All Over You (2 page)

“I’m on it,” I say. When I turn to walk out
of the space we’ve been given to work in for the duration of the
shoot, my boss clears her throat. I freeze for a second before I
glance back over my shoulder warily, raising my chin a little to
acknowledge her.

“Just so you know I didn’t hire you to give
me your goddamn interpretation of what kind of costumes go with the
song. I gave you this position because one of my colleagues, who I
love and respect, said you’re a fantastic student. I need you to be
as great as he said you are,” she says. Kip, one of my theater
professors, had given me this recommendation. I nod and the corner
of her mouth pulls up into something resembling a smile. “You
should also think twice before flaming the band that’s responsible
for your paycheck.”

But I hadn’t flamed the band—just Amber’s
choice in costuming for their music video. I tell her that I
understand anyway. As I head out into the dimly lit concrete
hallway, I feel like that idiot, the one who’s on the verge of
losing her job at any moment because she couldn’t keep her damn
opinion to herself. I’m deep in thought, trying to come up with
ways to smooth things over with Amber, when the sound of Verizon’s
generic ringtone blares from between my breasts. I’m lucky to be
out of earshot, because if Amber had realized I hadn’t turned my
ringer off, she would have flipped out.

I dash into a corner, dragging my phone from
its hiding spot inside my bra. “Hello?” I answer breathlessly.

“You have a collect call from . . .” An
automated voice begins, and a groan escapes from the back of my
throat. It’s my mother. It’s my mom, and now, I wish I’d looked at
the screen before I picked up. I’d done a pretty good job ignoring
her calls for the last several days, but now I was screwed. I
couldn’t just hang up on her. I drag my hand through the ends of my
long ponytail, and stare down at the rows of buttons until they
become a nauseating blur of numbers and letters. The voice on the
other line drones on, prompting me to accept the call, and my
finger inches up to hover over the button to end the call.

I shake that thought from my head. Now that
I’ve answered, she won’t stop calling until she gets some type of
response from me. I jab the key to accept the collect call a little
too hard, silently cursing at myself as Mom’s voice comes onto the
line.

“Baby, I haven’t talked to you in weeks.” She
sounds sweet,
desperate
, and I flinch because I know she’s
about to ask something of me that I can’t—or shouldn’t—do.

“Sorry, I’ve got a new job. And I’ve been
busy with school work, and me and Tori just—”

She makes a sharp tssking noise that’s a
bitter reminder of my childhood to cut me off. Then she launches
into what I thought she’d say. “I need you to send money, Si.”

Like usual, it’s not a request.

“How much?” I question, squeezing the bridge
of my nose where there’s a headache starting to form. “And how soon
do you need it?” I push and pull deep breaths of air through my
nostrils as I wait for her to answer me.

Mom’s quiet for a moment, as she pretends to
consider an amount she’s more than likely had in her head for days,
before finally saying, “Three hundred would be great, Si. And I
needed it yesterday, actually, so as soon as possible.”

I’ll never understand why she needs money in
prison any more than I comprehend why it’s impossible for me to
tell her that I can’t do it, that I need every penny that I make to
pay bills, to send money to Gram. To help take care of my seventeen
year old brother, Seth.

“I will when I receive my paycheck.” There’s
no point for me to finish telling my mother how Tori, my roommate,
and I have just moved into a new place together or how the bills
are astronomical. She’d simply reprimand me for moving to
California in the first place.

“When will that be?”

“At least a couple weeks from now. I’m
working on a shoot for a music video . . .” My voice trails off,
and part of me wishes she’d ask about my new job or school, but
then she murmurs something about me being a good kid.

“It’s not a big deal,” I say in a tight
voice.

Mom rattles on for another several minutes
about the horrible prison food and how much she hates her new
cellmate, and finally, the automated voice returns to the line
warning us that we have a minute remaining on our call.

It is the longest sixty seconds of my
life.

“So you’ll send me that money, right?” my
mother probes, and I feel myself nodding my head slowly. She heaves
an impatient sigh and adds, “Sienna, I can’t see a damn thing
you’re doing. A yes or a no would work just fine.”

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 fuck,
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.

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 fucking 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.

She’s tall, with the kind of legs I can
easily picture squeezing around my waist and thighs, the kind that
I’d want to get lost between. She fidgets with the end of the gray
sweater hugging her breasts and chews on her lip again. I’ve got an
urge to drag her back to me and do both for her.

Pull her down with me on the floor and take
her right here, right now, in this secluded little corridor.

“Can I have my panties back?” Sienna asks.
“Please?” I chuckle, but extend my hand out to her.

Snatching the underwear to her chest, she
takes a deep breath and tilts her head to one side so that her
ponytail falls over her left shoulder. There’s so much shit that I
should be worried about. My best friend and sister, whatever the
fuck it is that Sinjin is wired up on today, my ex-wife who just
sent her first text for the day—
Call me now
, Sam had written
in all caps.

Yet I’m standing here, wanting to drag my
hands through the tall redhead’s hair. Wanting her to say my name
in that uncertain whisper as I wind my hands through it.

Sienna glances sideways at the wall, but I
don’t drop my gaze. I can’t resist thinking about her this flushed
after I’ve been inside of her. After a long moment, she takes a
deep breath, glances up at me and says, “I’m sorry for running in
to you.”

And though I don’t want this woman
apologizing to me, I feel my dick respond to the plea in her voice.
I shrug. “Shit happens.” I step aside, gesturing in the direction
she was heading before she mowed me down. I need to get her away
from me. For her sake, she needs to get the hell away from me.
“I’ll let you get back to whatever the fuck it is you’re doing with
. . . leather panties.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Even though she’s
smiling as she brushes past me, her curves rubbing up against my
body, I can hear her teeth softly clacking against each other.

“Don’t grind your teeth,” I order, each word
more rough than the last.

I don’t expect her to listen. I expect her to
keep walking, or even to turn around and tell me to go finger-blast
myself. Instead, she turns to me slowly, her long hair swinging
around her shoulders to tease the fuck out of me. Her lips part,
teeth part and she whispers, “Yes . . . Mr. Wolfe.”

And that’s the precise moment when she’s no
longer the wardrobe girl with the tight body who won’t be anything
to me but a brief encounter within a few minutes. Sienna is the
woman I’ll have tied to my bed and covered with sweat, rocking her,
in the next couple days.

***

Two hours later Sienna is still on my mind,
even as I lip synch about me being all over someone else, about me
fucking a one night stand until she can’t stand up straight and
then doing it again the next night and the night after that. As if
to remind me of my task at hand, the blonde actress crawls slowly
across the bed, making little moaning noises from the back of her
throat. When she reaches me, she pulls her mouth up the front of my
body, stopping at my zipper for an excruciating moment before
coming to her knees and raking her hands across my chest. Just as
discussed, I roll her over, straddling her, and lean my body down
until my mouth is right next to the side of her face.

“You’re wasting your fucking time,” I say, my
muscles tight, smile stiff. When I pull back slightly, she looks up
at me with big, screw-me eyes, and hooks her leg around my
waist.

“More feeling!” someone shouts to our right,
and the blonde writhes beneath me.