I hate myself because I know I should grow a pair and just hang up. No telling Mom to screw off or arguing with her, just a simple press of a button to sever myself from this person who has hurt me and my kid brother—who’s hurt my grandmother—time and time again. Instead, I release a thick breath. “Yes. Just like I said,” I promise.
“Good. Sienna, I—” To my relief, the call disconnects just in time to spare me from her lies about how much she loves me.
I lean my forehead against the wall to gather my bearings, clutching the costume to my chest so tightly that I’m sure it will rip the slick pleather into several pieces. “Pull it together,” I whisper to myself. I don’t have time to stress over family drama—not if I’m going to prove myself to Amber. And after stuffing my foot into my mouth a few minutes ago, I’ll need all the points with her that I can rack up.
With that thought in mind, I scoot out of the corner I’ve taken up for the last few minutes, determined to deliver the lingerie to the actress I’d measured earlier this morning. Since my eyes are cast down at the hard, gray floor, and this particular hallway has been quiet all morning, I don’t realize I’m not alone until I collide into a hard, and very human, body.
“Shit!” I gasp, stumbling backward. A tattooed arm reaches out and strong hands wrap around my wrists, steadying me. I swallow hard when he pulls me back to him, so that our bodies are flush.
“I was thinking more along the lines of f**k, to be honest,” a low, male voice drawls, and I shiver.
His chest is the first thing that my eyes take in. It’s broad and muscular beneath a stretchy white tee. The shirt is thin, even though it’s the middle of January, and when I squint, I can visibly see several tattoos sketched across his skin beneath the fabric. Slowly, I drag my gaze up to his neck, past a strong chin and full lips set against olive skin. When I reach his hazel eyes, my breath leaves my body for a moment.
I know this man’s eyes well, because when I secured this job, I’d done as much research as I could on Your Toxic Sequel. This was Lucas Wolfe.
The band’s front man.
Great.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
Lucas cocks his head to one side, so far that his dark hair nearly skims his shoulder and quirks the corner of his mouth. His expression would be utterly sexy if the look in his eyes wasn’t so unreadable. Ugh, who am I kidding? Unreadable look or not, this man is gorgeous. I just don’t want to be around when he decides to say something. I’d already dealt with two of his band mates today—Wyatt who’d invited me to his dressing room and Sinjin who’d sneered at me until I eventually slunk off holding a pair of jeans he refused to wear.
When I try to take a step backward, Lucas splays his fingers across my skin, tightening his grip on me and drawing a desperate sound from the back of my throat.
What the hell is he doing?
He inches closer to me, his grin widening into something so animalistic that I can vividly hear the lyrics from “All Over You” playing in the back of my head. The pit of my stomach tightens, and I squeeze my legs together. Flicking the tip of his tongue over his top lip, Lucas drops his hazel eyes to the floor for a moment before pulling his intense gaze back to mine. He finishes closing the little bit of space between our bodies, and releases one of my wrists.
And then he stuns me. He reaches up, brushing stray wisps of my hair back from my forehead, sending jolts of electricity pulsing through me.
My throat goes dry.
“You dropped your panties,” Lucas says in a low growl.
Chapter Three
Lucas
She gasps for air and draws back, staring up at me with wide-ass eyes. “What?” she stutters.
“You dropped your panties,” I repeat, this time slowly, emphasizing each word, and the woman I’ve got between my hands turns the sexiest shade of red. She bites the corner of her lip, working it between her teeth nervously.
Her gaze shifts down at the floor, to the black underwear she dropped when she fell against me, and she lets out a shaky laugh. “Guess I did,” she says, but it sounds more like a f**king question then a statement.
Reluctantly, I drop my hand from her face, noticing the way her body quivers when I do. “Here, I’ll help—”
“No!” But we kneel down at the same time, both of our hands reaching out for the flimsy lingerie. Her blue eyes never break from mine, even as her fingertips brush across my knuckles while we both grab the glossy looking underwear. I give the panties a rough tug, hold them up by the tip of my fingers to tease her and grin down. Suddenly, she’s not biting her lips anymore. She’s grinding her teeth. It reminds me of a woman I messed around with a few months ago, who clenched her teeth, and everything else, at the same time, annoying me.
But on this woman, this beautiful redhead, it’s not just annoying. It’s sexy as sin.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she mutters at last.
I did. God, yes I did.
When I rise to my feet, she follows, placing a safe amount of space between our bodies now that I’m no longer holding on to her. “You are?” I demand.
“Sienna Jensen. I’m in . . . wardrobe,” she answers. Then she gives me a bittersweet smile. “Or was the wardrobe girl before I trampled the band’s lead singer.”
I slide the pleather back and forth between my fingertips and study her, feel a static pulse ripple through me when those blue eyes settle on my hands. She’s got a look like she wants to jerk them away from me and run, but I won’t let her. Least not until I’m done with her.