by Skye Jordan
Oh no. No, no, no.
Not Keaton. Not Jillian and Keaton. She could have anyone else. He was Brooke’s only selfish desire. And they had so little time together.
Holding tight to the last flicker of hope, she darted a look at Keaton—and her stomach dropped to her feet. All the excitement there a moment ago—all the humor and life and happiness—gone. All locked behind a cool wall. One Brooke had seen others use when they were unpleasantly blindsided in public. One that often appeared in awkward and tense situations.
His reaction to Jillian confirmed the truth in Brooke’s gut—Jillian and Keaton had been together. When, where, how—it didn’t matter. Somewhere, at some time, they’d been together.
The images that flashed in Brooke’s head made her stomach clench and burn. She purposely refocused somewhere else in the room to clear her head. Because this was a problem. A really big problem. A potentially disastrous problem. A cut that had the potential to bleed her dry if she didn’t stem the bleeding.
She pulled her iPad into her chest and crossed her arms, as if that would help.
Jillian’s reputation had preceded her, as usual, and the crew had skittered off in different directions. But Keaton was too much of a gentleman to bail, even though the look on his face told Brooke there was nothing he’d rather do right that moment.
“Jillian,” was all he said.
And his voice was so deep and so cold, it made Brooke’s stomach quiver. It made her hope she and Keaton never reached a point in their relationship or their friendship where he ever used that tone with her. Even the possibility stabbed at her heart.
But Jillian didn’t seem to notice the antagonism. She swayed toward him like she moved toward everything she thought she owned, and Brooke’s muscles tightened, preparing to witness them kiss.
But Keaton caught hold of her biceps when her lips were still inches from his. And Brooke stood several feet away in the most impossible, most awkward position of her life. If there were ever a moment she wished the earth would open up and swallow her, this would be that time.
“What…do you think…you’re doing?” Keaton’s voice was private, but filled with who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are menace.
Before Brooke could excuse herself, Jillian performed the perfect backpedaling, smooth-it-over routine. “I was just saying hello, of course. We are old friends after all.” She pulled out of his grip but kept her voice light and adoring. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard morning.”
Keaton’s jaw pulsed, but when Jillian didn’t make another aggressive move, he shook out his T-shirt and tossed it over his head. Brooke’s gaze slid down his torso on the way to the floor again, pausing on red marks. Red…scratches.
Her face bloomed with heat. Her sex followed. She hadn’t seen those in the shower this morning. But she sure remembered making them last night. And good God, now she couldn’t think of anything else.
Straddling his lap, his knees spread so wide, her hip joints ached, he thrust with all the strength in his butt and thighs. Unrelenting, consistent strokes that hit their mark and hammered whimpers of desire and cries of pleasure and screams of ecstasy from her.
With one arm wrapped around his neck, the other at his ribs, she’d been digging into him because, one—he’d been so sweaty, her grip kept slipping, and two—she’d needed the grip against the force of his thrust, and three—she’d needed the leverage to pull herself back into him so his next stroke would hit the same out-of-this-fucking-world spot inside her again.
“Come for me, Brooke,” he’d demanded against her neck, even as she was just recovering from her last orgasm. “Come again. So good. Love the feel of you coming around me. Come on, baby. Give it to me. Ah, yeah. That’s it. Mmm, so good. Come on, baby. No limit. Give me another one.”
She shivered. Curled her fingers around the edges of her iPad until they numbed.
“Since we’ll be working together…” Jillian’s voice refocused her. “I certainly don’t want to start out on the wrong foot. Brooke, this is Keaton Holt,” she said, her tone light and charming and—dare she even think…sweet? “The only man who’s ever truly stolen my heart. Keaton, this is my assistant, Brooke—”
“Yeah, I—” he started.
“Dempsey,” Brooke cut in forcefully. She pried her hand from the computer and offered it to him. “Brooke Dempsey. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Holt.” She pulled her hand from Keaton’s overly hard grip and smiled at Jillian. “Mr. Holt and I met briefly in Los Angeles about a year ago. A friend of a friend.”
He stared at her, lips parted as if he’d stopped before the words had come out. His dark eyes sharpened, flicked to Jillian, then returned to Brooke. And they were hard. He closed his mouth and rolled his shoulders back. Now he looked just as displeased with her as he had with Jillian. And yeah, she knew she deserved it, but shit… The way he closed off made it impossible to read his expression, and it hurt. Hurt like hell. She felt like she’d already lost part of him.
“Miss Dempsey,” was all he said. Brooke could only thank God his voice didn’t hold the same frigid ring as it had when he’d said Jillian’s name.
She gave Keaton a nod and hoped he could read the gratitude in her eyes, but she’d never seen him look so miserable. Which seemed like the mood of the day.
Except for Jillian. The emotional undercurrents were lost on the narcissist. “Keaton, since I have time now, I thought we could block out the first stunt scene we’re in together.”
He planted his hands at his hips. “We’re not in any scenes together.”
“Oh, Copalli didn’t tell you?” Jillian asked.
“What?” Brooke asked, frowning at Jillian, but her boss ignored her, and by the purse of Jillian’s lips and the jut to her chin, Brooke knew Jillian was going to color outside those lines again.
“Told me what, Jillian?” Keaton asked with an I-know-what-you’re-gonna-say-and-it’s-going-to-start-a-fight tone. “Because if you think you’re going to do your own stunts, I can tell you right now, that’s not going to fly past risk assessment.”
Jillian laughed softly, clearly happy with the fact that she’d ticked Keaton off. “We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”
Brooke was ready to climb out of her skin. She couldn’t watch these two together anymore. She couldn’t look at Keaton anymore, knowing the plans they’d had for tonight, for any night in the future, were history.
The day suddenly seemed to stretch out in front of her as ten, twelve, sixteen…long, hot, sticky hours of misery.
She cleared her tight throat and told Jillian, “If it’s all right with you, I’ll go check in with the production assistants now.” Without waiting for her answer, she reminded Keaton of her need for their relationship to remain secret with, “It was good to meet you again, Mr. Holt.”
6
Keaton didn’t know where the hell Brooke was or when she was going to come back to the hotel. And he felt like the biggest fucking loser on the planet waiting outside her room. The only reason the Four Seasons security hadn’t called Austin Police on him was because Jax, the Renegade who was a Four Season’s frequent-flier, had called and personally vouched for Keaton.
Which meant if he did anything to get into trouble, he’d get his ass royally kicked by Jax. And the only Renegade who was as good a fighter as Keaton was Jax.
He pushed to his feet and paced the hallway again, pausing at the end to stare out at the Colorado River reflecting the moonlight. Too bad he wasn’t in a romantic mood. Once the shock of Brooke denying knowing him wore off, frustration set in. Frustration developed into anger as she went through the day without ever even looking his way. As his texts over the course of the day for explanations about her behavior went unanswered. As his question of whether or not they were going to meet tonight as planned was ignored.
And none of the images that kept floating into his head from the day were helping calm him down. The memory of her face floated into his head—of how happy she’d looked when she�
�d first seen him, contrasted against the shock and hurt in her eyes after she’d figured out he and Jillian had slept together.
“Fuck,” he bit out. That had been so goddamned long ago. He’d made some stupid decisions where women were concerned, no doubt. But Jillian was definitely one of his worst. It would have to be that one to come back and bite him in the ass.
And her stupid comment—stolen her heart? What a bunch of fuckin’ bullshit.
The worst part was, he had no idea what was going on in Brooke’s head. Could only guess why she’d played the “Hi, I’m Brooke Dempsey” card today, and absolutely hated the idea that she planned on pretending they didn’t know each other while they were working together.
Talk about torture.
He wandered back toward her room, paused at another window, and pressed a fist to the ache in his gut, one created by a combination of acid from the stress and pure pain from the thought of losing Brooke so soon after thinking they’d get a chance to develop something.
Movement made him look left.
Brooke turned the corner, looking down at a keycard in her hand. She was wearing another dress. Black. But this one was more casual than the one she’d worn earlier. And sexier in a far more playful way. It had spaghetti straps and was fitted from her breasts to her hips, then flared into a short skirt. And it laced up the front through a double row of eyelets.
He wasn’t feeling the least bit playful or lighthearted, and even though the comparison between the mood her dress evoked and his current mood was absolutely ludicrous, it still added heat to his anger. So did the fact that she looked ridiculously sexy in the damn thing. And the way his body surged at the sight of her.
It all blended to throw his emotions into a gear he didn’t even know he had, let alone a gear he knew how to operate.
When he straightened from the window, she looked up and stopped. A gasp passed through her lips, and she darted a look over her shoulder.
His temper flared.
He didn’t even have a fucking temper until today.
“Good to see you too,” he said. “Been waiting all fucking night.”
She turned back. “I was going to call you,” she said, her voice hushed. “It’s just, Jillian—”
“Isn’t here. I made sure she left the building before I came. And I’ve been here over a fucking hour. Had my phone the whole time.”
As if on cue, her cell rang. She exhaled, her shoulders rising and dropping. While she answered her own phone, she slid the keycard into the lock and opened the door to her room. “Hey, honey, I’m a little busy right now. Is everything okay?”
She had to be talking to her nephew.
“Okay, sure. I’ll help you with that. Can I call you back in a little bit? Okay. Love you too. Bye.”
She sighed and walked into the hotel room.
Still standing in the hall, Keaton was struck by an epiphany. He knew right that second exactly why he was so damned pissed. Because he didn’t do this to women. Ever. He was up-front with them before they ever got close to a bed or an alley or bathroom or wherever they went to fuck. They knew when the fuck was over, they were over.
Brooke hadn’t done that.
The realization made hurt ooze out beneath the anger, and things inside him got volatile. Keaton needed to downshift this shit and coast out of here.
He followed her in, saying, “Look, I wouldn’t have liked hearing that we were done this morning, but I would have accepted it. What I don’t like is having you act like you wanted things to continue and then pulling the shit you’ve been pulling today.”
She put her purse and keys on the side table and turned to face him.
“I’m not pulling anything. I’ve been working my ass off all day. Someone, who shall remain nameless, put Jillian in a mood this morning, and she’s been bent on taking it out on me. Suffice it to say, Jillian has been the crazy fucking bitch from hell today. And God forbid she settle for just any hairdresser. No, Jillian Bailey has to have the woman who did Mariah Carey’s hair for the Oscars. Which means I have to fly her in, and I have to pick her up at the airport, and I have to settle her at the hotel. So forgive me if I’m not the picture of patience right now.”
She crossed her arms and balled her fists, plumping her breasts over the edge of her dress and adding another edge of heat to Keaton’s frustration. “And I didn’t answer your texts because Jillian is the queen of paranoia half the time and the queen of micromanaging the other half. I didn’t want her reading over my shoulder.”
“You seemed to be able to text me just fine before you got to the set this morning…while you were in the car with her.”
“That’s before I knew,” she yelled.
“Knew what? That I slept with her? Is that where this is really going? Is that what we really need to talk about?”
She made a face and closed her eyes. “No. Don’t.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to think about you with her. I don’t care about that.”
She didn’t care? If she didn’t care… He took two steps toward her, put his hands on his hips when he really wanted to run them over her body. “Then why did you pretend not to know me?”
“Because Jillian’s a vindictive bitch, and, apparently, you are”—she rolled her eyes—“the only man who’s ever stolen her heart. If she thought you were interested in me over her, I’d be the one to suffer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were working in the movie industry? I thought you’d signed on with another singer like Ellie.”
“Because I didn’t want to talk about work. Or about Jillian. I just wanted to forget about it all for one night.”
That didn’t ease his frustration. In fact, it made him angrier.
“So I was an escape.” He moved closer until his body brushed hers. Until she had to tilt her chin back to look up at him. And Keaton could not fucking believe how badly he wanted her. His entire body surged with the raw need to feel Brooke again. “But now I’m a problem. So this is how it’s going to be? You’re just going to prance around the set in all these sexy little dresses and pretend I don’t exist every fucking day?”
She pressed her lips together in determination, but her eyes closed in a look of pained desire. Then she stepped back and braced her hand on the dining room table. She took a slow deep breath and said, “If that’s what I need to do to keep my job.”
Anger spiked again. “Priorities. Is that it?”
She nodded.
That stubborn line of her jaw irked something deep inside him. He leaned in and pressed both hands to the table, flanking her. His body came into contact with hers—thighs, hips, chests. She let out a breath carrying the softest moan, it fizzed through Keaton’s blood and made him high.
With his lips at her ear, he murmured, “So, what about me? What are you going to do about all the things I’m thinking during the day, watching you in these sexy little dresses?”
“Oh God…” The high-pitched words came out as barely a whisper, but they sang through Keaton’s blood with the power of an opera.
“Sixteen hours a day. Every day.” He pulled back to look into her eyes and found them drunk. He skimmed his gaze over the open neckline of her dress and all that creamy skin. “All that time just to watch you move, look at your body tucked into these”—he lifted a hand, pressed one finger to the side of her breast, and let it follow the curve of her body to her hip—“sweet little dresses.”
“Keaton…” Her eyes opened, flooded with heat and lust and frustration. Her chest rose with quick breaths, and her breasts strained against the top of the dress.
“With skirts like these and all the hidden spaces around the warehouses,” he said, “I could give you my hand and my mouth and bring you heaven in five minutes any time you wanted it, all day long.”
“Oooooooh…” she groaned, her eyes sliding closed.
“You want it, don’t you, Brooke?” he whispered.
“Yeeeees…”
The sweetest high flooded
Keaton’s chest. He lowered his lips to her temple and kissed her. Brooke leaned into his touch, hummed with desire, and fisted his T-shirt. Keaton was instantly high. “You want it now, don’t you, baby?”
“Fuck…” Her hands tightened and twisted the cotton of his tee. “Yes…”
Keaton’s eyes slid closed. He dropped his hand, found the hem of her skirt, and slid his hand up her thigh. “You’re so warm.”
The press of her lips against his brought his eyes open, and he found Brooke’s rich blue eyes, heavy lidded and filled with passion and the same affection that had been there that morning, staring back at him. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this all day.” She kissed him softly, sliding the tip of her tongue along his lip and setting him on fucking fire. “I ache.”
The breathy words, the insinuation that she needed him, wanted him, had waited for him, thrilled him beyond words. He kissed her back, teasing her lips while he held her gaze and slipped his fingers under her panties.
He passed a whispery touch over her, and she shivered. She was already on the edge. The fact that she was there because she’d been thinking about him all day turned a lot of his anger and hurt into pure, raw lust.
Starting with one finger, he moved over her. She was slick and hot and swollen, and suddenly all Keaton could think about was getting in there with his hands, his mouth, his cock.
“Oh my God… Yes. Yes, yes, yes… Mmmm.”
“You like my hands, don’t you, baby?”
“Love your hands… Mmmm… God… So good…” She whimpered and shivered.
Fuck, she was a goddamned drug. And Keaton was going to be addicted if he didn’t back off the candy. Fast.
Brooke opened her eyes, tipped her head back, and looked up at him, lips parted, big bright blue gaze dripping with lust. “Make me come… Need it…”
That hit went straight to his fucking vein. Keaton pushed his fingers deeper, rubbed and stroked and pinched, purposely avoiding her clit to prolong this little treasure as long as possible.
“Ah God…” She rubbed all up on him, wrapped an arm around his waist, took his tee between her teeth. “Keaton… Pleeeeeeeease…”
