by Lynne Silver
She rose up on her toes and met his surprised lips with her own. The kiss started for the camera, but within a second, Dakota forgot the cameras were there. The dude could kiss. Maybe better than he could dance.
His larger frame enveloped hers, and when his tongue found hers, she moaned with delight. He tasted delicious and erased the memory of the blueberry mojito.
All her lady parts woke up and stayed at attention. She hadn’t come to Miami to meet a man, but now she was in one’s arms and didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“We should move,” Carlos murmured against her lips, and she felt his head turn slightly in the direction of the cameras.
“No,” she whispered back, hooking her arms around his shoulders and hanging on tight. “One more kiss.” She’d lost all thoughts of the press and being on camera. Her brain was entirely focused on Carlos and kissing him. His taste and the hard chest and arms pressed close against her skin branded her.
Something fundamental shifted inside her as she realized Carlos was quickly ruining her for the men of Hollywood. They were pretty and all on the outside, but ultimately they cared more about themselves and their careers than her pleasure. Carlos was all about her pleasure. She couldn’t wait to get him in bed.
Carlos barely noticed the lavish hotel suite he entered because his face was attached to Dakota’s. Every time they broke for air, one of them dove for the other, like it was a compulsion to keep kissing. Even the paparazzi had taken a back seat, because his desire for Dakota had drowned out his dislike of being a spectacle.
He’d taken other women home before. It was a bartender perk to get hit on by tipsy women. Sometimes he’d accept the offer, usually not. He’d never danced before with any of them, but with Dakota, he’d been crossing the dance floor and helpless not to hold her and move with her.
He didn’t know what her deal was—and something was up. Like maybe she was using him to make a scene for the cameras. But he also sensed she was as into the kissing as he was. He would’ve been out of there otherwise.
“Let’s lose the clothes,” Dakota said in her husky singer’s voice.
It took her a moment to yank her dress over her head. She was braless and only a tiny scrap of material covered her promised land. Her skin was smooth and creamy pale with pink nipples the same shade as her lips. She’d started the night in vibrant lipstick, but he’d kissed it off.
Carlos took a little longer on his shirt. “Hey,” he protested when she came over and yanked it apart, sending buttons flying. Shirts might not mean much to her, but money for him was tight, and he couldn’t afford a new one.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” she promised as she planted little kisses on the skin of his pecs. Like he’d ever let her replace the shirt unless it was a Christmas gift or something. Not that he’d see her for Christmas or any night after tonight. The thought that this was a one-night stand disconcerted him for a second, but then he got distracted by her mouth.
He bit back a curse as her teeth closed gently around his nipple. His hands worked quickly on the button and zipper of his jeans, but once they were open, releasing some of the pressure on his engorged cock, he stopped working on his own clothes and reached for Dakota.
His palms found the smooth globes of her ass cheeks and he cupped them, drawing her closer.
“Carlos,” she said on a moan, when his lips closed around the tendon connecting her neck to her shoulder. Then he moaned when her fingers fumbled with his waistband as she tugged his pants lower. She grazed the hard line of his dick, and he knew then, this would be a night to remember.
If one stray touch had him about to burst, he would be a dead man walking before he got her onto the bed and inside her. Speaking of beds… With an easy move, he scooped up Dakota—Jesus, she weighed nothing. What were women in Hollywood eating? Air?—and started striding toward the bed. He released her onto her back where she bounced on the mattress, and then he lost his pants and boxer briefs and was on her, exploring every glorious inch of skin with his lips and tongue.
His balls ached with the need to spill his seed, and he both wanted and didn’t want her to touch him. He didn’t want this to end before it began, and he was intensely aroused. She’d been engaged to a movie star, for fuck’s sake. He’d never had performance anxiety before, but he wanted to make this good for her. It was already mind-blowingly spectacular for him. And they hadn’t done much more than kiss.
Dakota wriggled out from under him and climbed to a kneeling position. Her full breasts jutted out, inviting him to touch and lick. Her thumbs hooked underneath the miniscule elastic band of her thong and she tugged it down.
Brazilian and the sweetest, pinkest, wettest pussy he’d ever had the pleasure seeing was on display.
“Shit, you’re gorgeous,” he said hoarsely.
She laughed. “I could say the same.” Her gaze was on his cock, which pointed directly to the juncture between her legs. He had a split second mind-fuck moment in which he wondered how he, Carlos Acosta, was in bed with America’s queen bee, but then he looked closer, and saw she was a woman. A real one, with all the needs and desires of the other women he’d had the pleasure to bed.
“C’mere,” he said roughly, and didn’t wait for her to approach. Instead, he walked on his knees a foot closer and pushed her down against the mattress. He balanced on his forearms above her and stared down at her famous face.
Something vulnerable passed over her expression and she bit her lip.
“Dakota,” he whispered and lowered down to kiss her, covering every inch of her body with his own.
“Call me Hannah,” she whispered back.
He had a split second to be stunned at her revelation, but then her arms tugged him down tighter, and her heels dug into his butt. His cock rubbed the bare skin of her pussy, then slipped lower to get covered in her juices.
“Condoms are on the nightstand,” she said.
He reached to grab one, suddenly feeling a little used that she had a supply of protection at the ready. It wasn’t a fair sentiment, he knew. They were both using each other to get off tonight, but it would’ve been nice to feel special, and not like a random man who’d won the Dakota Starr dance-off tonight for the grand prize of getting to fuck her in her hotel room.
“I always carry condoms,” Hannah said. She gave a husky laugh. “I never expected to use them.” And he was back in the game.
“I’m glad they’re here,” he said as he ripped a package open and sheathed himself. “Safety is important.”
“Mm hmm,” she said, her focus obviously on him. She ran her fist over his hard dick, making him groan. Even through the condom, her hand was soft and warm. As soft and warm as he knew her pussy would be. He couldn’t wait to get inside. “You’re so hard,” she said.
“Gracias,” he said. “Though you should thank yourself. It’s all for you. Haven’t been this turned on in a while.”
“Oh?” she asked, but something in her eyes dimmed. She pulled him back over her and grasped his dick, lining him up with her wet passage. He slid in as though his body had been made to fit hers. Key meet lock.
“Oh.” She let out a small gasp.
He froze. “You okay?”
“Great.”
He pulled out, though it killed him. “Bullshit. You were wet, but not ready.” Without waiting for her response, he scooted back and buried his face between her legs. With his tongue, he licked her juices. She softened under him, her legs falling open.
“Oh, God, Carlos.”
He fucking loved hearing his name on her lips. Like he mattered to her.
Her fingers threaded through his hair. “It’s been so long.”
He paused to gaze up at her. She’d been engaged. What the fuck had her fiancé been doing if not licking up his woman every chance he got? If Dakota/Hannah were his woman, he’d be eating her out every freaking day. She was that good and responsive. He soaked up every moan, gasp, and squeal when he added his finger to the mix.
&n
bsp; “I’m ready,” she said, trying to tug him up by his hair, but he resisted.
“Come first,” he said.
“With you in me.”
“No. Now.” He flattened his tongue against her clit, as he feathered two fingers deep inside, and took away the choice. Ripples of her pleasure squeezed his fingers tight, and her hips nearly threw him off as she writhed through her orgasm.
“Oh God, Loooos,” she screamed his name with delight, and he figured he was destined for sainthood, because his dick was getting painful with need. But her pleasure came first. Always.
“Get up here,” she said, and this time, he allowed her to manhandle him and got into position above her. This time when he slid in, she sighed with her eyes closed and welcomed him into heaven.
His thrusts started slowly. “You’re amazing,” he whispered.
“Back atcha,” she said, and did something with her hips that had him take the pace from slow easy thrusts to hard, fast pounds. He pulled all the way out, then slammed back in. She dug her fingers in his ass, and he knew he’d enjoy feeling the crescent moon scars on his skin tomorrow. She held him tightly to her, stopping him from leaving her body, and he ground against her, pushing his lower belly against the sensitive parts of her body.
Hold on, Los. Make it last. But she was too sexy, too responsive to do anything other than ride the wave. Though with Dakota, it was a hell of a lot more than a wave. It was a tsunami carrying away everything in its path, including both of them. His come shot out, and he shouted, muffling the sound of her delighted moan.
She fell quiet after she came a second time, and lay silent and compliant against the bed. Carlos knew he had to get rid of the condom, but he didn’t want to leave. His five-year old cousin would think it was a Cinderella-like moment, and if he moved, it would end with no glass slipper left behind or happy ending. Making love to celebrity Dakota Starr would be a memory he’d hold close to the chest.
He shifted off her, lying on his side staring at her, with his head resting on his propped arm. Their gazes connected, and they lay side by side watching each other. For someone who made a living off emoting emotions, Dakota-Hannah was holding her cards close. Carlos couldn’t guess what she was thinking.
Her fingertips trailed across his chest. “Stay the night,” she whispered.
“It’s already day.” He grinned, and she returned the smile.
“The day then.”
“All right.” He leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose gently, then stood. “Gonna go deal with this.” He strode naked to the bathroom to take care of the condom, and raced back to the bed before she could change her mind and kick him out.
Hannah stared at the sleeping man in her bed. She should be exhausted, having not slept in a bed the previous night, instead taking a red-eye from LAX to MIA, but sleep wasn’t coming. Her body was alive, and it was thanks to Carlos, the devastatingly sexy bartender who’d made her orgasm harder than, well…ever.
Giving up on sleep, she climbed out of bed to grab her black-and-white composition book and curl up on the couch with a view of the rising sun over the Atlantic. If this were California, she’d see early morning surfers, but as this was Miami, there were no waves big enough to hang ten. Instead, early risers walked the long stretch of sand, and one industrious person swam laps in the pool directly below her window. The water had sparkled turquoise when she’d checked in yesterday, but this morning it was a steel blue.
She chewed the pen cap as words flowed off her pen and onto the page. She’d been writing lyrics in a composition book since seventh grade, when her notebook was supposed to have been for observations about a science experiment. Instead, poetical longings about a ninth-grade boy named Jack had filled the margins. To this day, her best work was scrawled in the margins of a notebook. Not that any of her songs had been released to the public. Listening to the advice of her agent, all the songs on her last album had been “professionally” written by a “professional” songwriter. As if she wasn’t a professional?
Words came easily this morning, telling the universal tale of a love lost and aching for an unattainable man. If anyone read them, they’d assume she was writing about Tyler Taylor.
Those dark eyes light me on fire.
Baby won’t you dance with me.
If I said I don’t care, then I’d be a liar.
Baby why did you dance with me?
Across the room, her cell phone buzzed and lit up. She sprinted to grab it before it woke up Carlos. It was Mindi, and she was texting a million links to images of her and Carlos dancing last night. What time was it in LA? Did the woman ever sleep?
“This guy is bank,” Mindi texted. “Your fans are crushing hard.”
“Me too,” Hannah muttered. She texted back, “Any traction on Aces deal?” Aces was a movie for which she was up for a strong supporting actress role. It’d be her first movie playing someone else and not coming in as Dakota Starr pop star.
“Not yet, but fingers crossed.” Emoji. Emoji. Emoji. Mindi was ten years older than Hannah, but had a propensity for texting like a tweenager. “Keep in the spotlight. Producer wants a big star. Rumor Emma Stone in the running.”
Oh, screw that. Not America’s other sweetheart. Emma had her pick of movie roles. Aces was hers. If the producer wanted a big name, Dakota would become the biggest. She’d prove to her doubting parents and the classmates who’d mocked her ambition that Hannah Hogarth was someone.
At that moment, Carlos shifted in the bed, stretching one muscular arm over his head, hand tucked under the pillow. She noticed a tattoo on the underside of his biceps she hadn’t noticed last night. She held her breath, wondering if he was about to awaken, but he gave an adorable little snore, then settled in for more sleep.
She tossed her phone aside, grabbed up her pen and notebook again, but was distracted by the delicious man in her bed. Abandoning her work, she tiptoed back to the bed and climbed in, lying next to Carlos. She perched on her belly watching him sleep.
His dark skin looked kissable, so she gave in to the urge and ran her tongue down his pectoral to his nipple.
He shifted but didn’t wake.
She was about to do some more tasting, but an insistent buzzing from behind distracted her. It was coming from the pocket of Carlos’s jeans, left on the floor in their urgency last night. She leapt to grab it and silence it before it could awaken her sleeping bartender. The screen lit up with two notifications. One that tuition was due, and the other read that “Mami” was calling. She bit her lip and glanced from the screen to Carlos. He seemed like the kind of guy to want to know his mother was calling. Given that it was six in the morning, it had to be urgent.
God knew, her parents never called this early in the morning. Or at all.
“Carlos,” she whispered. No movement.
“Carlos.” She tried again, but louder.
He opened an eye and rolled to his side, facing her. “Morning,” he mumbled. Then blinked in the direction of the half-closed curtains. “Is it morning?”
“Kind of.” She held up the phone with the screen in his direction. “Your mother is calling.” She didn’t mention that she’d also seen the notification reminder that had popped up saying that his tuition was due. Carlos was a student? Nope. Not her business.
He reached for the phone, took it from her hands and silenced it. She watched, surprised when he tossed it back with unerring accuracy to land on the pile of denim that was his pants. So much for him being a good dutiful son.
“You’re not going to speak with her?”
He shook his head.
“Family’s important.” She should know, having lost a good relationship the day she chose pop music and Hollywood over singing for the church.
“Agreed, but I know why she’s calling. Too early in the morning to have that discussion, and I can’t give her the answer she wants.”
She was dying to know what discussion was too early to have, but they didn’t hold that place in each oth
er’s lives. She didn’t have rights to personal questions. Holy cow, was she sad at that thought? Did she want intimate rights to a guy’s personal life when they’d met ten hours ago? He was her one-night stand, the man she’d used to get the paparazzi to take photos of her giving the metaphorical middle finger to Tyler Taylor.
With a stretch, Carlos rose off the bed and reached for his clothes. “Time for me to go.”
It was a statement, but there’d been a definite question mark at the end. She wasn’t imagining it and hearing things she wanted to hear. “Or you could stay,” she said, and realized she was holding her breath waiting for his answer. “We could order room service breakfast.”
He froze in the act of pulling his shirt on. When his face was visible again, he said, “I wouldn’t say no to some waffles.”
“Ugh, carbs. Gluten.” But she smiled big as she said it. “Go use the bathroom if you need. I’ll call in the order, then do morning yoga. Waffles?”
“And coffee.”
“Duh.”
It didn’t take the usual forty minutes for their food to arrive. She was a celebrity, and the kitchen had been emailed with her preferences ahead of time. They weren’t going to keep her waiting. Photos of her coming and going from the hotel were free advertising for them. If making sure her breakfast got to her lickety-quick, well, that wasn’t a problem.
She was in warrior pose, hyper aware of Carlos’s hungry gaze on her, when room service knocked.
“I’ll get it.” Carlos jumped from the bed where he’d been lounging in his jeans and unbuttoned shirt, barefoot.
The waiter who entered was too discreet to blink at the presence of a man in her room, and he rolled in the table with silver domed plates. “Over here, Ms. Starr?”
She moved to the next yoga pose, as juice was poured, and the breakfast set to perfection. When the waiter moved to leave, she remembered she should probably tip him. Growing up the way she had, things like tipping didn’t come naturally. But Carlos already had cash out and was easily putting it into the waiter’s hand before she could move to find her wallet.