Bootycall Read online

  I swallow, and try to remember where I am, but Dylan’s gaze is like some kind of stun-ray that has me frozen to the spot.

  “This way,” he says, releasing me from his glare and turning around.

  After a little more walking, Dylan opens a side door to a small building at the side of his home, and ushers me inside.

  “Behold: my garage.”

  “Wow,” is about all I can manage, as we walk in between about half a dozen cars. “A Lamborghini, a Maserati, a Mercedes – you’ve really got the full set.”

  “Yeah…though to be honest,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I don’t really drive any of them.”

  I nod. “I did read about that DUI you had a while back—” Shit. Did I just say that out loud?

  Dylan laughs. “Screw the DUI! I just don’t like cars. They’re window dressing. And the traffic out here has got to be my least favorite thing about this city. But behold…”

  He nods to the far corner, and I see what he means. Standing proudly, surrounded by greasy rags, spare parts, and scattered tools, is a gleaming motorcycle.

  “Ah!” I say, nodding. I’m impressed despite myself. It’s a gorgeously-built machine, all power and sleek curves, and he clearly takes good care of it. “Figures. This is an Ecosse Titanium, right?”

  Dylan raises an eyebrow and smirks with warm surprise.

  “It is.”

  “Pretty rare, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah,” he says, before narrowing his eyes in an expression that begs for an explanation from me.

  “My dad used to ride Harleys a lot – and work on them the rest of the time. I grew up around the smell of oil and grease. And I might know my way around a wrench.” I grin.

  I can see the love and appreciation in Dylan’s eyes as he walks me to the motorcycle, unable to keep himself from checking certain spots on the bike, even kneeling to rub at a speck of dust he notices on the headlight.

  “Riding them or working on them, you can find your soul with a bike.”

  “Seems like you’ve worked on this one a lot. Power tube, titanium exhaust, spark kit…”

  Dylan lets out an appreciative chuckle and looks at me as if I just performed a triple somersault in front of him.

  “Yeah… Well, I spend a lot of time looking for my soul.”

  I blush a little, quickly saying something to distract his piercingly focused gaze away from me.

  “How fast can it go?”

  His eyes only grow more focused when he answers. “As fast as I want it to.”

  For a moment I imagine what it would be like going for a ride with Dylan, the bike’s engine thrumming hard beneath us as I squeeze my thighs around him, my arms wrapped tight around his muscular torso. Heat pounds in my cheeks, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

  “This is…so weird,” I babble, the tension and nerves bursting out of me, needing to grasp onto something tangible and real and mundane before I start losing myself in the charged atmosphere between us.

  “What?” Dylan says. “The bike?”

  “This,” I say, gesturing all around me. “You. When I tried that…BootyCall app thing…I figured I’d end up screwing some fat guy with a foot fetish, just to stick it to my ex. Or no…I figured I’d delude myself into thinking I was really going to do something and end up bailing out last minute – or that I’d sit at home talking to strangers all night just so that I didn’t feel like so much of a loser. And suddenly…here I am. Getting drunk with Dylan Marlowe, the big Hollywood star, in his gigantic mansion, with its huge kitchen and sports cars and…shit…I’m drunk…”

  “Why’s that so weird?”

  “It just is.”

  “I don’t get it. Explain.”

  “Well…I’m a nobody. I’m just some girl. You’re…well, everyone in the world knows who you are. I mean, look at all this. The bike, the art, the pool. It’s…another world.”

  Dylan’s face drops. For the first time his charming smile disappears completely. The sparkle in his eyes turns into cold shards of ice. He takes a few steps toward the door, and I worry for a second that he’s about to leave me alone in the garage.

  “This,” he says, projecting his voice so that it reverberates around the concrete walls of the garage, “is just a load of meaningless, boring, shit. No. It’s worse, because I can’t flush it away – however much I’d like to. It’s a fucking prison. A trap. I’d swap it all for…just to get…”

  He stops himself, rubbing a heavy hand over his face as he tries to gather his composure. He steps slowly towards me.

  “Why do you know my name? Is it because I was a good man? Because I did good things? Was a good…friend?”

  I take a step back, thrown off by his sudden intensity. “You were a good actor. Are.”

  Dylan shakes his head, and the sheer emotional weight of the gesture makes me shudder. If this is an act, then what I just said may be the greatest understatement of the century.

  He puts those eyes on me again, and I stiffen in his powerful presence once more.

  “It’s because I’m good at lying, at pretending. And frankly, I’m sick and fucking tired of pretending.”

  “Ok,” I say, in as calming a voice as possible – though it’s more for my benefit than Dylan’s. “Ok. You’re right. But that doesn’t mean you’re not more than that, too. And you don’t have to pretend with me.”

  Dylan looks at me, and I can see a little of the lightness coming back into his eyes.

  “You’re absolutely fucking gorgeous,” he says, the smile slowly printing itself on his jaw again.

  I laugh, and swipe at the lock of hair once more.

  “And you seem to be absolutely fucking crazy,” I shoot back.

  Dylan laughs so hard he needs to throw his head back.

  “For a one night stand this is really eccentric,” he says, coming back to earth possessing all of his charm. “I did not see things playing out this way. But I like playing with you.”

  My mouth goes dry and I swallow hard. “Well, it’s not a one night stand yet.”

  “Oh,” he says, raising an eyebrow, “you’re gonna make me work for it?”

  “I’m gonna…see how the evening goes.” It’s hard to sound coy when your heart’s jackhammering in your chest, but I’m trying to project at least a little confidence. He moves closer to me, and this time I don’t back up.

  “Well, the least you could do is tell me your name.”

  I smile. “You can guess.”

  “Give me a clue, I must have earned that much, surely?”

  “Ok.” I think for a moment. “It means ‘precious gem’ in Medieval Italian.”

  “My Medieval Italian is a little rusty.”

  “You don’t have a library in this big house of yours?”

  “Now that you mention it, I think that’s where I put the record player.”

  I raise an eyebrow, but withhold further clues. Maybe it’s better to keep this anonymous. I go back to flirt mode and take his arm, squeezing it firmly in my grip. Lord, but this man is good to touch. A ripple of heat passes through me.

  “So, where to next?” I ask, batting my eyes. “How many more ‘decadent luxuries’ does your house have, Mr. Marlowe?”

  “Well, there’s the screening room, the indoor pool, the gym, the recording studio, and the golf course on the roof.”

  My jaw falls open. I can’t help myself. “Seriously.”

  “Seriously.” Dylan gently pats my hand on his arm as if he’s just given me some bad news.

  “Seriously?” I ask again.

  “Seriously!”

  “A golf course? On the roof?”

  “I guess that’s where we should head to next, since you’re so disbelieving.”

  Five minutes, one more glass of wine, and enough stairs to make me regret wearing heels later, we step out of a small alcove onto what feels like soft grass. Seconds after we do, lights flicker on. I drop my glass of wine to the ground, and my eyes widen.

 
Dylan clears his throat. “It’s no eighteen-holer, true, but it’s still—”

  “It’s on a roof!”

  Dylan turns to me and smiles when he sees my reaction.

  I step forward feeling like Alice in Wonderland – although even a talking deck of cards wouldn’t surprise me much after seeing this.

  “This. Is. Insane.”

  “You know what, I won’t argue. It is. But it’s also pretty fucking fun.”

  I turn to look at Dylan and notice he’s holding out a club for me to take.

  “Oh no, I can’t play golf.”

  “You do tonight,” he says, mischief in his eyes. “It’s the least you can do for spilling wine on my grass.” He gestures to the spilled glass, and I pick it up and set it on a table.

  “Ok, fair enough. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?” I say, handing him the club, eager to gain some composure. “I need to sit down for a minute.”

  “Sure,” he says, with a naughty grin.

  Then he takes off his shirt.

  Holy Jesus. His torso is even more eye-searingly hot than I’d expected, even though I’ve seen it on the big screen countless times. He wasn’t kidding about those workouts.

  “What are you doing?” I manage to squeak out, despite every muscle in my body urging him to continue.

  “I always play golf with my shirt off,” he says, stepping even closer towards me to show off a body so fucking perfect that I feel like I should applaud.

  “Um…ok…” I say, taking a deep breath that does nothing to calm me. “Game on.”

  He grins, takes the golf club, and drags a few balls towards him. His muscles dance like he’s putting on a show, the lines of his body swirling magically to create a million perfect poses in the world’s greatest slide show. I consider taking my phone out to record him.

  I don’t so much sit down as collapse in sheer amazement, my head spinning from something way more intoxicating than alcohol. My mind is already flashing pictures before my eyes, of my hands pressed against his rock-hard chest, or clawing at the curve of his back, or wrapped tight around those bulging biceps as he—

  He swings a hard drive that disappears into the dark of night.

  “Oh my God,” I say, when I see the smooth, hard muscles in his back working. “Uh…that shot was amazing.”

  Dylan smiles his teasing grin and I can’t tell if he knows I’m just covering, or if he’s genuinely pleased with the compliment.

  “Didn’t you win an Oscar?” I blurt out as soon as the thought occurs to me. I’m grasping at straws trying to make conversation here, the raw heat of his naked torso robbing me of any chance at displaying even remotely coherent verbal skills.

  Dylan has been hitting the balls pretty hard, but as soon as I mention the Oscar, I can see a few more of his muscles tighten as he swings with extra, almost angry, power. (I’ve been studying this man’s body so intently that I probably know it better than his doctor.) The ball flies up so hard he’ll need to call NASA to get it back.

  “Yeah,” he says, but it comes out sounding like a reluctant grunt.

  “That’s…pretty awesome,” I say, wondering if he’s going to explode again.

  He tees up another ball, tightens up again, and at the last moment, he stops. His muscles drop, and he spins around to face me. The smile’s gone again, and I brace myself.

  “Worse thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, tossing the golf club aside and walking towards me like a predator stalking its prey.

  “I’m…sorry,” I say, my voice faltering at the look in his eyes.

  “But like I said,” he continues, as he draws nearer and sits on the edge of the lounge chair I’m on, so close I can see every hair of stubble, every lash of his hypnotizing eyes, “it made me appreciate things that are real.”

  He leans onto one of his arms and grips the other side of the chair, offering me a view of his chest that’s so erotic my dead grandmother is probably blushing in her grave.

  “I can’t even…just…” I say, battling the insane urge to touch, lick, kiss him all over. I can feel myself getting wetter, and I try to take another deep breath.

  I finally raise a hand to push him away, but instead of doing it, my hand gets electrified by the hard, rough texture of his skin, and I forget how you’re supposed to get up from chairs.

  He smiles a little when he sees how hard I’m breathing, how my face is fixed into an expression of deep concentration, contemplating the feel of his chest like it’s a philosopher’s conundrum. He lets my hand stay there.

  Our eyes lock, and I can feel shudders reverberate through me. Twinges in all the softest parts of my body. It feels like I’m underwater, immersed in the power of this man leaning over me, small fishes brushing up against the back of my thighs, tickling my navel, floating on the sexual intensity Dylan is engulfing me in.

  “I don’t do this kind of thing. I’ve never done this kind of thing. I just broke up with my boyfriend,” I babble softly, silently begging Dylan not to do this to me, to stop making me want him so bad, to break the spell I’m under.

  He laughs a little, and I realize that as I’m saying these words, my fingers are tracing the lines of his chest. Working their way around his pecs and down into the lines of the six pack he so rightly bragged about earlier.

  I’m losing every ounce of willpower I may have had when I walked into this house. But then again, this is what I showed up for, right?

  And suddenly I realize that I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t do this. Sure, I know there are plenty of reasons this is a bad idea, but right now there’s not a single thing coming to mind except the feel of his skin under my fingers and the way he’s looking at me and the tight pulse between my legs.

  The sky seems to spin, and I lose all sense of space and time. I close my eyes, my body filled with so many complex emotions I’m almost aching. Is this really happening? Am I really going to do this? Am I actually—

  Then he kisses me.

  As Dylan presses into me, my breasts heave against his chest, desperate to melt into his perfect body. His hand plays on the small of my back, squeezing me against him. I cling to him with all the strength I’ve got, every muscle in my body burning with heat that only his cool confidence and hard body will put out. Yes. God yes. This is what I came here for.

  His stubble scratches against my skin as I suck his lips, his tongue, his hot saliva, desperate for every atom of sex this man can give me. His hands explore my body, rolling over my waist, my ass, my tits. His touch is rough, eager, but smooth – like a master sculptor delicately putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece. In his talented arms that’s what I feel like, a masterpiece.

  His fingers trail along my thighs, soft and light on my tensing muscles, with each stroke unlocking the coiled-up passion of my body, turning me wilder as I cling and pulsate uncontrollably against him.

  For the first time in a long time I feel wild and free, giving in to every impulse, while he touches and caresses me with all the slow poise of a man who knows my body better than I do. I bite his lips, pulling hungrily at his perfect flesh.

  “Mmm,” I moan involuntarily.

  “That’s right,” he growls.

  I feel so out of control I don’t think I’ll ever be able to act normal again. I need to be tamed, but he’s doing exactly the opposite – turning me wild, smashing my inhibitions beneath his firm grip, teasing a passion out of me I never knew existed. It’s gonna take more than a few cold showers to put this back in the bottle.

  He hand rolls back up my leg, knuckles against the inside of my thighs as he reaches, tantalizingly slow, towards the source of my hysteria, towards the pit of the fire. I’m so wet that I can almost smell myself in the cocktail of sweat, sex, and alcohol that’s condensing in the little space between us. Despite my nails in his back, he presses his hand against my pussy with firm and gentle skill, teasing aside my panties like a gift he’s milking his anticipation for, until his fingers finally
begin to softly caress the space around my clit.

  I moan again, deep and low, my whole body vibrating with the pleasure of his fingers exploring me slowly, patiently, ever more deeply. I can’t believe I thought this might be a mistake. This is no mistake. It’s a fucking revelation.

  “You smell delicious,” he growls, as he buries his face into my neck, biting and licking my burning skin. “I’m so fucking hungry for you. I could eat you for hours.”

  He pulls away, easily breaking the death-grip I’ve got around him, and I immediately feel the void he’s left behind. He nuzzles my breasts thought my dress, and I can hear him inhaling deeply. He pulls himself lower, to my navel, then slowly further, kneeling in front of me in the lounge chair. He smiles at me as he tugs off my panties and parts my legs, a smile that tells me he’s gaining as much pleasure from this as I am.

  What he does next is worth the wait. This time, he doesn’t take it slow— he knows I’m already teased about as much as I’m ever going to be. His hands grab my ass cheeks, almost lifting me off the chair and pulling me onto his face, onto his mouth, onto his tongue.

  All sensation disappears from my body and focuses on my pussy, where he works his lips, his tongue lashing and exploring me from the inside. My head thumps back onto the chair, a sweet ecstasy rushing through me.

  “You like that?” he asks, but he already knows my answer.

  “Don’t stop,” I gasp.

  He clutches and kneads my ass cheeks, holding me firm while I buck and roll against the waves of excitement he’s licking into me. I grab and tear at my dress in a frenzy, unable to control myself. My body isn’t mine anymore, it’s his, and in return, he’s making me walk on air. This must be what dying and going to heaven feels like.

  I look down and see him, his eyes hard and focused on me; ruthless and intimidating, like he’s determined to give me the best fucking I ever had, and nothing in the world could stop him.

  My hand goes to his head, scratching and pulling at his thick brown locks, and he pulls me further down the lounge chair, urging me to ride his face harder. I moan loudly, and throw my head back until all I can see are the stars. I feel like I’m flying through space at an increasing speed, unable to stop however much I claw at my clothes, however much I pull on Dylan’s hair, however much I scream and moan.