TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY Read online

  Honestly, today, Luca Weaver has been a gentleman and—dare I say it—likable.

  I’m willing to play my cards later if dropping the subject now will get him to stay that way.

  Luca

  Nothing good happens after midnight. When I was a kid, my mom was always telling Raquel and me that the streets of LA transformed like Cinderella’s fucking carriage at the final stroke of twelve.

  For the first time in my life, I think I might be close to agreeing with her. To start with, lying here in the dark while I listen to see if I can hear any movement from Billie’s pink monstrosity while thinking of my parents at all are giant red fucking flags, but my mind has been off to the races since I came in here a few hours ago. I’ve been in this fucking tent, trying like hell to fall asleep, but between Bailey’s snoring and my brain refusing to shut off, I’m failing miserably at getting some shut-eye.

  I stare up at the top of my tent, counting the seams and fighting the guilt I feel over Billie’s injury.

  Fuck. I need to be more careful from here on out.

  I know she’s tough. And no doubt, she’s as stubborn as a damn mule, but I need to do a better job of looking out for her.

  I’ll stop being such a miserable prick, and I’ll do better tomorrow, I tell myself. I will make Billie’s safety my number one priority, even when she’s being a pain in my ass.

  Eyes heavy and mind slowing down, I force a deep, cleansing breath into my lungs and shut my eyes.

  Just relax and go to sleep.

  With the help of Bailey’s steady snoring and the sounds of the wilderness playing out like a live sleep track around me, it all starts to fade away and sleep is so close I can taste it.

  Thank fuck.

  I’m mere breaths away from going lights-out when the sound of footsteps outside my tent yanks me back to the present and makes me jerk violently to sitting.

  Senses heightened and eyes wide open, I blink several times and force my vision to adjust to the darkness.

  Bailey lies contentedly in the corner of the tent, the soft woof of his dreams the only sign of life. Apparently, the instant his head hit his fleece blanket, he clocked out of his duties as a trusty watchdog. Sleepy bastard.

  The hint of a shadow stands outside the entrance of my tent, hands bumbling around the material, tapping and feeling near the zippered entrance door. Barring a yeti or a real-life, miniature version of Bigfoot, there’s only one person it can be.

  In three abrupt motions, the zipper is pulled up, and a rush of cold air fills the tent.

  Two seconds later, Billie steps inside.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as she zips the tent back up behind her, clearly planning to stay. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m so freaking cold,” she whispers as she turns to face me. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but she doesn’t give me a chance. She’s a desperate woman on an unfailable mission as she crawls up from the bottom of my sleeping bag, slithers in next to me, and shoves her body down into the bag alongside me without asking for permission.

  “Billie, what the hell are you doing?” I ask again, but she ignores me completely and presses her cold little body against mine. At the shock of the frigidity, my anger cools considerably.

  God. She really is freezing.

  I wrap my arms around her without much thought and rub my hands up and down her arms. Her teeth chatter, and ice-cold fingers grip my wrists and force my arms to wrap around her tighter, pulling us even closer together.

  It’s only when she finally settles, the heat from my body penetrating the impossibly cold layer of hers that I realize exactly what I’m feeling.

  Billie is inside my sleeping bag; her body is pressed against mine with the soft hints of her flowery perfume filling my nose in thick, delicious waves.

  Thank God, these cold Alaskan nights have forced us both to go to bed still bundled up in clothes, but fuck, I can still feel enough of her beneath her fleece pants and sweater to make my goddamn head spin.

  My dick starts to enjoy it a little too much, and my mind reels with a scrolling flurry of dirty thoughts.

  My big hands touching more than just her waist. My lips brushing against her neck. My ears listening for her soft moans as I explore her perky breasts and stomach and thighs with my tongue. Her pussy bared and wet and ready for my mouth. My fingers pulling her panties to the side so I can press the tip of my cock at her entrance…

  Ah fuck. Stop, stop. Stop.

  My dick is a fucking traitor, but it’s hardly the first. Betraying, philandering cocks are pretty much the main dilemma of all men since the beginning of time.

  Our dicks aren’t our friends. Hell, sixteen-year-old dicks are basically fucking terrorists, ready to shoot any pretty girl within a one-hundred-mile radius. And right now, my thirty-four-year-old dick has his sights set on beautiful Billie and her perfect little curves and warm little body.

  Instantly, I shut my eyes tight, and with my free hand, I press my fingers against my forehead and try like hell to force the very bad ideas out of my mind.

  Billie’s teeth stop chattering, and a few more satisfied little breaths escape her lungs as she wiggles her hips and settles against me.

  God, those hips. Those curvy little hips.

  And her perfect little ass. It is right there. Against me.

  Fuck.

  A soft sigh of contentment escapes her lungs, and it’s more than apparent she gives zero fucks about personal boundaries or the fact that our close proximity is wreaking havoc on my fucking head when she’s this close to hypothermia.

  “Billie, are you serious right now?” I ask because I have to. For the sake of my mental health, I have to be an asshole right now. Subconsciously, she wiggles her fucking hips again.

  “Serious about what?” she asks, her voice already lazy with sleep and the warmth she so desperately needed.

  “About this,” I say and squeeze my fingers against her hip. “You’re in my fucking sleeping bag.”

  “Deal with it, buddy,” she whispers back. “Just go to sleep. Warm, cozy sleep.”

  And that’s pretty much all she wrote.

  Not even a minute later, soft snores escape her nose and throat, and I’m wide a-fucking-wake again with a whole new set of problems to worry about.

  Billie in my arms, the feel of her body against mine, and the startling fact that I don’t dislike it at all.

  Son of a bitch.

  My dick starts to stir again, and I try like hell to think of anything other than Billie. Not how fucking cute she is when she’s trying to act like a tough girl or how damn beautiful she looks when she first wakes up in the morning, coming out of her tent all groggy and sleepy, or how good her little body feels against me, or the fact that, deep down, this isn’t the first time I’ve thought about what this would feel like.

  And definitely not the idea that she fits perfectly inside my arms, like she was made to be right here, the little spoon to my big.

  Fuck, she smells good.

  God, what is it about this woman?

  Billie stirs a little, pulling me from my thoughts, and once she’s found comfort in sliding her feet between mine, she settles back into sleep.

  It takes everything inside me not to push my nose into her hair and press a kiss to her forehead, and that’s when it really hits me.

  I am so—painfully, gravely, achingly, undeniably—fucked.

  Billie

  When morning wood comes calling, do not answer or reply. I don’t think that’s a state motto anywhere or anything, but it most definitely should be.

  The first hints of the morning sun start to invade my eyes, and the usual desire to get out of my tent and sit by the fire to thaw out my frozen ass is not there.

  For the last forty-eight hours, I have gone to bed cold and woken up even colder.

  I have slept like crap.

  My damn bones have ached, and my brain function has slowed, and I’ve wondere
d a time or two how well the blood of a human body flows when it’s the consistency of slushy snow and how in the hell I’ve found myself here.

  Normal people do not force themselves to go on a hike to hell in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness, but normal people probably don’t tell their producer boss they know Luca Weaver either. Obviously, I’m experiencing an acute onset of lunacy that might be at risk for turning chronic.

  But for the first time since I got here, I’m a warm lunatic. A comfy, cozy lunatic.

  I swear, it’s like God himself took pity upon me during this camping trip and decided that I deserved one good night’s sleep.

  I stretch my injured ankle a bit, checking on its status, and I’m relieved to find the pain has lessened considerably. It appears all that ice-cold washcloth insisting Luca did last night helped, and I’m half-tempted to apologize to him for acting like Cady Heron in that scene from Mean Girls where she calls Tina Fey a drug pusher.

  But he doesn’t need to know that he was right, and I certainly don’t need to think about it.

  Right now, I’m choosing sleep over everything else.

  Cocooned by the kind of heat I’ve been dreaming about for the past couple nights, I settle back into the comfort and refuse to open my eyes.

  The sun can wait.

  Luca can wait.

  All the miles in the world can freaking wait.

  For once, I’m finally comfortable, and you bet your ass I’m going to soak up every blessed second of this.

  Heaven, that’s what this is. A contented sigh escapes my lungs.

  And then, something grips my hip and pulls me closer to the source of heat.

  What the fuck?! Did I crawl into a cave with a bear?

  Panic makes my eyelids flutter, and when the sounds of soft breaths that aren’t my breaths fill my ears, I turn into a statue and a wave of consciousness-stimulated knowledge crashes over me.

  Vivid memories of last night pour into my mind like a tidal wave.

  Being so cold that I couldn’t take it anymore, leaving my tent, getting inside Luca’s tent…

  Oh sweet Lucifer, I’m not in a cave, and the warm body behind me is not a bear.

  Unbidden, visuals of the very first day I met Luca Weaver flash through my mind.

  His handsome face. His scruffy beard. Those gorgeous, dreamboat eyes. Endless miles of tight, firm muscles. His completely naked body.

  His magnificent…penis.

  Mortification spreads throughout my body, starting at my now-blushing cheeks and going all the way to my toes.

  Good God, Luca Weaver must think I’m a…a… God, I don’t even know what he must think!

  I take a deep breath, and when it stutters, force myself to take another. Okay. Okay, maybe I can just sneak out of here, and…I don’t know. Never think or speak or dream about this ever again.

  Everything is fine.

  I’m close to regaining my composure when Luca groans softly in his sleep, grips my hip again, pulls my back even closer to his chest, and then something very hard—very large and very firm—settles against the curve of my ass.

  Is that what I think it is?

  No way. I shake my head.

  But I know in my heart of hearts, there’s no way it’s anatomically possible it’s anything else.

  For the love of morning wood, Luca Weaver’s penis is poking me. Right now. Literally tap, tap, tapping against me like it’s trying to communicate something to me via Morse code.

  And yet you’re still just lying here. Not moving.

  Oh my god, am I seriously enjoying this?

  I am a pervert! A sex-starved pervert!

  I should not be enjoying the fact that Luca Weaver’s boner is pressed against my ass. Still, an aching throb begins to pulse between my thighs, and I mentally berate myself.

  Oh my god, Billie! No one should get this excited about being poked by morning wood! It doesn’t matter whose it is!

  My mind and body are at war.

  And, as if he’s right on cue, Luca—and his boner—stirs behind me.

  A raspy groan fills my ears, and I know, I just fucking know, I’m no longer the only one awake.

  I brace myself for the awkwardness that will unfold. I wait for him to realize our current dilemma, possibly yell about the meaning of an invitation, and pull his body away from mine, but it never comes.

  And before I can stop myself, before I can process what I’m saying, I lay my body upon my own awkwardly placed sword. “Your boner is literally poking me in the ass.”

  “You’re welcome,” is his completely unhinged reply.

  “That’s seriously your response right now?” I turn over on my side to meet his eyes, but I am unprepared for just how good Luca Weaver looks when he first wakes up in the morning.

  Soft blue eyes. Ruffled hair. Full lips. A little grin. I could snap a photo of him like this, and it could be on the front of any magazine without needing Photoshop.

  It’s infuriating.

  Jesus, Billie. Fucking focus!

  Right. Focus. On the boner situation.

  I pointedly glance down toward his you know what that is no longer poking me in the ass and then meet his eyes again.

  “You’re welcome?”

  He shrugs blandly. “Yeah, princess. You’re the one who got into my sleeping bag last night, and I’m the one who didn’t turn you away. You’re welcome.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t ask for a boner wake-up call!”

  He smirks. “You think that has anything to do with you? Morning wood is a normal part of male physiology. It’s pretty much always going to come with the territory if you want to use my body as your heat source for the night.”

  I try to act nonchalant about it all, but we are still in this fucking sleeping bag and he is way too fucking close and that stupid throbbing ache between my thighs refuses to go away. I move my gaze from his eyes to his mouth, and holy full, perfect lips, I want to kiss him so badly, it physically hurts.

  So, I do the only thing I can do—I blame him for my own self-destruction.

  In a huff, I get out of Luca’s sleeping bag and storm away, back out into the cold.

  I can only hope it gives me one hell of a slap in the face. I need it.

  Luca

  I was wrong; Billie Harris, given the right opportunity, can absolutely pitch one hell of a tent. And let me tell you, accidental morning wood is a catalyst for one strange fucking day.

  Shortly after Billie left my tent this morning in a bad mood, I found her outside, all packed up and ready to start today’s hike. At first, I was concerned about her hiking on an injured ankle, but she was adamant we needed to get moving.

  So, that’s what we did.

  Two miles into our trek and I’ve kept a watchful eye on her. So far, though, all appears okay. No limp or hobble or anything indicating pain. If her ankle is giving her discomfort, she is doing a damn good job of hiding it.

  “Oh, wow, look at the view,” Billie says her one-thousandth sentence of the day, and I fight the urge to laugh.

  I don’t think her mouth has stayed shut for a single second since we started our hike.

  From the instant our boots hit the dirt, Billie has been rambling about anything and everything—nonstop fucking chatter.

  Honestly, it has to be some sort of world record.

  This is an awkward, “I need to fill the silence with whatever word-vomit shoots out of my mouth” kind of ramble, and I’ve never seen anyone do it better than her.

  “What kind of trees are those?” she asks and points toward one of what has to be hundreds of trees we’ve already seen since we left my house a few days ago.

  “Pine trees.”

  “Pine trees? Really?” She scrunches up her nose. “I would’ve never guessed. And what about those trees?”

  I follow her finger to see…the same tree, but bigger.

  “Still pine trees.”

  “Lots of pine out here, huh?” she questions, but I guess it’s mo
re rhetorical than anything else because she follows it up with another. “The fresh air is nice, isn’t it?”

  Fresh air. Fucking pine trees.

  What else is she going to talk about? The damn rocks?

  As cute as one part of me wants me to think it is, fucking spare me.

  Abruptly, I stop my momentum, and Billie’s chest runs directly into my backpack and an oof! escapes her lungs.

  “What the hell?” she questions, and I turn around to meet her eyes.

  “I’d love to ask you the same question.”

  She narrows the grassy peak of green I get every time I look at her and scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve been rambling about nonsense since we took our first fucking steps this morning,” I comment. “Four hours of nonstop fucking talking. I can’t take it anymore. So, let’s get this out of the way. What’s really on your mind, princess?”

  She shrugs and stares down at her boots. “I’m a chatty girl.”

  I reach out and put my fingers beneath her chin and lift her gaze to mine again.

  “Horseshit,” I challenge. “This has nothing to do with having a chat and everything to do with you crawling into my tent last night and trying to seduce me.”

  “What!” she shouts, and her voice booms off the trees. Bailey barks several times in response, and if I hadn’t been prepared for the reaction, I would have smiled.

  I raise a defiant eyebrow, and she gears up to let me have it. Thankfully, though, she drops her volume to a whisper-yell. “I was not trying to seduce you! And like you should talk. You’re the one who had a freaking…” She trails off, and I can’t stop myself from pushing her to say it.

  “I had a what?”

  She shakes her head, and I shrug.

  “What did I have, princess?”

  “A stupid freaking boner!” She shoves both her hands into my chest, and I have to swallow back my laughter. “This morning! While I was sleeping next to you!”

  “Should I remind you that you chose to sleep inside my sleeping bag last night?”

  “Because I was too cold!” she huffs and blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”