Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
This is going to be horrendous.
Chapter 17
JAKE
It’s official. I’ve gone off my fucking rocker. I must have. Why else would I put myself through this? I’ve dumped myself on a black leather couch across the studio and I’m not moving. Not for nothing or no one. Not even for the toilet. I’ll piss my pants if I have to. Talking of pants, I’ve never seen anything so fucking ridiculous in my life. Silver trunks? He might be giving me a run for my money in the definition department, but he lost all hopes of a win the second he slipped into those sparkly knickers. What a twat! I try to relax in my chair, struggling to shake off the tension. My edginess isn’t just because of Mr. Sparkly Knickers, though he’s certainly adding a new dimension to my bad mood. It’s day three. The proverbial ticking time bomb could explode at any moment, and the unknown danger is making me twitch. I’m tense, snappy, and suspicious of everyone and everything. I should have kept her in bed all day.
Camille appears from her dressing room, a thin white robe tied loosely around her, a woman following behind spraying at her hair with a can of something. I sit up straight and my cock comes to life.
Holy…fuck…
Her hair is wet and brushed off her face, showing every perfect piece of her skin. Wet blond locks are splayed over her shoulders, and her makeup appears barely there, though judging by how long she’s been in that room and the fact that there’s no trace of her bruised cheek, I suspect there’s plenty caked onto her skin. Her cheekbones look sharper, her eyes bluer and her lips fuller. She looks fucking divine.
I cross my legs tactically, catching her flick a glance over to me. Her eyes are popping madly, the intensity of the topaz the only color on her face. This was a huge mistake, and my conclusion is only confirmed when someone pulls the robe from her back and she slips free, allowing them to attack her entire body with yet another can of something. I cough and look away, beginning to sweat. Good fucking Christ, it’s hot in here. Naked. She’s practically naked, and though I knew she would be and thought I was prepared, the reality is very different. I’m no more prepared now than I was the day I walked into Trevor Logan’s office.
She never fails to knock me sideways.
I got only a peek of her naked, willowy body before I forced myself to look away, but that glimpse has welded itself at the front of my mind, dancing teasingly. Her skin looked smooth and shimmery, and that tiny silver string bikini only just covers her special place, the place I could lose myself in forever. My special place. I groan under my breath as I frantically search for something to distract myself with. There aren’t any of those annoying girlie mags, not even a fucking newspaper. I should leave before I embarrass myself, but just when I’ve made that sensible decision and begin to get up from the couch, the ponce in his silver knickers appears on set. I freeze in my semi-raised position.
Fuck!
I’m going nowhere. I release my tense muscles, let my arse fall back to the sofa, and watch as they’re all gathered into a circle. The ignorant idiot who greeted Camille when we arrived looks like he’s performing ballet, his arms waving around dramatically as everyone nods their understanding. Then someone puts a robe around Camille’s shoulder as they’re talking, and I sag a little, relieved. She could get chilly.
My girl listens carefully when she’s pulled to one side by the director, nodding and smiling, and once everyone appears to be clear on what’s happening, they all disperse, scattering around the room. I watch on, disturbed by the pandemonium. It’s like organized fucking chaos. Then Camille pads onto the blanket of white that covers the floor and two walls, and powerful lights point on her from every direction, lighting her up, making her glow. She’s standing deathly still while people poke and pull at her, listening as people continue to bark urgent orders around her. I start to prepare myself, knowing it won’t be long before I’m forced to endure the sight of her naked again. Forced? Not true at all. I could get up and walk out, if the caveman inside of me wasn’t waving his club and snarling at the idiot in the sparkly knickers.
I swallow when her robe is removed again, resting my elbow on the arm of the couch and propping my chin on my hand. Enjoy it, I tell myself. Enjoy watching her do something she loves, with passion in her eyes as she does it. That look is something I have firsthand experience of. That glistening and shimmering of her blue eyes was there when I was buried inside of her. It’s fire and passion. It’s consuming.