Part 19 (1/2)

His face was at my ear, his panting, snarling breaths against my neck, the most thrilling s.h.i.+vers traveling along my spine. I let out with a moan, and Trip pulled my tank top off, groping at my skin. I felt him stripping down behind me, then he pushed the sheet down and lifted my leg up, back, and over his hip, exposing my naked body to the breeze.

Heart beating, breath catching, he speared himself into me.

I rocked with him, half in a daze, the cadence of his thrusts driving me over the edge. His body slamming against my backside, his growling against my ear, his hands at my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, sliding down my stomach, his body moving inside mine, his fingers pressing in just the right spot, oh my G.o.d, I'm going to come.

”Yes. Come for me. I want to make you come,” Trip whispered, and until then, I hadn't realized I'd said that last part aloud.

The electric charges ran along my entire length, the feel of his huge c.o.c.k smas.h.i.+ng into me, filling me, his noises at my ear, the biting of his teeth against my shoulder.

I reached back and grabbed his a.s.s, pulled him tighter to me, deeper, oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d please, oh yes, and Trip's fingers were still making those circular motions against my front, his hips still rotating at my back, driving into me as deep as I could take, his voice rough with madness and want, begging me, ”Oh babe. I can't do this much longer. I...”

And I screamed as I came and Trip thrust deeper, faster into me, groaning and swearing and pumping himself into me, so violently as he rolled me to my stomach and flattened me to the mattress, holding my hands fixed to the bed above my head, my face buried in a pillow, m.u.f.fling my screaming as he jacked into me once more, twice, shuddering and growling as he came, collapsing on top of my back, the weight of him pinning me underneath him, possessing me, owning me.

Breathless. Spent. Euphoric.

Eyes wide open now. Awake.

His.

Chapter 25.

NAKED FAME.

The day before I was scheduled to head home, I went shopping down in Venice Beach for some souvenirs. If I had spent my time in Los Angeles fruitlessly searching for the cliched Hollywood scene, Venice Beach is where I found it.

The promenade had a stretch of shops and restaurants along the sand. It is there where I saw bikini-girls rollerblading, meatheads working out at Muscle Beach, a group of guys playing a pickup game of basketball like a scene straight out of White Men Can't Jump.

There was a Rastafarian on roller skates playing electric guitar. There were random people on soapboxes, speaking to the gathering crowds. And there were lots and lots of tourists like me.

I took advantage of the fabulous shopping, however, and found two different wind chimes for Sylvia and Lisa's parents, and a hand-carved pipe for my father, all of which were purchased from an aging hippie wearing a Che Guevara T-s.h.i.+rt and love beads. I picked up an awesome black leather saddlebag for Bruce's motorcycle, then stopped at a children's boutique to get T-s.h.i.+rts for Caleb, Julia, and the new baby, scoring an adorable little bikini for Skylar while I was at it. I was finis.h.i.+ng up my shopping with a watercolor from a streetside artist that I knew would look perfect in Lisa and Pickford's sunroom when I headed next door to the newsstand for some gum.

That's when I saw the naked pictures of me on the cover of The Backlot.

Oh my G.o.d!

I immediately scanned my eyes around the store, hoping my a.s.s wasn't recognizable to the oblivious patrons milling about the magazine display. I could've just died right there by the racks of cellophaned doughnuts.

I'd promised Trip I wouldn't bring home any more of those awful tabloids, and it was kind of hard to avoid buying up every copy of the one with the picture of my naked body on the front cover. But, with great restraint, I kept my promise and didn't get a single one.

I stood there staring at the headline: ”Trip Wiley and Mystery Vixen Heat Up Poolside”.

The picture was of me sprawled out naked on his chaise lounge in the backyard, Trip still wearing his shorts, but between my knees. It was the day I'd gone dress shopping and came home to surprise him with my newly waxed nether regions. The photo was obviously taken from far away, probably from a freaking helicopter or something based on the angle of the shot. It was fuzzy-thank G.o.d-but clear enough that they still had to black-bar out some private parts.

And that was the thing. That was the private part of our life. That moment was never intended to be broadcast to the world. I couldn't even think about the collection of pictures they didn't publish, probably stashed away in some pervert's literal spank file.

What the ever-loving f.u.c.kity f.u.c.k f.u.c.k???

It was unsettling and weird, to say the least. I mean, I didn't sign up to be famous. Yes, I was a slightly well-known author, but even a public career like that was fairly detached. Faceless. Anonymous. Private.

There was nothing private about my naked body sprawled out across the cover of a nationally-distributed periodical.

Oh dear G.o.d. Please, please don't let my father see this.

I may have promised not to bring any more tabloids into Trip's house, but he hadn't said anything about me reading them when I wasn't there. And there was absolutely no way in h.e.l.l I was not reading this. I mean, those were my hooters on full-out display. My all-natural hooters that up until that moment I had always found to be one of my best attributes, even in The Land of Unnaturally Perky Fun Bags.

So that's how I found myself standing in the middle of a run-down magazine stand on my last day in California reading a brazen article reveling in my s.e.xual escapades.

Prior to this story, any time I'd seen a photo of myself in a movie magazine, I was normally referred to as: ”and date,” which was just fine by me. However, The Backlot had taken things a step further that day. The pictures were bad enough, but I cringed when I saw that they actually printed my name!

In a bombsh.e.l.l Backlot exclusive, we revealed that author Layla Warren is the mystery woman who Trip Wiley escorted to the Oscars last month. But Backlot has just received insider information that the bookish beauty has since taken up residence at the playboy's compound. The Backlot exclusively revealed photos last week of the wily actor leaving the St. James Hotel with his ex-fiancee, model Jenna Barnes, and one can only wonder at Miss Warren's reaction to the Academy Award-winning actor's secret trysts with the leggy lingerie looker. Well, wonder no more. The Backlot nabbed the insider scoop that the fiction-writing femme fatale is fuming about the fornicating film star stepping out with his ex-fiancee. ”She's going bonkers over those photos, but come on. Everyone knows Trip Wiley is no saint,” said a source. ”Everyone knows he can't stay faithful.” The source went on to reveal that Warren is not only Wiley's current girlfriend, but that the twosome has known each other-and dated on and off-for years. ”Oh, yeah. He was cheating on Jenna with her the whole time they were engaged. Guess it's Jenna's chance for payback.”

Enough was enough with this frigging magazine. I flipped to the inside front cover and checked out the stats; know thy enemy and all that garbage.

Only, it turned out that I actually knew my enemy.

Right there in the editorial credits, a very familiar name popped out at me.

Thine enemy's name was Devin Fields.

Okay, G.o.d. Now I know you're just f.u.c.king with me.

I had a ton of packing to tackle and I sure as heck wanted to be able to spend my last hours with Trip before having to get on a plane the following day. But I had one last stop to make before I could go back to the house. I knew Trip had an entire legal department at his disposal, but this was a situation I wanted to handle personally. It was too important to simply let slide. I wanted to make things right before I left.

I pulled the Jeep into the lot of Starz Publications, a large, gla.s.s structure located in the heart of Century City.

I made my way into the lobby and waved cheerily to the security guard at the desk. ”Good afternoon,” I said as pa.s.sively as possible. It wouldn't help my case any if I came storming into the building like the furious wrath-monster I actually was.

I cruised into the elevator as if I knew exactly where I was headed, as if I belonged there, so as not to provoke suspicion. It didn't take a brain surgeon to press the b.u.t.ton for the top floor. Devin wouldn't be stationed anywhere else.

I channeled my old reporter skills and made my way to the receptionist's desk. ”Good afternoon! I do not have an appointment,” I said jovially, shaking my head at my oversight. ”But I'd like to see Mr. Fields. Is he in?”

The receptionist picked up the phone and called his office. I didn't even know if she really dialed an extension, but I was positive that if she was speaking with someone, it wasn't Devin. ”A young lady is here to see Mr. Fields? Okay, thank you. I'll tell her.”

The receptionist hung up the phone and gave me the standard runaround. ”Mr. Fields will be tied up with meetings all day. I can make an appointment for you to see him next week, if you'd like.”

No, b.i.t.c.h! I need to wring his neck now, and I'm not going to wait a week to do it!

I smiled pleasantly and asked her to call again. ”And this time, please have his secretary ask him personally. Just let him know Layla Warren is here. He'll see me.”

The receptionist didn't look pleased, but she could tell I wasn't going anywhere until she carried out my request. This time, she hung up after the call and looked at me in curiosity. ”You can go right in. Through the gla.s.s doors, all the way down the hall.”

I thanked her, then headed down the hallway, trying to steady my breathing and get my rage under control.