Her eyes narrowed. “You sure about that? I can be very persuasive.”
I sighed and pinched my fingers against the bridge of my nose. “Babe, you’re good. But you’re not eighty-thousand dollars good. And like I said… I have no control over the budget.”
Her jaw dropped momentarily before she snapped it closed and her expression sagged into a scowl. As she folded her arms, her breasts pushed even higher toward her chin. Only this time, I didn’t take the bait and peek.
“You came to us from that streaming series, right? The one with the group of girlfriends who all wore couture?” I asked.
The muscle in her jaw twitched, indicating I was correct. “Yes. I’m used to standards with my wardrobes.”
“We have standards here as well,” I said. “Sometimes budgets get cut, unfortunately. It’s how most film sets work.” Yeah, when your daddy isn’t executive producer of the network. I’d heard rumors that she was a trust fund baby and her other stints involved her father in some way. Rich had chosen the wardrobe team on this film, so I could only assume he owed her dad a favor. A huge favor.
Catching her bottom lip beneath her teeth, she said, “But the first thing people will notice is the actor’s outfits.”
I sighed. Maybe with the show she worked on that was true, but I sincerely doubted that would be the case here. Even still, this was a weird business. And I certainly didn't want to make an enemy this early on in filming, especially an enemy who had seen me naked and whose name I couldn’t fucking remember for the life of me. “Look, a little advice, if you're willing to hear it.” I waited for her to acknowledge me, which she did with a quick raise of her brow. “Budgets get cut all the time. A really fantastic costume designer creates color palettes first and uses personal relationships with designers and retailers to borrow the costumes. You don't need a big budget to make these actors look good. Most movie-goers can’t tell Haute Couture from Banana Republic. As long as the actors look and feel like their characters in the costumes, that’s all that matters. Let's meet tonight, after filming, and brainstorm.” In an effort to comfort her, I placed a hand on her arm. She had worked for years in the industry. Did she really have no relationships with which to build off of?
One eyebrow of hers arched even higher toward her hairline, like a parenthesis curving around her brow bone. She glanced from where my hand landed on her arm to my eyes, her red stained mouth curving into a grin. “So, you’re taking me up on that private meeting?”
Shit. I jerked my hand back to my side and stepped back, away from her. “No… it’ll be in my office.”
Her smirk widened, her lips somehow becoming fuller like she was pushing them out toward me. I studied her for a brief moment, the way she rolled her shoulders back confidently, her cleavage smooth and milky and her pouty red lips glossed and shiny like a candied apple.
I turned to leave, nearly plowing into a girl walking up behind me. Stacks of male blazers were draped across her arms so that just a cute button nose and black rectangular glasses framing large, brown eyes peeked out from behind.
“Oh! I'm so sorry.” She tried to step out of my way, but in doing so, one of her ballet flats flipped off her foot causing her to fall backwards. I caught her just in time around her petite waist, her cotton T-shirt inching its way up to her rib cage. My hand was flat against the soft skin of her abs.
"Lucy!" Kelly hissed. "You are holding thousands of dollars worth of garments. If you ruin those, it would take you months to reimburse the loss."
"It was my fault Kelly," I said. "I wasn't looking where I was going." I stole another glance at the girl—at Lucy—and was awarded with a shy smile in return. That little quirk of her plump, peony-colored lips, and she shifted the blazers to one arm, adjusting her glasses in a way that was so fucking cute and unassuming. It only took a moment for recognition to snake across her features.
“Mr. Livingston,” she gasped, that smile quivering at the corners. “I’m so sorry—” Her voice was now hoarse, and those sweet lips parted as a sharp inhale caught in her throat.
Energy swirled between us; something calm and potent. That moment, looking into Lucy’s eyes was a breath of stillness on an otherwise chaotic, crazy set. I wanted to breathe her in, absorb that calm energy she exuded; swallow her shy, quiet demeanor and bathe in it all day long.
She’s cute. It was Brie’s voice again. Brie would have liked her. That warm feeling surged down to my heart, needling me in a way I both loved and hated.
Her brows tugged together as I felt my breath catch in my throat. It only lasted a second—our connection. But it was consuming. I cleared my throat, stepping back from Lucy. She didn’t look like she belonged in this business based on what little I’d seen of her shy personality. Her chin dipped lower, and she cast her eyes to the ground.
I studied her subtle movement. To most people, it would be nothing. But to me? I saw her raw, untapped need—the quick-to-please nature; her innate receptiveness to the hierarchy of Dominant-submissive relationships. Like she could sense I was in charge and not only acknowledged it, but accepted it with that small dip of her head.
My cock twitched against the zipper of my flat front dress pants.
That in itself was nothing new. But the tug at my gut; the tightness, and the moment of tenderness I felt for a brief second. That was new. And terrifying. Fuck me. I had to get out of there—and fast. “It was my fault, Lucy.”
Behind me, Kelly scoffed. “You remember her name, I see.”
I swallowed a sigh. “I’ll see you both on set.”
Lucy peeked up over the top rim of her glasses. Those eyes—endless, dark orbs that were wide and wet—latched onto mine, and her pink tongue swiped across her full top lip.
I have to have her. The thought came before I had the good sense to stop it. Dammit. I didn’t discern between women. I loved them all—all shapes, sizes, hair color. But at LnS? I didn’t find many women like Lucy. Even with my seasoned subs, they had their ways of seeking me out. Subtle usually… not like Kelly or most other aggressive women I met at the average bar. But there was something different about Lucy. I tore my eyes away from her and walked briskly out of the room. As I turned the corner down the hallway, I heaved a deep breath, falling back against the wall. The cool, painted walls were chilly against the backs of my sweaty shoulders, and I brushed my fingers over the metal band, closing my eyes and trying to picture Brie's face.
But for the first time in five years, Brie's eyes weren't what I saw in my mind.
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About Katana
When Katana Collins was younger and stole her mother’s Harlequins to read beneath the covers with a flashlight, she wanted to read about the tough as nails heroine. The perfectly imperfect girl with quirks and attitude and sass. And the anti-heroes who were anything but “Prince Charming.” Forget the knight on a white horse … she wanted the bad boy on a motorcycle.
So, now, she writes those romance novels she craved to see on the shelves all those years ago—the sassy heroines. The badass heroes. She penned her first romance novel back in 2012 and now, a few years later, she is a Top 100 Amazon Best-Selling author with 15 published books, in a wide range of contemporary romance genres (Paranormal, New Adult, Small town, Erotic Suspense … you name it!).
She lives in Portland, Maine, with an ever-growing brood of rescue animals: a kind of mean cat, a doofy lab, a very mellow chihuahua, and a very not mellow cairn terrier puppy ... oh yeah, there's a husband somewhere in that mix, too. She can usually be found hunched over her laptop in a cafe, guzzling gallons of coffee, and wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.
She loves connecting with booklovers like herself, and fellow sassy storytellers, so feel free to drop her an email, visit her on her website. She also loves connecting on Instagram, Facebook or in her reader group, Kat’s Kittens!
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