“Figure it out!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!” I reply, fiddling madly with the impossible button, my hand grazing his swelling organ. I need a new approach. So, I sink to my knees. His bulge is in my face. I work feverishly at the button.
“Hurry, Zoey. It’s coming!”
“Hold on!” In my mind, I wish he were saying, “I’m coming.”
With one more push through the buttonhole, I manage to unbutton his tight-ass jeans. “Did it!”
“Phew!” His good hand immediately pulls at the zipper tab. Panic fills his voice.
“Fuck! The zipper’s stuck!”
Oh, God. No!
“Do something, Zoey!”
In a dither, I try shoving down the fly, jiggling and joggling it. It won’t fucking budge. My knuckles brush his rigid length beneath the denim with each successive tug.
He hisses. “Shit!”
At the sound of that word, I grow more heated and frantic. Breaking into a sweat, I work at the zipper harder, faster. His cock grows bigger, harder. I can feel it pulsating!
“Jesus, Zoey! I’m so close!”
Close to what? Pooping? Or coming? Either way, his voice sounds so desperate. Without stopping my movements, I pray to the fly gods. Please! Please! Help me! On my next forceful tug, a miracle! The zipper slides down with ease.
My jaw drops to the floor and my eyes grow as wide as saucers. He’s commando. At full attention. All rock-hard ten-inches are in my face. So close I can smell his manliness, feel his heat on my cheeks, and practically taste him in my mouth. Speechless, I behold his erection like a magnificent piece of abstract art. Seeing it shrouded today at a distance and on a monitor was one thing. But seeing it in its full glory, up close and personal, is another.
I can’t take my eyes off it. His cock is spectacular—a monstrous pink sculpture with a violet vein that matches the color of his hypnotic eyes. Its unexpected beauty takes my breath away as it arouses every one of my senses. It takes all I have to fight my burning desire to touch it…wrap my hand around his girth and feel the hot pulsing velvet in my palm. And then wrap my mouth around the crown, suck it, and then slide my lips and tongue down his length, tasting and inhaling the essence of him. And that’s just for starters.
Brandon doesn’t give me much time to stretch my imagination. Hastily, he shoves his jeans below his knees with his good hand and plunks down on the toilet. His enormous package parks to the right. My eyes don’t stray.
“I’d better be going,” I manage.
His intense gaze meets mine. Our eyes connect.
“No, Zoey. Don’t leave; stay with me. I may need you.”
Oh, God. Is he going to ask me to wipe his ass? Millions of women would kill to do that. But seriously?
He grimaces. “Don’t worry. I just want to look at you.” And then he grunts.
Watching Brandon Taylor take a shit with his violet eyes on me becomes the most perversely sensuous experience of my life. Personal assistant has a whole new meaning.
The bathroom incident is just the beginning of my week from hell. In addition to enduring the wrath of Hurricane Katrina for ordering the wrong brand of champagne (Dom Pérignon instead of Cristal), physically challenged Brandon is totally co-dependent on me. While he’s taken to wearing easy to pull on and off sweats, there are so many things he can’t manage. I only hope fingering Katrina is one of them.
On top of everything, the Golden Globes are coming up. They’re being held on Sunday at the Beverly Hilton. Brandon’s nominated for one in the Best Actor in a Television Series, Drama category. Half my days I spend dealing with his stylist and publicity team; the other half schlepping him to the set and various pre-awards events. Since both of Brandon’s sports cars are shifts, he can’t drive them with his splinted fingers. The spoiled brat refuses to ride in my cute little Mini. He says it’s too small for him—there’s not enough legroom and his head almost hits the roof. The truth is there’s barely enough room for his cock in the front seat. So, I’m stuck taking him around in his Hummer, which he also refuses to drive. His excuse: he’d rather sit back and use the time to study the file of nominees and presenters I put together for him. With his amnesia, he doesn’t know who’s who.
The bright red Hummer isn’t a car. It’s a veritable monster that takes up two lanes. I can barely navigate it let alone see above the steering wheel. It’s made for someone built like Brandon, not diminutive five-foot three me. Every time I get in it, sweat pours from behind my knees, and I think my heart is going to ricochet out the windshield. Today’s no exception.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” Brandon yells at me. “We’re going to be late.”
Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I gulp. Driving at a snail’s pace is the best I can muster. Mr. Impatient will get to his pre-awards luncheon whenever. And that may be never. As the Hummer slowly winds down the narrow twisting Hollywood Hills streets, a speeding Jag comes at us at full force. Oh, no! We’re going to collide! With an ear-piercing screech, I swerve off the road.
“Jesus! What the fuck are you doing, Zoey?” screams Brandon as I jam down on the breaks. “You’re going to get us killed!”
I narrowly miss crashing into the hillside. Catching my breath, I’m near tears. “I don’t know how to drive this car. It’s too big for me.”
“Well, you better learn because you’re going to be driving it for a while.”
Hasn’t he heard of the words “Uber” or “taxi”? And there’s a new service called Lip Service. My entire body shaking, I get back on course and silently pray that we’ll both still be alive for the awards. Five minutes later, I sideswipe a delivery truck.
By Friday, as if all this Golden Globes stuff isn’t enough, I’m dealing with one insurance claim after another. I’ve hit so many cars parking the fucking monster I’ve lost count. While there’s hardly a dent on the invincible Hummer, the damage I’ve caused is substantial. I even knocked someone’s fender off. Brandon’s insurance premium is going to skyrocket.
I do some online research. It could take several weeks for a finger jam to heal. I’m not sure I’ll last that long with him. I’m exhausted from everything I’ve had to do for the invalid. From driving to spoon-feeding him. You’d think he’d be appreciative, but he’s not. He’s been in a bad mood all week. And with each passing day, he’s grown testier—a combination of frustration and pre-awards show jitters. He no longer talks; he growls.
Saturday rolls along with the force of an avalanche. The Golden Globes are only a day away, and he still hasn’t written his acceptance speech should he win. We’re engaged in a working lunch. Awaiting our delivery order from Brandon’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Chin Chin on Sunset, we’re sitting side by side on the couch. He’s so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. His long, muscular legs are stretched out onto the coffee table. I’m sitting cross-legged with my laptop on my thighs.
“Let’s try this…” He’s dictating his latest version of the speech to me. “This has been the greatest year of my life.”
I hastily type the words. I’m a super-fast typist…another one of my outstanding personal assistant skills.
“Scratch that. That’s so untrue. Someone ran me over. I’ve got fucking amnesia. I can’t remember a goddamn thing. For all I know, this year sucked.”
I hit delete. “Why don’t you just keep it simple? You only have a minute or so. Just thank the Hollywood Foreign Press and the most important people in your professional and personal life.”
His face brightens. “That’s a good idea. Why didn’t you think of that before?”
I mentally roll my eyes. “Thinking for you isn’t part of my job description.”
“It is now. I’m giving you a raise.” He tugs on my messy ponytail. A jolt of electricity bolts through me.
“Okay, go for it.” My fingertips are on the keyboard, ready to go.
“Got it.” He pauses briefly. “Thank you, members of the Hollywood Foreign Pre
ss for this incredible honor. There are so many individuals I want to thank, but tonight I’m just going to thank the most important people in my life. A big shout-out to Conquest Broadcasting and Blake Burns for believing in Kurt Kussler…my producer Doug DeMille and our wonderful production team…my amazing co-stars, the beautiful Jewel Starr and the funny and talented Kellie Fox…my faithful, long time manager, Scott Turner… my late parents for believing in me…um…uh…”
He tugs at his bottom lip with his thumb while I chime in. “You should thank your mentor.”
“My mentor, Stella Adler…”
“Bella Stadler.” I quickly correct him.
“Right.” He quirks a grateful little smile. “And last but not least…”
Feverishly typing away, my heartbeat speeds up as I await the final mention.
“…My beautiful fiancée, Katrina Moore, for never leaving my side when I needed her most.”
My heart sinks to my stomach. My fingers quiver. I force myself to type her name. “Is that it?”
“Yeah. I think that does it.”
I fight back hot tears. And forget to hit save.
Zoey
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Brandon is pacing the living room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. His brows knit. “I can’t fucking believe it.”
He ends the call. “Shit!”
“What’s the matter?” I’ve been running over his schedule. His stylist along with the hair and makeup team should be here any minute to get him ready for the Golden Globes. While the actual awards ceremony doesn’t start until five o’clock, he needs to be at the Beverly Hilton by three to walk the red carpet and get settled.
“That was Scott. The van with my entourage got into an accident on the 101.”
“Oh my God. Are they okay?”
“Minor injuries, but they’ve all been taken to the hospital.” He looks at me beseechingly. “Zoey, I need your help.”
I knew that was coming. Go-to-Zo. That’s me. “Why can’t your ‘beautiful fiancée Katrina’ help you get ready?” I make air quotes with my fingers. My tone is snippy.
“Because she’s at her condo getting ready herself. She’s been at it all day. Make that all week. She wants everyone to look at her on the red carpet.”
I cringe at the thought of them doing the walk of fame, arm in arm, all smiles and waves, the paparazzi having a field day. Technically, I shouldn’t even be working. Sunday is my one day off. But because of the Golden Globes, Brandon demanded my presence. I have no choice.
Brandon tosses his cell phone on the coffee table. “I’m going to shower. Meet me in my bathroom in ten minutes.”
The still steamy bathroom smells intoxicating, a mix of Brandon’s expensive hair products, body lotion, and cologne. Clad in a thick white towel that hangs low on his hips, he’s perched at the vanity counter, studying himself in the lit-up, wall-to-wall mirror. I stare at his reflection, mesmerized by his sculpted pecs, muscled arms, and gorgeous face. A few strands of his unruly damp hair dangle just above his dark brows. His violet eyes sparkle. He’s everything a movie star should be.
With his good hand, he scratches his beard. With his sprained fingers, he hasn’t been able to shave all weekend. Usually he has a faint trace of stubble along his sharp jaw line, but it’s grown in thick like thistle. It’s a new form of sexy that I rather like. I long to run my fingers through it and try to imagine what it feels like. Wet velvet? Raw silk? Sweet blades of grass?
Catching my reflection in the mirror, he narrows his eyes. “I need to shave.”
“You look good with a beard.”
He cocks a brow. “You think so?”
“Totally.”
He quirks a sexy smile and strokes his jaw again. “My fans won’t like it. It’s got to go.”
He’s right-handed. His right hand is useless. It takes me a second to decode his words. Gah! He wants me to give him a shave. Take a razor to his face.
“You trust me to shave you?” I ask nervously.
“I have no choice. Have you ever shaved someone?”
“Yeah. I shave my armpits and legs all the time.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean a man.”
I used to pretend-shave my Ken doll when I was little, but that doesn’t count. I shake my head no.
He hoists himself on the marble counter and faces me. We’re almost eye-level.
“What if I cut you?”
“You won’t. Just follow my instructions and you’ll do fine.”
He has more confidence in me than I do.
A few minutes later, I’m gripping a badger brush and lathering his face in circular motions with his shaving cream. It smells clean and rich, intoxicating like him. His warm, minty breath tickles my neck. My skin is prickling.
He brushes the fingertips of his left hand along his foamy beard. “Perfection.”
I beam. A tingly sensation sweeps through my body. Mr. Put Down just gave me a compliment. My confidence surges.
I set the brush back down on a silver tray and take hold of the shaver. It’s an old-fashion safety razor, not a disposable one. With a hint of melancholy, Brandon tells me that it and the brush belonged to his late father. I have the burning urge to ask more about his deceased parents, but we’re short on time and I don’t want to arouse any more memories that may dampen his spirits on this big night. Maybe some other time. What I’ve learned, however, is that behind his macho, controlling façade is some tenderness and vulnerability.
My heart leaps back into my throat as I put the razor to his face. What if I screw up? Mutilate him? Make him bleed to death? Even the tiniest nick can spell disaster. All these worries bombard me as I glide the sharp blade downward toward his jaw with my unsteady hand. He holds himself perfectly still as I clear his bristle. Bingo! I repeat my actions, and before long, I’ve cleared the entire right side of his face. I can’t help running my fingers along his jaw. It feels smooth, but I’ve managed to leave just a fine layer of stubble. He mimics my action.
That dazzling smile flashes on his face. “You’re good at playing barber.”
I smile back at him while I rinse the blade and then shave the other side of his face. My confidence is soaring. And so is the bubble of sexual energy rising inside me. This sensuous experience is turning me on. And then when I set the blade down, my eyes pop at the sight of a tent between his legs. Holy shit! It’s turned him on too! Beneath the towel, he’s got a raging hard-on! I swallow hard. My heart pounds. So close to him, I’m sure he can hear it.
A smug smile curves up his delicious lips. Oh yeah, he knows. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I stammer. Who am I kidding? I’m so sexually charged I may combust.
“Good. You’re almost there. You just need to douse my face with some of my aftershave.” He points to the bottle on the counter. I grab it and pour a little of the lavender-scented French cologne onto my palm. And then I splash it on his smooth skin, cupping his breathtaking face in my hands, his lips dangerously close to mine. My hands linger and my mind wanders back to that shower with him. I replay his kiss. And feel those luscious lips back on my own. My mouth parts involuntarily as if ready for his deft tongue.
“Zoey, we don’t have all day. I need you to help me blow dry my hair.”
His gruff voice puts an end to my reverie. My hands fly off his jaw. “Right.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve styled his hair perfectly and know all his secret products. At the last minute, I rake my fingers through his thick onyx locks to give him that groomed tousled look he’s famous for.
He jumps off the counter and faces the mirror. “Wow! You’re good with hair too.”
I meet his breathtaking reflection. “I was raised by a hairdresser. She taught me a few tricks.” It’s a shame I don’t use them on my own hair. Like Mama’s, it’s long, thick, and lustrous. Usually, I just throw it into a utilitarian ponytail and never make a fuss. It drives Auntie Jo nuts.
While my gaze stays riveted on h
im, Brandon glances down at his watch. “C’mon. We don’t have much time. Help me get into my tux.”
Before I can say a word, he grabs my hand with his good one and leads me to his bedroom. Just like the rest of the house, it’s furnished with hi-end Italian furniture. A giant king-sized bed with a mountain of fluffy pillows dominates the room and faces a mirrored wall. A shudder runs through me. Is this where he fucks Katrina? I haven’t thought about her until now. Jealousy rears its ugly head.
“Where’s your tux?” I ask glumly.
“It’s in that garment bag hanging on the closet. Everything you need is inside it, including my shoes.” He points to it, and with my back toward him, I retrieve it.
When I swivel around, my jaw crashes to the floor and my eyes pop. He’s standing stark naked before me. The towel is pooled by his feet.
“What’s the matter, Zoey?”
I can’t get my mouth to move. Or my feet.
“Are your legs stuck in cement?”
A croak escapes my throat.
“Sheesh, Zoey. You’ve seen my cock before. And my body. And seriously, how did you expect to get me dressed if I didn’t undress?”
He makes some valid points. But right now, there’s no room in my head for any form of rationality when the epitome of manly perfection is standing before me.
Holy mother of Jesus! His body is a total work of art. All lean, polished bronze muscle, his chiseled torso and limbs fitting together to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. It belongs in a museum or something. Except there’s no fig leaf big enough in the world to cover up his package. His cock is the size of Texas and below it, a big sac of balls hangs low. He moves to the bed and I get a glimpse of his gorgeous ass before he sits down. Holy cow! Sculpted buns of steel! They’re practically surreal!
“Zoey, come on, now.” He’s beginning to sound irritated. “I’m not the big bad wolf. I’m not going to bite.”
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