Curve Struck (A Celebrity Stepbrother Romance) Page 8

  "I'd look like a moose wearing that -- thinner leathers only."

  She nodded, agreeing, and watched him select three more sketches. Two of the outfits were definitely meant for the "playroom" scenes in the film. She could see, based on what she'd already viewed of his impressive body, that there was room for improvement in the designs -- ways to accentuate the most drool worthy aspects of his physique.

  The third "outfit" was just a fabric drape, but whoever had done the sketch had envisioned a far too heavy fabric that laid over him like a fire blanket.

  "These need tweaked."

  "Yes, I have a few improvements in mind for them already."

  "Excellent."

  Placing his phone on the table, Declan unthreaded a button on the cuff of his sleeve.

  "Wh-what..."

  "Don't choke on the question, Mel." The gray eyes turned predatory and so did his smile. "I've got a block of time now for you to do some of the production drawings. And I know you've got your art tablet with you. Hell, you probably put it in a gallon Ziploc bag and take it into the tub when you bathe."

  "No, I don't," she growled. The stylus wouldn't work through the plastic, so fat lot of nothing he knew about the subject.

  His fingers paused at unbuttoning the second cuff. "You don't take it in the tub, or 'no,' you don't have it on you?"

  "The tub." Her cheeks grew hot. She wasn't sure if it was from his poking at her or the fact that he planned on getting down to his underwear before the conversation was over.

  "Great, then you have all the tools you need." Getting off the stool, he walked across to the far side of the room and eased a mannequin out of the way before turning on two photography lights. "Lock the door, will you?"

  Fuck, fuck, fuck...you knew you were going to have to do this at some point...don't be a complete ninny about it.

  Her shoes suddenly made out of lead, Melanie shuffled over to the door and threw the lock's bolt. By the time she turned back to the worktable, Declan had his shirt off and was shimmying out of the tight jeans.

  She didn't have to guess at the source of the heat flaring inside her at that moment. It was unadulterated appreciation of his body and the way he moved as he got down to nothing more than low cut briefs made from a thin Lycra-like fabric that acted like a second layer of skin instead of clothing.

  He was killing her.

  Slowly.

  Other than the prior Friday dressing him for the photographer, she had spent little time alone with Declan on a set. The times when she was responsible for dressing him had always involved a room filled with other people, other actors and costumers, makeup artists and even writers.

  Now, not only were they alone after what had happened Saturday, but he had deftly maneuvered her into making a study of his body. She would have to look at every line and their convergence, the way the skin caught the light, the hard curves of his muscles...

  Feeling a little dizzy, she removed her art tablet and stylus from her bag. With her tools in hand, she watched him move a big, rectangular staging block over to the wall and drape it with a red piece of silk.

  Satisfied with his preparations, Declan slid his gorgeous, barely covered ass on top of the block, curled his hands around the prop's back edge and let his long, muscular legs straddle the forward sides.

  "Is this a production meeting or a Playgirl shoot?" Melanie sniped.

  "Considering the script, both." Declan winked as he answered. "Lucky you."

  Oh, the unmitigated gall of the man!

  She decided to poke back, powering on her tablet and dragging her stool closer as she considered his potential weak spots.

  "I thought you left Seneca to make something serious? Instead you went from an alien super villain to a rich, kinky politician. Or is this..." Pausing, she gestured at the sketches behind her. "Your attempt at serious art?"

  His mouth went a little jagged at her question but quickly smoothed out.

  "My contract requires one studio selected film that I'm bound to, Melanie Lee. This is it. Then I get to be choosy."

  As much as her question might have irritated him for a moment, it didn't stop him from trying to get under her skin. His fingers plucked at the waist of his skin hugging briefs.

  "Should we start with these off?"

  Holy Habanero! That was so not happening.

  "I guess that means you can be unprofessional on this film, since it's the studio's choice," she said, indirectly addressing his question.

  An offended look survived half a second before he burst into a laugh. When it subsided, he shaped his face into a serious expression. "That was a professional question. I'll be nude on the set. You'll need to know how my cock rests to account for the draping."

  Drawing her bottom lip into her mouth, she unconsciously sucked on it as she tried not to imagine the scene he was talking about. She'd read the script, knew it was going to go a few steps beyond Shades, with those scenes likely being edited out for cinemas but added to the extended cut DVD and Blu-ray.

  "I'll get a carrot and work it out later," she said as she finished setting up her document in the sketching app.

  She started with him in the playroom as a dominant. First she sketched in his basic shape, everything as blocky at first as the dense foam rectangle he rested on. She didn't have to look too closely at him to do that, just follow the outline of his torso and limbs.

  The second layer of strokes finessed his upper torso and arms, his head remaining an unfinished block for the sake of authenticity.

  When she moved to the third layer, the calm that had built up with her earlier strokes evaporated and her heart began to hammer in her chest. She wanted to drop the waistline on the tight leather pants he would be wearing and give them a diagonal fly with a quick catch release instead of the awkward zipper in the original drawing.

  But she needed to know the lay of the land -- his lower abdomen's topography, where his belly button was, the crest of his sharp hips, and where a certain part of his anatomy would top out once turgid.

  A glance that turned into a long stare provided the answer to her last consideration. Declan had grown hard while watching her sketch him. There was just enough strength to his thin briefs to keep him contained, forcing his cock to crawl sideways toward his hip as it stiffened.

  Mentally straightening the offending member, she realized he would have to stay semi-erect or softer during filming if she expected the waistline of the pants to fall below his navel.

  "Something wrong?"

  He cloaked the inquiry in that bedroom voice he had that made her eyes flutter shut when she was watching his movies alone at home. Forcing her eyes to stay open, she shook her head. If she tried to use her words, she knew she'd sound like a rusty saw.

  "You stopped sketching, so I thought maybe something was wrong."

  Damn tease, she thought, making sure she had the file saved. Then she lined in the adjustments she wanted and changed the color of the leather from the unimaginative black of the first sketch to a medium cobalt that would pop brilliantly against his golden tan and dark blond hair.

  She saved again then a third time with no changes to give it a new file name. From there, she added thin leather straps in the same color along his chest. When her stylus stopped moving again, Declan slid off the prop and came to look over her shoulder, his thick, broad chest pushing lightly at her back, heating the skin.

  Her spine started to shrink and curve with anticipation over what other part of his body might push against her generous backside.

  "Nice," he said, his tone communicating genuine appreciation of the sketch.

  "You can see when I'm done," she chided with a pointy jab at the prop he had just abandoned. "I need to do the back, as well."

  He walked away, a smile ringing in his voice as he struck a pose in front of the stage block. "You mean you don't have it memorized already?"

  Hell yes, she did, but she was a professional and needed to be certain. And his overinflated ego didn't n
eed confirmation.

  "Possibly," she snarked softly. "But I can't be sure I'm not confusing your backside with Don Delano's."

  Done naming the oldest actor she had worked with, a man into his seventies or beyond, she pressed her lips together to hide a smirk.

  She should have known better than to poke at Declan. He reminded her a few short seconds later with a question.

  "You dropped the waist up front, didn't you?"

  He sounded so damn innocent delivering the line. That alone should have put her on full alert. Instead, she responded distractedly as she blocked in his basic shape.

  "Yeah, about two inches."

  "That's what I thought."

  She didn't attach any relevance to his reply until she looked up a few minutes later to find that the back of his waistband barely reached the top curve of his toned ass cheeks. With a sharp gasp, she jerked her stylus off the screen to keep from placing any errant lines as her hand started to shake.

  Slowly, oh-so-casually, he looked over his shoulder and nailed her with that stormy gray gaze. "You okay? Hand's not cramping up, is it?"

  He damn well knew it wasn't.

  Jabbing her stylus at the menu options, she saved what she had already sketched of his back side and closed the program.

  "Hand is fine. I've got all I need. You can get dressed now."

  She expected him to prolong his torment of her, but he shrugged and reached for his pants. He slid them on, his beautiful body disappearing all too quickly even though she wanted him dressed and out as soon as possible.

  He stepped into his shoes as he threaded his arms through his shirt. Walking over to the worktable, he buttoned the shirt, pausing to look over her shoulder again at the existing sketches she had laid out on the table. He took a few minutes to study them -- or fake studying them, his breath warming the skin of her neck the entire time.

  "I'll be back Wednesday around five," he whispered ominously, his mouth close enough to her ear that it teased the superfine hairs along her jaw. "I'll want to see everything you've got, so be prepared, baby girl."

  He left then, his words clinging to Melanie's skin as her knees slowly gave out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "The two of you are screwing, I take it."

  Melanie's stylus fell to the floor. She let it lay there, her wide gaze fixed on Michael Strake where he stood with one hip resting against her worktable.

  She didn't need to ask who was the other half of his dirty assumption. Since Monday after Declan left, Strake had been probing the reasons for Bain invoking his contract right to select his own costumer.

  Had she worked with him before?

  -Yes, as a wardrobe girl.

  How many times?

  -Once.

  When?

  -Recently.

  Had they known one another before that?

  -Not at all.

  And on and on and on, sometimes subtly but usually direct. Now he was getting to what had been his intended question all along.

  "So he wants to..." he cocked his head, looked at Melanie's plump form and lifted both brows like he'd just swallowed a lemon. "Yet you're saying no because?"

  She lifted her chin, his insult washing over her with a hot prickling of her skin. The look on his face said it was inconceivable that a woman like her would ever reject Declan Bain.

  And maybe she wouldn't have if the situation had been different, but it was clear Declan wasn't interested in her, was just playing some sick game because her mother had married his father.

  "I don't know where you're getting the idea that--"

  Strake cut her off with a loud, dirty laugh.

  "C'mon, sugarcakes. My production assistant saw you getting out of his limo Monday morning. He gives you a ride, gets you a job above your resume, then the two of you disappear behind a locked door for an hour and a half before he struts--"

  "Look, we're related," Melanie blurted as her face turned a dark crimson.

  Shit, that was the last thing she wanted to say. Better to have Strake think they were fucking around. Now he might ask her how or, even worse, ask Declan and give the actor one more reason to torment her.

  Strake swept his gaze up and down Melanie's body, his mouth dancing with indecision at her thickest curves. "I can see the resemblance in the face -- your face is gorgeous"

  The urge to retrieve her stylus and jam it in his eye quivered through her hand.

  How many times had she heard that bullshit in life?

  A beautiful face, but...

  Grimacing in the shape of a smile, she corrected him. "We're not blood relatives--"

  "So, legally, he could screw you," Strake said, rounding the worktable to her side. He stopped about a foot and a half away and eyed her again. "I know a trainer, works miracles, could get the rest of you to line up with your face."

  Another wave of shock and anger rolled through her.

  "Part of the benefits package, so to speak. That is, if you're interested in an upgraded package."

  Her right eye twitched in disbelief. Had Strake really just adjusted his cock as he said the word "package"?

  Her hand started to bounce on the table, the nail of her middle finger striking the surface hard and repetitively as she contained the urge to explode. A glance at the clock told her she only had to tolerate the idiot a few more minutes -- if Declan kept his appointment for five o'clock.

  In three years of working in the industry, the situation was a first for her. She was positive her weight had cost her jobs -- whether because the people responsible for hiring didn't think she could hustle as much as the gig required or from equally ignorant assholes who didn't want the aesthetics of their set spoiled. But all the extra curves and jiggly bits had also provided a level of immunity against sexual harassment.

  Until now.

  Maybe the interest Declan was showing Melanie had cast a sort of competitive glamour over her as far as Strake was concerned.

  "What do you say, baby?" Strake took another step forward, his hips leading the way.

  "I say you need to stay on the other side of the table," she answered coolly.

  Oblivious to her rejection, he took another step forward. She turned away from the table, her gaze picking a safe route to the door he had closed when he came into her workspace under the pretext of checking on her progress.

  He snatched at her wrist, seizing it in a rough grip. Intent on more than just stopping her retreat, he jerked her to him.

  "You think this table is strong enough for you to sit on while I fuck you?"

  Seeing his mouth zero in on hers, she brought her hand up sharply. Aiming to slam her palm in his nose, she wasn't fast enough. She caught him under the chin and pushed up. With her fingers near his lips, Strake tried to suck one into her mouth, grossing her out before anger and fear took over.

  "Let go of me!" she screamed.

  Grabbing her other wrist, he twisted her arms until they were behind her back and his hips were pushing at the curve of her stomach.

  Bile rose up in her mouth.

  "I bet you've got a tight pussy." He pumped his hips against her once and she felt the thin pencil of his erection between the layers of fabric separating them. "If you won't give it up for Bain, then you're not like most girls your size. Most fatties will give it up to any man willing to drop his pants."

  "When you let go of my arms," she growled. "It better be to run."

  Laughing, he tried to nuzzle at her neck.

  She snapped at his ear before screaming again.

  "Let go of me!"

  "Scream all you want," Strake taunted. "You'll be moaning for me to come back when I'm through fu--"

  The office door burst open. Strake jerked his head toward the intruder, his expression flashing from annoyed to terrified as he saw Declan charging at him, head down and the muscular arms outstretched.

  Releasing Melanie's wrists, Strake tried to peel back. She brought her hands up and slammed both of them against his chest, knoc
king him backwards. Declan adjusted his charge, dropped one arm and wrapped the other around Strake's neck in a chokehold, bringing the man to his knees.

  Melanie stared, stunned twice over. First at the attack and then at Declan's rescue.

  "Stop," she said, starting with a whisper before repeating it more loudly as she grabbed at his arm. "Stop!"

  Strake looked at her, eyes bulging as his face mottled red and purple.

  "Unless you tell me you wanted that," Declan growled. "I'm going to wring his fucking neck."

  Her tone gentled and she stared into Bain's furious gaze. "I didn't want it, but you have to stop anyway. Think it through, the cops--"

  "Are going to haul his worthless ass away for assault?"

  She shook her head, tugging lightly at Declan's arm as Strake's eyelids started to flutter shut. "Where there are cops, there are reporters...especially if there is a dead body."

  Digging his fingers in Strake's hair, Declan withdrew his arm from around the flagging man's neck. Bain glared at her, the muscles on his arm tight and flexing.

  "He's going to do this to someone else."

  Holding back tears, she nodded. "You know he won't go to jail, even with both of us testifying. It probably wouldn't even go to trial."

  Strake had too much money and power in Hollywood. He'd say she and Declan were colluding, that it was Declan who had made the marks on her wrist. He'd tell a thousand different lies and, best case scenario, plead to something with no jail time and continue slandering them to anyone who would listen so he could rehabilitate his reputation.

  People -- women included -- would eagerly line up to work with him.

  "Think about it," she coaxed. "This wasn't his first time trying to hold a woman down."

  Snarling, Declan planted a foot against Strake's back and sent him sprawling onto the ground. Barely conscious, the man groaned.

  "Get your shit together and wait for me in the limo."

  Melanie stood frozen, only her lips capable of moving.

  "What are you going to do?"

  Angling his head away from her, Declan stared at Melanie with one eye, his hands clenched in fists at his sides.