Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(30)
I jab a little harder. She gasps.
“I need words.”
“Oh, so, so good, sir!”
A smirk curls on my lips. “That’s better.”
I run circles around her clit with my thumb, turning it into a hard nub. More moans and groans escape her throat.
“Oh, please, Sergeant Taylor, f*ck me.”
I yank back her head by her ponytail and meet her heated gaze. She yelps.
“Careful. I give the orders.” I tug again at her mane. “Is that what you want? For me to f*ck you hard?”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice is a desperate rasp.
It’s time to get down to business. I’m so f*cking turned on. Releasing her silky hair and withdrawing my soaked hand from her slickness, I rub my hard as nails dick with her * juices, lubing it further. Using both hands, I spread her rosy cheeks wide and aim it at her opening. My hand wraps around my enormous pulsing shaft, and inch by thick inch, I barrel into her tight puckered hole. She winces. I hiss. So f*cking good. Oh, yeah, she’s going to get it hard. So hard she’ll be begging me to stop. But I’m going to f*ck her brains out. Fuck her to oblivion before she can cry out her safe word. Clutching her hips, I begin to pummel her…
CUT! Fade to black.
My alarm goes off. The end of another kinky wet dream. To be continued. My eyes snap open and I shakily sit up. The covers are torn off me. I have a raging boner. And I know why. I can’t get my assistant, Zoey Hart, out of my head. She’s literally and figuratively under my skin. I dreamt about her. Relived last night’s spanking in a crazy, cinematic fantasy. Jesus. Sergeant Fucking Taylor. Wielding a whip. Fucking her ass. How far will I take my sexual proclivities? My need for dominance? My need to possess her?
Last night should have never happened. But it did. It was all about control, but I’m the one who lost it. Jealousy fueled my rage and rage fueled my dominance which fueled my need to punish her. Sure, I told her to forget about the spanking, but that’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be next to impossible. The same for me. I wish I could blank it out. Bury it in the vortex of my amnesia. I dread facing her and can’t fathom how we’ll continue to work together. Now what? Maybe we need to talk about it.
Rolling out of bed stark naked, I stagger to the bathroom. Usually by the time I get to the toilet, my morning wood has started to go down. Not today. I stare at my monstrous boner and swear it’s laughing at me: “Ha, ha, ha, I’m not going anywhere.” No way can I pee in the toilet with it. My huge erection shoots out of me like a torpedo, perpendicular to the floor. Desperate for relief, I hop into the shower, turn on the water, and take a whizz, shooting my stream straight at a glass wall. Then, I jerk off, fantasizing her beautiful fingers curled around my dick. For sure, they’re long enough to circle all the way around it. With a loud grunt, I come.
Towel-drying myself, I think more about last night. Part of it felt so wrong, yet everything felt so right. Why can’t I stop thinking about her? Hopefully, a swim will help me chill out. Clear my mind. And make it easier to face her.
Zoey is setting my Starbucks on a table when I finish my last lap. All the tension I eliminated with my swim dives right back into me at the sight of her. Dressed in a tight T-shirt and jeans, she looks fresh and sexy. My cock stirs. She’s still affecting me, and I can’t make the feelings and sensations she arouses go away. It’s hopeless. Damn her. Hoisting myself out of the pool, I grab my towel and throw it over my shoulders. Heading her way, I have no clue what to say. And my arousal isn’t helping. It’s only making things worse.
“Here’s your coffee.” Her voice is devoid of emotion, and she’s deliberately avoiding eye contact with me.
“About last night—”
She meets my gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about. What I did and what you did was wrong, but two wrongs don’t make a right. You were right, however, about one thing. I need a boyfriend.”
I feel totally deflated. It’s as if she has no feelings toward me. Her tone is very business like, bordering on icy.
“Zoey, I have feel—”
She cuts me off again. “Please, Brandon, let’s not talk about it. Like you said, let’s forget about it and move on. Your schedule is on the table. You’re shooting the entire day. It may go into overtime.”
I notice there’s no coffee for her. Usually, she sits with me and reviews my schedule, but obviously, she’s not going to do that today. Guess what? She is affected. She’s just not letting on. She’s a damn good actress. I feel a glimmer of hope.
“Yo, Brand-man. How’s it going?”
A familiar nasal voice interrupts my thoughts. An unexpected visit from my manager, Scott. Wearing a navy blazer over cream pants and an open shirt, he ambles our way. His leathery skin looks tanner than ever. For sure, he’s gone to one of those tanning salons.
Zoey’s expression hardens at the sight of him. Her father’s been working day and night to uncover the connection between him and Donatelli, the motherf*cker who murdered her mother and also did in my parents. But so far, no leads. Scott still denies ever having lunch with him. Plus he has an alibi: After having lunch with Katrina at The Ivy, he accompanied her to a bridal gown fitting at nearby Monique Hervé’s eponymous boutique. The designer backed him up as did Enid, Katrina’s wedding planner mother, who was also there.