by Lexi Whitlow
I look up at him, my eyes filling with tears. “Promise?” I ask.
Gates smiles down on me, his expression as earnest as a Scout. “I promise,” he assures me. “On my honor.”
He touches his lips to mine, while caressing my shoulder with gentle fingertips.
“You’re so fucking complicated,” he whispers into our kiss. “But it’s very simple. I’m head over heels in love with you. I have been since we met in San Diego. And now that I’ve got you back, I’m never letting you go.”
He kisses me again, this time with intent. Despite my fear of failing at this, I don’t measure or back down. I kiss him back, tasting him, letting my tongue and his find a hungry, steady rhythm as the heat between us builds.
Finding my courage, I allow my curious hands to explore, tracing the contours of his shoulders and chest, then his belly, as he cups my breast over my shirt, thumbing the peak of my nipple. He’s impatient, working at the buttons down the front of my blouse so he can slide his hand inside and explore my flesh.
I peel Gates’ t-shirt over his head. I want skin too. I want all of it; every hard inch of his muscular form under my hand. Gates pushes me down into the cushions, kissing my bare skin, caressing every turn and arch above my waist with his tongue, making me moan with the rising sensations he ignites inside me.
I fumble with his belt and zipper, trying to release the swelling bulge from its fabric prison.
“You need some help there?” Gates asks, smirking down on my ineptness.
I bite my lip, nodding.
“Come on,” Gates insists, stepping off the couch, pulling me to my feet.
In one fast, fluid motion, Gates sweeps me off my feet, hefting me into his arms as if I weigh nothing at all. I can’t help but gasp in surprise at his strength and his physical grace as he cradles me against his chest.
He lays me out on the bed, then stalks in over me. His hands reach my hips and grip roughly at the stretchy waistband of my slacks to pull them down and reveal lace panties.
He tosses my slacks aside, then rolls me so he can access the clasp of my bra.
“I want you naked,” Gates purrs, removing the article, carelessly tossing it out of his way.
Once I’m bare before him, he floods me with kisses and caresses, lapping my skin, biting me gently, then—once I’m so blissfully distracted I’ve lost all awareness of time—I feel a finger slip in through the parting of flesh between my legs, filling me with an ecstasy I’ve never known except from Gates’ touch.
“You’re dripping wet,” he nearly whines, pleased at my body’s response to his attentions.
I cry out, my back arching and legs spreading spontaneously. He goes deeper, firmly pressing inside—his fingers doing things so pleasurable my brain can’t hope to comprehend them.
“Oh, God…” I cry, my fingers threading tight in his hair while his lips find my most secret, protected spaces, exposing them, invading them. He sucks my clit, fucking me slowly with two fingers, tormenting every fold and muscle in my snatch.
My muscles draw down, tightening against his fingers; I meet his thrusts with my hips.
This is incredible…
“Oh…fuck… don’t… stop….”
My entire body bows up, tightening, building...
When my orgasm breaks, it comes with a pounding quake, thumping from somewhere deep in my core. It washes me with heated pleasure from my pussy to the tips of my fingers. I hear my own voice high, mewling like a kitten; my hips rock in synchronicity with Gates hand and his caressing tongue.
He doesn’t let me finish before he climbs over me, looking down on my stunned face.
“Look at me.” His voice calls me back to consciousness, reeling me back into the moment.
I blink away the blur of bliss he sent me into, still feeling his fingers inside me, still feeling his thumb roll my clit, making me tremble in his grip.
“This is special,” Gates says, locking his eyes on mine. “This thing between us is deep. I love you. This is better than anything I ever hoped for.”
“Come inside me,” I urge him, again fumbling with the button at his jeans.
He reaches down, doing the job for me. He gets his jeans shoved off his hips, freeing himself. He circles a tight fist around his girth and strokes himself rigid.
“You want this?” he asks, teasing me, pressing the tip of his cock between my legs, making my juices flow, hot and wet out to embrace him.
“Inside,” I say again, breathless, begging, my hands sliding to his hips, urging him in.
I’m flush with anticipation, my legs spread wide around Gates’ hips.
“I want to be inside,” he growls, seizing my hips in his powerful hands. He pulls my body down, nearer his own, then presses my knees up to spread me wide. He moves into me hard and fast, breaching tense muscles. Both of us feeling the instant, liquid ecstasy of our combined heat enveloping us like a molten hurricane.
I can’t help but cry out as Gates pulls back, then slides in deeper with all his might. He pins me beneath him, his hips driving me into the bed with every spiking thrust.
I feel myself lifting again, every muscle tightening, every nerve lighting up as my pussy closes, gripping him hard, our bodies rocking together.
My back goes rigid.
“Oh, Jesus…” I whine, short breaths catching. “Oh… oh… oh….”
He feels me coming, so he fucks me deeper, pulling my ass tight to him. There’s nothing between us as he buries himself inside me. He thrusts hard and slow, deliberately forcing the tension between us to build.
All at once, I snap, coming like an earthquake, breaking in shudders, calling out his name, my entire body wracked with the intensity of it. The waves of it wash over me, rolling me in a bath of bliss.
When it passes, and I open my eyes, Gates is looking down on me, his face a study of intense concentration.
“You’re beautiful when you cum,” he whispers, still pumping into me. Still filling me with his thrusts of pleasure.
He goes slow, taking his time, drawing back, his muscles trembling from the exertion. He keeps this even, beautiful pace until my muscles shudder again, until my ankles lock around his hips, squeezing him, my snatch milking him, pulling him into me.
“Oh… God… Gates…” I whine, unconsciously digging my fingers into his back.
All at once, his body responds with a seizure, releasing in time with me. Time ceases. My heart stops. All I know is Gates, sealed inside me, stamping my soul, making me his, claiming me. Tears form in the corners of my eyes. I can’t fight them. I don’t want to.
We come in almost perfect union, eyes locked together, hips tightly pressed, bodies trembling, lungs seizing, gasping for air.
I understand everything now. He’s all there ever was, all I ever need. Everything else was just a foreshadowing of this
Now there’s nothing, and everything, only us… and bliss.
Gates slumps loose on trembling muscles, collapsing against me. He rolls to the side, breathing deep as he frees me from his powerful grasp.
My brain reels, trying to process what just happened. Lovemaking, measured and calculating, escalating to something I’ve never experienced, and then… then we connected. Tender, visceral, essential.
“Jesus,” Gates breathes. “Jesus Christ.”
He’s short of breath, hauling in air, his body lying flat, deflated on the sheets, sweat glistening on his skin, his eyes glassy, blank.
I press my palm against his belly. “You okay?” I ask, my own voice as breathless as his.
“I’m good,” Gates whispers, pulling me close under his shoulder. “Damn.”
I close my eyes, feeling my heartbeat begin to still, feeling time gradually pick up again.
In a few more minutes I’m drifting.
Much later, I awaken in the darkness, roused by a nightmare. I saw Gates in a war zone, covered with dust and blood, shouting something I couldn’t make out over the sound of gunfire and explosions.
He was calling to me frantically, trying to get me to come to him. I was too scared to move, afraid of the bullets and blinded by smoke. He put down his gun, dashing toward me through a hail of fire. He wrapped himself around me, shielding me from danger, putting his body between me and the bullets. I woke up when I realized Gates was shot, his blood pooling at our feet.
I blink the dreadful images away, sitting up, trying to clear my head.
I’m alone in bed. There’s a light on in the main room, down the hall. I hear the gentle patter of Gate’s typing on his laptop keyboard. He’s working.
He’s safe. I’m safe.
I lay back down, closing my eyes. We’re safe, and we’re together, and he promised…
Chapter 20
Gates
I don’t have to be on set until this afternoon. We’re in the final week of filming, wrapping things up. Our last scenes are on location in a residential area in Brentwood, west of the city. The plan is to work through the night, into the early morning hours. I got to sleep in today, but I’m probably going to be up until dawn tomorrow if we shoot on schedule.
Winter is sleeping in too, and I’m making breakfast for us. Pancakes, eggs, fruit, and bacon. She’s still having on-and-off bouts of morning sickness, and I know she’s not eating enough. I want her well fed for the baby; she’s eating for two.
I’m just plating up a pile of steaming hot pancakes and noshing on a piece of sweet-salty bacon, when Winter comes around the corner into the kitchen, wearing an expression of entertained disbelief, holding her phone out for me to see.
My hands are full and dirty.
“What is it?” I ask. “Tell me. I’m busy here.”
She lifts her phone, shaking her sleep tousled head.
“It’s from TMZ, and it’s all the hell over social media,” she says grinning, “Dylan Denali’s secret lesbian lover bares all in defense of their forbidden love, declaring Gates Vaughn isn’t good enough…”
What?! Holy shit… I did not see that coming.
“… to lick her dot, dot, dot.”
Winter beams. “And there are pictures. Whoa! Are there pictures!?”
Forget the pancakes.
I grab her phone, scrolling through the post. Oh. My. God. Nude pix of Dylan doing the nasty with an attractive, leggy blond. Lots of them. Way, way, way too much information.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Winter is rolling with laughter, but honestly—this isn’t funny.
The girl who put these up claims she and Dylan are in a relationship. She’s making some crazy play to defend Dylan from me and my cheating.
Oh, good lord. This is crazy.
I grab my phone, which I haven’t checked since I got up. I’ve got a dozen texts and a couple missed calls.
I scroll by the ones from Ransom, going straight to one from Doug Witherspoon, Hearthfires director.
Doug: Change of schedule. We need you on set at noon. Explain when you get here. Stay quiet on social media. Pls confirm you got this.
I send him a quick thumbs-up, then read the rest of my messages.
Bill Addison sent a cast-wide text at eight this morning, telling all of us to go stealth on social media. Ransom sent me an email message that I need to read soon. He’s found something.
I check my watch. It’s almost ten.
“Let’s have breakfast,” I say to Winter. “I need to go through my email, and I have to be on set early to deal with this shit. I think Addison is scrambling.”
“I bet you he’s scrambling,” Winter says, finding just a little too much joy in this situation. “He’s probably trying to pull together a hit squad to take out Dylan’s girlfriend.”
“Maybe,” I concede. She knows her father better than me. The one thing I do know is that forbidden secret lesbian lovers don’t play well with Addison’s G-rated, ultra-conservative audience. His cast is spun-up as All-American white-bread with wholesomeness baked-in, through and through. This story—and these photographs—are straight-out of Hustler.
“Eat up,” I say, getting back to my first priority. “Baby’s hungry.”
Winter looks at the spread I’ve prepared, shaking her head at me. “You missed your calling Gates. You should have been a chef.”
I may be looking for another career soon enough. Maybe I should consider culinary school. It couldn’t be any stranger than this.
While she gobbles down buttery pancakes slathered with warm maple syrup, sucking bacon grease from her fingers, I go through the update Ransom sent overnight.
It seems Addison has been the target of multiple lawsuits filed by women in the industry, all of them quietly settled out of court with the terms sealed. There’s more, though. There are at least a dozen women who—after appearing in Addison’s films—simply fell off the radar. They quit the business. A few of them have publicly claimed Addison black-balled them, destroying their careers, because they wouldn’t sleep with him. At least one of these women claims Addison attempted to force sex.
And then there is Misty Kelly. Misty Kelly is a former adult film star who tried to cross over into mainstream entertainment. Addison gave her a small role in a short-lived television drama about a ‘fallen woman,’ who found salvation in taking care of unwanted children. Misty Kelly went to the press about five years ago, claiming Addison tried to coerce her into a BDSM relationship, and when she refused, he fired her, had her black-balled from legitimate films, and then sued her for breach of contract, claiming he had no idea she’d been a porn-star.
I’ve got enough putrid dirt here to start my own steaming compost pile.
Ransom’s second note is almost as interesting, and even more disturbing.
Drew writes, “Apparently, Addison has anger management issues. Staff at the house called Palos Verdes police on at least seventeen different occasions, stating that Addison had assaulted his wife. The last time it happened, she left him. The photos of the beating he gave her are pretty damning. She filed for separation, then divorce not long after. Addison paid her to go away, in exchange for custody of their kid.”
He beat Winter’s mother, and her mother left her there with him in exchange for a payoff.
I don’t know which one of them to despise more.
“You need to get going,” Winter says, coming up behind me.
I shut my laptop, then slide it off the table into my bag.
“I do,” I say. “What are you doing today?”
She smiles at me. “I have a short shoot on Melrose. A fashion thing. The guy in New York—Kern—hooked me up. It’s just a couple hours, but it’s cool.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell her. “I’m so proud of you, putting yourself out there again.” I pull her on to me, so she’s straddling my lap. “You’ll see. Things are going to come together for both of us. You’re so talented. The right people are finally starting to see it.”
Winter smiles, rolling her eyes. Then she nods. “Hope so.”
I’m not hoping. I know it.
* * *
When I roll into Brentwood at twenty minutes ‘till noon, nearing the site of our closed location set, I drive straight into a circus. There’s a crowd of onlookers as thick as a beehive’s entrance waiting outside the ropes, with satellite news trucks lining the street. At the security gate, where I roll down my window and show my cast ID to the guard, the paparazzi are rabid like feeding piranhas. I don’t even get my car parked inside the cordon before a kid from production intercepts me, telling me there’s an all-hands meeting in ten minutes in the main tent, a block over.
The whole production is in crisis mode. Everything is beyond tense.
Keira sees me first, seizing on me like poison ivy. “Addison is here. He’s apoplectic. Dylan looks like she wants to crawl under a rock. Doug wants to shut down filming today because of the crowd, claiming he can’t control the noise. It’s a catastrophe. And now they’re planning some kind of press conference to try to debunk the whole thing.”
What? A press confe
rence? That’s a terrible idea.
“I need to talk to Dylan.”
I leave Keira to her own dramatic devices. Dylan is hiding in her trailer with her stylist. When she realizes it’s me, she lets me in, sending the stylist away. Her hair and make-up are perfect, as always, but her eyes are swollen and red.
“What’s happening?” I ask her. “Is there anything to any of this?”
I pull her hand into mine, trying to comfort her.
“It’s awful,” she says. “I’m such a flaming hypocrite. I just wanted to do something other than be a pretty singer. I wanted to show that I could do anything I set my mind to. I broke up with my girlfriend and came out here… and now… Oh, she’s ruined everything.”
