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But the whole this is pretend, it doesn't end with her screaming my name as she comes on my face…
That, I don't like.
This Lacey woman is either a hell of an actress or she's fucking desperate for me.
She tugs at my hair as my lips brush her neck.
Her groans vibrate over my cheeks.
Her brown eyes are wide with need. Her dark hair is messy. That tiny tank top is falling off her shoulders.
Fuck, I'm tempted to do away with the thing entirely.
To slide all the way out of these jeans.
To get her out of those shorts.
To ask Danielle the Diva—the director has a hell of a reputation for being difficult, worse than mine even—to get lost so I can fuck her pretty assistant.
But I'm not that guy.
And I don't want to be that guy.
Even if the way Lacey is groaning as I pin her arms above her head is incredibly tempting.
I want her in my bed.
Naked and wanting and begging me to let her come.
Fuck, I can't remember the last time I was this hard. I need to send the genius who added spandex to skinny jeans a very long thank-you note.
I shift my hips to pin Lacey to the bed. For the life of me, I can't imagine how this footage fits into our video.
As much as I hate to extricate myself from between a sweet brunette's legs, I'm about to ask.
But the door swings open and a perky voice carries into the room.
"Sorry. We're late, but we're here." Footsteps move closer. The woman lets out a soft gasp. "Oh my God, Lacey? You look right at home. Tell me you're finally going from stand-in to actress."
Lacey clears her throat. She looks up at me, her eyes still hazy with lust. "I should get back to it."
She should. My cock is screaming no fair that we're shooting a video. We should be having fun.
I shift off the bed. The girl talking is a short, perky blond with a face full of makeup and an asymmetrical haircut. She's holding a square black bag. She must be the makeup girl.
The redheaded model our label picked out is next to her. She's undeniably pretty, but it's in a way that screams of fakeness. Fake hair, fake tits, fake nails, fake eyelashes. The hair and makeup I get—the camera doesn't see stuff the way the eyes do. But the tacky tube top, the heels, the long, red nails—
Her look screams cheap groupie.
Which means I'm going to be starring in a video that screams Malcolm Strong spends a lot of time and energy pining for cheap groupies.
That isn't my image.
I don't fuck groupies.
I don't fuck women who have think of me as anything more than attractive man I want in my bed.
Or maybe attractive man I want spanking me and tying me to my bed.
