Working It

8

Emmy

With Ellie’s words still ringing in my head, I got ready for work, faking a confidence I didn’t feel. The combo of six hours of sleep and a vodka haze didn’t help, either. Anticipating seeing Ben on set was a special kind of torture. My cheeks were lit up like a Christmas tree and I could do little to hide it. The memories of last night flooded my senses. Ben rubbing the toy along my panties. Pushing his big cock inside me. Stretching me, filling me almost to the point of pain. Kissing me while his throaty groans punctuated the silence. I remembered how he lost control, moaning my name when he came. It wasn’t a memory I would soon forget. If ever.

He was by far the best lover I’d ever had. He was confident and sure. Extremely in tune with both his body and mine. There would be no forgetting last night. And that was what I was most afraid of. I’d be forever comparing every man to Ben. Which was exactly why I shouldn’t have let last night happen. I silently cursed myself. How could I work around this man all spring?

I could hear Ben’s voice and I mustered the courage to enter the makeup area. I didn’t know where we stood after last night. I begged him to fuck me and then promptly ran out of his room. I felt like an idiot. That was exactly what I didn’t want to happen—an awkward morning-after run-in. We had to work together in close proximity for the next few months. I needed to keep my head on straight. I pushed my shoulders back and headed behind the curtained off makeup area.

As soon as I saw him, all my sexual thoughts were obliterated. He looked like hell. Dark circles lined his eyes, his hair was a mess, and he was slouched over in his seat. My heart squeezed in my chest.

“Don’t play with your breakfast,” Fiona scolded, standing over him.

Ben looked up, almost as if he sensed my presence. He had arranged his pills into a smiley face on the table in front of him.

His green smoothie from hell sat untouched beside him. I wondered if he woke feeling the effects of the vodka like I had. Poor guy. No way could I stomach a handful of pills or that drink. Why the hell did he let Fiona do that to him?

Thankfully, my upbringing kicked in and I didn’t even have to think. He needed taking care of. He was hung over. Too much vodka last night. And by the looks of it, too little sleep. I jumped into southern hospitality mode and strode to the catering table, returning with a plate of toast and a steaming cup of black coffee. It was the exact thing that had cured my hangover a few hours before.

I moved his green drink aside and set down the plate and mug. “You need to eat something.”

His tortured gaze met mine and he smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

Fiona huffed and walked away, muttering something under her breath about processed carbs.

Whatever. She could bite me. I was raised better than that. My momma would have a fit if she saw what they were feeding this man. Pills and blended vegetables were not a proper meal.

Ben lifted the slice of buttered toasted to his mouth. “I’m not supposed to have this, you know.”

“Eat up. It’ll make you feel better.”

His eyes danced on mine, communicating so much. He clearly wasn’t used to people taking care of him. Just him as a person and not as a model. His eyes slipped closed as he took a sip of the strong coffee, and he let out a soft moan of bliss. I knew that would do the trick. The man was human, after all. And no human should be forced to endure pureed spinach and kale on a hung-over stomach. I studied the pills spread before him in the shape of a smiley face. The eyes were two golden caplets, vitamin E I assumed, and the rest appeared to be vitamins, too, leaving me to wonder about all those prescription bottles I saw in his room. Did he only take those in private? What were they for?

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he asked, finishing the coffee and toast.

“You like it,” I flirted.

He cracked a smile. “I know.”

He watched me refill his coffee, and I couldn’t help but notice there was a softness there I hadn’t seen before. That softness was every bit as seductive as his hard body.

Little by little, Ben was letting me in. I could sense that the real him was just a regular guy, looking for a connection. The thought tugged at me. Everyone took from him. No one gave. They wanted photos, autographs, endorsements; girls wanted to sleep with him, Gunnar was dying to turn him gay—but no one was signing up to selflessly give him the simple acceptance he craved. I wasn’t sure why, but my taking care of him this morning was a bigger gesture to him than getting naked in his bed last night.

He wanted to just be . . . not be the Ben Shaw, the man, the legend. That must have been what he was trying to tell me last night. Maybe I had a shot with him after all. Or I’d had one too many vodka-waters and believed what I wanted to.

Momma would love nothing more than for me to settle down with a nice guy. She reminded me of that each time we talked. What she didn’t understand was that all the nice guys I’d dated were just so boring. It made me want to try something different, something new and exciting. Nice guys never sent my pulse racing with a sexy text, or used a toy on me until I was begging to be fucked. The memories of last night refused to fade. Would never fade, I was sure. Visions of us moving together against his sheets danced through my mind as I tried to distract myself from staring at Ben.

Just act normal, Emmy. Riffling through my purse, I handed him two new pills to add to his collection. Pain reliever. “Here. Take these. Then go make pretty pictures.”

He smiled. “Okay.”

I looked down, unable to handle the full force of that megawatt smile he used just for me. I forced myself to find something to do while Ben was shuffled off to hair and makeup.

Thirty minutes later, my body was instantly aware when he entered the set.

Seemingly recovered—with a little more color in his cheeks—Ben looked amazing. He stood in the center of the studio against a white backdrop while two stylists fussed over him. One played with his hair, which was styled into a perfect mess. Bedroom hair. Another tucked his shirt halfway into the designer jeans to show off the impressive bulge in front. She said something to him and he chuckled softly, then stuck one hand down his pants and adjusted himself. Holy crap. Did she just tell him to adjust his junk? I almost laughed, if it wasn’t for the overwhelming memory of that beautiful, large cock. The fact that I now knew it intimately . . .

Ben’s gaze flicked to mine and my cheeks blossomed in heat. I felt like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. But I guess he’d been the one with his hand there. He said something to the stylists and then strode purposefully toward me.

His penetrating gaze remained on mine. Warm honey with flecks of mossy green. “Can we talk?” His voice was low and laced with concern.

I nodded. “Of course.”

His hand captured my wrist and he towed me around the corner, out of sight from the crew. I caught Fiona’s eyes, which zeroed in on Ben’s hand on me and narrowed.

Following Ben behind the large drop-clothed set, we stood just inches apart. His hand remained on my wrist, his fingers lightly pressing into the skin. My pulse was thrumming at the contact, my body instantly responding.

Ben looked cool and in control. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“That green concoction didn’t look very appetizing.”

“It’s not.” He chuckled lightly.

“Well, you’re welcome, but it was nothing.”

His voice softened, “I appreciate it.” Ben took a step closer and heat raced down my spine. “Emmy, about last night . . .”

“I’m sorry about that. . . .”

His jaw clenched. “Sorry you ran out on me or sorry that it happened?”

“Ben, we work together. We shouldn’t . . .”

He stroked my cheek lightly with his free hand. “Things like this happen on the road, Emmy. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Now I felt like an even bigger idiot. I’d drunkenly slept with the man one time, and suddenly I was acting like we were dating. Get a grip. “It was fun, right?” I attempted a more lighthearted stance.

He smiled his panty-dropping smile that I’d grown so fond of. His brilliant hazel eyes burned brightly, flecks of deep green glinting in the light. “Tell me what you really want.”

“Ben,” I managed, my voice just a whisper. I couldn’t admit what I really wanted.

He stepped in closer, his fingertips dropping away from my jaw as he studied me closely. I was terrified he’d see how I really felt. This wasn’t some fun fling—fuck buddies due to the convenience of a close living situation, like he’d implied. I was developing real feelings. I wanted to get to know him, the real him. I wanted to go on romantic strolls around the city, to lounge in bed in his arms, to learn all about the many sides of this man.

Fiona appeared around the corner, obviously curious about what business Ben and I could possibly have together. Her gaze darted back and forth between us. “Photographers are ready, love,” she drawled in her perfect British accent. Her eyes moved again between Ben’s playful expression and my stiff posture. “Everything okay?”

Ben dropped his hand from my wrist. “Of course. I was just thanking Emmy for her concern earlier.”

Fiona’s mouth clamped closed, her jaw working. “Brilliant. Good thinking, Emerson.”

I nodded. “It was nothing.”

The three of us made our way back to the set by silent agreement. The photographer was waiting for Ben, a DSLR that likely cost more than a small car hanging around his neck. He motioned Ben over.

I watched him converse with the photographer about his vision and review the storyboards and inspiration shots. Ben took his work seriously, he managed to be commanding—all testosterone, edgy yet cool, and playful all at once. He was mesmerizing.

Despite his fame in this industry, he had a way of setting people at ease. Everyone from the set designers, to makeup artists, to executives who lingered just off set. Which was good, because Fiona usually put everyone in a fucking tizzy. I know she did me. But I watched Ben work, discussing the specifics of the shoot with this famed photographer, and I instantly calmed again. He had the strangest effect on me. One minute he was winding me impossibly tight, and the next captivating me with just his presence.

Ben got into position in the center of the set and was fussed over again briefly by the stylists, hair and makeup people, but honestly he looked perfect. I felt like slapping their hands away. Can’t mess with perfection.

The photographer took a few shots then called for lighting adjustments. A big, white umbrella-looking thing and a silver reflector were adjusted at different angles.

Once they were ready again, the photographer prompted Ben very little. He knew how to move on camera, holding each pose for a few clicks then turning, tilting his jaw just slightly, pouting his mouth, placing his hands on his hips, in his hair. He knew how to work the camera. The one thing that remained constant despite his movements was his death stare, looking straight into the camera. Those hazel eyes burning so intensely. A shiver raced up my spine remembering how dark and hungry his eyes looked when he rubbed the toy against my panties last night.

The photographer clicked away in obvious joy at getting to work with such a talent. “Chin up,” he directed. “Beautiful.” Click, click. “Relax your shoulders.” Click. “Stunning. Just like that.” Click, click.

The ads for the designer jeans hugging Ben in all the right places would be on billboards and in magazines in the fall. I felt like a cool kid that I got to sneak a peak of the behind-the-scenes action.

“Great, now look off camera. Pick something to focus on,” the photographer told Ben.

His eyes found mine.

“Good, stay there,” the photographer said.

Ben’s pouty lips parted and his gaze slipped lower, settling over my chest. His jaw twitched. Desire raced through my system. My breasts felt so full and heavy, they practically throbbed for his touch.

Every tilt of his jaw, each flex of his arms, felt sexual to me, a silent beckoning. I suppressed a hot shiver. The things he could do to my body without laying a finger on me scared me. This man was devastating to my system.

“Smoldering!” the photographer called out, continuing to click away.

If he only knew . . . my panties were about to ignite. Honest to God, I was a fire hazard. Ben needed to stop looking at me like that. His eyes wandered the length of my body, and I lost any interest I had in keeping us apart. My body wanted this too bad. Craved it. Like a junkie needing a fix.

I became aware of Fiona beside me, her posture stiff and foreboding. She knew Ben was watching me. “Don’t drool, darling,” she warned, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I snapped my mouth closed. Oops. I guess I had been staring open mouthed at him, and my breathing was much too fast. I was thankful she couldn’t possibly know the thoughts racing through my mind, the blood pumping south, making my lady parts throb.

“He’s doing great,” I commented instead. Even my voice betrayed me, sounding husky.

Fiona’s thin lips curled into a practiced smile. “Ben’s very good at what he does. Don’t let him fool you, though; he’s a complicated man. With a very complicated past. I’ve been with him since he was eighteen. Trust me when I say girls come and go. He needs to focus on his career, not get hand-fed by some southern housewife type. I know what’s best for him.”

I nodded. Her warning was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? She couldn’t really think that Ben was interested in me, could she? But Fiona obviously knew him well, working alongside him for the past four years.

The photographer captured his final shot and Ben’s gaze reluctantly dropped from mine and landed on Fiona. I fled to the makeup area, needing to find something to do with my shaking hands.