Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
His director stared back, his eyes flat and dripping with lust.
Oliver Newcomb.
He hovered over Cillian, one hand planted against the sofa next to Cillian’s shoulder, his silhouette blocking the light from overhead and casting his face into ominous shadow—a man with a blocky face, sallow blue eyes, and an oily smile that spread across his lips as he reached for Cillian’s cock, hand darting down between his legs.
“This doesn’t have to be so bloody difficult,” Newcomb purred, his voice syrupy with slick, proprietary confidence, British accent an off note that soured it even further for Cillian—when it was so close to the familiar tones of home, yet just different enough to feel painfully, nauseatingly wrong. “We could make each other very comfortable during filming, Cillian. What’s wrong with playing around a little?”
Cillian knocked Newcomb’s hand away before he could even touch Cillian’s jeans, shoving his arm aside and glaring up at him. “What’s wrong,” Cillian bit off, the words bitter drops on his tongue, “is that I said no. I’m not interested. And I’d like you to leave.”
Newcomb’s confident, leering smile vanished. He looked at Cillian coldly, small eyes sunken into deep brows that had been shaped into lines by their own smugness, erasing any hint of handsomeness there.
“I thought you were ready to work in the big leagues, little boy.”
“What part of my fucking work involves getting molested by the director?” Cillian shot back, clenching his teeth and glancing swiftly left, right. Newcomb’s arm blocked his right side, the arm of the couch walling off the left, but he might be able to slither over the side of the sofa, squeeze free, and bolt for the door.
His heart hammered as Newcomb leaned in closer, the sick twist inside Cillian warring between panic and sheer fury, flushing him hot up to the tips of his ears and making everything too sharp. Newcomb’s breath was a sour thing, bitter whiskey on every exhalation, stinging Cillian’s nose.
“The kind,” Newcomb sneered, angling his head in, lips seeking Cillian’s, “that gets you more work, whenever you want it. The kind that makes you famous.”
Newcomb’s mouth hovered close, so close, almost touching, drawing in, in—and for a half-second flash of stark horror, Cillian froze. Froze as he realized if he stopped this now, if he said no…
He was off the film.
He’d lose his big break. Newcomb would replace him on Cillian’s very first major studio film, rip the role right out from under him, because this opportunity had been bought less by his performance in the casting call and more because Newcomb liked the set of his hips and the curl of his lips. He’d be sent home in disgrace. A failure, and maybe his family wouldn’t say I told you so, but it would be there in the air between them for the rest of his life.
That half-second passed.
A curl of stinking whiskey-breath crawled up his nostrils.
And, nearly gagging, Cillian braced his hands against Oliver Newcomb’s broad chest and shoved.
Newcomb stumbled back, taking his rancid smell with him. An opening, air and, breathless, Cillian skidded his body along the sofa, sliding out from beneath that hovering frame and rolling off the cushions to his feet. He took a few wary steps backward toward the door, breathing harshly. Good. Good. Back to the exit, nothing blocking him off, pulse stammering as he readied himself to run.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “I’m not ready for prime time. Because I don’t want you laying another bloody fucking hand on me.”
Newcomb’s face twisted into a vicious caricature, eyes beady and sharp; he opened his mouth—but it wasn’t his voice that floated over the room.
“I do hope we’re not interrupting anything of…” That deep bass voice, an earthquake captured in music, lowered with a touch of contempt dripping from a uniquely distinctive, instantly recognizable mid-Atlantic accent only heard now on ancient black and white American films from the twenties and thirties. “…importance.”
Cillian froze.
Something twitched inside his chest, something at once terrified and confused and screaming with relief. Newcomb froze as well, that monstrous and hungry expression smoothing over into derisive irritation.
And even before he saw the owner of that voice…
Cillian knew who stood behind him.
“Sweet Christ, Lau,” Newcomb snapped. “Don’t you know how to fucking well knock?”
Swallowing, his throat a desert dust storm, Cillian turned slowly.
The Prince of Romance himself stood in the doorway of Cillian’s dressing room.
Brendan Lau.
Lau stood so tall the top of his head nearly touched the upper frame, the wood just barely skimming the broad silver-white stripe flowing from his left temple through the coal-black sweep of his neatly cropped hair. Even simply standing in the doorway, he carried himself with the presence of a man accustomed to dominating the room; that same presence that made him seem to come to life on the big screen, stepping out of the projection and into the physical space of people watching him. All it took was a single glance to enthrall audiences with the casual, easily masculine way Lau carried himself; with the severely handsome lines of his face, accented with thick features and arrogant lips that projected an aura of cool confidence. A simple but well-tailored black, button-down, crisply ironed and untucked, sat on his broad shoulders and trim chest as elegantly as a perfectly pressed couture suit, his jeans hanging just right on his hips, the tight tone of his forearms dusted with dark hair past the folded cuffs of his shirt, one hand tucked in his pocket, the cock of his hips lazy and self-assured.