Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(23)

“He saw it.” I snapped the dress up. “Josh is an *. End of.”

“Wait. He didn’t fire you?”

“No. He got . . .” What was the word? It wasn’t simply angry. “. . . protective.”

I realized I was staring into the middle distance with the dress draped over my arm, remembering my boss with a fire in his eyes. Like he wanted to rip Josh Trudeau’s face off with his bare hands.

Over me.

Me.

I was important.

“And?” Blakely asked.

And I liked it. Which is wrong. Everything about how it felt is wrong.

“And what?”

“And are you all right?”

Blakely knew how wrong it was. She’d been dragged through the mud for months.

“I’m fine,” I said, looking at my watch. “If you could get Nicole ready, I think we’re leaving at seven.”

She bounced up.

“Yes. Okay. Man, I like our boss.”

She kissed me on the cheek and dashed to the front house to get Nicole ready.

I had to admit, I liked our boss too.

Shit.

I didn’t move for too long. I didn’t even know what I was staring at. The way he’d protected me, left those two girls behind, slung his daughter over his shoulder, and took charge? I could see him as something more. Something real and stable.

All of it sent warmth from my heart to the fold between my legs. The twisted logic of dreams had clicked together unrelated ideas. Sex. Brad Sinclair. Security. Stability.

In the real world, nothing said instability like Brad Sinclair. He and security didn’t occupy the same room comfortably. He was less stable than my parents. More likely to move. Less emotionally accessible. But in dreamland, when I was bent over the pool table working up to an orgasm so strong I woke up, all those puzzle pieces clicked together and made perfect sense.

In the real world, I could dismiss dream logic, until he nearly broke Josh Trudeau’s face. Then it came together. It became real, and it was more arousing than just about anything I’d ever felt.

You’ve lost your mind.

Truly, I had. I peeled off my jeans and shirt and headed for the shower, arguing that I needed one anyway, then arguing that I only had to soap up, rinse off, and get out fast, then that I wouldn’t be able to function with a constant throb between my legs, then that I should take the shower cold.

Nah. I put the temperature all the way up. I wanted to feel every drop. I got in and was engulfed in the water’s soothing heat.

I wanted a real home. A stable person to spend my life with, and they were in short supply. I hadn’t given up; I’d just stopped looking for a man.

In my fantasy he said—

Spread your legs, baby. I’m going to lick you.

Pretending he was someone completely different when he bent down and put his face between my legs. When I put my hands on my body, I felt his hands. When I touched my nipples, I did it the way I thought he’d do it. The way I wanted him to.

Take me take me take me . . .

I wasn’t supposed to think of Brad Sinclair. I’d had an excuse that morning. I was half asleep and coming off a dream. In the shower, I made that tiny tiled room a safe place where it was acceptable to put one hand on the wall, one hand between my legs and tease my clit until I thought I’d explode. Just this one time. Make it last.

Are you close? I’m going to come in you.

In that voice. That magic voice. Not too high or low. The rhythms of it. He’d spread my legs while his hips thrust, looking down at me. His eyes on me while he ripped me apart with his dick. Fast then slow. Pushing in all the way to the root. He’d tell me not to come. He’d ask me to wait for him. He’d demand I wait for him. I slowed the motions of my fingers as I got closer.

Imagining his orgasm. His gasp. His groan. Losing control because of me.

That did it. I came so hard I had to lean on the wall.





CHAPTER 17


BRAD


My father made fun of me when I bought my first tux. Called me a fancy-ass.

“I think you need an update come fall,” Paula said, straightening my tie. “I’ll call Max and have him come for a fitting.”

“They all look the same.”

I stood in front of the mirror. I looked like a clown. I yanked the tie off. Nicole appeared in the doorway.

“Can I wear the sparkle-toe sneakers?”

“Sure.”

She called down the hall. “Daddy said yes.”

Blakely stepped into the frame and addressed me.

“They won’t fit in at a black-tie event,” she said. “But your call.”

“Whatever she wants,” I said. “I don’t care what people think.”

Paula put her hands on her hips.

“Stars! You’re bringing the bombshell?” she asked. The nickname was funny the first fifteen times.

“My daughter? Yeah.”

“Brad, honey. No one’s bringing their kids to this. Now I’m not trying to tell you how to be the father—”

“Hell you aren’t.”

“Bring her to the . . . what’s it called? The associated event.”

“She’s coming. Let them get their pictures. I want to hang out with her and if I can’t get downtime to do it, she can come to work with me.”