Page 38 of The Hollywood Switch-up

His other hand slid down his stomach, following the trail of dark hair below his navel. Her breath stopped. His fingers wrapped around himself—thick, flushed, already hard. A groan rumbled from his chest, and her thighs pressed together. His head fell back, hips rocking forward into his grip. Slow. Deliberate. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each stroke.

“Princesa.” The word fell from his lips, rough and broken. Wanting. The sound shot straight between her legs.

His head turned. Water dripped from his jaw as his eyes found hers through the slats. Dark. Hungry. He didn’t stop. His hand moved slower as he watched her watch him.

“See something you like, Princesa?” His voice was rough, that accent thickening the way it did when he was angry—or aroused. His lips curved, one corner lifting in an amused smile. “Don’t run.”

He turned to face her fully, letting her see all of him—the water streaming down his chest, the flex of his abs, his hand still working himself in long, slow strokes. His eyes never left hers.

“Come here.” A command, not a question. And against every instinct, she wanted to obey.

Her phone buzzed. The dream broke.

Erika’s eyes flew open. Her hand was already between her legs, fingers slick, pressing against the ache that pulsed there. No. She jerked her hand away as if it burned, wiping her fingers on the sheet with a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room. The ceiling fan turned above her. She curled onto her side, hating how her body still pulsed with want.

The phone buzzed again, screen lighting up the darkness.

Annie Banana:

Babe. The story.

Annie Banana:

Some people make work SO hard —we talked about this

Annie Banana:

My engagement is flatlining while you’re living my life. The least you can do is keep my grid breathing.

She stared at the messages, her sister’s demands blurring as the dream clung to her like humidity. Stefan’s voice still echoed in her skull. The way he’d said that stupid nickname—not mocking, not teasing.

She set the phone face down on the nightstand and pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars.

She hadn’t posted it. She couldn’t. Not after the soup. Not after the way he’d looked at her—really looked, like she was more than a headline.

The phone buzzed again. She didn’t look.

She showered in water cold enough to punish, dressed in whatever her hands touched first, and made it to the costume tent before she could change her mind about this slow-motion disaster.

Inside, Lily was arranging a rack of outfits. The designer glanced up, hands freezing mid-motion.

“Jesus, you look like you lost a fight with your own pillow.” Lily pressed a steaming paper cup into Erika’s hands. “Drink. Triple shot.”

Erika’s fingers curled around the warmth. “Is there whiskey in it?”

“Not at eight in the morning, but I could make an exception.” Lily tilted her head. “That bad?”

“Stefan Cruz is waiting on set,” Erika whispered. “And Martin’s already shouting for blood.”

Lily leaned in, voice dropping. “Speaking of Cruz—Mia from makeup said his golf cart was parked outside your villa past midnight.”

The dream flashed behind her eyes—steam, water, his hand. She shoved it down. “He brought soup.”

“Soup,” Lily repeated. “Men like Stefan Cruz don’t deliver soup unless⁠—”

“It’s not like that,” Erika interrupted. “He was just . . . checking on me.”