Hollywood Bad Boys Club: Book 1: Drake (11 page)

S
iena is killing me today
. This movie,
Entangled States
, is about a woman who may or may not be involved in the disappearance of two men: her ex-husband, who is a well-known Italian politician, and the United States Ambassador to Italy. The audience, along with my character, doesn’t learn until the final act whether or not she’s somehow responsible, but they discover throughout the film that she’s smoking hot and oozing sex in nearly every scene.

The scene we’re shooting today, the one that is causing me so much frustration, is the very first one we’re filming. We’re shooting on location at a luxurious villa on the outskirts of Rome, which serves as her character’s palatial home. I play a CIA agent hand-picked by the president to investigate the double kidnapping while being careful not to compound the suddenly screwed up state of international affairs. The reason Siena’s killing me is because of her wardrobe. My character, Rance Mallek, arrives at her house and is told by the butler he can find “Signora Gagliardi” out by the pool. I will proceed to the pool, meet Chiara Gagliardi for the first time, and have drinks while questioning this mysterious, quite possibly evil, woman.

I haven’t seen Siena since the kiss in the back of the limo two days prior. The script says that Rance walks to the pool, where Chiara is swimming. She sees him and “steps out of the pool in SLO-MOTION, water running over her skimpy swimsuit and breathtakingly sexy body.” I’m already on edge because I haven’t had sex in over a week, apart from jerking off.

The American director, Michael Whitaker, likes to shoot scenes all in one take, which means we do the scene from beginning to end without stopping. We’ll likely have to do several takes so that he’ll have the footage he needs to piece together what the audience will eventually watch. That approach is fine with me, because it generally means fewer shots, and consequently less waiting around while the crew tediously resets everything between shots.

When the set is ready, I’m summoned from my nearby trailer. I don’t see Siena and assume she’s already in position in the pool. I talk to Michael for a moment, then wait patiently on my mark until he calls “Action!” Everything goes fine as I’m led through the beautiful mansion, a camera operator with a Steadicam moving in sync in front of me as I walk across the gorgeous marble floors. When we arrive at the pool, there are two other cameras in place. Rance walks through the door and scans the area, looking for any sign that something might not be right. Then he sees Chiara in the middle of the pool, swimming laps. I walk to the end of the pool and stand there, waiting for her to reach me. When she does, she looks up and smiles that same dirty smile I saw before and I realize this will not be an easy scene. I don’t normally get rattled while shooting, but this woman has a strange effect on me.

My suspicions are confirmed when she swims to the steps and I follow along the pool’s edge. When she emerges from the water – the scene that will be slowed down by the editor – I see that she’s dispensed with her bikini top altogether. Her naked breasts are luscious and glisten as the water runs off them. She must be a gym rat, too, judging by the defined abs I can see. The yellow bikini bottoms she’s wearing are so tiny that her pubic hair would be on display if she had any, which she very apparently does not. I can vaguely make out the crease of her lips through the wet material, and for some reason the sight of that is what throws me off my game.

“You must be the CIA man,” she says in that sultry voice as she stands before me. Rance’s reply – my
line
, for fuck’s sake – eludes me momentarily and I stall by looking slowly down her gorgeous body, then back up to her face. I see something in her eyes. Siena knows that was me, not Rance, checking her out.

“And you must be Mrs. Gagliardi,” I say just in time. Michael was probably on the verge of yelling “Cut!” but kept the cameras rolling. I suspect he’ll use this take, because I was as shaken by the sight of Siena’s half-naked form in real life as my character was supposed to be in the script. The scene continues as Chiara casually walks Rance to a nearby table, where she will “wrap herself in a plush robe before sitting.” Siena again goes off-script, picking up the robe just long enough to dab the water off her tits and belly before tossing it aside and remaining topless for the rest of the scene.

Her decision to show off her breasts like this is thrilling, mostly because by now I know she’s getting a big rush out of showing them to me, and probably to the crew as well. Most actresses I’ve done topless or nudes scenes with are reluctant and embarrassed, and rightly so; Siena Alessi is utterly defiant and it turns me on so much that it affects the way I deliver the rest of my lines. The chemistry between us is so palpable, so electric, that when we finish the scene the crew actually applauds.

Of course, they think it’s all acting. Siena and I know better.

We retreat to our separate trailers to wait while the crew prepares for another take. I’m already looking forward to seeing that wet body and that dirty smile again and wonder if I will indeed fuck her before I leave Rome. I suspect I will, but it bugs me that I’m not more enthusiastic about a sexual rendezvous that has the potential to be one of my most amazing ever.

I
’ve traveled quite
a bit over the years, but I haven’t been to Rome. Florence and Venice, yes, but never further south in Italy. I’m immediately entranced by the Eternal City as the car Manning has sent for me winds its way through the ancient streets from the airport to the St. Regis Hotel. He called me on the plane to let me know he had the day off today; the previous day’s shoot had lasted eighteen hours and the director decided to change the schedule slightly and shoot scenes that didn’t involve the two principal actors. When I asked Manning if he wanted to rest up, he said we’d play it by ear when I got to the hotel.

I don’t know how long I’ll be staying, as we hadn’t discussed that at all, but I want to do some sightseeing while I’m here. I brought a week’s worth of clothes, just in case, and I can buy more if necessary. I’m also anxious to see Manning again so I can try to get a read on my feelings for him. I couldn’t sleep at all on the jet, wondering if maybe I’m just smitten by his good looks and his fame. Perhaps I’m just another Drake Manning groupie, and even if I’m not – if these feelings are genuine – he still might view me as such. The only way to find out is to jump in head first and see what happens.

When I get to the hotel, the front desk has no reservation for me. To complicate matters, they have no available rooms, either. I’m baffled and text Manning, who doesn’t respond. Less than a minute later, though, he bursts from the elevator and shouts, “Allie Winters!” from across the lobby. Everyone turns as he runs to me, wrapping his arms around me and lifting me off the ground. “Welcome to Italia!”

There are smiles all around us as we leave my luggage with the bellhop and he hustles me to the elevator.

“They didn’t have a reservation for me,” I say. “I asked if—“ Then his lips are on mine and I’m suddenly in the middle of one of those heavenly kisses. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed the butterflies in my stomach until this moment and I respond with everything I’ve got. We don’t stop until we reach our floor and the door opens.

“Why would you need a room?” Manning asks. “You’re staying with me.”

And just like that, it’s settled. Any doubt I may have had disappears instantly. I will definitely be sleeping with Drake Manning.

Manning gives me a quick tour of his suite, which is absurdly luxurious and huge, way larger than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in. In fact, it’s bigger than any apartment I can remember. When he tells me that Princess Grace stayed there, it’s easy to believe.

The suite’s color scheme is wine red, gold and green, and those colors are also incorporated in the most beautiful carpet I've ever seen. The furnishings are all opulent 18th- and 19th-century antiques. There's a master bedroom with king bed, a guest bedroom, his and hers dressing closets, and a marble bathroom with a large Jacuzzi. Custom-made linens, cutlery and crystal for twelve are immaculately laid out on a long marble table in the dining room, and there's a striking mural of Pompeii on the dining room's coved ceiling. Like I said, it’s ridiculously impressive.

I’m in a daze, suddenly in strange surroundings after fifteen hours of flying and two refueling stops. Unable to sleep on the plane, my body is exhausted and my heart is now pounding after that kiss. And my head? Spinning, cartwheeling in euphoria at being in the very physical presence of Manning again after thinking about him for the last week or so.

“How was the trip?” he asks. “Like my little jet?”

I nod and start to talk, but instead throw my arms around him and lock him up in another kiss. Before I know it, we’re standing in his bedroom and I can feel his erection as our bodies are pressed together. He takes off my light jacket and starts to lift my shirt over my head when I come to my senses.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing his wrists. “Can we get something to eat first? Maybe see a little of the city? This is all happening so fast. I just got here.”

Manning looks like a little boy whose favorite toy has been confiscated. I do my best to reassure him. “We’re going to have sex, Drake,” I say. “As much as you want, I promise. I’m as eager as you are. Just let me settle in a little first, okay?”

That seems to do the trick. It
is
all happening too fast and I feel like I’m losing my equilibrium, not regarding my balance, but my heart instead. I need to spend a little more time with Manning before being intimate with him so I can try to figure out exactly what is going on between us, or at least sort out my feelings about him.

We decide to go out for a while. It’s just a little past noon and we have all day. I change clothes and freshen up while he has a car brought around. I feel better in a light spring skirt and a tank top with a sweater as we make our way through the lobby to the hotel. Just as in Los Angeles, people stare at this man, pointing, smiling, whipping out their phones to take pictures. It’s very heady to be holding hands in public with someone this famous.

The limo drives us around Rome and Manning gives me an overview of some of the more popular tourist sights. “We can go see them up close on my days off, or you can go by yourself if you want while I’m working.”

“Will I be here that long?” I ask. We hadn’t discussed it at all.

He plants a tender kiss on my cheek and whispers, “You should stay as long as possible. I like being around you.”

Our sightseeing is interspersed with some groping. Manning seems to have a thing about my breasts, or maybe about breasts in general. I let him touch a little, then purse my lips and gesture toward the driver to remind him we’re not alone. Still, I’m not offended in the slightest; on the contrary, I love that he can’t keep his hands off me, that he can’t wait to get me into bed.

We have a late lunch at a trattoria recommended by the driver, and the simple pasta dish I have is so incredible it’s hard to believe there are only a few ingredients. Manning orders a five-hundred-Euro bottle of Barolo Riserva, which is of course the best thing I’ve ever tasted. As we eat he tells me about the movie shoot so far, and I ask about his co-star, Siena Alessi. “She’s a good actress,” he says without much emotion. “Very attractive.” Duh. I’ve seen her picture; she’s flat-out gorgeous, with a body to die for.

I’m aware that there are romantic scenes in
Entangled States
and start to ask Manning when they’ll be shooting them, but he changes the topic by asking about the interview piece for the LA Times Magazine. I tell him it turned out excellent and that I think he’ll be happy with it. I ask if he wants to see a copy, but he declines. “I’ll see it when it comes out. I trust you, Allie.” Something tells me he doesn’t want to know what’s in it. I want to tell him about my finding and including his high school picture, but decide to wait.

After lunch we drive by the Roman Colosseum and I am struck by its crumbling ancient beauty. I ask if we can stop, and Manning hesitates because of the crowd of people mulling about, including some dressed as gladiators and posing for photos with tourists. The driver manages to signal a security guard to approach the car, and the next thing I know Manning has charmed the man into letting us wander around inside by ourselves, away from the areas to which tourists are normally restricted. He’s been down here before and shows me some rooms where the Christians were once held while waiting to be fed to the lions. My heart is in my throat as we descend into the bowels of the stadium and the corridors grow darker and colder.

Manning turns to look at me, his eyes practically blazing with lust. I’m initially startled to see such passion directed at me, then he pins me against a cold stone wall and kisses me hard. I melt into it and soon feel his hand slipping under my tank top to squeeze my breast. I don’t stop him this time. On the contrary, I moan into his mouth and encourage him.

“You’re a bad boy, Drake,” I say playfully, breaking the kiss.

He looks me in the eye and says, “I haven’t had sex in more than a week. Day and night, all I do is think about fucking you.” His candor surprises me and I flush at the sexual compliment.

His body pressed against mine, I feel that ever-present hard-on of his against my crotch. There’s nobody down in these tunnels except us – we haven’t seen another person in half an hour. I look down one way, then the other, seeing the darkness broken by dim electric lights every fifty feet or so. The only sound is our heavy breathing and it has an aphrodisiacal effect on me. His hard-on suddenly presses against my clit and I feel the breath rush out of my lungs as a flood of wetness warms my pussy. After just a few seconds of this, I feel a desperate, almost feral need to have Manning inside of me.

I pull back and our eyes meet. I know immediately there’s no return. This is finally going to happen, and it’s going to happen right now, right here.

Still leaning against the wall, I put a hand on Manning’s hard chest and push him backward, then reach down and slide my panties off. That’s all the consent he needs and he quickly unfastens his pants, lowering them to his knees. I can barely see his cock in the darkness, but I see that it’s pointing nearly straight up. Despite everything I know about this man, my logic and reason disappear and I forget about the need for a condom as he puts his hands on my thighs and moves them up to my waist, taking my skirt with them. I feel his strong hands lifting me, my feet leaving the ground as he pins me to the stone wall and moves in between my legs.

We’ve had two weeks of foreplay and there’s no need for more. The head of his cock touches me, presses against my slickened lips, parting them as he pushes inward. I lift my legs and wrap them around his waist and the angle is perfect. His hard thickness slides into me, filling me up perfectly and slipping all the way in as far as he can go. My throat makes a guttural sound that I’ve never heard from myself before. Manning begins to fuck me, slowly at first, then slowly picking up speed. I’m so caught up in the moment, relishing the decadence of Drake Manning fucking me in a semi-public place, the danger of being discovered making it even more exciting, that I don’t notice at first when he suddenly slows down. Not a minute has passed since he entered me, and he comes to a complete stop, halting his thrusting.

“What’s wrong?” I ask when I see the look on his face.

“Goddamit!” he shouts, lifting me off his cock just as it erupts. A stream of cum flies up toward me, landing on my tank top right between my breasts. Then a second lands in nearly the same spot. Manning sets me down and his cock continues to spurt all on its own, an incredible sight. When I realize what’s happening, I grab it and finish him off, stroking him until he’s finished. I stare at my hand and feel his hard-on throbbing as the cum dribbles down over my fingers.

“Well, fuck,” Manning says quietly, panting as he catches his breath, my hand still gently stroking him. “That was
not
supposed to happen.”

We stay there like that a moment, his pants at his ankles and my hand wrapped around his erection. It’s so thrilling to hold him like this, to feel that part of him slippery in my palm, that at first I don’t notice how bothered he is by what has just happened. Then I see it on his face, a mix of pain and embarrassment. I know immediately that he doesn’t like having his image as a lover tarnished by coming too quickly, even if I’m the only one who knows.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, brushing his hair back with my other hand. “It’s a nice compliment, actually.” I truly mean it, too; the idea that this insanely hot man was so excited to be having sex with me that he absolutely lost his shit and came way too soon is a big ego boost.

Manning’s expression changes. “We have to go back to the hotel. Now.” He jerks up his pants, knocking my hand off his cock in the process. Then he looks at my tank top and sees the huge wet spot caused by the twin streaks of cum that rocketed out of him and landed there. “Shit,” he says, “that’s going to look suspicious.”

I peel off my sweater and hand it to him, then cautiously lift the tank top over my head, careful not to get anything in my hair. Manning would normally be grinning like a fool at the sight of my sheer bra, but this time he’s preoccupied. I use the tank top to wipe my hand off, then fold it and place it in his other hand. Taking the sweater from him, I put it back on, buttoning it up this time. Grabbing the tank top, I say, “There. The evidence has been disposed of.” I smile at him, my heart buzzing at having just been taken by this man, regardless of how brief the event had been.

Drake Manning, however, for once isn’t smiling. He picks up my panties and shoves them in his pants pocket. Without a word he takes my hand and leads me out of the tunnels, back to the entrance. We pass the security guard and I casually drop my tank top in a trash can as we leave the Colosseum, tourists pointing at us – well, pointing at Manning – as we go by. We enter the waiting limo and he tells the driver, “The St. Regis, per favore.”

“What’s going on, Drake? Is something wrong?” I ask, confused.

“Nothing’s wrong. We just have unfinished business to attend to,” he says. “Lots of it.” I see his predicament, and though I think it’s just silly male vanity, I understand his need to prove what just happened was a fluke. The determined look on his face fills with desire over what’s about to take place. He’s taking me back to the hotel for another rendezvous, one he obviously hopes will make me forget about the abrupt encounter – as if anything could make me forget about having Drake Manning inside of me for the first time.