Chapter 8
-Kira Carter-Wells-
I don’t know what the heck I’m doing or thinking.
I know that Dylan Drake’s bed isn’t where I ought to be.
As he likes to point out with alarming frequency, I’m not his type, and not only that, I’m employed to look out for him and ensure his safety, not to warm his bed.
Howard Falchard is going to have my head on a platter if he hears about this.
His express purpose in sending me along with Dylan tonight was to ensure no sexual shenanigans took place.
Gay guy with a rep, hence he sent the girl.
Too bad I’ve lusted after Mr. Drake for too long to say no when he suddenly wanted to say yes to sampling some pussy.
Dylan lies heavy above me. His breathing remains raspy and rough.
The side of his head is pressed to mine, and his cock is still buried inside me.
He’s an incredibly beautiful man, toned in the way that only someone with a personal trainer gets, handsome in a sculpted, edgy way.
His eyes—those eyes the way they shine, it just gets me, and his mouth…
Wow, what his lips are capable of… I can count my former sexual partners on one hand.
None of them ever did anything that magical with their tongues, and they’d ostensibly had practice Dylan hasn’t, unless he’s lying to the world about everything.
That makes me think of his co-star Rosie, and her insistence that he’s only gay for show. Even now, I don’t believe that’s true.
When he lifts himself up, I don’t know what to say to him. I’m not sure what exactly happened that lead us to this point, but it’s a relief that he’s prepared to look me in the eyes. What’s impossible to read are his thoughts.
“What you expected?” I ask.
His head tilts from one side to the other. He trails a hand over my body, over one breast and the flat of my stomach. Briefly, he caresses my thigh, before he circles his cock, holding on to the condom and pulls away.
I miss him immediately. I liked the way we joined up.
His brooding silence kills me. He came. That means it was good, right? Although, I’ve heard that with guys it’s mostly a matter of mechanics. Provide enough friction and the genie inevitably leaves the bottle.
Dylan takes long enough in the bathroom disposing of the condom and doing, I’m not sure what, that a chill starts creeping over me.
Maybe the sensible thing to do at this point, would be to accept this as what it was—a moment of madness—and leave, rather than attempt to turn it into anything more.
However, right as I swing my legs around with the intention of scampering off, his form fills the doorway.
One hand is raised and clasped within his hair, while the other grips the wooden frame.
He’s still entirely naked, and for a moment I have an actual chance to really take that fact and him in.
He has that whole inverted triangle thing going on: wide shoulders, narrow hips, washboard abs, but he’s rangy too, rather than bulky.
It’s no wonder he looks good in his clothes; he looks flipping fantastic out of them.
I drink my fill, because while I’m a fool, I’m not deluded. Nothing more is ever going to happen than what already did.
“I should go,” I say in response to his silence.
“Johns will be waiting.”
“Yes.”
I curl my toes into the thick carpet as I rise.
My dress is next door. I’d prefer to clean up before I exit, knowing that I’m going to reek of sex and Johns is going to adroitly put two and two together, but with Dylan standing where he is, that isn’t possible without jostling him out of the way first. A bathroom visit will just have to wait.
Maybe I’ll take a detour down to the powder room in the foyer on my way to the car.
“Kira.” Dylan reaches out and clasps my hand. He tugs until we’re toe to toe and facing.
“I know,” I say, before he says anything. “I get that it was just a fuck, a momentary anomaly, and that you’re not going to call.”
“Would you want me to call?”
If it was for a repeat performance, I’m disgusted to admit I would.
Dylan Drake didn’t break my heart when he revealed to the world he was gay, but he’s doing it now by curling his fingers around mine.
I know it can’t be between us. I know that he’s gay, and I’m the hired muscle.
There are a million reasons to leave, and not a single good one to stay.
“I really should leave.”
“That’s probably best.” His gaze pulls away and fastens on something in the middle distance, only to sweep back to my face a moment later. “Unless you think…that is, unless you want to stay.”
“You don’t want me to stay.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not altogether sure what I want.”
Whereas I know precisely what I want, and exactly how impossible it is. There’s no sense in imagining an alternative truth. I’m not going to start lying to myself.
“Then it’s probably best if I leave you to puzzle it out. Make sure you lock the door behind me.”
***
All week, I tell myself not to think about Dylan’s mouth on my pussy, his fingers inside me…
us, fucking wildly. I tell myself not to do these things because there’s no happiness to be gained from it.
All I do by reliving those moments is torture myself, and torture isn’t something that actually gets me off.
I make endless lists of reasons why we’re completely unsuited, and pin them up next to the shopping list on the fridge.
He’s gay.
He’s a movie star and I provide security.
Flightiness, insincerity and promiscuity make my blood boil.
Even with other guys, his relationships don’t last longer than a day.
Then of course, my mind insists on making a pros list too, ’cause you can’t have black without the flip side of the equation.
He has a well-honed sense of social responsibility, and doesn’t sit back and let anyone dictate his life for him.
My curves obviously flipped some switch or other in his head, because he made a point of worshipping them, and there’s definite attraction of some kind between us, else that frantic tumble would never have come about.
Plus, he fucks like a god.
Or at least how I hope a god would fuck, as I have no direct knowledge of celestial beings.
This week is comprised of endless tedium, so there’s ample time to rehash everything a dozen times a day.
Before I know it, we’re eight days post-Dylan, and I’m babysitting a nine-year-old who won some Saturday Night show or other.
She’s all gap-toothed sass, but it’s true the kid’s got a knockout voice.
They have her auditioning for some top-secret remake of a musical classic.
I think the secrecy is because as soon as the title gets out, there’s going to be a collective groan of, “What the fuck! Why?” Why indeed? Why not be innovative instead.
Livia, the kid’s chaperone—she made a point of introducing herself—has blanket banned all confectionery and fast food, so we end up in this bohemian café for lunch that serves beetroot swirls and goji berry drizzled tofu.
Unsurprisingly, girl child has swirled the food around on her tiny plate making pictures.
Not a single mouthful has made it past her chops, even though I can hear her stomach grumbling.
“I want a milkshake, Livia. Mum lets me. Why can’t I have a milkshake? They’re not as bad as Coke.”
It doesn’t seem like much of an ask to me. It’s not like she’s demanding we hit the burger joint. What’s so bad about a glass of milk? At that age, they need the calcium and calories.
“Milk will coat your throat. You want to be able to sing your best, don’t you? Right, if you’re not eating, we’ll head back.”
The poor mite sucks her lips into a pout, and screws up her button nose. I’m expecting a full-on scream, leading to a world-class diva tantrum, but somehow she manages to hold her emotions in check. “I need the toilet first. Can I go, please Livia?”
“I’ll take her,” I offer. I’m on my feet anyway. “That way you can finish your walnuts.” Leastways, I think that’s what the wrinkly brown brain-shaped things are that Livia’s cutting into microscopic pieces before spearing them on her two-pronged fork.
“Oh, would you. That’s kind.”
“She’s awful,” the kid confides as we troop upstairs. The facilities are right at the back of the place. “She’s only doing it because she thinks the casting people will remember her, or that they might find her a part too.”
“The evil queen,” I suggest.
She cackles with amusement, making no attempt to hide her smile. “I wish you could be my chaperone instead.”
“Then who would run the bad guys down for you?”
“Is that really your job?” She asks. “I don’t think anyone is after me. Georgie in class 4 keeps trying to kiss me since I was on T.V. but most people treat me the same as before.”
“It’s some of what I do. Did you know Livia before?”
Her nose wrinkles again, and she gives her head a concise shake. “I don’t know if I want to be in a film if I have to have her looking after me.”
“Maybe that won’t be the case. If you talked to your mum…”
“She thinks Livia’s nice, and that I should do what she says ’cause she knows all about the business. I don’t think she knows anything, and she spends all her time looking at stupid pictures on the internet.”
“Pictures?”
“Of boys with their shirts off, showing their tummies. I don’t get why that’s so interesting. I think boys should keep their clothes on. Do you think so too?”
Depends on the boy.
“It’s less distracting if they do.”
She nods sagely. “Some of them are all hairy, like there’s big spiders crawling across them.” She raises both hands and curls and wiggles her fingers imitating spider movements. “Livia likes the ones who have lumpy fronts.”
I’m starting to think it’s time to have a chat with the local safeguarding officer, until it occurs to me that she’s referring to pecs and a six-pack, and not bulges of a more snake-like variety.
“I can manage myself,” she insists when we reach the LADIES’.