I step forward, picking up the piece of paper and unfolding it. Scanning my eyes over the list, and then to the insane amount of clothes, I shake my head.
This is going to be tough.
I spend the next few hours sifting through the clothes, climbing mountains of them to get to the upper layers. Most of it wouldn’t fit, either the person or the scenario, and so I’m left with a small pile in the corner.
Running back and forth, I frantically match them, measure them. The summer day is LA-hot and there’s hardly any ventilation in here. Sweat coats me, sliding all down my neck, sticking my shirt to my skin. I took my jacket off ages ago.
I’m not sure how much time has passed. I’m just so focused on the task.
Okay, maybe every now and then my mind wanders to what’s happening elsewhere on set.
In my mind, I see snippets of Braden Braxten standing there in his tight-fitting jacket, his hulking body pushing at the seams, with his clean shaven face pulled into that tight grimace he’s become famous for.
Braden is a very private movie star, but every time he’s caught on camera, it’s always with this brooding and haunted look in his eyes. Or he looks furious, every feature taut, as though he’s ready to tear the cameraman to pieces for daring to capture his image.
I haven’t seen him yet, but when I do I’m afraid I’m going to really freak out. I’ve had his photo on my wall since I was thirteen, when I first saw him in a drama about a recluse who returns to society when his mother dies. He was haunting, captivating, quiet, and gruff, and yet with an undercurrent of emotion that swam beneath his stony expression.
I wonder if he’s like that in real life, or maybe the grimness is an act. Maybe he’s a lighthearted person.
But it doesn’t matter.
If I do see him, he won’t see me. He’ll never think to look twice at me.
So I need to stop this tingling in my lips, spreading into my belly, tempting me to believe the downright impossible.
I turn at the sound of the door opening.
“I’m almost done, Miss Jeffries, just one more costume to go…”
My mouth hangs open, my sentence dying as my gaze lands on the man I was just daydreaming about.
Braden Braxten stands there in a Victorian jacket, a tear down the side, going from his armpit to his hip. He looks like a beast who tore out of his clothes. His silver hair is styled long on the top but cropped short on the sides, and his penetrating eyes staring hard into me.
Suddenly the room feels smaller.
“I need a new jacket,” he snaps like it’s my fault it tore. “Maximillia said the new girl needs to be tested, so here I am.”
My throat goes dry, my lips dryer. I’ve heard that voice growling through my TV speakers so many times, and booming through the movie theater sound system on the rare occasions I’ve had enough money to go.
He seems even bigger in real life like he could crush me any second he wanted.
And he looks like he wants to.
He looks like he hates me.
Taking the jacket off – revealing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and displaying his thick muscled forearms – he tosses it to the floor.
“Well?”
He’s being such a douche, but then what did I expect?
He’s the Hollywood heartthrob and I’m nobody.
“Of course, Mr. Braxten,” I murmur. “Whatever you need.”
I just wished he needed me.
Chapter Two
Braden
Fuck.
I need this curvy young woman more than I need oxygen, more than I need food, more than I need anything.
My cock is so stiff, so hard, precome leaking from my engorged helm, making me glad these pants are so baggy. If Commander Griffiths – the character I’m playing – wore tighter trousers she’d be able to see my massive length swollen with lust.
Look at her. She’s perfect.
The voice comes from deep inside of me, from my seed, a primal growl that forces me to track her with my gaze as she walks around the crowded hot room.
She’s wearing a pale pink shirt the fabric thin, letting me see the faint outline of her white bra beneath. Her tits are large and round, perfect for sinking my hands into, and those hips are fucking irresistible. Wide and made for grabbing, just like that ass, trapped in those tight black pants like she wants me to spank her.
Whenever she risks a look at me – I can tell the horny young thing is intimidated – her bright eyes fill with shyness. Her hair is a dark chocolate brown and falls down past her shoulders, messily, as though it was in a ponytail before she freed it.
I need to run my hands through her hair, grab it lightly and bring her lips to mine.