On the Rocks Page 8

  I had no idea why he was calling. Maybe he wanted to offer me a role costarring with him in his next film, and I’d have to decide if I’d be willing to try something like that. But four rings—mustn’t keep him waiting. Think sweet, Kyle. I was already known for my mouth and there wasn’t a girlie bone in my body, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t sound feminine on occasion. “Hello?”

  His voice sounded deeper than it usually did in the movies…if this was him. “Am I speaking with Kyle Summers?” Oh. So formal. Yeah, it was probably him.

  I couldn’t keep up my pretense…and if he liked me for whatever reason, he already liked me exactly the way I was, so there was no use putting on a show. “Yeah, this is Kyle. Who’s this?”

  He cleared his throat. “John Smith. I believe you were expecting my call.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. It was kind of nice feeling courted for a change…even if that wasn’t what was going on. I felt special just the same.

  No, brain. That was not an invitation to think about CJ Slavin. Shit.

  “Yes, I was. What can I do for you, John?” Sorry, but I had to ditch the formality. Whether he wanted to ask me a work-related question or out on a date, I wasn’t going to call him mister forever.

  I could hear him smile. He was probably used to obsequious people—but I wasn’t one of them. “My assistant said you’ll be leaving Los Angeles in the near future, but before you do, I wondered if I could take you out to dinner.

  Yeah, I’d nailed it. I’d had that feeling. He certainly wasn’t shy over the phone and I realized then that he hadn’t made the initial approach probably because he had a date with him. That would be offensive, to say the least, but still…it wasn’t very classy sending his assistant over, either. And I could have told him no on principle—but I was intrigued as hell. “That would be nice,” I said and then he asked where I was staying so he could have someone pick me up later in the evening.

  I half listened, but the whole arrangement looked like shades of Decker—like this guy thought I was from the wrong side of the tracks and he wanted to get his ghetto on.

  He had a lot to learn, but I was never one to back down from a challenge.

  “Whore” ~ In This Moment

  Chapter Twelve

  CRAZY. ONLY IN L.A. I’d never been in a limo before and now, two nights in a row, I’d been the guest in one. We’d gone to the Grammys in a limo and that was cool enough. I’d felt like royalty. Tonight? Tonight, I felt more like a call girl.

  John had insisted upon sending someone to get me. This guy, John’s someone, opened doors for me, asked respectful questions, and did too good a job at avoiding eye contact. It was obviously expected behavior.

  The limo was quiet. I looked out the windows at all the lights and the city life. If this had been Colorado Springs, we would have made it all the way through the city by time we got to his house but there was still no end to the people and the lights. It reminded me of the Denver Metro area back home in Colorado. Mega cities always freaked me out. If I thought about it too hard, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, because there was never any end to the city. It just went on and on and on.

  So, this guy’s house—it reminded me of the city. House. Ha. It was a mansion. We had to go through these huge iron gates, and then his place itself was outrageous. A lot of acres surrounding it, sure, but the place—the building—was monstrous. Three stories—and I would bet that my mom and dad’s old place in Winchester, if cloned, would fit inside that mansion at least ten times.

  Why the hell did anyone need that much house?

  I was sure it was because he was a rich prick who felt like he deserved it. Oh, this was not going to go well.

  But, once inside, a polite woman led me to the dining room and I tried to reserve judgment. It too was ostentatious and a little over the top. I noticed that, at the long table, there was one place setting at one end and another on the exact opposite end…yards away.

  Not really. Yes, really. It took everything I had to not roll my eyes.

  But then John entered the room. He was dressed nicely but not as though he was going out on the town. It was casual—a button down shirt that could have had a tie (but didn’t), black slacks, and polished shoes. “Kyle,” he said, extending both hands, “so nice to finally meet you.”

  I felt warm all of a sudden. Here was this super famous actor, adored by millions of women, a bachelor who was going to break thousands of hearts when he finally settled down, saying it was nice to meet me. That just kind of floored me. It made me relax a little and feel glad that I’d accepted his invitation, and I was going to have to control myself so I didn’t start gushing. “You too.” I put my hands out to meet his, mainly because it felt expected. When I got close enough, he pulled me closer and kissed me on the cheek.

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  I shrugged as he let go of my hands. “What will you be having?”

  He looked up as though he were considering the question. “Do you like wine?”

  I considered playing nice and then changed my mind. Either he wanted the woman he thought was a dirty girl or he needed a wake-up call that it was going to take more than a mansion and a glass of wine to keep my attention. “I’ve never met an alcohol I didn’t like.”

  “Atta girl.” He chuckled and led me by the hand to another stately-looking room, one that seemed almost small compared to the rest of the house, but charming or cozy would probably better describe it. There was a giant fireplace on one wall and the wall next to it had huge windows adorned in red velvet. The lights in the room were low, creating a soft, warm glow. John walked to a rather impressive looking liquor cabinet just to the left. John pulled out two glasses and then began pouring a dark wine into them. “We’ll drink a burgundy. To say this is nice stuff is an understatement. I think you’ll appreciate it.” He finished pouring the wine in the second glass before picking them both up and handing one to me. “Some women won’t admit to liking alcohol, especially all of it.”

  I felt my nostrils flare. “I’m not most women.”

  He smiled. “I’ll toast to that.” So we both sipped the wine and, much as I hated to admit it, it really did taste better than most other wines I’d had before—smoother, richer, and lots of fruity undertones I rarely noticed in other wines. “Good, right?” I nodded. He stared at me after taking another sip. “You like?”

  “Yeah.”

  He inhaled. “So, Kyle, I want to know more about you. I was at a party last year and they had several big screens all around the house playing videos. One of yours played—‘Slut,’ I believe—and I was fascinated. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” If I were the kind of woman who blushed, I would have turned pink, but instead I tilted back the glass again. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself—your history, what brought you to this place in your life?”

  I raised an eyebrow, wondering if he really had that time…but then I started talking. A few minutes later, a quiet middle-aged man stood in the doorway and told us that dinner was served. John touched my elbow and led me back to that cavernous room. (One thing I’ll say: it had a hell of a chandelier.) John immediately insisted that they move his place setting to the end near the kitchen where the other place setting was so that we could sit together.

  Good idea.

  I was sure that whole thing was for show—setting his place at the head of the table on one end, emphasizing how big the table and the room were, but then moving down by me to create an intentionally intimate feel in a room that really didn’t afford that. If it was all put on, the man (servant, maybe? Butler? Hell if I knew) didn’t let on. He even moved a tall white candle so that it shone near us. I sat at the original place setting on the end while John sat on the side, so we were diagonal from each other. Dinner might have been long and complicated, but I was so absorbed in the conversation that I barely paid attention as course after course came my way, usually served on a large plate but decorated with sauces and garnishes and all manner of f
anfare.

  Jesus. It was just food.

  But I gotta give John credit. He was a hell of a charmer and hot as hell. I don’t want to give too many details, but he had brown hair that sometimes seemed unkempt but was exactly the way he wanted it. And he had just the right amount of facial hair—you know, a little growth that could be shaved off at a moment’s notice if a role or an appearance required it, but it made him look rugged and sexy. He also asked the right questions, said the right things, and I tried not to think about the fact that he was an actor and being suave and charming was his job. He was probably playing me.

  After a while, though, I didn’t give a shit.

  And I was myself—vulgar cursing and all, letting my middle class shine through. After I told “my story,” I asked him to talk about himself. I can’t share all that here, because his history would be a dead giveaway for all his hardcore fans. But, needless to say, we talked long past dessert until all that was left on the table were our wine glasses.

  “Would you like to go outside for some fresh air?”

  “Sure. Why not?” I could tell that he wanted to, and I was game. We left the wine glasses on the table and I heard someone whisk them off its surface before we’d left the room. I imagined they were probably glad to be able to finish with the cleaning.

  It made me nervous. It felt like they were hovering, waiting to do something for their boss, the man who’d just extended his arm for me. I didn’t mind being waited on at a restaurant, where I went to their establishment and left when I was done, paying them for their service. A servant in the home, though…I wondered if I could ever get used to something like that.

  But I didn’t wonder long, because we were walking through John’s grandiose home toward the back. I was glad he’d held out his arm for me, because I was feeling a little tipsy. I’d only had two glasses of wine, but this stuff was potent. Oh, and I really hadn’t eaten that much food, because not much had been offered. Dinner had been more pomp than circumstance, if you catch my drift.

  We walked to a room that had a wall that was almost all glass. There were lit candles but the room was dark otherwise. It didn’t matter, because, even though it was night outside and the skies were dark, I could see plenty of light out there. As we got closer to the glass door, I realized it was because there was a fully lit pool and a patio, complete with two loveseats and a big fire pit between them.

  It was chilly outside—not like Colorado in the dead of winter, but it was cool, cool enough that I wished I’d brought my jacket—but we went straight for the fire pit. We sat and I looked around. I couldn’t quite tell how far his property reached, not that it mattered. It was quiet and peaceful. I looked at the fire and rubbed my arms, then scooched to the end of the seat so I could be closer to the heat. I finally said, “It’s pretty out here.”

  My God, the man was suave. “Prettier now.” Yeah, I let his words affect me even when I shouldn’t have. I knew rock stars and actors had messy histories. I thought about Kid Rock and Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee…and Heather Locklear…and Richie Sambora…and Denise Richards. Yeah, what a mess. They didn’t seem to play well together.

  But this guy hadn’t asked for a relationship. He’d just asked me over for dinner—so I was jumping the gun a bit. I smiled in spite of the awkward comment and glanced over at him before refocusing on the fire. His gaze was making me a little uncomfortable, like I was under a microscope.

  “Know why I asked you here?”

  Shit. Was he reading my mind? I looked over at him and my sarcasm took over. “You were lonely and wanted a dinner companion.”

  He put on a smile that never quite reached his eyes. “You seem to be a bit of a rebel—in fact, you take pride in it. After I watched that video, I devoured everything I could about you.” Flattering? Maybe…or creepy. I inhaled but didn’t say a word. “You’re defiant and outspoken, and you pride yourself on those qualities. Am I right?”

  I didn’t have to think hard about it. “That seems to be a fair assessment.”

  This time, when he smiled, it was full-fledged. “I thought so. And…” He ran his finger up my arm and it felt hotter than the flames of the fire that were keeping me from shivering. “Women like you who are feisty and sometimes vicious in public love to be dominated in the bedroom.”

  I paused and smiled. Now…bear in mind that I was still pretty young and extremely naïve, in spite of all my road experience. You see, most of the guys I’d slept with knew I was a rock star, and whether they were my age or not, they truly were just enjoying the moment. They weren’t in it for kink or anything over the top. It was straight sex because I was Kyle Fucking Summers. So, when John said dominated, I was not thinking BDSM or anything like that. Stupid? Yeah. I’ll cop to that. The wine might have also played a part. But I was curious and aroused and wanted to see what this guy had to offer. I cocked an eyebrow. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  He slid a hand over my cheek until his fingers were in my hair. Instead of answering with words, he placed his mouth on mine. At first, I was overwhelming by his intoxicating smell—it was a spicy, masculine scent, no doubt some overpriced men’s cologne. It wasn’t familiar to me, but I could appreciate it just the same. As his lips brushed mine, I was fully aware of his whiskers poking my skin. His kiss was not sweet—it was forceful and hard and it made me wet immediately.

  I wasn’t going to tell him that, though.

  Shit. But the way my hands had grabbed onto his shirt told him everything he needed to know—that I was now a desperate, horny girl aroused by his offer. His hand tightened in my hair, and I knew then that it was going to be a hell of a night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  LESS THAN TEN minutes later, we were in his bedroom. If he’d had some of the tricks of the trade in there, I might not have been shocked later by his behavior. I was a little tense, hoping that his “help” wouldn’t follow us upstairs to turn down the bed.

  It wouldn’t have shocked me, though.

  He closed his door—and made a show of locking it—maybe because he could sense how his silent helpers had put me on edge. As soon as he turned around, he pulled my body into his, leaving no space between us. “You are mine tonight, Kyle, and I plan to make you feel like you never have before.” He kissed me hard again and then said, “But you’ve been a naughty girl.”

  I’m sure my whole face conveyed my amusement. “Oh, I have, have I?”

  He nodded. “You have. And, for that, you must be punished.”

  I stifled a chuckle, because he wasn’t smiling. “Oh, really. And what do you have in mind?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You need to be spanked. You’ve needed a spanking for a very long time.”

  “I do?”

  “You do.” He kissed me again before saying, “You are out of control.”

  “Do you like that?”

  His lips stretched in imitation of a smile. “I’m going to like punishing you.” Okay, so this dialogue was losing its fun factor. If we were going to fuck, I wanted to get the show on the road. There was only so much talkie-talkie foreplay I wanted to engage in. So I grabbed his shirt to pull him close again, but before my lips could collide with his, he said, “I want you to take your clothes off.”

  Oh, now? Now he was ready? “What’s the big hurry?”

  He growled. “I want your ass naked when I spank it.”

  I was less inclined to feel a bout of giggles now, because it was becoming evident to me that this talk was getting him off. Well, who was I to ruin a guy’s good time? “Okay. Any preference as to how I take my clothes off?”

  His eyes sparkled then. “That’s more like it—compliant.” He paused and stepped back. “You can do it however you like.”

  Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had never been a dancer, not by any stretch of the imagination, and if he’d asked for a strip tease, I was afraid I would have been awkward and clunky. I was a metal bitch, which meant dancing was optional. Headbanging and guitar-slinging—
those were my specialties, and they required no grace on the minute scale, at least the way I handled them. It was all big and loud and my finesse was on that level. There was nothing dainty about me, nor would there ever be. Attention to detail was in the music, not in my gross motor skills, except where shredding was concerned.

  So I slowly peeled my shirt off, pulling it over my head, and he unbuttoned his at the same time. Now we were talking. I could get into this. I’d seen his chest on the big screen before—not too hairy (I wasn’t into chest hair at all, but I’d tolerate it for this hottie) and well-defined. He had nice abs too. I couldn’t wait to see his naked torso in this intimate light.

  I sat on the edge of his bed to pull my boots and socks off—I’m afraid it might have broken the illusion of sexiness—but I stood up again as soon as that was done and unbuttoned my jeans before pulling the zipper down. When I looked back at him, he had a scowl on his face, but he moved to the chair and sat down, unzipping his own pants and pulling out his cock.

  Holy shit. It was fucking huge. Yeah, I guessed he was going to be punishing me…but I suspected I’d rather like it.

  When I had my jeans down to my calves, I bent in such a way that my ass stuck out where he could see it, because I wanted him to enjoy watching me. I was starting to get into it. When he started stroking himself, a dreamy look in his eyes, I knew I was on the right track.

  I stood again, sliding my hands up my legs and ass before grabbing my bra strap and pulling it down my arm and then I pulled the other strap down. Then I reached behind my back with both arms and unfastened my bra. I was slow and methodical, trying my damnedest to be sexy and, since the misstep with the boots, I seemed to be doing all right. I was judging my performance completely by John’s reaction, and the fact that he continued stroking his cock told me I was doing just fine.