Carter Wilson closed his eyes and groaned as he came in the mouth of the woman who was busy blowing him. His fingers clenched in her perfectly-styled hair, messing it up. He knew it would likely give away what they’d been up to, but he didn’t care.
A hiss of air left him when she finally let go of his pleasantly spent cock. The blonde sat back on her expensive Jimmy Choo heels and licked her lips greedily as she gazed up at him, her blue eyes sultry with lust and her nipples hard where her breasts showed in her gaping cleavage.
Carter reluctantly tucked his dick back in his tuxedo trousers.
If he’d had a condom on him, he would have pulled her to her feet, yanked up her thousand-dollar Dolce & Gabbana dress, and fucked her against the wall of the art gallery’s restroom stall until she screamed in pleasure.
He’d unfortunately used the last rubber in his wallet in his trailer yesterday, after he finished shooting what he hoped would be his next Hollywood blockbuster movie in New York. He’d known that the assistant he’d been given by the studio had had the hots for him all along, but Carter never liked mixing business with pleasure, not after the unpleasant incident that had nearly ended his movie career prematurely. So he’d waited until the last day of filming to give her a parting gift, which was his dick in her mouth and her hungry pussy.
Most people called him a bastard and a serial womanizer, a reputation that was only rendered more infamous by the paparazzi who constantly tailed him. Carter didn’t mind. He knew the career he’d chosen meant sacrificing his privacy and, as far as he was concerned, his conscience was clear; he’d never made false promises to the women he’d slept with, always used protection, and had been upfront about never wanting to be in a serious relationship.
There were only two aspects of his life that Carter protected jealously: his family and his hidden bisexuality. The first had been surprisingly easy to keep under wraps, since his only living relative had left the small town they’d grown up in some years back and was now halfway across the world.
As for the second, although there were plenty of gay actors who’d come out in the business in the last few decades, Carter knew his status as an action hero and the opportunities that might come his way in the future might be affected if he were to reveal like he liked to fuck men as much as he liked fucking women.
On the occasions when he felt like dick more than pussy, Carter visited an exclusive club in L.A. where all employees and guests were made to sign non-disclosure agreements. There, he had his pick of the male clientele who habitually called upon the club to satisfy their own secret desires. Carter had been hesitant to join up at first. But after hearing the club rules dictated all visitors wear close-fitting carnival masks to conceal their identities and that there were private suites where guests could indulge in their wildest sexual fantasies, he’d signed on the dotted line and never regretted it since.
“I think it’s about time we got back out there, don’t you?” Carter told the blonde with a relaxed grim.
She hesitated before returning his smile with a lingering look of regret. Carter knew she would brag to her closest friends about tonight. It wasn’t everyday she got to suck the cock of a A-list Hollywood star while her husband was entertaining their guests fifty feet away.
Carter waited a couple of minutes after she vacated the restroom before stepping out into the service corridor at the rear of the art gallery. He stilled when he saw the woman leaning a hip against the wall in the shadows, her arms crossed rigidly across her body.
Izzy Batista’s green eyes were dark with exasperation and there was a distinctly unhappy moue on her pretty face. “Please tell me you didn’t just fuck the gallery owner’s wife?”
Carter’s lips tilted in a teasing smirk. “It depends on your definition of fuck.”
Izzy swore. “For Christ’s sake Carter, can’t you keep it in your pants for one goddamn night?!”
Carter strolled up to her and rested his shoulder casually against the wall, mimicking her pose.
“Normally, I would say yes,” he drawled in a sarcastic tone. “But, you see, a little mouse with brown hair and green eyes blackmailed me into coming here and I just had to, you know, blow off some steam.”
Izzy rolled her eyes. “It’s only for a couple of hours. Besides, your agent said you didn’t have anything lined up for tonight.”
Carter frowned. “I did have something lined up. It was called an evening spent relaxing in my own home for the first time in three months.”
Izzy gasped and raised a hand to her lips, an expression of mock horror painted across her face. “OMG! Is this the first sign that Carter Wilson is getting old? Would you like me to get you slippers and a hot cocoa kit for Christmas?”
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Carter muttered.
Izzy grinned and tucked her arm through his elbow. “Now, why don’t you be a good blackmail victim and come along peacefully. We’re about to do the big reveal.”
Carter grunted and allowed her to guide him to the main gallery area.
Izzy was the younger sister of Wyatt Batista, one of Carter’s closest childhood friends from his hometown of Twilight Falls. Together with Tristan Hart, Hunter Thomson, Drake Jackson, Miles Martinez, and Alex Hancock, they’d formed the “Terrible Seven”, a name that had struck dread in the heart of parents, teachers, and law enforcement for the decade and a half they’d grown up together in the quaint tourist town in the San Bernardino Mountains.
It was Izzy who’d sneaked in the boy’s locker room when Carter and the others were in high school and taken the infamous picture of his naked butt, which she had threatened to use to blackmail him on many an occasion since.
Though Carter knew it was in jest, he still worried about Izzy. The woman was the devil incarnate when it came to poking fun at her friends, and Carter wouldn’t put it past her to one day find a picture of his sixteen-year-old ass plastered over a billboard in L.A.
A dull murmur of voices reached them as they turned a corner and entered the gallery. Tonight was the opening night of Finn West’s first art exhibition in over three years and the whole town was buzzing with the return of the famous artist.
Although Carter had reluctantly agreed to headline the guest list, he had to admit to being more than a little intrigued once Izzy explained the circumstances behind her request.
It turned out Finn was Alex Hancock’s husband of a few months.
Carter’s gaze found the happy couple where they stood with the art gallery owner next the central piece of the exhibition, which still lay hidden beneath a white sheet. Finn had seemed tense when Carter had met him on the red carpet at the beginning of the evening. He now looked like a totally different person and could hardly keep his eyes, and his hands, off the man next to him.
A twinge of jealousy stabbed through Carter as he observed Alex’s radiant expression. It was evident to anyone in the room that the pair were very much in love. He wondered if he would ever find that kind of connection one day, or if he was doomed to a life of brief sexual encounters.
Carter had yet to meet anyone who had held his sexual and intellectual interest long enough for him to consider them as a potential life partner. The women who entered his life seemed more interested in having a movie star as a boyfriend than in who he was as a person, while the men were one-night stands whose faces he wouldn’t recognize if he passed them on the street.
He smiled blankly at the art gallery’s owner’s wife as he walked past the couple and let Izzy lead him to Finn and Alex’s side. Alex greeted him with a hug and a hearty pat on the back and Carter found himself feeling genuinely happy for his friend as he embraced him. They’d all been through some rough times together before he and Alex left Twilight Falls and it was great to see Alex’s eyes devoid of the guilt he’d carried for so many years.
The central piece of the exhibition was finally revealed to wild applause. Carter took his leave an hour later and headed out of the back door to the parking lot. He’d just climbed inside his Maserati when his cell started ringing. He took the phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen.
It was an international number. One he didn’t recognize.
The first tendril of dread pooled inside Carter as he gazed at it. He hesitated before taking the call. “Hello?”
“Is that Mr. Wilson? Mr. Carter Wilson?” a woman said in a heavy French accent. “The next of kin of Louise Payton?”
Carter’s stomach clenched in fear. “Yes, it is,” he finally managed, mouth so dry he was surprised he didn’t croak.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson,” the woman continued in a voice filled with compassion, “I’m afraid there has been a terrible accident.”
A buzzing noise filled Carter’s ears. The words the woman was saying reached him dimly, every syllable a knife that stabbed into his heart.
In that moment, he knew his life would never be the same again.