Taking the Lead(56)

"That's it," he encouraged, and I could feel him moving enough to give me a clue to find the right rhythm. "You're so good. So good."

When I got the rhythm right, though, he began messing me up by spanking me, which-between how good his cock felt and that-would have guaranteed an orgasm for me if only something were touching my clit. As it was, I felt myself getting closer and closer. 

But that made me want to shift to the rhythm that was right for me, not the rhythm that would get Axel off. I felt his fingertips against one of my hips, reminding me of the pace.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, so good. I concentrated on his pleasure instead of mine and was rewarded when he suddenly grabbed me by both hips and plowed into me for a flurry of quick intense strokes. Then he held still with a groan and I could feel the pumping and twitching of his cock inside me as he came.

He kissed me on the spine while he emptied, then held still until he was completely done, pulling out and letting everything dribble down my legs.

He pushed a finger in and fished around. "Did you come?"

"No, Mr. Hawke."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes, Mr. Hawke!"

"Good." He pulled his hand free. "You can come once I have you suspended in rope tonight."

I sucked in a breath.

"I know, you'll be wearing a catsuit and all, but a little fabric isn't enough to keep you from getting there." He slapped me playfully on the buttock. "Time to get cleaned up."

He picked up the bag of ropes and sauntered out without waiting for me, whistling the tune of "Kidnap My Heart."





A beautiful young submissive.

A sexy, dominant rock star.

The passion blazes in a sizzling new novel  …


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WILD LICKS





GWEN

The only piece of advice my father ever gave me was one I took to heart. "Never let them see you cry."

Those were the words going through my head while I clutched a wrinkled and folded set of pages in my fingers, sitting on a bench in a hallway outside the audition room with a dozen other women. At least three had emerged from the room in tears and I tried to imagine what the director and casting agent must have said to them. Did they insult their clothing? Their weight? Did they rip apart their acting ability? Was it all some kind of a test to see if you could stand the heat?

The director, Miles Redlace, was a notorious asshole. But, you know, Hollywood loves an asshole if he's brilliant.

Honestly, insults might be better than the last audition I'd gone to, where I'd felt completely ignored. It was as if they weren't even paying attention to the fact that someone was in front of them. I had never felt so dismissed or humiliated in my life. On top of that I'd overheard the casting director saying he was disappointed in the effort people were putting in. How could he even tell how much effort an actor had given to getting into a part if he never even looked up from his phone or the crossword puzzle he was doing?

I'd taken his words to heart, though. For this audition I'd put fake tattoos on my shoulders and arms, a temporary red wash in my hair to cover my natural blonde, and was wearing a fake nose ring. I was going to do everything I could to be this character, to be what the producers were hopefully picturing in their minds.

My sister Ricki asked me the other day why I even went to these cattle calls. "Let me put the financing together and we'll create a project for you," she said.

I couldn't explain right then why a "vanity project" wasn't what I wanted, but she didn't push. Maybe she kind of knew that I didn't want to rely on the family money or name to get my start.

I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to prove that my talent could get me the part, not my family name. I always put in a stage name, but anyone paying attention could have recognized me. But like I said, they don't usually pay much attention. This time I looked so different from myself, though.



       
         
       
        

If this worked  …

The door opened and another girl came out looking dejected. She didn't even look at us on the bench, just dragged herself toward the exit, depositing the script in a trash bin across the hall as she went.

I looked up and down the dozen or so of us still waiting. Everyone looked fresh out of college, like me, although I heard two of them talking and they seemed older. But everyone wants to look young, even when the role isn't an eighteen-year-old punk rock rebel girl in a film with the working title Wild Child.

I know how Hollywood works. I grew up in the film business and I am a realist. I knew I was doing it the hard way. But I had to do it my way.

"Ginger Hill?" called the PA at the door. It took me a moment to remember that was the stage name I'd picked.

I hopped to my feet, adrenaline surging. "Right here!"

"Oh no, wait," the woman said, checking her clipboard. "Marian Foy, you first. Hill, you're next."

I felt mortified and sank back down onto the bench. Why did I feel that way? It was her mistake, but I wished a hole would open in the ground and swallow me up.

Great. Now you're going to go in there all red-faced and flustered. My heart had sped up and it didn't seem like it would slow down anytime soon.

I gripped the folded script more tightly, trying to keep my hands from shaking, thinking, Is this how a wild child would act? Of course not! She would just strut in there like she didn't give a fuck what they thought. Could I do it? Could I really "act" like someone I wasn't? That was the question.

An eternity-or maybe only an agonizing moment-later, the door opened again. I was expecting to see Marian Foy come trudging out. But no, it was the PA, this time without her clipboard. "Thank you all for coming, but we have filled the role."

Some of the women groaned. One of them flung the script into the trash bin across the hall where it landed with a quiet crashing sound.

I should have stomped out of there like I was wearing combat boots, but no, that role was filled. So I merely stood and tried to walk in a ladylike fashion to my car. Ladylike to me meant with small, brisk yet not hurried steps, my eyes on the horizon, and hoping like hell the fake smile on my face didn't look ridiculous.

Never let them see you cry. Dad had never said who "them" was, but I took it to mean everyone.

* * *

By the time I arrived at the Forum, the concert had already started. Thank goodness Ricki had gotten us VIP parking permits and backstage passes. The VIP lot was alongside where the band's tour bus was parked-a massive thing with the THE ROUGH logo painted on the side-and I could see a security guard standing outside a side door into the arena. 

I clutched my purse to my shoulder as I approached him. He was wearing black and the band's crew jacket, and there was a lanyard hanging from his neck with a cluster of laminated passes at the bottom of it. "Hi, yeah, is this the right door? I have a backstage pass waiting for me," I told him.

He looked me up and down. "Oh, really," he said, as if he didn't believe a word of it and was merely humoring me. "And who exactly would be responsible for putting you on the list?"

"My sister. Or her boyfriend. Axel Hawke? Perhaps you've heard of him?"

He laughed. "Try pulling the other one."

"Okay, seriously, I'm Gwen Hamilton." His attitude was really starting to piss me off.

Amusement twisted his mouth. "You know, honey, if what you really want is a good banging, plenty of guys in your home town would oblige."

"Excuse me?"

"Okay, okay, I get it. You came all the way here to get some genuine, grade-A rock star dick. Which one do you want? I'll tell you if you're his type. The only one who's off limits is Axel. He's monotonous and his girlfriend's here, to boot."

"You mean monogamous and that's what I told you; his girlfriend is my sister!"

"He's into some kinky shit but I don't think incest is-"

The door opened and another guy stuck his head out. "Gilbert, you got a problem here?"

"Excuse me," I said. "Have you got the guest list? Because I am on it and this dork ass thinks it's funny to sexually harass me."

The guy came all the way out with a clipboard in hand. "Name?"

"Gwen Hamilton."

"You got ID?"

"Yes." I dug my driver's license out of my bag and showed it to him.

"All right, come with me." He punched Gilbert in the arm. "Be nice."

Gilbert rubbed his arm and held the door open. "Come on, John. How was I supposed to know she was on the list? She looks like every other groupie."

"By checking the list," John said, waving the clipboard. "She's probably some fan-club contest winner or something. Be nice or you'll go viral on YouTube." As the door shut behind us he said, "My apologies, miss. Here." In the hallway stood a podium on wheels. From behind it he pulled out a lanyard with a laminated pass on it and signed his name on the bottom with a Sharpie.

I slung it over my neck.

"When the band comes offstage they'll go through there to the green room." He pointed down a hallway to the left-"main party'll be over there," to the right-"and if you want to watch the rest of the show," straight ahead.

I thanked him and went straight ahead, the music getting louder as I went. There was a handwritten sign taped to the cinder block at a stairwell leading up that said "Stage Overlook." Up I went.