The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

“Wanna watch a movie?”

“A movie?” Trent repeated, widening his eyes. “Now?”

“Sure. Or TV…”

“Are you high?”

I snort-laughed. “Fuck, I wish. My buzz is fading fast.”

“Well, that should be easy to fix. I’m sure you have some fine Scotch in a fully-stocked bar in your palatial estate.”

“I do, but I can’t drink any more tonight. I have Ollie tomorrow after school. I can’t risk a hangover. I don’t bounce back the way I used to, and while most preteens are oblivious and self-absorbed, my kid isn’t like that at all. He’ll ask what’s wrong, I’ll say nothing, and he won’t buy it. And if Ollie worries about me, he’ll call Charlie, who no doubt is planning on doing a drive-by anyway. I would love to be the guy I used to be. That guy didn’t worry about anything. He just kept going and going…like an Energizer bunny on speed. He didn’t look around and wonder where he went wrong ’cause whatever bullshit he created, he was sure he could fix…eventually.”

God, someone shut me up.

I almost felt sorry for the actor-slash-stuntman. Or maybe he was wondering if he should be recording my meltdown and which Hollywood rag he could sell the story to. I could see the headline now, “Baxter Producer’s Naked Drunken Confession. A Tale of Jealousy and Regret.”

Trent fixed me with a piercing look and inhaled deeply as he pulled me close. “You need to chill. I think you’re unraveling.”

“You think?” I scoffed, cuddling against his side. “If you sell my story, could you just…not add that last part?”

“What part?”

“The part about being eaten alive from the inside out with jealousy and regret. It’s too embarrassing.”

He ran soothing fingers through my hair. “Your story is safe. Just relax.”

Unbelievably…I did.

I rested my head on his shoulder and felt my limbs melt into the mattress and into his warmth. My pulse calmed, then slowed. And suddenly, I was very tired. I slung my right arm over his chest and my leg between his and my eyes drifted shut.

Just a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.

Eight hours later, Trent was still in my bed, snoring softly beside me.

Sunlight peeked through the drapes, allowing a sliver of light in the room. It was enough to gauge the current situation—six a.m. and there was a naked stranger spooning me, his morning wood nudging my ass.

We must have switched positions at some point in the middle of the night. And one of us must have turned off the light and the fireplace. It might have been me. I wasn’t sure. I blinked in the semidark and tried to put a few puzzle pieces together. Last night was a little fuzzy. The bar, fast food, the ride home…sex. Really, really, good sex and now this.

I glanced over and smiled at him.

“G’mornin’,” Trent rasped, kissing my shoulder as he slid his bare cock between my crease.

I leaned over to grab supplies from the nightstand and passed them over. Then I rolled onto my stomach and spread myself open. Another soft kiss, the tear of a condom wrapper, the click of the lube bottle, the feel of his fingers stretching me…and he was inside me, moving slowly, almost reverently.

When I squeezed him, he groaned aloud and answered by pumping his hips with intent. His thick cock massaged my sweet spot over and over while he held my wrists, teasing me with the featherlight brush of his beard along my neck. I wiggled my ass insistently and kneeled, wrapping my fingers around the headboard for purchase as he fucked me from behind.

We came within seconds of each other, gasping for air. Trent covered me, pressing his sweat-slicked chest to my back and holding on for dear life.

After a few minutes, we showered and redressed. Well, Trent redressed. I kicked my wrinkled suit to a corner in my room and threw on a pair of sweats and an ancient UCLA T-shirt Charlie had bought me for Father’s Day years ago. Then I led the way downstairs to the great room and made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Coffee?”

Trent fussed with the zipper on his leather jacket as he ambled toward the island. “I oughtta go. I shouldn’t be here.”

“If I didn’t want you here, I would have kicked you out last night,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Have a cup of coffee.”

He stared at me for a long moment before flopping onto one of the barstools at the huge island. “All right.”

I poured two cups of coffee and slid one across the marble island to Trent. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“No, this is good. Thanks.” Trent cradled his cup, darting his eyes between me and the coffeemaker. “When did you make that?”

“I didn’t. Mary programs the machine in the afternoon before she leaves for the day. She does all of the grocery shopping and most of the cooking too.”