“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 jawline, 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 him, 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.”
That’s just the problem. I want him to bite. I want him to tear off every stitch of my clothing with his teeth, mark my body, and bite down on my lips. And then ravage me. Lick me with his tongue. Suck me with his lips. And then fuck me every which way he can.
We remain at a gridlock. I still haven’t taken a step or said a word. His violet eyes burn into me.
“Zoey, please don’t make me stand up and fetch you. If you do, I’m going to throw you over my knees and spank you.”
I gulp. My first words: “You would?”
“Of course not, that would be sexual harassment, n’est-ce pas? Maybe even assault and battery.”
Assault me! Take me now!
“Zo-eeey. Please. You’re beginning to stress me out. A limo will be here to pick me up in fifteen minutes. Now, come over here, and give me a quick shoulder massage and then help me get dressed.” He crooks his left index finger and signals for me.
“Okay,” I squeak. With the garment bag draped over my arm, I take one baby step after another. I’m walking like I’m on tightrope about to fall off, except there’s no safety net to catch me.
“Good girl, Zoey,” he says as I near his bed. “Now, lay the garment bag down, and hop on the bed so you can massage my shoulders.”
I’m teetering between fainting and jumping him. Somehow, I will myself to do as asked. I lay the garment bag flat on the giant bed and then crawl on to it so I’m kneeling behind him. I soak in his beautiful muscled back and his broad sculpted shoulders. The body of a swimmer. An Olympian. A God!
Wordlessly, I cup my hands over his shoulders and dig my fingers deep into his bronzed skin, pressing and kneading. He is tensed up; I can feel his knots, especially in his neck, and press deeper to loosen them.
He moans. “Ah, Zoey. So, so, so good. Your hands really are magic.” He moans melodically again, and I wonder: Is this what he sounds like after he has a satisfying orgasm? My own body heats up, and wetness gathers between my legs.
“How do you feel?” I stammer.
“Better.” His voice is sultry and soft. “I’m nervous about tonight.”
“Don’t be. You’re going to win.”
“I doubt it. I have some pretty stiff competition.”
I don’t think he has any competition in the stiffness department. I glance over his shoulder. His monstrous cock is still as hard as a rock. Every nerve in my body is sparking, and another surge of wet heat drips down my thighs. I’m so turned on I could cry.
Rolling his shoulders and head, he lets me know he’s loosened up. “Enough. Help get me dressed now.”
My legs Jell-O, I stumble off the bed and unzip the garment bag. I behold a magnificent black suit draped over a crisp white tux shirt with a plaque of “invisible” buttons and extra-long cuffs. A purple bow tie that matches the color of his eyes is wrapped around the hook of the padded hanger, and a pair of black velvet slippers peak out of a shoe bag.
“Start with my shirt,” he orders.
I remove the jacket, laying it gently on the bed, and slide the dress shirt off the hanger, the cool, starched cotton a sharp contrast to my heated hands. He takes it from me and slips it on. “I need you to button it.”
“Okay.” Starting from the bottom button, I do as asked. My eyes stay fixed on his six-pack, and I feel the ripple of each finely honed muscle against my fiery fingertips. I get to the top button and adjust the wing-tipped collar.
He glances down at his hands. “After I put the jacket on, I’m going to need you to do the cuffs.”
My stomach scrunches. I have no experience with cuffs or cufflinks. But next, I have to help him with the slacks. I rummage through the bag for some underwear. Nada.
“Um, uh, aren’t you going to put on some underwear first?”
“Zoey, I don’t wear underwear. I thought you knew that.”
“Oh,” I mutter. So, that fine cock is going to strain against the fine fabric of his trousers. I hope he gives himself plenty of crotch room. I take the satin-piped pants out from the bag.
Squatting down, I slip his two feet into the leg openings and inch the formal pants up to his knees. I’m salivating. His gorgeous cock is only a mouthful way. I can practically taste it. “Stand up.”
At my command, he rises, and I’m once again awed by his imposing size. He looms over me. Gripping the pants by the waistband, I rise, sliding them up his long, muscular legs as I do. I try not to gaze at his erection or get too close to it. Impossible. He smirks at me. Asshole! Tucking in his shirt, I zip up the fly and hook the clasp. Thank goodness, I don’t have to deal with a repeat of the jeans incident.
We’re getting there. I hand him his single-button jacket and he slips it on. I do the button and flatten the satin lapels. It fits him so perfectly, accentuating his wide shoulders and his tapered, athletic physique. The wide cuffs of his shirt, however, hang out from the sleeves. Okay, now I’m in trouble.
“Zoey, the cufflinks are in the bag with my shoes. I reach for the bag and set the black velvet slippers on the floor, arranged so he can easily step into them. I then dip my hand back in the shoe bag and easily find a small silk pouch containing the cufflinks. I shake them out of the delicate see-through bag onto my palm. I study them. They’re simple but elegant gold disks engraved with the letters ET.
“You’re an ET fan? That’s one of my favorite movies too.”
He laughs. “Not at all.” And then his expression turns a bit somber. “These cufflinks belonged to my father. His name was Edward.”
“Oh,” I mumble, covering up my embarrassment. I catch sight of a family photo on his nightstand and can see the powerful resemblance.
“They’re my lucky cufflinks. My most treasured possession. I may win tonight if I wear them.”
A wave of anxiety sweeps over me. What if I break them or can’t fasten them? It’ll jinx his chance of winning the Best Actor award. Oh, God! What should I do?
Brandon’s impatient voice cuts into my despair. “Zoey, what are you waiting for?” Using his splint-free fingers, he plucks one of the cufflinks out of my hand. “I’ll hold this one while you insert the other.”
After a short internal debate, I decide not to tell him that I don’t know the first thing about cufflinks. I don’t even know where to start. Logic tells me I’m supposed fold up the cuff that drapes over the back of his hand, lining up the two sets of button-holes, and then insert the cufflink into each slit to hold the cuff together. Fumbling, I manage to fold up the stiff, starched fabric and line up the holes. A fine layer of soft dark hair dusts the edge of his large, manly hand.
Pinching the edges of the cuff together with one hand, I attempt to slip the bottom half of the cufflink through the top slit with the other. Makes sense. Except I can’t get the disk through no matter how hard I try. My hands are shaking and the damn button-hole won’t give an inch.
“Zoey, what’s taking so long? The limo will be here any minute.”
At the sound of Brandon’s miffed voice, I panic, and the cufflink slips through the cracks of my fingers.
“Oh shit!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just dropped your cufflink.”
“Jesus,” he says, following my eyes to the carpeted floor.
Crap. Where is it?
“I don’t see it!” he exclaims.
“Me neither!” My voice is thick with despair. I drop down on all fours and frantically search the carpet. Brandon follows suit, getting down on his hands and knees in his tux, the unfolded cuff trailing along the floor. We circle each other in our desperate scavenger hunt. Why can’t we find it? It couldn’t have gone far. And it shouldn’t be that hard to spot.
Guilt stabs me in the gut and shoots through my
blood. These are his lucky cufflinks—a family heirloom. If he doesn’t wear them, he may not win tonight and it’ll be all my fault. My eyes start to water. Several rebel tears escape and fall to the carpet.
“Why are you crying?” To my surprise, Brandon’s voice is soft and sweet.
“I feel terrible. If we don’t find it, I’ll jinx your chances of winning. I’m so, so sorry.”
I’ve never failed him like this. But to my even greater surprise, Brandon grabs the edge of the loose cuff and dabs at my tears. “Stop it. We’re going to find it. It has to be here. Maybe it’s on the bed.” He stands up, slipping his bare feet into his tux slippers.
“Ow!” he shouts out.
Plunking back down on the fluffy bed, he removes one of the slippers and gives it a little shake. His face brightens with an ear-to-ear grin.
“Look what I just found!” He holds up the cufflink.
“Phew! Thank, God,” I say with a loud sigh of relief. I leap to my feet.
He winks at me. “Here. Try again.”
Before he can hand it to me, I draw in another sharp breath and, on the exhale, tell him the truth. “Brandon, I have a confession. I don’t know a damn thing about cufflinks.” With my help or without it, he may not be wearing his lucky charms. A resurgence of guilt mixes with despair.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do them myself.”
What!?
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets as I watch him yank the splints off his fingers and fling them across the room.
“B-but—”
“My fingers are just fine now,” he says as he fastens the cufflinks with ease.
For the second time tonight, my mouth crashes to the floor and I can’t get a word to form. Finally, while he adjusts his bow tie around his collar, my mouth moves.
“Why the hell—”
He cuts me off. “Because I was having too much fun with you. I liked having you feed me and dress me.”
I want to kill him! The asshole—make that, the sadistic bastard—tricked me. Played me for a patsy. He’s done a lot of things to piss me off, but nothing comes close to this. I’m humiliated and furious. My blood is curdling. Did I tell you how much I really, really want to kill him?? His voice hurls me out of my treacherous thoughts.
Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story) Page 18
