His Curvy Temptation
Page 1
His Curvy Temptation
Christa Wick
C.M. Wick
Copyright © 2019 by Christa Wick
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, this book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, reverse-engineered, decompiled, transferred, or distributed in any print or electronic form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the downloading and obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, media, brands, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or (R) symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
* * *
Published by Evergreen Books Publishing
Copy edits and line edits by GBI Author Services
Proofreading by Rosa Sharon
Cover design by Violet Duke
* * *
Previously published as Curve Struck (c) 2016 by Christa Wick.
Contents
Book Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Thank You For Reading & Reviewing!!!
Sign-Up to Get Review Copies of My Books
Also by Christa Wick
About the Author
Book Description
Of all the gorgeous grouches Melanie’s ever worked with, Declan Bain is without a doubt the worst. And as an aspiring costume designer still working as a wardrobe girl in L.A., she’s definitely met her fair share.
* * *
So, when a weird development arises out of the blue, crossing their paths and effectively turning their lives upside down, waking up next to him in her childhood bed is only the second most shocking result.
* * *
Finding out he’d actually wanted something to happen between them is the first.
* * *
And now that Declan’s fully aware of just how much she’s enjoyed working with his…um, wardrobe, all this time, he’s decided to collect on all the very dirty, very alcohol-fueled promises she made him before falling asleep.
* * *
Melanie really has no idea what she promised the man, but if it’s even half as wicked as the things he’s promising to do to her, she’s not sure she’ll survive.
* * *
But she’s absolutely willing to find out.
* * *
Previously published as Curve Struck (c) 2016 with revisions throughout and newly added/changed content.
* * *
Note that unlike the other 2019 catalog re-publications, this one doesn’t have a new/different extended ending because the one it had was pretty great. :)
1
The smooth metallic rustle of chain mail joined the sharp crack of boots along the hallway floor, alerting Melanie Archer to the incoming danger. Hunched over her workbench, she tensed a heartbeat before the door to the wardrobe room slammed inward.
Seconds later, a lean, muscled frame filled the doorway, a thick silver torque separating his broad shoulders from his neck, with a mix of alien runes and hieroglyphs she found ridiculously overdone inscribed on the object's surface. On the right of the torque was an intricate but murky tattoo covering his arm from the top curve of his shoulder down to his elbow. Unlike the piece of neck jewelry that had been created for the film, the tattoo was all rugged, and all him.
God, he was sexy. He made the perfect warrior, really. Above the line of his leather pants, he was bare chested, the hairless flesh lightly oiled and glistening with strategic smudges to make him look like he'd been battling in an environment that was both dirty and bloody. In his right hand, he was clenching a longsword, looking believably ready to maim someone while its hilt clinked against the metal battle kilt a few times before he abruptly tossed the weapon onto the workbench with a growl.
Melanie glanced up, uncertain whether it was safe to acknowledge the man.
It wasn't—it never really was with him.
Of all the actors and actresses she’d worked with in her three years in Los Angeles, the man towering over her had to be the grouchiest, prickliest person she’d ever encountered. But of course, he was also Hollywood's current golden boy and, at least for the last two months, the man she’d been fantasizing about every single night.
As usual, Declan Bain scowled as soon as he saw her. She wasn’t sure why he always seemed extraordinarily frustrated with her specifically. She did good work, but for some reason, her mere presence seemed to agitate him.
“Do you need anything adjusted, Mr. Bain?”
"This damn skirt," he growled, flicking a nail against the chain mail, "keeps banging against the inside of my knee."
With the workbench between them, Melanie couldn't see what he was talking about. And frankly, she didn't understand the need to talk about it at all.
Unless there was a sequel, Declan wouldn't have to wear the outfit ever again.
"Aren't you done with it already?" she asked, refusing to look at his face after seeing the earlier scowl. She didn’t have time for him to be rude on top of demanding.
Not waiting for him to answer, she hustled over to finish one of a dozen other pressing tasks she had left to do before she could leave the studio lot.
He’d live. Not only did he have a protective layer of leather between his skin and the war kilt, but there was even time for him to change back into his street clothes. Time was something she herself didn’t have at the moment.
As she rushed past him and his surprised expression, she glanced at the time and realized she'd officially been up for ten hours now, and at the studio for nine of them. Worst of all, she was in danger of missing her evening flight to Denver—and her suitcase wasn't even packed for the weekend thanks to her boss springing the assignment on her.
Suzanne, her boss, had rudely called her at five in the morning from some exotic, insanely expensive location telling Melanie to haul ass to the studio and lay out four specific outfits that had been worn during production. Apparently the original photographer who had done the promotional shoot for the film wasn't turning the photos over after an unrelated dispute with the studio
. Now another photographer had been brought in to replicate the originals and this one that Declan was complaining about was the last of the four costumes.
Declan swiped a roll of paper towels from the workbench and trailed behind her, wiping at the oil covering his skin. Watching him from the corner of one eye, Melanie couldn’t help but admire his ripped arms and perfectly sculpted chest.
It really was too bad he was such an ass.
The man had barked orders at her for the last two months, treated her like she wasn't in the room most of the time even when she was helping to dress him, and, when he did bother to look at her, he couldn't shake the scowl that turned his sexy mouth into a thin, forbidding line.
"They want one with the gold torque and matching skirt, which hangs the same," he finally answered, his curt tone snarling as he referenced, "They," meaning the studio execs and not the photographer.
If it had been just the photographer going off plan, she had no doubt Declan would have told the man to shove his camera—lens, body and attached tripod—up his ass. But the execs asking was a different matter.
"Damn it," she swore, standing up and heading over to the bins she had hauled into the room. The ceremonial ‘skirt’ he was referencing and even the other torque weren't on the list her boss had provided and might still be in storage. "Okay, what else do I need to get out?"
"Far as I know, just that."
She pulled the lid off the first bin, her mind busy with the logistics of a quick alteration to the metal. "So you're wearing the same pants?"
In the film, the gold war skirt had been paired with skin-hugging red velvet pants that may or may not have resulted in her having a mild orgasm the first time she’d helped Declan with the costume.
"No."
His gruff answer sent a trickle of heat down her spine when she processed what that meant.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw him slip off the war kilt then work the inside fasteners on the leather pants. He tilted his pelvis, his already trim, muscled abdomen seeming to shrink as he tucked his ass in and drew his stomach tight to make room within the waist band for his thick fingers.
The trickle of heat running through Melanie turned into a lava flow melting every nerve ending it touched. Her nipples peaked, their ache as instant as the flood of arousal between her thighs. She bit down on her lip hoping the sharp pain would distract her.
The strategy worked—marginally. She was at least able to look away from him and back to the bin where she saw the second war kilt made from a golden hued tin.
"This one is lighter," she said turning toward him.
"Don't care," he answered. "I don't want it hitting that spot."
Her lips pursed at the curt reply and the irritation reddening his cheeks. Staring a nanosecond longer, she decided she knew why he was being a bigger jerk than usual. Filming had ended a few weeks ago and he was in that between phase of promoting the movie he’d just finished and starting pre-production for the next one.
That meant he had free time to engage in some of the extreme sports that he liked and that the studios, and their insurers, hated. He'd probably injured the knee recently, not so badly he had to limp but just enough for the outfit to irritate. And he didn't want anyone to know because it could impact funding on future films.
Not to mention, the man was as private as he was famous. The longer he had been in the business, the less leaked out to the press about him.
Stepping behind a three-drawer filing cabinet that barely stood high enough to reach his hips, Declan yanked off the boots, then shucked the leather pants from his body.
Melanie felt her legs begin to wobble. Making it back to the bench, she sat down with a heavy plop that caused the wood seating to creak. An internal groan rumbled inside her but didn't make it beyond her tightly pressed lips.
Nine days out of ten, she could forget the fact that she was a world away from the Hollywood ideal she worked around. But, on those days, she didn't have Declan Bain, the hottest A-List Bad Boy the movie industry had to offer, standing naked behind a cabinet, with no one else on set except the photographer and his crew, all of them down a long hall with two closed doors adding further privacy.
"I can adjust the waist to hang lower. That would be the fast—"
"Think about it," he interrupted.
Right, he wouldn't have pants on, just him, the kilt and the torque.
She bit at her lip again but the pain did nothing to chase away the heat or the ache squeezing at her body. Her panties were wet, and her nipples were so hard and tingly it felt like someone was pranking her with some kind of itching powder, the tips sensitive to the faintest shift against her bra.
Snap out of it, Melanie. He's not the first hot dude you've had to dress.
True, but none of those other guys were Declan Bain, the man leading the next generation of Boston-born megastars with their six pack abs and Southie accents, the words often leaving their mouths like machine gun fire.
While he had seldom talked to her on the set, she knew he was a brain as well as a body, with an academic scholarship first to some preppy Boston all boys high school then another academic scholarship to Harvard, earning straight As until he had dropped out before his junior year for reasons unlisted on his industry bio or Wikipedia page.
The actor's combination of brawny smarts had lust galloping in her chest, the beast's hooves striking hard between her legs.
Declan cleared his throat, impatient where he waited behind the filing cabinet. Melanie squirmed, struggling to focus on a quick fix for the golden chain mail that wouldn't need photo editing given the deadline for the promotional shots to go to press.
"When in doubt, get the duct tape out," she mumbled and reached into her kit.
Placing the chain mail skirt with the inside of the front panel facing up, she carefully folded it to eliminate one row. She tore off a length of duct tape and secured the tin plates then repeated the process with a second row a little higher up.
She flipped the material, ready to do the same on the back when Declan stopped her.
"Don't waste time on the back," he ordered, his tone coated in fresh irritation. "This bullshit with Landon and the old shots has already pushed back my flight schedule."
Melanie wanted to commiserate with him but knew anything she had to say would just fall on deaf ears. The women she worked alongside talked about him a lot and apparently, the man was notorious for ignoring anyone who wasn't a studio executive. And apparently, he’d been even more of an ass than usual on this film, though it was probably a bit warranted since the studio was supposedly forcing him to do it to get out of his contract with them.
"Here," she said, deciding the less talk the better as she handed over the golden war kilt.
Calling it a "kilt" or a "skirt" wasn't all that accurate. There was only a front and a back panel held together by a waist chain, leaving the sides of his hips and thick, muscular legs exposed when it wasn't layered over additional clothing.
His hands moved out of sight behind the filing cabinet. Once the kilt was secured, he tested where the bottom fell, leaning to one side and then the other, wincing as he bent his right knee.
She frowned. "Is it still too long?"
Now that he was wearing the kilt again, she could make a more accurate adjustment, but the possibility of doing so had panic creeping around the inside of her chest.
Declan was completely naked underneath, his dingle dangle fully untethered. If her mind started wandering, if it started to dwell on how close her mouth was to the impressive package he was packing, she might just pass out at his feet.
"No, the length is fine," he answered, reaching up to remove the torque as he stepped from behind the filing cabinet.
She spun, looking at the standing closet and cursing herself for not digging out a robe for the photo shoot. "Do you want me to find you a robe?"
"Do you want me to miss my plane?" he shot back, strain and frustration running through his tone.
&
nbsp; Sure, in comparison to his travel plans, her own little Colorado flight to see her mom for the weekend wasn’t quite on the same level. But, unlike the naked ass currently distracting her from her job, she didn't have the luxury of booking private charters. No one was going to reschedule for her or hold the plane until she got there. And that made her a tiny bit testy.
"You know, you're not the only one with—"
Seeing his face purpling and the veins on his arms standing out against his flesh as he struggled to remove the torque, Melanie shut up and raced to help.
"Let me," she said, sliding a small step stool behind him for her to stand on.
His hands fell to fidget at his sides as she worked the release. Encountering the same resistance, she leaned lightly against Declan's broad back for leverage.
"The piece shouldn't be giving you this kind of trouble," she said, exertion turning her words into a growl.
"Thank you, Miss Obvious," he hissed, mostly in pain.