station along the way to change, slipping out of my slacks and button-front blouse into something more suitable for a biker bar. Sitting at the bar with Dante, my curves pushed at the seams of the tight Levi’s and my big now-braless breasts stood out in the black Harley tank top.
“How about you?” I asked. “What kind of work do you do?”
I continued to look him over — a habit I picked up from my job, which was to make sure agents blended in with the locals. He was gorgeous, possibly Latino. Something was amiss, though; his fingernails were finely manicured, his black leather boots a little too pristine. I supposed he could be a lobbyist slumming it, but something seemed fishy. Or maybe it was just my CIA training running amok. Regardless, my curiosity was piqued.
“I’m an attorney,” Dante replied.
“Ooh, a lawyer — how exciting.” I rolled my eyes facetiously. “Come on, lie if you have to. Impress me.”
His black jeans sat snugly on his fit frame. Close to forty years old, I guessed. A dark gray T-shirt and a suspiciously distressed black leather vest completed the look. He had a large black tattoo on his right bicep, though I couldn’t make out the design in the dim light of the bar.
“I really am an attorney. I’m also a hitman for a Mexican drug cartel.”
Now I was the one who laughed. Then I saw in his eyes that he wasn’t completely lying. Exaggerating, maybe, but not totally straying from the truth. This guy was into something crooked, I could smell it on him.
And here’s the weird thing: I was turned on by it.
For years I had listened to stories about undercover CIA agents finding ways to extract vital information from unsuspecting bad guys. While Dante spoke, I began to see an opportunity to get in on the action. If he were indeed up to something, I wanted to be the one who brought him down. I would have gone home with him just for the anonymous sex, but this new instinct about him emboldened me to make sure it happened.
A normal woman might have been scared at the idea of going home with this stranger, but growing up with an Army sniper for a dad had left me with an adventurous streak that occasionally got me in trouble when I was a teen. Despite my predilection for one-night stands, my life had been far too boring in recent years. Not only did I feel confident I could handle this situation, I desperately needed the thrill.
As we continued our light flirting, I imagined Dante’s nakedness against mine. It was almost as if I could feel the sense of danger between my legs. Working my way into that position would undoubtedly help me learn more about him.
“I don’t believe you’re a hitman,” I said. Exaggerating my buzz, I leaned into Dante and said, “Let’s see if you kiss like one.”
His hand reached behind my neck and pulled me roughly towards him, my lips landing against his. I felt his tongue slide into my mouth, searching for mine. Dante’s other hand found my hip and squeezed gently as he tested my willingness via his kiss. His grip on my neck was strong as he played with me, gently biting my lower lip before finally releasing me. Not the best kisser, but he was assertive, and I liked that — required it, actually — in a man.
“Definitely not a hitman,” I said.
“How can you be so sure?” Dante asked playfully.
“You didn’t kill me,” I responded. “You only made me horny.”
He stared into my eyes and I knew I had him.
“Did I?” he asked.
“Do you live nearby?” I countered.
Okay, so I’ve always been a sucker for bad boys. As a chubby seventeen-year-old on the base where my family lived at the time, I lost my virginity to a young Army grunt who repaid me for my generosity by referring me to his thirty-year-old major. I continued to have sex with both of those scoundrels until we moved again a few months later. Over the years I’d gained a degree of self-confidence, but I never could shake my fascination with dangerous men. I would’ve gone home with Dante regardless, but the possibility that I was putting myself in a risky situation had me excited in more ways than one.
&nb
sp; I hadn’t had a long-term relationship since I started with the Agency. Some of the people there do it, but I didn’t think it would be fair to any potential boyfriends. There were just too many long workdays and too much overtime requested on weekends. Instead, my thing was regular one-night stands once a month or so. Biker bars were perfect, because bikers were uncomplicated. Their “hump it and dump it” philosophy just happened to mesh perfectly with my needs.
Dante lived five minutes from the bar, and before I knew it he had me pressed against the front door of his luxury apartment, his thigh between my legs as he kissed me again, this time harder. I felt the warmth spread in my lower belly, my brain simultaneously wondering why an attorney would live in an apartment instead of a house. Was he new to the area? I couldn’t dwell on the question too long, though, because Dante took my coat off and dropped it in the snow in front of his apartment, then removed my T-shirt, exposing my breasts to anyone who might have been looking. The freezing February air gave me goosebumps instantly as he lowered his head and took a nipple between his lips. If Dante was testing me to see how sexually adventurous I was, that’s one test I would have no trouble passing.
Seconds later we tumbled into bed, leaving a trail of clothing along the way. As a shirtless Dante started to slide my panties off, I excused myself to go to the bathroom first, grabbing my purse as I went. After locking the door, I pulled out my phone and found an app that Zainul, my co-worker in OTS, had given me months earlier to test for him. It was a hacker app he had written and named RouterSniff. I clicked on it and searched for the strongest WiFi signal, which was coming from a router named 1BadMofo. It was so much stronger than the other signals the app discovered that I felt certain it was Dante’s. I chose that router to sniff and set the phone on the bathroom counter.
Having taken care of that bit of business, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My heart was pounding with the double thrill of probing into the enigma of Dante while he was literally probing me. Turning on the faucet, I eyed my curvy frame. I had always been a big girl, but in my time with the CIA I had taken advantage of their workout facilities and had firmed my body up as much as I thought possible. Still, I saw a lot of boob, too much belly, very wide hips and thunder thighs.
My phone dinged. It had taken the RouterSniff app less than two minutes to hack into Dante’s WiFi network and find his computer, which he apparently left on, then hack into that as well. Kudos to Zainul — that thing worked like a charm. The app would search a computer’s hard disks for certain types of documents and then upload copies to a specified destination, in this case my CIA cloud storage account, carefully erasing its footprints as it went along. The readout estimated it would need roughly a hundred minutes to complete the task. I would have to keep Dante busy for about two hours. My pulse raced at what I was doing, while my body tingled at what I was about to do.
I dropped my phone in my purse and kept the panties on, assuming Dante would want to take them off for me. Then I turned off the water, arranged my long, thick, brown hair so that it spilled down over my breasts, and returned to the bedroom.
Dante was wearing gray boxer briefs, a nice bulge plainly visible. I slid into bed next to him and locked him up in a torrid kiss, my breasts pressing on his bare chest. His hands were on them in no time and I felt him growing harder against my thigh. As my fingers brushed over his erection, my CIA brain blissfully shut off for a while and all I thought about was being taken by this hot stranger. I kissed my way down his chest, then tugged his underwear down so I could see and taste him.
Dante managed to get my panties off and out of the corner of my eye I saw him reaching into a night stand. I tensed up momentarily until I saw a condom package in his hand, then relaxed as he lifted my head off so he could roll on a condom. As he got right to the point and slid between my legs, I wondered how I could keep him busy for two hours.
Dante, bless his heart, kept going for a solid half hour, turning me this way and that so he could try different positions. I felt awkward at times, in poses better suited to thinner women, but Dante’s firm body and firmer erection continued to bring my mind back to the sheer pleasure of sex. His moans became more frequent until he finally grunted loudly as he came.
When he was done, I was afraid I might be dispensed with since Dante had gotten what he wanted, but he kissed his way down my body until he was between my legs, then spent a while there working me into a frenzy. I tried to hold off as long as I could to stall for time, but eventually he pushed me over the edge. My resisting only succeeded in making my orgasm that much stronger, and I screamed loudly enough to wake his neighbors.
As I regained my composure, Dante smiled and went to the kitchen to get us a couple of beers. I quickly slipped my phone out of my purse and checked the RouterSniff app. It needed another fifty to sixty minutes to complete its task. When Dante returned, I ignored the beer and instead let my eyes roam down his naked body, saying, “Think you can get that hard for me again, baby? I’m not done with you yet.”
A few minutes later I climbed on top of Dante and eventually came a second time. I kept him in bed talking for another half hour to make sure I’d given the RouterSniff ample time to do its thing, then used my hand to leisurely coax him to another climax. After that, I told Dante I really needed to get going. He seemed equally ready for me to leave, so we didn’t prolong my departure.
I got dressed and he escorted me to his front door, where he thanked me for “a real good time.” I took one final look at his naked body before I kissed Dante goodbye, then turned to go. We didn’t trade numbers or last names and neither of us mentioned ever getting together again.
On the snowy drive back home to Reston, my sense of physical satisfaction gave way to my urge to find out what was on Dante’s computer — and thereby learn what his deal was. I still smelled like sex as I pushed the pedal harder, wanting to get home as quickly as possible.
Not even bothering to shower first, I dropped my coat and ran to my computer to log into my secure CIA account, then began to sift through Dante’s information, starting with his emails. It took me only a few minutes to get a feel for exactly what I was looking at.
Holy shit! I had uncovered a goldmine.
Most one-night stands are sadly forgettable. Not that one with Dante, though. That chance meeting in a bar and the two hours of sex that followed would eventually lead me into a world of adventure and intrigue and sex and power and money.
Meeting Dante in a biker bar turned out to be the springboard that propelled me into an entirely new life.
Also by Alexis Adaire
More steamy, romantic erotica from Alexis…
Hollywood Bad Boys Club is a series about a group of Hollywood alpha males who pride themselves on the many women they bed while avoiding messy emotional entanglements -- until they meet the women who change everything.
Book 1: Drake
Drake Manning: I’m one of the biggest movie stars in the world. I own Hollywood and get away with anything in this town. Cops pull me over while I’m getting blown in my Ferrari, then ask for autographs. My friends and I go through more women in a month than most guys do in a lifetime. I’ve never had a serious relationship and am determined to keep that streak intact. The world is my oyster and nothing or nobody is going to slow me down.
Allie Winters: Actors are shallow and egotistical, and I’m a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, for God’s sake. This interview with Drake Manning is just another assignment . Even if his fans have nicknamed him “The Body” because of his astounding physique, that won’t distract me from doing my job. Besides, I’m too smart to ever fall for a man like Drake Manning.
Book 2: Mason
Mason Stark: As owner of a Hollywood talent agency, I've caused fists to be slammed on desks all over town. My negotiating skills have earned me the nickname "Mason Shark." I get what I want in this town because I refuse to bow down to anyone. Somehow I've managed to convince the gorgeous owner of a rival agency to make a fri
endly wager, and when she loses she'll have to serve as my private sex slave for an entire week. Why would she make such a bet? I don't know, and to be honest, I don't give a shit.
Claire Jarrett: Mason Stark means nothing to me. Sure, he's breathtakingly sexy, but he's also a business rival who, in on day has insulted a major studio head, claimed actresses don't deserve equal pay, and had restroom sex with an important colleague of mine just to piss me off. Stark is a total alpha male dick and I will do anything to avoid losing our bet and having to submit to him for a week. So why is it that sex with him is suddenly all I think about?
Book 3: Marcus
Marcus Jennings: I’m an All-Star forward for the legendary Los Angeles Lakers, and I live for the thrill of the game and of making opponents bend to my will. Sometimes that means basketball, sometimes it means women. The world is divided between the people who appreciate what I do, and those who think I'm an asshole, but that second group can go to hell. Marcus Jennings wasn't put on this planet to make friends or keep people happy. I’m here to do what I do best: score.
Rashida Blanchard: From the first moment I laid eyes on Marcus, when he walked totally naked into my life, his astounding body and devastatingly handsome features burned into my brain and refused to leave. There are two problems with me being so attracted to him, though: Marcus is the most immature jerk I've ever met, and I'm the mother of a six-year-old boy and can't afford a second childish male in my life.
Forced to Bloom
Hollywood Bad Boys Club, Book 4: Link Page 22