by JC Harroway
Brooke abandons her knitting and stands, swishing the full skirt of her dress out of the way. ‘I’d like to go and greet some fans.’ She indicates the crowd of onlookers behind the cordon across the square.
I glance at the shoot director who is still clicking through the shots with the photographer, wishing they would bloody hurry and wrap this up. Protective urges re-tighten my gut. Not the security-based ones for the Brooke of yesterday, but deeper urges for a woman I know a little better now. Exposed, raw, confusing.
She’s worming her way under my guard. Can I still be objective? Would I have been as concerned that she’s cold yesterday, before the kiss? Or is my judgement already dangerously clouded?
I eye the fans clamouring for her, waving banners and yelling. She’s a big deal, especially in Milan, fashion capital of the world, but then she’s a household name. Everywhere she goes, fans follow, their unpredictable tendencies and mobile phones pointing her way a security headache.
I check my watch. ‘You need to change.’ Part two of the shoot is on the Duomo’s roof terrace. ‘And a meet-and-greet is not on today’s schedule.’ I’m being a dick; the crowd looks innocent enough—tourists, families, children. And it’s my job to facilitate whatever she needs.
‘We had a deal,’ I remind her, because I can’t forget what she did last night. I can’t shake the taste of her kiss or the sound of her moans. And she owes me some client compliance after that monumental wobble in my personal convictions.
‘And I’m keeping my side of it.’ Her stare flashes with defiance. ‘All I want to do is greet some fans with my bodyguard in tow. I could have just walked over there without you.’
I snort. ‘I’d like to see you try.’ I’m good at my job and she knows it.
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s freezing,’ she says, squaring up to me with a tilted chin. She’s tall for a woman, five-ten, but I’m taller. And, now I’ve discovered that she’s a greater risk to my emotional armour than I imagined, I’m less inclined to be conciliatory.
‘Some of those people have been waiting for hours.’ She drains the last of her coffee and places the cup in the rubbish bin. ‘I’m not going rogue, I’m just asking you to do your job while I say hello and pose for some photos.’
Her reminder that I’m here to guard her, not fuck her, settles the worst of my over-cautious gut reaction. My job is easy—protect her, full-stop. Walking away from her last night while she was naked and vulnerable...with the taste of her kiss in my mouth...was the real test.
Because, as I feared, I need to shield her from myself. Not only my worst tendencies. I’m a risk to her image. Her image is her livelihood. If the media sensed any whiff of a physical relationship between us, they’d dig into my past for their stories. She wouldn’t like what they’d find.
At my reluctant nod we cross the square to the cordoned-off crowd, where Brooke turns on her Lady Madden charm for those assembled. She signs autographs and positions herself into fan selfies while I loiter close, stiff with guilt.
I’m selfish. She’s a world-famous icon and I’m an ex-lowlife. I’m bad news for a woman of her profile but, if I can keep a lid on the sex, control that, I can keep the rest of her at arm’s length. Because it’s too late for total denial. Now that I’ve tasted both her surrender and her kiss, I want more.
I watch her interact with her fans. If I indulged in jealousy, another pointless emotion, I’d feel it now. Her beautiful smile sells. Every part of her sells. It’s the reason we’re standing out in the open on a freezing morning shooting some high-end ad campaign for God only knows what. But, unlike me, these people haven’t seen the hundred other versions of that smile. The playful one when she teases me, or the hesitant one when she laughs at herself, or the triumphant one I witnessed last night as I reluctantly abandoned her lips.
Fuck... If not for the past seventeen years of discipline and calling the shots in my brief sexual relationships, I’d be buggered. I smother a sigh and practise my apparent detachment.
When she slips into stilted Italian in order to converse with the locals, new respect for her slashes through everything I’ve just told my smug brain. She could easily hire an interpreter, but she’s learning a second language instead, something I’d failed at badly as a kid. The young woman she’s talking to can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen and whatever Brooke says to her makes the girl well up with delighted tears.
I can no longer ignore that Brooke is humble, and real, and likes to laugh. That she’s brave and wants to use her fame to make a difference—the breast cancer charity work scheduled tomorrow is only one of the many causes she champions.
What am I doing with such an ethereal creature? I should abandon our physical relationship, not lure her into some filthy bargain where I get everything I want and something I don’t want—her trust—and she gets the scraps I give in return.
‘Can I have your hat after all, please?’ she asks, bringing me back to the moment. I take it from my pocket without hesitation and hand it over, checking my watch as I do so she knows it’s time to wrap this up.
Instead of putting the hat on herself, she hands the black woollen beanie to the girl in the crowd, who hugs her with rounded eyes still brimming with tears.
I conceal a frown. It’s not that I’m possessive about my hat. I wanted to give it to Brooke back in the tent. But she’s dragging me into her altruism, into her light, showing me more glimpses of the real Brooke Madden than I care to witness. All I need is to focus on the sex on my terms.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask as we make our way across the square towards the cathedral.
‘She’s a fan, a fashion student here in Milan. She’s been waiting since five this morning. Her cheeks were like ice.’ Brooke shrugs and ducks through a heavy oak side entrance, away from the queue of tourists waiting to enter the iconic building. ‘I’ll replace your hat—thank you, by the way.’
For the first time today the wariness leaves her eyes when she looks at me with gratitude. My heart thumps—I hadn’t realised how much I hold out for that smile of hers to be directed my way. Why does this woman, a woman I now know is sensual and adventurous and rocks her own sexuality like a voyeuristic goddess, make me feel like a fucking clueless teenager with a runaway dick?
When she emerges from the makeshift changing room—a screened-off corner of a cavernous attic space above the cathedral—wearing yet another revealing gown, she fries my brain with renewed lust. She sits in the relocated make-up chair for a touch-up. I scroll through some work emails as a distraction from the temptation to drag her back behind the screens so I can lave every inch of her body with my greedy tongue.
‘So, let’s talk about what happened last night,’ she says, her eyes closed for the make-up artist’s brush.
I ignore her. I can’t think about that kiss without getting hard, and we have an audience...
Brooke must sense one of the reasons for my hesitation because she addresses the Italian make-up artist fixing her face. ‘Parli un po’ d’inglese?’
‘Niente.’ The woman shakes her head and glances my way with curiosity.
‘Scusa,’ Brooke says, smiling at the woman before flicking me a look. ‘We’re good. Rosa doesn’t speak any English.’
I sigh and pocket my phone. Better to get this over with. The sooner Brooke adjusts her expectations, the better. And I really need to confess my criminal conviction so she knows exactly who she’s playing this risky game with.
‘Why? Are you disappointed?’
I know what it’s like to disappoint someone—it’s the reason I haven’t seen my mother in months. On the surface she acts proud of her only son, despite the way I behaved as a young man—knocking up Julia, brawling, going to prison and then losing everything I loved in one hit. But I see the truth in my mother’s eyes when she thinks I’m not paying attention. And I can’t blame her. I�
�m nothing to be proud of.
Rosa begins applying some sort of powder to Brooke’s face, neck and bare shoulders with a giant brush, lighting her skin up with shimmers like glitter.
Fuck, she’s luminous enough in her natural state...
‘I’m not disappointed,’ says Brooke, keeping her tone mild. ‘I’m frustrated.’ Her eyes meet mine in the mirror and I try to ignore their vulnerability. ‘Why did you stop?’
‘Because I could.’ I don’t want to play games with her, not mind games anyway. But nor can I risk becoming sucked in too deeply by her irresistible, down-to-earth charm. By my own possessiveness. By this physical need for her. Keeping a safe distance is how I stay emotionally disciplined. And, despite her every-day qualities, she comes from another world. A world of power and influence to which I, and the fans outside, don’t belong.
She smiles at a Rosa, who says something in Italian and then moves away, her work complete. ‘Well, when a woman is naked and laid out before you ready and willing, most men would do more than kiss.’
I cross my arms over my chest. ‘I’m not most men.’
Her stare traces my torso in a way that heats my blood before she looks back up, completely unperturbed by my evasiveness. ‘That’s very obvious. So, do you always just watch? Don’t you ever touch? It must take a lot of self-restraint.’
Talking about my sexual preferences when my head is full of the things I’d like to do with her wakes my inner beast. I’d like nothing better than to show her exactly how I like my sex, office hours be damned. The table in front of her holding the make-up paraphernalia looks sturdy enough... The mirrors are perfectly angled so I’d get a wraparound view while we fucked... If the crew wasn’t here, I could burrow underneath that voluminous skirt and give her exactly what she’s hinting at...
‘We’re really discussing this here?’ I ask, more turned on than I should be by her dogged persistence.
‘Yes, I don’t see why not.’
‘I thought I made it clear. I touch, but on my terms.’ Why am I telling this darling socialite from the British aristocracy about my depraved world? Just because she’s into a spot of kink. Can I really expose her to my dark side, when the risk for both of us is so high? For her, because she has to project Brooke Madden the brand, and for me because she tests my denial to the limit. I’ve already allowed her to make a mockery of my rules. Ones there to ensure I don’t hurt anyone else the way I hurt my ex, my mother, myself...
‘I don’t mind the terms.’ She swivels her chair away from the mirror so she’s facing me, her eyes bright with challenge. ‘Last night was fun, but I want more than dribs and drabs.’
My stare follows as the tip of her tongue wipes her lower lip. Perhaps she could handle me and my twisted baggage after all.
‘Sex is the only thing on offer,’ I remind her. If she imagines some sort of fairy tale—the ex-con and the princess... Never going to happen.
‘That’s all I want.’ She tilts up her chin, exposing her slender neck.
I snort, wondering if there’s time to go down on her before the next part of the shoot. ‘The word fun isn’t working for me, though.’ My blood boils at the hunger in her eyes and the answering pulsing in my groin.
‘Call it whatever you like.’ Her eyes narrow with determination I’ve come to both love and dread. ‘But it’s going to happen, Nick.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nick
DAMNED RIGHT IT’S going to happen—but my way.
I press my lips together, braced for what feels like a fall from the Duomo’s roof to the cobbles below. Because, even after one kiss, I know being physical with Brooke will test every inch of my restraint.
‘You know, for a man who loves control, isn’t it better to orchestrate the sex rather than allow it to sneak up on us both?’ Those delicious lips twitch. For the first time in years I wish I could shrug off the self-imposed shackles of my discipline. Wish I were free to simply drag her to the nearest flat surface and lose myself.
It’s been so long since I acted on instinct.
At eighteen I arrogantly thought I had life all figured out. Then Julia got pregnant. After the initial shock we made plans for our future—not the one either of us would have chosen so young, but one we vowed to make work. Then my reckless streak turned my best intentions, my dreams and Julia’s, to ash. I pulled back after that. Locked down any chance of that happening again. Made control an art form.
And, now I’ve worn these shackles of self-denial for so long, what if I let go and then can’t claw back that control? Pain slices through my lungs, seizing my breath. The last time I lost it, I also lost everything, including a part of my own soul that I’ll never get back.
No, I’d rather dictate my own punishments than suffer more painful ones. A little sexual frustration is a small price to pay to avoid devastating consequences. But I can’t divulge any of that without sharing the details—something I never talk about. The pain is still too vicious and raw and shameful.
Taking my silence for hesitation, Brooke sighs. ‘Look, my last break-up a year ago all but destroyed me and my reputation—I lost endorsement deals because of those nude pictures my ex sold. Some would argue that I was the victim, but I blame myself. I was too trusting. Naïve. And the worst part was that it hurt my family.’ She looks down, the confidence draining from her expression and posture, so she looks almost like a little girl playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes and make-up, not the international supermodel she is.
But her eyes, when she raises them to mine, conceal her very grown-up pain.
‘I can’t just hook up with some random person I meet. Most people just want me for all this.’ She waves her hand, indicating the fantasy of her current appearance. ‘They don’t want the real me—the klutzy knitting version...’ She smiles with the self-deprecating humour I love.
She’s so strong. She struggles with trust but still manages to speak and live from the heart. I fight my own smile, thinking of her hole-riddled knitting, my chest thumping hard. She’s doing it again––enticing her way under my skin so I know I have no hope of sleep tonight, just as it eluded me last night after that kiss.
‘There are things you should know about me beyond the fact that I can’t be responsible for your emotional happiness,’ I say.
Her defiance flashes. ‘I’m responsible for my own happiness. I’m not talking about emotions. Just sex.’
‘I’m only interested in the kind of sex I like.’ My eyes burn into hers as if drawn there by unseen forces out of my control.
‘What kind of sex is that? Because I liked what we did last night.’
I shrug, avoiding looking at those lush lips, which are parted in fascinated astonishment. ‘Intense...some would say deviant. Unforgettable. But not usually described as “fun”.’ I repeat her descriptor back to her, as if it’s distasteful, because I have all sorts of visions of those lips I tasted last night, the same ones painted red now, parted around my cock. Nope, fun is way too frivolous a word for that kind of pleasure.
‘I usually find partners who complement my tastes, so everyone knows what they’re entering into. No expectations and no disappointments.’ I stare into her expressive eyes, the ones I’ll likely see staring back at me from some billboard back in London when this gig is over. Everything about her is expensive, classy, seemingly untouchable. But I’ve seen the same eyes glazed with arousal. Seen them riddled with doubts. And narrowed in frustration when she’s bent over her disastrous knitting.
Yes this woman is nothing like she seems from a distance.
‘I think I’ve proved, twice, that I’m willing to complement your tastes, so why don’t you show me what you mean? I might surprise you.’ Her voice turns husky with repressed desire. I know this because I’ve heard her come twice now. Heard the moans and cries she makes, the stuttered breathing.
‘Is that right?’ I
know she’ll surprise me because nothing about her is what I expected when I agreed to this extended job. In small doses, during daylight hours, she was easier to resist. But now, when there’s no quick escape...when she’s saying all the right things and I’ve already had one little taste...
‘There are easier, safer, options for you to have a little fun than with me.’ I’m running out of excuses save for the juiciest one—my police record. There’s still fight in me, although it comes with a vile taste in the mouth, suspicious of jealousy.
‘Perhaps.’ I catch sight of her fingers curling into the arms of the chair. ‘But I told you—trust is a big thing for me. I know you’re not going to steal and sell my underwear.’
‘No, selling it would be a waste... I’m sure.’
She laughs. She gets my sense of humour, although I’m only half joking, the animal in me dying to get a closer look, smell and taste of all she has to offer. But I know my tendencies—a little of the delectable Brooke goes a long way. I need to keep my exposure to this intense chemistry leashed. Dole out the dribs and drabs the way an addict hopes to limit their consumption.
‘I don’t want to sound like a spoiled little celebrity, but can you imagine how exhausting it is having to hide the real you all the time? Second-guessing the motives of everyone you meet? Promoting Brooke Madden the brand, without a toe out of line?’ She blinks, the vulnerability in her eyes slashing through what’s left of my defences. ‘Last night was...freeing for me, Nick. I didn’t have to do anything or be anyone. Just myself.’
My blood roars, demanding that I show her more. Show her everything. I brace my hands on the back of her chair and swivel her to face the mirror. Our eyes meet there—me standing at her back. My palms burn to touch her bare shoulders. To stroke her shimmering skin. To feel if it’s as silky as I imagine. My breath traps in my chest as I treat myself to a miniscule concession—a brief, almost accidental swipe of my right thumb against her upper arm.