Breaking Hollywood Page 5

  ‘I heard you were here today. Thought I’d see how my investment was doing.’

  As she stepped out of the heels and into the shower, Zander reached one hand round her neck and pulled her face to him, the hot jets of the water no barrier as he kissed her hard, his tongue searching, tasting.

  After a few moments, their breath in perfect synchronicity now, he stood back, gently raised her hands above her head and pressed them against the glass.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he whispered, as he reached for the soap. He started at her neck, slow, smooth, tender strokes, then down across her breasts, her waist, leaving a trail of musk-scented foam.

  When he reached her taut stomach, he fell to his knees as she opened her legs. Teasing, he moved downwards, soaping her inner thighs, her calves, her feet, before rising again and slipping the soap between her legs.

  She gasped as he found her clitoris and massaged, transforming the gasp into a deep groan of indescribable pleasure. When he could sense that she was on the cusp of coming, he stopped, dropped the soap and let the water rinse over her as he leaned in and kissed her stomach, the creases between her thighs and her pussy, and then . . .

  Her whole body shuddered as his tongue slipped inside her, licking, darting, the waves of her orgasm making her bite down on her bottom lip to stop the scream.

  Only when the ecstasy ended did she fall to her knees, legs weak, to join him. Now she was in charge as she pushed him back, forcing him to sit on his ass, his back against the tiled wall of the double shower. Adrianna manoeuvred on top of him, straddling him, her nipples directly in front of his face as she climbed onto his dick and slowly lowered, then raised, then lowered, then raised . . .

  With every movement she clenched her pelvic muscles, squeezing the throbbing cock inside her, her hands in his hair, pushing back his head.

  ‘I think you’ve missed me, no?’ she murmured, her tone almost threatening.

  Her voice just made his dick even harder. His hands went round to her ass, his fingers digging into her buttocks as she rode him, saying nothing more until he came inside her with a ferocity that sent another wave of orgasmic ecstasy coursing through her.

  Blissfully satisfied, she slid off him, letting her perfect butt cheeks rest on the floor between his legs.

  ‘I missed you,’ he confirmed, smiling as he leaned over to brush the long, black strands of wet hair back from her stunning face. it was as close as they’d ever got to emotional intimacy. Their brief time together a few months before had been about nothing but pure, raw, incredible sex.

  Reaching up, Adrianna slammed off the shower lever, stopping the water, then pushed herself up onto her feet, before holding out her hand in invitation.

  Zander got the message. Still wet, he followed her out of the shower and into the suite, where he saw the trail of clothes she’d left on the way to the bathroom. after leading him to the bed, she pushed him downwards. There was no resistance. only when he was flat on his back did she climb on, and instinctively his arms came to either side of her neck as he kissed her again, feeling like an alcoholic who had just opened a bottle of bourbon and couldn’t stop tasting. This was such a bad idea. She was dangerous. She was wild. She was married to a guy who could have his balls for breakfast. But she was absolutely fucking incredible.

  Eyes glinting with sheer sexiness, she pushed his hands away, in charge now, a very fixed idea of what she wanted. Her mouth went round one of his nipples, her hand round a cock that was coming back to life. As her teeth bit down, he groaned at the exquisite contrast of pleasure and pain, the sensory overload forcing his teeth to clench and the hairs on his body to stand on end.

  With the agility and flexibility of a gymnast, her toned olive thighs moved across him, and he felt her pushing his hands above his head and holding them there. He opened his eyes again to see her face was now above his. She lowered towards him, took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit hard, drawing blood.

  He was past making a sound. Way past it. Instead, he closed his eyes again and let her work her way down his body, biting, sucking every inch of the six-pack that wore her creations on billboards across the country.

  S&M had never been his thing. And he’d never been into submission. But this was more than that. This was letting her take him somewhere else, feeling sensations that he’d never encountered before.

  In-fucking-credible.

  It was still a bad idea. A really bad idea.

  But as her mouth went round his cock, he surrendered, ever aware that most of his favourite moments in life had started with really, really bad ideas.

  5.

  ‘You Give Me Something’ – James Morrison

  Sarah

  The paps’ flashes momentarily blinded her as Sarah drove through the gates of Davie’s Bel Air mansion. They’d been in permanent residence there since Jizzo Stacks had popped his cowboy boots live on air on Davie’s first show. What. A. Nightmare.

  The studio had descended into chaos; paramedics had been summoned, all to the soundtrack of Carmella Cass screaming at Jizzo to wake up. At the beginning of the show, the ratings were good. By the end, there wasn’t a late-night viewer in the country who wasn’t watching, alerted by a social-media buzz so loud it could have woken the dead. Except – oh, the heavenly irony – Jizzo. He remained very firmly on the other side.

  It was one of the things that Sarah found hard to stomach about living here. Every wail of human pain and tragedy was a story, played out in the media as if it were the Lifetime movie of the week instead of someone’s actual life.

  And yes, she realized that was hypocritical, having spent five years on a UK tabloid crime desk, working for the Daily Scot, door-stepping victims and reporting carnage in all its bloody grime and glory.

  Somehow, that was OK there. That was reporting the facts. Here, everything was so wrapped up in drama and ulterior motive that it was difficult to separate the real from the performance. And that was never more obvious than in Davie’s life.

  What were they now? Lovers? Yes. Exclusive? Absolutely. But they weren’t in an open, official, publicly acknowledged relationship. The reticence was all on her side, but she suspected that was largely to do with the fact that Davie was used to getting everything at the snap of his TV-mogul fingers. He was definitely a live-in-the-moment, go-for-it, why-wait-for-anything kind of guy who needed the world to be his and he needed it now. And he had the cash to pay for it.

  She’d never be comfortable with that level of fame and power, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be. It was only six months ago that she’d moved here from Glasgow, after coming over initially to chase down a story on the relationship between Mirren, Davie and Zander. The last thing she expected was to fall for Davie Johnston, quit her job and move here, but that’s what happened. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to move in with Davie and live the Hollywood dream of fame and fortune – it was certainly what he wanted – but in truth, the thought made her skin bristle.

  She wanted to make it on her own. On her terms. And whether he liked it or not, that had to happen before she became nothing more than Davie Johnston’s other half.

  The freelance work, fluff pieces on the size of Kim Kardashian’s arse or Charlie Sheen’s legal bills (both of which appeared to be comparatively huge), paid her rent, allowing her to concentrate on the stuff she really wanted to write. Beneath the glitter and the glitz, there was a darkness, a downward spiral of a city that survived on drugs, spin, hype and manipulation. Nothing was real here. Nothing. And it fascinated her. There had been hundreds of Hollywood bios done before, but Sarah was writing hers from an outsider’s perspective, one that wasn’t swayed by personal experience or lust for fame or power. She just wanted to tell the story, to look behind the Hollywood curtain and explain why a beautiful girl like Chloe Gore, born to wealth and privilege, could end up dead at eighteen. She wanted to explore why the industry supported twenty-one-year-old brats who thought their music success gave them an unlimited pl
atform of entitlement and invincibility. And why fame-seekers in a reality world that was based on zero talent were prepared to – literally – exploit and risk their own lives for another million ‘likes’ on Instagram or Facebook.

  It was a warped world, and the biggest irony of all?

  In loving Davie Johnston, she was dancing with the devil. He had been the biggest manipulator of all, the king of reality TV and the Pied Piper to legions of wannabes who would do anything to achieve the fame they craved.

  Last year, Davie had been accused of plotting with one of his young reality stars, Sky Nixon, to stage an overdose to push up ratings for their show. It had backfired spectacularly when she almost died and Davie almost lost his career.

  Sarah believed he’d learned his lesson, but who knew? And who could ever have predicted that she’d fall in love with a guy who stood for everything she despised?

  The sprinklers on Davie’s manicured lawns did an elaborate dance as she wove up the twisting drive to his $40-million baroque mansion.

  As she parked on the beautiful forecourt, next to a fountain that shot jets of water five feet in the air, she spotted him leaning against the open door frame, coffee in hand.

  It was an appealing visual. He had no top on – always a winner, especially when you have a body that’s been pummelled and shaped by a former US Olympic-team boxing champ who takes his job very seriously.

  This was a nightly ritual when she was heading out downtown. She’d swing by, grab a coffee and touch base. It grounded her. Made her smile. And it also ensured that – should she be massacred on the streets by some lowlife during the night – someone would report her missing. Every cloud.

  A knot of tension evaporated from her shoulders as he flashed her an easy smile. ‘Hey, babe, come take me away from all this.’ On TV, his accent was softly Scottish, but speaking to her now, he’d slipped back into the broad Glasgow burr of his childhood.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, grinning as she strolled towards him. ‘I can offer you a night watching lowlife drug dealers off Sunset, a visit to a fast-food joint or an afternoon at my Marina del Rey apartment. But please don’t bring a cat, because there’s no room to swing it.’

  As soon as she made the joke, she regretted it. ‘And no, don’t use that as an opener to a “move in here” conversation.’

  He adopted an innocent expression and put his hands up in surrender. Good. Heavy conversation averted. For now.

  She sat down on the doorstep, recognizing that the man lived in 30,000 square feet of Bel Air ostentation, had shitloads of drama and hassle going on, a room full of people who were much further up the importance chain than her, and yet he was here, sitting on a step with her.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ she asked.

  ‘Crazy. The network lawyers are shitting a brick in case there’s any measure of liability. The producers are secretly loving it because we ended up with the highest ratings of any debut talk show in living history. And the Beauty and the Beats guys are freaking out because we just lost half the act. It’s a whole big, incestuous cluster-fuck. But hey, did you hear the bit about the ratings?’

  It was impossible not to laugh. Davie Johnston was arrogant, ambitious, ruthless and shallower than an espresso, but when he wasn’t being any of the above, he was also caring and sweet and so funny he made her sides hurt. Not that she’d admit that to him.

  ‘God, you’re vile. And you’re needy. And a prima donna. And high maintenance. Shall I go on?’

  ‘Horny,’ he offered, snaking his hand up the back of her vest top.

  ‘Well, horny will have to wait. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be in there putting out fires?’ she asked, gesturing into the house.

  ‘Yep, but we’ll only keep them waiting for ten minutes.’

  Sarah leaned over and kissed him teasingly. ‘Why? Are we gonna do it twice?’

  ‘Yep, and have a cigarette in between,’ Davie added, gently tugging her towards him.

  She shouldn’t. He had places to be. Things to be doing. And yet she was somehow sitting on top of him, legs wrapped round his waist, with hands unclipping her bra with the expertise of the oversexed. Lips locked, he used the quads that had been honed by a million squats to raise them up to a standing position; then he stepped backwards into the house, moved a couple of feet to the left and pulled open the door to the cloakroom.

  One wall was lined with oak shelving, from floor to ceiling, supporting dozens of shoes, hats, sneakers. The opposite wall had rows of coats and, underneath, a myriad of play things: skateboards, two Segways, a bike and, at the back, a table used for storing hats, gloves, scarves. Or rather, it used to be. As Davie cleared it with one hand, Sarah tore her lips from his for long enough to whip her vest top over her head. The bra went with it. Davie sat her on the table and immediately dropped to take her nipple in his mouth, her head thrown back, gasping, while her hands worked at releasing the button on his jeans. Davie licked his way over to the other breast now, flicking the nipple with his tongue, making her groan, pant and work even harder to release his cock. Mission accomplished, she pushed the jeans down onto his thighs, her hands immediately going round his cock. He stopped her, pushed her back, flicked open her shorts and whipped them down while her hands reached into his hair, grasping. He pulled her thong off in one movement and then moved back between her legs, his cock raised and swollen. Sarah opened her legs wider to let him slip inside her, then lay back on the table, her body raised on her elbows, before slipping her ankles over his shoulders, letting him penetrate deeper, harder. She crossed her feet behind his neck, locking him there, while he put one hand on each of her hips, holding her steady, while he fucked her, hard, fast, deep.

  She surrendered to the ferociousness of the movement, lowering her head and shoulders onto the table now too, bringing her hands up to cup her breasts. Her fingers traced the edges of her nipples, round and round, round again.

  ‘Fuck, you’re beautiful,’ he gasped, watching every movement, still pounding into her, a sheen of sweat appearing now on a torso that was as ripped as any model on a Calvin Klein billboard.

  The moment he said it, she felt the tingles of an orgasm start at her pelvis and grow, spreading across her stomach, working north, her ribs, her tits, her neck, her head, a sensation of utter bliss exploding inside her, her scream making his dick take control of his body, pumping harder, harder, harder, holding her tighter, tighter, tighter . . .

  ‘Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, oh fu-u-u-u-ck,’ he spat, through teeth that were clenched shut, his head thrown back, his eyes closed until every drop of him had left his cock.

  Still inside her, he flopped forward, resting his chin in the space gravity had made on her chest, having pulled her breasts to the side. He’d told her many times that it was his favourite part of her body, mostly because it was rarity in LA. You couldn’t toss a silicon implant down any street without it landing on a female with fake tits, the kind that stayed upright and immobile when she lay, like Sarah now, on her back.

  ‘I bloody love you,’ he said, never more handsome than when he was happy, post-coital and still – quite literally – joined at the hip.

  Laughing, she ran one finger down the centre of his forehead, over his nose, to his mouth. He clenched his teeth round it, making her yelp.

  ‘Ouch! No rough stuff. There are clubs you can go to for that.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve lost my gimp mask. I think my girlfriend burned it,’ he told her sorrowfully, making her giggle.

  Actually giggle.

  Sarah McKenzie, hard-assed journalist, didn’t – in any other part of her life – do giggling.

  That was the effect Davie Johnston had on her. He was funny, crazy, wild and she adored him.

  Cupping a finger under his chin, she raised his head so that she could push back up onto her elbows. ‘OK, much as that made the earth move, I need to get to work, and I believe you’re supposed to be handling a dead-rock-star crisis situation. May he rest in peace.’

  �
��I think Jizzo would approve,’ he told her solemnly.

  She took that moment to prise him gently out of her and slide to her feet, grinning. ‘Look, if it’s quiet out tonight, I’ll come back over. Maybe around three. Don’t wait up, though – I’ll just slide in beside you and you can do all that to me again when you wake up.’

  His hand slipped round her neck and he leaned in to kiss her again, lingering this time. ‘I like that idea.’

  Eventually, she broke off, laughing. ‘I have to go before I take you up on the doing-it-twice thing.’ Sarah reached out for the nearest coat, giggling again when she realized that it was Davie’s old Lakers jacket. She slipped it on, showing support for one of Los Angeles’ two basketball teams, while utterly naked underneath.

  Davie loved the image. ‘I swear you’re giving me another hard-on. When you’re done with that, leave it out. I’m taking it upstairs, and when you come back, I’m going to teach you some serious ball control.’

  If it had been uttered by any other guy, it would have come off as cheesy, but Davie was in on the joke, blatantly hamming it up, so from him, it was just funny.

  When he’d pulled up and fastened his jeans, Sarah went up on her tiptoes and kissed him. ‘I know everything about balls that I’ll ever need to know, thanks. Now go back to work. I’m going to go wash up and then I’m out of here. Go. Shoo. See you later.’

  She followed him out of the cupboard, praying that Ivanka, his overwhelmingly intimidating housekeeper, wasn’t around, then slipped into the foyer washroom directly next to the door. It was a wet room with a built-in shower, designed by Davie so that he didn’t have to traipse to a shower room on a higher floor if he came in the door wet, muddy or cold from any form of exercise or sport.

  After a quick hose-down, Sarah was dressed and back in the car.

  The pap flash explosion was even more relentless on exit than it had been on entry, no photographer prepared to miss a car that might have Davie Johnston in it.

  She was ten minutes away, her little red Chrysler convertible pointed in the direction of Studio City, before the spots in her eyes dissipated.