by Madison Faye
“The car is ready. Jet is meeting us at the studio.”
I give Jack a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Jack. I’m ready.”
* * *
The interview goes as expected. I smile prettily and answer questions about Steve Nelson and my ‘breakup’ with Brent. I express the appropriate amount of upset over Brent ‘cheating’ on me—no tears. Talking about Steve Nelson is harder. Gage is watching from backstage and for some reason his mere presence makes it easier. When I’m asked if I’m scared, I can honestly answer that I trust my security team to keep me safe.
I’m barely off the set when my phone rings. Ugh, Bridgette.
“Hello.”
“You look tired. That’s not acceptable,” she screeches.
“I’m sorry.” Should I have to apologize? No, but it’s just easier than explaining that I just got back from London yesterday and instead of being able to rest, I had to go straight to a shoot that didn’t end until late. Not to mention that she had me up before the roosters for this interview.
Gage’s warm palm presses against my lower back as he guides me out of the studio and the rest of Bridgette’s rant becomes static in my ear. He helps me into the car then slides in beside me, making the spacious backseat feel small. His presence is overwhelming but welcome.
“Did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”
“I said if that makeup artist of yours can’t manage to do something as simple as cover dark circles under your eyes I’m going to replace him.” Her tone moves from angry to belligerent.
“It isn’t Jet’s fault.” I try to defend him, but it falls on deaf ears. She continues her tirade until I’m ready to hang up on her. I won’t, but I want to. Finally, we arrive on location for the shoot and I have a legitimate reason to hang up. “Mom, I have to go, we just arrived at the shoot.”
“Make sure that idiot gets your makeup right. Keep your fingers off the food table.”
“Yes, Bridgette.”
Chapter Two
Gage
I’m so fucked. Beyond fucked. Estella Trenton is even more perfect than I remember. When I saw her curled up on the couch last night she looked so small and innocent. Her pink pouty lips were slightly parted as if she had just been kissed. Her thick, dark hair was fanned over the cushion and I couldn’t stop myself from picturing it spread out on my pillow as I sank my dick deep into her sweet body.
I should’ve left her alone. I should’ve stood outside the door and guarded like I would with any other client. I should have, but I didn’t. Instead, I carried the sleeping beauty to her bed. She was so exhausted she didn’t stir as I removed her shoes and pants. I didn’t even question the ethical ramifications of stripping her of her pants because my only thought was of her comfort. And if I stared a little too long at her pale pink panties wondering if her pussy was bare or not, I claim temporary insanity.
My cock twitches behind my zipper at the memory and I have to force myself to focus back on the room around me. As soon as we got on set, Estella was shuttled off to her dressing room. The room is small with only a rack of clothes and a single chair in front of the vanity where her stylist is busy applying fresh makeup to her face. Her hair is in rollers and even though she should look silly, she looks beautiful.
“Your stepmother is a real bitch,” Jet complains.
After overhearing the last conversation, I don’t disagree. Estella shrugs her delicate shoulders, not saying anything.
“If those bastards didn’t work you like a slave, you wouldn’t look so haggard.” Estella winces at that dig and I clench my fists to keep from doing something stupid, like breaking Jet’s jaw. “Aw, dollface, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying that they are running you ragged. You need a vacation.”
“I know.” Estella’s normally brilliant smile is subdued and almost sad.
A portly woman bustles into the room without knocking and I growl at the interruption. Ignoring me, she announces the photographer is ready. Jet quickly pulls out the curlers and Estella’s dark hair falls around her shoulders in big curls. She stands and drops her robe and I nearly swallow my tongue at the sight of her in nothing but a lacy bra and panties. When she reaches behind her to unclasp the bra, my sanity snaps.
“Everyone out!”
Just as the bra falls from her fingertips, Estella jumps and turns to face me. I groan as the rounded globes of her breasts are revealed. They are a perfect handful, tipped with pink nipples that are tight from the heavily air-conditioned room.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I practically bellow.
She blinks up at me in shock as Jet and the woman rush from the room. I slam the door behind them and lock it.
“Changing?” It’s a question, not a statement.
“Not in front of those assholes.”
A look of confusion settles on her face. “It was just Jet and the lady from wardrobe.”
She says it like it’s not a big deal that she was about to strip herself bare in front of another man. Another man? Fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking that way. Estella is not mine. She can’t be mine. She’s too young. Too perfect. Too fucking innocent for a man like me.
“You shouldn’t be stripping in front of other men,” I say before I can stop myself. Her lips form a little O of shock. I could kick my own ass for saying anything.
“Jet has been with me for years. He’s very professional.”
A haze of red falls over my vision and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to put her over my knee and spank her for so casually showing her body off. It’s ridiculous. I know she’s been photographed topless with just her hair artfully covering her breasts in the past; I’ve got the image saved to my phone along with dozens of others. Hoarding pictures of Estella Trenton is my dirty little secret. From the moment I first saw her, I wanted to claim her. Make her mine. Knowing she’s been practically naked in front of others is a totally different thing to actually seeing her bare herself. The possessive beast inside me won’t allow it.
“No more. From now on no one sees your pretty little tits and juicy ass.”
“Wha—I don’t…”
I close the distance between us, causing her to look up so she can meet my eyes. “No one sees what’s mine.”
“Y-yours?”
“Mine.”
Chapter Three
Estella
I stare up at Gage in disbelief. Surely I’m hallucinating this entire conversation. Maybe I fell asleep while Jet fixed my face; it wouldn’t be the first time. Gage’s gaze moves from my face to my breasts, sweeping lower to my panty-clad… pussy. I blush thinking the word. My breath freezes in my chest when he brushes the back of his fingers over my sensitive nipple.
“These are mine,” he says, his hand trailing lower until his big hand is cupping my pussy. “This is mine. You are mine,” he growls before his lips crash down on mine.
At first, I’m frozen in place, my mind trying to catch up with what’s happening, but then my body takes over and I find myself opening to his kiss. He groans into my mouth as I shyly kiss him back. I completely lose myself in the kiss. I could kiss Gage forever, but a sharp knock on the door breaks us apart.
“Get dressed.”
I slip into the bikini and smile at Gage’s groan. He opens the door; Jet and the wardrobe lady push back into the room. The lady instantly starts adjusting the straps on the bikini top while Jet fixes my smudged lipstick, a look of disapproval on his face.
* * *
Five wardrobe changes later, the photographer calls lunch and everyone scatters. I grab a bottle of water and head back to my dressing room for some peace and quiet. Gage stalks behind me like an angry bear. I kick the uncomfortable heels off my feet and moan in pleasure at having the too-tight shoes off.
I take a sip of water, the cold liquid hitting my empty stomach and causing it to ache. I set it aside and close my eyes, trying to focus on anything but how hungry I a
m. Only a few more hours and I can eat. I imagine a cheesy slice of pizza with sausage and black olives. I practically drool at the thought. Not that I’ll get pizza. No, I’ll get exactly two ounces of plain baked chicken with a salad, no dressing. Sometimes I really hate my life, I think, then I feel guilty because so many people have it so much worse than I do.
“What’s wrong?” Gage asks.
“Nothing. Just thinking about dinner.”
His lips form a thin line. “Why aren’t you eating lunch with the rest of them?”
I shrug and wave a hand at the rack of swimsuits behind me in explanation, which just makes him frown.
“You need to eat.”
“I’m fine. The shoot will be over in a few hours.”
He pulls out his phone and taps out a text message. A few seconds later his phone dings and he shoves it back in his pocket, a pleased look on his face. Alrighty then. Gage leans casually against the wall, looking at me. I’m used to eyes being on me, but with Gage I find myself blushing and wondering what he sees when he’s looking so intently at me.
“Do you like being a model?”
“I…” I start to give him the standard response but stop myself. Instead I tell him the truth. “When I first started it was exciting.”
“And now?” he pushes.
“I’m tired.”
“Why do you keep doing it if you’re not happy?”
I turn the chair so I’m facing the mirror. I take in my reflection and ask myself the same thing. Why do I keep doing something I have come to hate? I’m an adult and can choose a different career. I certainly don’t need the money, I’ve made more than enough. Bridgette made sure of that. Not that she did it to make sure I was taken care of; it was purely selfish on her part because she gets a cut as my manager. Not to mention the notoriety of having a supermodel for a daughter.
“It’s all I know. I’m good at it.” I shrug. “What else would I do?”
“Whatever you want. You’re beautiful and smart. You can do whatever makes you happy.”
What would I do if I stopped? I think about the camera buried at the bottom of my suitcase filled with pictures of the places I’ve been, and I know what I would do if I weren’t a model. I would be a photographer. I would capture pictures of the world. But can I really do that? Move from in front of the lens to behind it…
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. Gage opens it and takes a familiar square box from the man standing there. The scent of melted cheese and rich tomato sauce fills the room and my stomach lets out an angry growl. Gage opens the box and holds it out to me. Sausage and black olives, my favorite.
“How did you know?” I ask, incredulous. He shifts on his feet, obviously discomfited with my question. Interesting.
“I read an interview.” He rubs the back of his neck and I find his discomfort endearing.
I look at the pizza longingly. “I can’t eat that. It’s not on my diet.”
“Diet? If you were any thinner, you’d blow away in a stiff breeze. Eat.” He pushes the box further under my nose in emphasis.
Licking my lips, I reach for the smallest piece. If my stepmother could see me now she’d have a coronary. I take a bite and moan as the flavors explode on my tongue. Gage’s eyes grow heated at the sound and I blush.
“Good?”
“So, so good.” I take another bite, then another. Before I know it, I’m licking my fingers clean.
“Eat another,” Gage says, his voice rough.
I chew my bottom lip, considering. I’ve already broken the rules, what’s one more piece? What’s that saying? In for a penny, in for a pound? I grab another slice and devour it as well.
“More?”
I rub my full stomach, knowing any more will just make me sick. “No, I’m full. It was delicious. Totally worth the dressing down I’m going to get from my stepmother later.”
Gage gets a stormy expression on his face at the mention of Bridgette. “You can eat whatever you want. And no more skipping meals. I won’t have you making yourself sick.”
A warm feeling spreads in my chest at his declaration. It’s almost as sweet as him claiming me as his. It makes me feel taken care of, something I haven’t felt since my brother joined the army.
Chapter Four
Gage
After the photoshoot wraps up, Jet pulls out a bag with a famous designer’s name printed on it. He gives me a cautious look as he pulls lingerie out of a second bag. Estella thanks him and asks him to leave so she can dress.
She drops her robe and wiggles out of the one-piece swimsuit that was her last wardrobe change. It’s even more scandalous than the bikinis she’s been wearing all day. It’s nothing more than straps and two triangles that barely cover the tips of her breasts. When she pulled it off the hanger I about lost my damn mind. My cock was instantly hard and aching in my pants. I was ready to drag her out of here and have my wicked way with her.
I watch as she slowly puts the scraps of black lace on. She blushes when she notices me staring. I hate the dress that she pulls on, hiding her delectable body from me. She turns so her back is to me; the dress is open, showing off the elegant sweep of her back.
“Zip me?”
I grip the tiny zipper and slowly pull it up, letting the backs of my fingers trail up her spine just ahead of the zipper. Her skin is so damn soft and inviting. The temptation to pull the zipper right back down and kiss every inch of skin I just covered is enormous, but Estella has a charity gala tonight and even though she’s exhausted, she refuses to miss it. Once she’s zipped, I press a heated kiss to the side of her neck and grip her hip, holding her to me for a brief moment. The tightness in my groin becomes nearly unbearable at the pleased little sound she makes.
For the hundredth time today, a knock at the door interrupts us. Jet peeks his head around the door, then pushes fully inside when he sees Estella is dressed. He makes a clucking noise and begins messing with her already perfect hair. They are quietly discussing whether to leave it down or put it up.
“Leave it down.” I didn’t realize I was going to speak until the words were out of my mouth. “Your hair is beautiful.”
Estella looks at me through the mirror, a shy smile on her lips as she nods in agreement. Jet gives me a disapproving look but says nothing. Smart man. Estella seems to really like him; I’d hate to have to hurt him for getting in my way.
* * *
The gala is a fucking security nightmare. Paparazzi are everywhere, and the security is dismal at best. Estella is involved in a lot of different charities, but the Survivors’ Coalition is the one that is nearest and dearest to her. After what happened with Nelson, she understandably felt a kinship to women who have survived sexual assault and she’s become a spokeswoman and a face for the charity.
I scan the room, looking for potential problems or threats. Estella is talking with the founder of Survivors’ Coalition and a couple of the members of the board of trustees. They are breaking ground on a new center where women can go for free counseling and support through group and art therapy. Estella seems especially excited about the different art-based programs that will be available. Her happiness is contagious, and I find myself fighting to keep an unaffected look on my face… when my eyes land on Brent Myers as he makes his way across the room toward Estella, any bit of happiness in my expression dies a swift death.
Brent waltzes right up to Estella, putting his arm around her as if he has the right to touch her. Estella’s whole body tenses and she shoots me a wary look as she discreetly tries to move out of Brent’s hold. I can see her desperation not to make a scene warring with her desire to shove Brent away.
“Hey, baby, sorry I’m late,” Brent says.
“Get your fucking hands off her.” My tone brokers no argument. The surprised gasps from the people closest to Estella do nothing to temper my aggression. Brent obviously lacks any kind of self-preservation instincts, because the little fucker throws his head back and laughs before pulling Este
lla closer. “Last chance before I start breaking things.”
I almost hope the fucker doesn’t move. I want to break things. Starting with that arm he has wrapped around my woman. Whatever Brent sees when he stops laughing and really takes me in must make him realize how deathly serious I am because he visibly swallows before taking a step away from Estella. He puts his hands up in front of him in the universal sign of ‘no harm done.’
“Call off your bulldog, Stel.”
“What are you doing here, Brent?” she asks instead.
“I want you back, baby. I messed up.” He gives me a wary look, then turns his attention fully to Estella. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”
Estella shakes her head. “No, there’s nothing to talk about.”
He starts to take a step toward her but thinks better of it and stays put. Maybe he isn’t as stupid as I originally thought. “Please, baby. Don’t do this to us.”
“Brent, there is no us.”
“But—”
I slap my hand down on Brent’s shoulder. “You heard the lady. Leave.”
“This isn’t over,” he says, then pushes angrily through the crowd toward the exit.
“You okay?” I ask Estella.
For a split second her eyes betray her true feelings—frustration, anger, and sadness—but then her mask is firmly back in place. “I’m fine. Thanks.” She turns back to her companions and the conversation picks back up. I stay closer than absolutely necessary, not wanting to risk anyone else touching my woman.
Two hours later we are back at the hotel and Estella looks like she’s about ready to collapse. “Sit down, princess. Relax, I’ll run you a bath.”
“Oh, you don’t—”