Keep This Promise

by Willow Winters

Vaughn

  The cameras are rolling. Music is pumping out in the makeshift club on set, The Weeknd’s “Starboy” thrumming in my ears. Natasha—or as I should say, Lexi—is currently gyrating on my lap, dancing for me—well, for my character, Drew Asher.

  Only thing is…I can’t seem to get my head in the scene and off Charly.

  I don’t get why she’s infecting my thoughts so much. It has to be because I can’t have her. Forbidden fruit and all that.

  I force myself back into character. On cue, Drew gets to his feet, picking up Lexi, and carries her over to the bar where he deposits her on the top, none too gently.

  Personally, I would take a little more care of my woman, but this isn’t me. This is Drew, and Drew’s an asshole; therefore, I’m currently an asshole.

  Well, I am an asshole, too. Just not in bed. I like to make sure my woman is happy and taken care of, putting her needs before my own.

  Lexi pulls Drew into her body, using her legs wrapped around his waist.

  Drew kisses her hard. His fingers buried deep in her hair, controlling the action.

  A flash of kissing Charly like this appears in my mind.

  Holding her like this, pushing my tongue into her mouth.

  I can feel myself start to lose hold of Drew, imagining this is me kissing Charly.

  Jesus Christ. Drew is kissing Lexi. Get with the fucking program, Vaughn.

  It’s not like me to lose character like this.

  Dragging myself back, Drew grabs ahold of Lexi’s legs and pulls them from around him. Stepping back, sliding his hands down her legs, he parts them wide, hooking each of her heeled feet onto the barstools on either side of them.

  My eyes come up.

  Charly.

  She’s standing there, right in my eye line, watching.

  What the fuck is she doing here?

  I know she has to be on set, but couldn’t she stand somewhere else?

  This scene is hard enough to do as it is without the current source of my dick’s desire right where I can see her.

  I feel a rush of anger at her.

  Unable to do anything, I throw the feeling into my character.

  Fixing his eyes on Lexi, Drew yanks his jacket off, throwing it aside. He rips off the shirt he’s wearing, sending the buttons scattering. His shoes are kicked off. Belt buckle is the next to go. The zipper is pulled down, and the pants are off.

  And then Drew is standing there, stark fucking naked.

  There’s always that moment when my brain catches up to the joke—that it is actually me who’s naked, but for a cock sock, in front of all these people.

  Quick as a switch, I flick my brain back to Drew.

  Drew doesn’t give a fuck that people can see him. Or that he’s about to fuck a stripper on the bar in front of them all.

  Stepping back up to Lexi, Drew rips her panties off, making her gasp.

  Leaving her in just the bra she’s wearing.

  And Natasha with only a nude patch covering the part that no other man but her husband should be seeing.

  I really fucking hate this part. More than I hate having to get naked myself. I hate having my friend out here, naked with pretty much everything on show.

  But then she’s not alone.

  We’re in this together.

  But Natasha, being the professional she is, stays in character.

  Lexi reaches up, hand going to the back of Drew’s head, and drags him to her mouth, kissing him.

  And then they’re fucking. Well, Natasha and I are fake fucking. But for Drew’s and Lexi’s characters, they’re going at it, right here on the bar in this Vegas nightclub, with everyone watching.

  And no one stops them.

  Because he’s Drew Asher, and he does what the fuck he wants.

  Unlike me. Who can’t fuck anyone until this film is done.

  Lexi is moaning like it’s the best sex she’s ever had. Drew is pounding into her. His head comes up from her shoulder, and his eyes meet with Charly’s.

  For a brief moment, I forgot she was there.

  Fuck.

  I need to look away. Back to Natasha—Lexi, whoever the fuck.

  But I can’t take my eyes off Charly.

  The look in her eyes…she looks turned on.

  And it’s turning me on.

  Then, she bites her lip.

  Jesus.

  I groan, closing my eyes.

  I need to get out of my head—or get Charly out of my head.

  Drew.

  He opens his eyes, but when he looks down, he’s not staring at Lexi.

  I’m staring at Charly.

  What the actual fuck?

  I shut my eyes tight.

  Opening them back up, I see Natasha.

  But I need to see Lexi.

  Fuck, my head is so messed up right now.

  Drew kisses Lexi, his hips pumping hard against hers. Her legs move, coming around his waist, the stilettos of her heels digging in his back.

  Charly’s boots.

  My mind flashes back to that scenario of fucking her with only those boots on.

  Oh, Jesus, no.

  I’ve got a hard-on.

  I’ve got a fucking hard-on.

  Think of something to get rid of it.

  Mom. Grandma. Grandma naked.

  Fuck! It won’t go down.

  It’s because I haven’t had sex for so long.

  Now, he’s up, and he’s not going anywhere.

  Natasha slides her hand into my hair, bringing her lips to my ear, which is now concealed by her arm. She whispers, “You okay?”

  She can feel my erection.

  How could she not when it’s poking her in the thigh?

  God, I’m mortified.

  I’m fucking this up—literally.

  This has never happened to me before.

  It’s all Charly’s fault for being so hot and being right here.

  I need to get a handle on this.

  “Cut!” Brandon calls.

  Thank fuck.

  “What happened?” Natasha asks, tipping her head back, staring me in the eyes.

  She looks uneasy, and I feel like a fucking pervert.

  I close my eyes on an embarrassed groan. “I’m so sorry.”

  She laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. It happens.”

  “Not with me, it doesn’t.” I’ve never gotten a hard-on while doing a sex scene. “It’s not you,” I reassuringly tell her.

  “I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved by that statement.” She laughs again.

  “I’ve got your robe, Natasha,” Logan says from beside us.

  “You okay to move?” Natasha asks me.

  “Um…” I glance around for the current source of my problem because she’ll be the one with my robe.

  God, this situation is so fucked up.

  I see her approaching with my robe in hand.

  “Sure.” I shift back a little, allowing Natasha room to move. I help her down from the bar, making sure to keep my pecker pointed in the direction of the bar and nowhere else.

  “Here’s your gown,” Charly says from beside me. “You want me to help you put it on?”

  “No, I got it.” My voice comes out sharper than intended.

  I take the robe from her without looking at her.

  I can’t look at her right now.

  I just need to get the fuck out of here and clear my head for a few minutes.

  That, or go and tug one out.

  I pull the robe on my arms, but it feels tight.

  “Why doesn’t this fit?” I bark, finally looking at her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have mixed up gowns with Logan.”

  She laughs, and something inside me pops.

  All I want is to get my cock covered and get the fuck out of here and away from her because I want her, and I can’t have her, so somehow, now, this is all her fault.

  “You think this is funny?” I snap. “I’m stark fucking naked. All I ask for i
s a fucking robe that fits, and you can’t even get that fucking right!”

  Hurt flashes through her surprise-filled eyes. Those gorgeous blueberry eyes.

  Guilt lances across my chest, leaving behind a painful ache.

  The whole set is silent.

  I can feel my face prickling with shame and residual anger.

  Anger that I directed in the wrong place.

  I’m such a prick.

  I see movement in my peripheral. Logan is handing her a robe. She takes it from him and holds it out to me. Her arm stiff. Her expression fixed. But her eyes can’t hide the hurt.

  “Charly…” I softly say her name, taking the robe from her.

  Suddenly, I don’t care so much about putting it on. I just want her to forgive me.

  And, anyway, my erection is gone. Apparently, my cock doesn’t like me hurting her either.

  “Do you need anything else, Mr. West?” Her voice sounds strong, but I hear the slight waver in it.

  It makes me feel like shit.

  I swallow down. “Pins…”

  “No? Well, okay then,” she says in an overly loud voice, “I’ll take these to get laundered.” She quickly picks up my discarded clothes that I removed in the scene, clutches them to her chest, and strides away, leaving the set through an exit door.

  “What the hell was that?” Natasha says in a low voice, coming up beside me.

  I pull on the robe, tying the belt. “I don’t know.” I sigh.

  “That wasn’t like you, Vaughn.”

  I look her in the eye. “I know,” I say.

  Something flickers in her eyes.

  “Ah, you like her,” she says. “That’s what caused the chubby.”

  “Chubby? Jesus, Natasha.”

  “What?” She laughs. “I’m a mom now.”

  I shake my head.

  “So, you like the girl. Go for it. She seems sweet.”

  “I can’t.” I sigh, leaning back against the bar that Drew just screwed Lexi on. “I promised Jack and myself that I’d keep my pecker clean while I made this movie.”

  Understanding passes over her face.

  “Well, no matter what, you owe her an apology.”

  “Yeah”—I sigh, looking over at the door Charly just exited out of—“I know.”

  Chapter 12

  Charly

  I don’t cry.

  It’s not something I ever do.

  The one and only time I remember crying was when my grandmother died.

  That was twelve years ago. I haven’t shed a tear since.

  I think my tear ducts are defunct.

  When I do get hurt or upset though, I get angry.

  And, right now, I’m seething fucking mad.

  What a wanker Vaughn West is!

  Yelling at me like that in front of everyone. All I did was accidentally pick up the wrong robe. It was an easy mistake to make. And, honestly, I was just feeling all flustered after watching that scene he did with Natasha, and I wasn’t paying full attention to what I was doing.

  And don’t think I didn’t spot the erection he was sporting after the scene. Sure, it must be hard, being a guy and grinding up all over a beautiful woman, but she’s married with a kid, and he got a hard-on over her, which is gross.

  But then he did get an erection before I stabbed him in the balls. Maybe he just gets hard when he’s close to a woman. He does like to put out, as the press has recently reported.

  Ugh. He’s a pig!

  He’s off my Christmas card list—not that he was ever on it.

  This morning, after I thought on it, I figured he had probably been off with me in his trailer because he was tense over doing that scene. So, I was going to let it go. But, oh no, super asshole comes out to play after the scene is over.

  It’s official. I really, really dislike the hot jerk.

  I’m in the main warehouse where we store all the clothes. Ava asked me to put away the shoes from today’s shoot. After I wheeled them over here in a cart, I reach inside and grab a pair of men’s brogues.

  Even though I know these shoes are not Vaughn’s, I still slam them onto the rack like they are his. If I can’t take my anger out on him, then the shoes are getting it.

  Sorry, shoes.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  I whirl around at the voice, my heart making a break out of my chest.

  Vaughn.

  “Jesus, you scared me.” I frown at him, pressing my hand to my heart, trying to settle it.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “Yeah, well, you did.” I turn away from him and grab another pair of shoes—Jimmy Choos this time. I’m a little more careful with putting these ones back. No way can I abuse a pair of Choos.

  “Did you need me to do something?” I add with attitude.

  “I want to apologize. For earlier. I was an ass.”

  My heart skips. But I don’t let it show. “Yeah, you were. A monumental one.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, as in you forgive me?”

  I shrug.

  “Jesus. Can you turn and look at me while I talk to you? It’s no fun having a conversation with your back.”

  I look at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, well, it’s no fun being yelled at in front of the whole crew.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Oh, well, that’s okay then,” I retort.

  “Jesus, woman, what do you want? Blood? I said I was sorry. I can’t do any more.”

  Anger lancing through me, I spin around to face him. “I don’t want anything from you. You said you were sorry. We’re good.”

  “From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like we’re good.”

  “What do you want? You want me to do a little happy dance or something?” I do a little dance on the spot, waving my hands around.

  He laughs. “You’re fucking crazy.”

  I stop dancing and frown. “Maybe because you make me crazy.”

  “Right back at you, Pins.”

  “Will you stop calling me that?” My hands go to my hips. So do his eyes.

  “No,” he says slowly, dragging his gaze back up to mine.

  “Fine. Then, I’ll just call you…Boner!”

  I see a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He knows I saw the hard-on he had earlier while filming.

  His expression narrows. “You know, you should speak to me with more respect than that.”

  “Why? Because you’re a big movie star, and I’m just a wardrobe assistant? Yeah, well, you know what you can do with that notion? I only give respect to people who earn it.”

  “Oh, I’ve earned it all right.” His face is tightening with anger.

  “You haven’t earned a dime of respect. You’re just an arrogant, jumped-up—”

  I don’t get to finish my sentence because he cuts me off.

  Well, his arm cuts me off when it reaches out, grabs ahold of me, and yanks me into his body.

  Then, his lips are on mine.

  Soft and sweet. Nothing like I was expecting but so much better. Pressed there, but he doesn’t make a move to kiss me further.

  I pop open an eye. “Um, what are you doing?” I ask, breathless. Because I am breathless.

  Vaughn West’s lips are currently on mine. Vaughn West, the movie star. Vaughn West, whom I’ve more than once used as a mental prop when spending alone time with my vibrator.

  The fangirl in me is jumping up and down—even if he is an arrogant jerk.

  His eyes open and stare into mine. “I’m kissing you. Is that okay?”

  “Mmhmm.” I nod lightly, my lips still attached to his. “Totally. I was just checking because—”

  “Pins.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up, and let me kiss you.”

  And I do. I let him push me back up against the shoe rack and kiss the hell out of me.

  And, God, can the man kiss.

  His tongue lightly sweeps ov
er my bottom lip, and then he nips it with his teeth, making me moan.

  One hand is cupping the nape of my neck; the other finds its way to the hem of my dress. His fingers brush over my bare skin, making me gasp.

  He stills.

  There’s a fraction of a beat where he just breathes against me. Then, he dives in again, and all bets are off.

  His hand grabs my thigh and lifts. Hooking my leg around his hip, he presses into me.

  And he’s hard.

  I already saw his size earlier. It’s impressive.

  And it’s even better pressed up against me.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, crushing my breasts to his chest. My hips start to move against him without my control. It’s instinctual.

  I suck on his tongue, and he groans.

  “You feel so fucking good, Charly,” he says into my mouth. “Taste so good. Better than I imagined.”

  He’s imagined this?

  My confidence skyrockets. Well, it’s not every day that a man like him tells you he’s imagined kissing you.

  We’re going hard at it, kissing like we’ve been starved of each other, his body molded to mine. I feel his hand wander to my ass, my dress lifting, and I wonder just how far this is going to go.

  How far will I let it go?

  Do I want him?

  God, yes.

  But in a warehouse?

  No, I don’t think so.

  Then, a door bangs, jolting us apart.

  We’re staring at each other, chests heaving. His lips are swollen from my kiss, his cheeks flushed, his hair tousled. He looks like pure sex.

  Good sex.

  Hot, dirty, all-night-long sex.

  I want him. Badly. Like I’ve never wanted a man before.

  Footsteps start to come our way. I see panic fill his eyes, so I grab his hand and lead him away from the approaching footsteps, to the far end of the aisle and up toward the exit.

  We fall out through the door, and I close it behind us.

  It’s dark out, the area lit by one of the many streetlamps that dot the studio.

  “So…” I lean back against the door.

  “We shouldn’t have done that. I mean, I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Oh. I deflate. All the good, amazing feelings I was having are gone, like the pop of a balloon.

  “Okay,” I say. And I don’t really know what else to say or do, so I just start to walk away.

  “Pins”—he catches hold of my hand from behind me, turning me back to him—“that came out sounding wrong. I wanted to kiss you. God, I want to kiss you.”