Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy
An Ex-Club Romance
Camilla Stevens
About the Author
Camilla Stevens lives in New York City. At night you can find her typing away, often with a glass of wine, getting all the steamy, humorous, Happily Ever After stories out of her head and down on the page. You can usually find tulips, her favorite flower, making an appearance in most of her novels.
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Also by Camilla Stevens
WRIGHT BROTHERS SERIES
Mr. Wright & Mr. Wrong
Mr. & Mrs. Wright
So Wrong
STAND ALONE
One Night
Sweet Seduction
EX-CLUB ROMANCE SERIES
Archer: Ex-Bachelor
TEXAS HEAT ROMANCE SERIES
Home Run
High Stakes
Hard Sell
INTERNATIONAL LEGACIES ROMANCE
The Italian Heir
The French Thief
The Nordic Lightning
Her Icelandic Protector
DESCRIPTION
Dylan Sexton
The first words out of his mouth were to ask why I was still wearing clothes.
My impression of him only went downhill from there.
I soon learn that even the worst first impressions can be deceiving.
This Bad Boy may not be as wicked as he would like the public to believe.
So why the facade?
My place is strictly behind the camera.
But now he’s offered me the career opportunity of a lifetime.
I get to learn who the real Dylan Sexton is…
Only if I join him on his new resort on an island paradise.
But a past scandal catches up to us both.
Now, I find myself entangled in his public image.
Can I handle the heat of the limelight?
Especially when I know from experience just how badly it can burn you.
This is a BWWM romance.
The second STAND ALONE book of the: EX-CLUB ROMANCE series. No Cliffhangers! HEA Happy Ending.
Other Books in the Series:
Archer: Ex-Bachelor
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Also by Camilla Stevens
Chapter One
Dylan
“Why in the world do you still have clothes on?”
I stare at the woman already in the elevator I’m about to enter. I’m accompanied by my two companions for the moment. The only thing my eyes have registered are the black wristband, which designates her as an official member of the staff for tonight’s party, and the gorgeous face now staring back at me with a stunned expression.
Also, the fact that she is still very much dressed…in clothes.
Though I do have to say, she is seriously working those black leather pants and that white, filmy blouse. Still, a dress code is a dress code, and tonight’s dress code is: Wet and Wicked. As in, if you’re wearing much more than a swimsuit, then you’re in serious violation.
The Sexton Spring Fling is the hottest—and most notorious—ticket in New York City this weekend, conveniently popping up on the calendar the Saturday after Easter, once everyone has finished their forty days of abstaining from whatever vice it is they’ve given up for Lent.
I’m headed back up to Exposé, the rooftop bar of the Sexton Hotel, after a completely manufactured escape with two of the scantily-clad models hired for tonight, both also wearing black wristbands. No one will ever know this—God bless nondisclosure agreements—but it was actually just a half-hour of the three of us playing gin rummy. It’s good Dylan Sexton PR to keep the public wondering what scandalous fun I’ve been up to.
The blonde on my left arm is the one to clue me in.
“Oh, hey, are you the photographer?” she squeals with delight.
“Bingo!” the woman replies, giving blondie a wink and a gold-star-for-you smile, right before snapping a photo of us.
“Hey, we weren’t ready!” the brunette on my other arm whines with a sex-kitten pout.
“I’ve been hired to take candids,” the woman responds, continuing with a series of photos.
“What the hell?” I protest, putting a hand up to block her view. It’s one second too late as she continues snapping away.
The tiny line of a scar going across my chin begins to tingle in a dull throb, the way it always does when I feel myself losing control of a situation.
I may still be in a daze, but the two ladies on either side of me are quick to jump into action while opportunity is staring them in the face. It’s a mad blur of hot pink (blonde) and black (brunette) bikinis mingled with tanned skin as the two of them press up against my sides, giving big, 24-carat smiles and duck faces to the camera as they contort their bodies into varied poses after each flash. Nothing like a photo op with the Dylan Sexton to get one’s Instagram modeling career off the ground.
The woman across from me just laughs, enjoying herself way too much. It’s one of those pleasantly feminine, lungs fully incorporated sounds, without all the unpleasant falsettos some women tend to have.
“This is my party, and I say when the photos get taken,” I finally insist, shooting an irritated look her way.
She pauses only a moment, pulling the camera away and giving me an appraising glance.
God, but she’s gorgeous. She’s got this whole Naomi Campbell meets Kelly Rowland vibe going on—sultry but somehow wholesome at the same time, all punctuated with a massive side-ponytail of wild curls.
The thoughtful expression morphs back into a smug smirk as she brings the camera back to her face to snap another photo.
“True. Right now, I’m on your dime, but don’t worry, you still hold the license to all these pictures,” she points out. “In the meantime, I have a job to do.”
Obviously pleased with herself, she continues with another round of photos. All I can see are those sexy red lips underneath the camera.
The two models are still eating it up, giggling and draping themselves over me as I’m basically held hostage in the elevator car. This is exactly why I’m not into the threesome—foursome?—th
ing in real life. One woman at a time is all I’m willing to put up with.
We finally arrive at the rooftop level. The loud music of the party can be heard even through the thick elevator doors. As soon as they open, I feel myself taking back control of the situation.
After all, I am the man of the evening.
Unfortunately, that’s the moment the woman across from us decides to stop taking photos in order to review her work, staring straight down into the screen on her camera.
“Not too shabby,” she hums mostly to herself. She feels my gaze on her and looks up, giving me a taunting smile. “I think you’ll be quite pleased, Mr. Sexton.”
“Dylan,” I reply, grinning back at her. “I insist.”
“Ooh, can I see?” pleads the brunette.
“Uh, uh, uh, these are strictly for his eyes only,” the woman replies, nodding my way as she holds the camera well out of reach.
I’m also curious to see how they turned out, but hell if I’m going to give her the satisfaction. Instead, I gesture toward the open doors and plant a megawatt smile on my face. “After you.”
“Age before beauty,” she replies, then gives me a sly grin. “Besides, I’m dying to snap a few of you walking away. Somehow I have a feeling that’s your best side.”
It’s an insult wrapped in a compliment. I could fire her on the spot. Instead, I think I like her even more.
Either way, the noise of the party beckons, and my two partners in crime are getting antsy. I give the woman a conceding bow of the head and wrap my arms around their waists to head out. We take about three steps before I hear her voice behind me again.
“Say cheese!”
“Huh?” I say, stupidly falling for it and turning my head around. I’m rewarded with another flash to the eyes.
The woman laughs again. She brings the camera down to look at her handiwork. “I was right, it is your best side.”
“That’s only because you haven’t been blessed with the full effect of the front side…yet,” I reply with a wink.
She rolls her eyes and twists her lips, but not without a hint of a smile. “I don’t plan on getting that candid with my photos.”
“The night is still young,” I say with a grin.
With that, I give a quick squeeze to the waists of my two cohorts, and we enter the party that’s already in full swing. All eyes turn toward me as I make my re-appearance.
I soak up the attention: the way the crowd parts for me; the eyes that stare back appreciatively; the subtle hush around us as we walk by. I let it pour over me, washing away that period in my life when I was a nobody, less than nothing. Completely abandoned.
This is the closest thing to love I’ve known for as long as I can remember.
Not too bad for a poor boy from Detroit.
Chapter Two
Vanessa
“There you are! Vanessa, girl, you’re missing the whole dang party.”
I rush over to Georges. The “s” at the end was his own little creative addition to the “dull as dirt” name his parents christened him with. With that superlative “s,” George was suddenly pronounced Jor-jay. He’s about 300 pounds of “gigantic gay glam”—his words not mine. He’s also a genius when it comes to planning parties—my word, not his.
He was the one to get me this job, knowing how much I want to get into more serious photography. Granted, there’s nothing serious about the Sexton Spring Fling, but the crowd is A-list. Someone I photograph tonight is sure to at least have some connections that can get me a foot in the door to photojournalism.
My “day job” is anything but serious or photojournalistic. Anyone who has worked photographing fashion bloggers and Instagram models would know just how posed and manufactured each photo is. But fake is what sells in this era of filters and photoshop, and I certainly wouldn’t begrudge my clients doing what they need to do to stand out.
Tonight promises to be the exact opposite of that. It’s actually refreshing to photograph someone who won’t automatically insist I delete ninety percent of my shots. The whole point of the Sexton Spring Fling is to completely let loose, ridding yourself of all your inhibitions. And I’m here to document it all.
I’m still looking through the photos I’ve just taken as I approach Georges. The pics from the elevator came out great. Dylan Sexton may be anything but perfect when it comes to public image, but the man is damn photogenic. His body might as well be on the cover of Men’s Fitness. Even with that silly look of surprise on his face, he is one handsome bastard. Killer smile. Devilishly green eyes. A thick mass of dark hair.
It wasn’t so much his initial words that had me stunned back in the elevator, it was seeing him in person. Right there in front of me…wearing nothing but a pair of swimming trunks. Talk about Wet and Wicked. If only he weren’t such a notorious attention whore.
“Sorry, something went wrong with my memory card, and I had to get another from my bag in the office downstairs,” I shout over the music as I finally catch up to him. “But you’ll never guess who I was in the elevator with. The man himself. I even managed to get some great shots.”
“Dylan Sexton? Tell me he did all the dirty things to you that I personally dream about,” Georges says, his voice dripping with a mixture of envy and curiosity. I’m always struck by how Georges can be so rigidly professional with his clients, then completely tear down that wall when he’s speaking candidly with me.
“He was too preoccupied with the two models on either side of him,” I say, wrinkling my nose with distaste. “Though he did ask why I was still wearing clothes.”
“And for some dumb reason, you decided to keep them on?”
“Georges!” I exclaim, laughing as I slap him on the arm. “This is my big break. The last thing I need is to be caught in flagrante with Dylan Sexton of all people.”
“Honey, It’s the Sexton Spring Fling; anything goes. I’d be surprised if you weren’t eventually caught in flagrante with someone tonight. I mean, look at me. I look like the Michelin Man rolled in dog hair, and I’ve been hit on twice tonight already.”
I laugh again, feeling the excitement of the evening begin to seep into my veins. I’ve always been curious about this party.
“Now get your tushie in there before I start making out with you myself,” he chides, playfully slapping me on the ass for good measure.
* * *
Although the party is tamer than I thought it would be, I still feel like Alice in Wonderland. No one is swinging naked from the chandeliers, but there is plenty of flesh on display. Any celebrity with a body to show off and a need for a little sex appeal to fluff up their public image is here, and more than happy to be caught by my camera.
I’ve lived in New York for four years now, ever since graduating from Reed College in Oregon, the state where I grew up. I’ve seen a celebrity or two during my time here, but now I’m drowning in a sea of them: models, actors and actresses, music stars, professional athletes, it-girls, playboys, you name it.
Now that it’s well past midnight, my camera is snapping something deliciously scandalous every thirty seconds.
Snap! This is one of that boy band member who just broke up with that pop singer, and he’s now sucking on the mouth of that other pop singer. All of which is sure to create a bona fide Twitter war. Which I’m sure is the point.
Snap! This one catches that tech billionaire who still hasn’t quite rinsed off that nerd persona. But who cares when he’s practically being worshiped by two models who could be clones of those hanging off Dylan earlier?
Snap! This one is of that actor that just came out of the closet as he dances with a male model.
Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m under contractual obligation to hand over the memory card holding all these photos before I even leave for the night. A hundred releases will have to be signed before these ever see the light of day. I could probably retire on how much I’d make selling them to the tabloids.
I laugh to myself, enjoying the craziness
surrounding me as I search for another photo op.
“Enjoying yourself?”
I turn to find Dylan Sexton right behind me with a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s so damn close that it makes my heart pound a little bit harder, as if this party wasn’t stimulating enough. At least in the elevator, there was some space, along with two very sexy obstacles, between us. Now, I’m near enough to not only catch that intoxicating scent—somehow only enhanced by the musky undercurrent of sweat from his body—but also notice how well developed his muscles are. In the flashing multi-color lights, his bare chest and abs practically dance to their own rhythm.
“I’m working,” I shout back over the sound of the music, trying to compose myself.
“You say that like you can’t do both at the same time. I do it every day!” he says, opening his arms around him as if to show what a typical workday is like for him.
Oh, to be Dylan Sexton.
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