Brandon
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“DREW BARRYMORE” — brYCE VINE
Six Years Ago
Iknew she was beautiful.
Johanna is obviously pretty—not in an if you look at her from a certain angle type of way, or in an only in a certain lighting way. In a completely devastating way that makes me so crazy, I’m trying not to lose my mind in the middle of this goddamn studio right now.
Absolutely nothing prepared me for seeing her in full model glam for the first time.
My knees nearly buckle beneath me as she gives me one last little grin before descending towards the set, her curls bouncing lightly around her shoulders.
The ruffled fabric on her top shifts like it’s alive and breathing with her.
I don’t know anything about fashion—nor did I think I ever wanted to—but fucking wow.
I know it’s her, not necessarily the clothes. She could make a burlap sack look good.
The moment she fully enters the room, everyone turns to look at her. Stylists. Assistants. The photographer. Hell, even the AV nerd rolling a cart of cables stops in his tracks.
I’m right behind her—like hell I’m letting her out of my sight—and in this moment, I know: Johanna Harris was made for this.
I knew she was different from the minute I met her. Different from all the other girls trying so hard to be something or someone.
She doesn’t even have to try, because she’s not just beautiful.
She’s otherworldly.
On top of it all, she’s fiercely herself and built for the spotlight.
The photographer, an over-excited French guy, rushes over to her after he’s picked his jaw up off the ground, his face lit up like the world’s brightest Christmas tree. “Miss Harris! You look stunning, ma chérie. Let’s get started.”
She nods, but right before she steps onto the backdrop, she gives me one last glance. It’s just one little flick of the eyes, but I can tell—she’s nervous. I give her a quick wink—my version of you’ve got this—and she exhales before turning fully towards the lights.
Under the blaze of the studio lamps, she transforms. Her posture straightens, her chin lifts, and her expression shifts into something confident and impossibly soft all at once.
It’s strange being the one hanging out backstage rather than being the one people have come to watch. I’m standing off to the side trying to remind myself how to breathe, when the assistant who’d been escorting Johanna around all day materializes beside me.
She follows my gaze to Johanna, who’s breathtaking without even trying as she adjusts the frills on her top under the direction of the photographer.
“God,” the assistant murmurs with a tiny, knowing grin. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I swallow and nod once, unable to take my eyes away from the set—away from her. “She is.”
“The editor’s going to lose his mind,” the assistant continues, seemingly unaware that I’m not really listening. “The photographer’s right. She’s going to make a stunning cover.”
Cover.
Now I’m paying attention.
The word hits me like a fist to the solar plexus.
I turn to face her. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”
She blinks, like she doesn’t understand why I’m confused.
“This is the magazine’s cover shoot for the late summer issue,” she tells me, gesturing towards the set. “They never bring in new faces for a major campaign. Your girlfriend must be really special.”
My brain stutters for a moment, and shockingly, it’s not about the girlfriend comment.
It’s the fact that this is a cover shoot, and it detonates everything in my chest.
She walked into the living room last night and acted as if today was going to be like any other day, like it was nothing. Like she didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it—because no one has ever made her feel like a big deal.
She didn’t want to be a burden, so she didn’t tell me.
Jesus Christ.
On the set, the photographer is muttering something about angles and adjusting the lighting. Johanna lifts her chin and gives a sassy little smirk as she lets her dark curls cascade down her back.
Just like that, she’s the version of herself she doesn’t let anyone see.
I feel like I’m sitting in the front row of my own private show as I watch her layers unfold right before my eyes like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The assistant says something to me—something along the lines of enjoy the show—before I hear the click of her heels against the concrete as she walks off.
I barely register her departure. Every ounce of focus I have is on the girl in the spotlight, watching her confidence grow with every click of the shutter. The entire room is hanging on her every movement, and still, every few poses her eyes flick towards me.
It’s just for a second. Just long enough to check if I’m still here.
Yeah, baby, I’m here.
I’m not going fucking anywhere.
I force myself to keep my expression neutral, because the last thing she needs is me distracting her while she’s in the middle of the biggest shoot of her career.
The thing is, though—I’m gone.
Absolutely, catastrophically gone.
I knew she was beautiful.
I knew she was fucking special, but now?
I’m watching her own a room full of people who’ve never met her, taking command like she could have everyone on their knees with one word—me included. Seeing her in her element, I realize something I’ve never allowed myself to admit before.
I’m falling for her—and there’s nothing I can do to stop it now.
By the time we get back to the house, the sun is starting to set.
Johanna’s practically glowing, but she’s worn out. Her cheeks have a post-adrenaline flush, and her lips keep tugging upward. She keeps saying things like it wasn’t a big deal, and the photographer was exaggerating, but I know better. I watched her today.
Today was a game changer for her.
I walk her to her room—of course I do; I can’t seem to stop hovering—and she turns in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if it’s keeping her upright.
“Thanks, Brandon,” she says softly.
“Anytime, Hurricane,” I murmur.
Then she disappears into her room, and the door clicks shut behind her.
That’s it.
I stand outside her door like a dumbstruck idiot for a full ten seconds before I finally force myself to walk away. I make it back to the door to my own bedroom—the primary suite at the end of the hall—and my pulse is still hammering in my throat, my body wound so tight I physically ache.
I’m completely wrecked.
I don’t want to continue to come up with excuses as to why I can’t have her. Pretending to just want to be her friend has become exhausting, and what I need now more than anything else is relief.
Now I’m in the safety of my room, and I’m about to lose it. I’m hard as a fucking rock and my jeans are painfully tight. The second I picture her on the set again, I know I’m a goner.
I give a quiet groan as I undo my belt and shove my jeans and briefs down, discarding them beside the bed. I wrap a hand around my already weeping cock with a needy desperation and close my eyes. The second I do—she’s there.
Johanna in the sculpted blouse from the shoot.
Her perfect, pouty red lips parted on a breath.
Looking at me through the mirror like she needed to know what I thought of her.
Like she needed me.
“Fuck—” I pant as I stroke my length—slowly, intentionally, like my mind can’t decide which version of her is going to ruin me first.
My hand tightens and my hips jerk up into my grip. I’m already closer than I should be, too far gone and too far past the point of pretending I’m not completely obsessed with her.
Her name rips out of my throat before I can stop it as my head falls back. “God—Johanna—”
It’s raw and unrestrained, and I’m not even sure if it’s coherent.
But then—a floorboard creaks in the hallway.
My eyes fly open, and the fantasy shatters.
No.
No fucking way.
Another creak—closer, right outside my door.
I clamp a hand around the edge of the mattress as the door opens, panic flooding through my bloodstream.
She’s standing in the doorway with a slow, sinful, bratty smirk—because she knows exactly what she’s just walked in on. She knows what the sight of her did to me this afternoon, and knows it was her name that was just on my lips.
She slips inside the room fully, and closes the door gently behind her.
My heart stops.
My cock throbs.
My breath disappears completely.
I should tell her to leave. I should tell her this is a really bad idea.
She takes two slow, intentional steps towards me, her eyes dragging over my bare hips until they land on my fist still wrapped tightly around myself.
Then her gaze lifts until her eyes meet mine—bold, unafraid, and electric. Seeing her eyes on me, watching me with hunger and pure desire, there’s no way I’m telling her to leave this room—even if it ruins us both.
“Say it again,” she commands softly.
There’s no mistaking what she wants.
She’s not horrified—she’s turned on.
Turned on by catching me getting off to the thought of her.
By hearing her name on my tongue.
I swallow hard, my hand still frozen in place as she stands at the foot of the bed, her chest rising and falling in short, eager breaths.
“Johanna…” I breathe.
It comes out rough and raw—like I ripped the sound straight out of my throat for her.
She exhales shakily and something darkens in her eyes, making them even more impossibly blue.
She brushes the mattress with her knee as she steps closer. I swear my vision goes white around the edges as she begins to close the distance between us.
“Again,” she whispers.
I sit on the edge of the bed without ever breaking eye contact. She slides into the space between my legs and waits expectantly—calm and confident, knowing the exact effect she has on me.
“Johanna,” I grit out.
Her breath catches audibly.
She reaches down and trails her fingers up my thigh—slow, unhurried, and devastating. She stops right next to where my hand still fists my cock.
My entire body jolts in response.
“Such a good boy,” she murmurs, her voice low and full of sin.
It’s as if she’s discovered her new favorite game.
“Can I help?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Every cell in my body lights up, and every rational thought burns away. I nod immediately—helplessly—because there’s no world in which I would deny her now. I’m completely undone by her voice, her stare, and her unhinged fucking confidence.
This has to be a dream.
She places her hand over mine, slowly coaxing my fingers open, guiding them away from my cock until only her touch replaces mine. Her thumb teases along the base, and she looks at me through her long lashes with the same smug little smirk that makes my cock throb wildly in her hand.
“So hard for me,” she whispers.
Her touch is completely lethal.
She drags her fingers slowly, lightly up the underside of my length, and I swear I see stars.
“Look at you,” she says. “Nearly falling apart just because I touched you.”
My hips jerk helplessly into her hand, my body desperate for more.
Her strokes become slow—deliberate—torturous.
She’s completely in control of the pace and pressure, and fuck—she’s good at this. I grip the sheets to keep from sinking my fingers into her hips. She leans in slightly, her breath ghosting my cheek and her lips inches from mine without touching.
“Tell me,” she murmurs as she lowers herself to her knees between my legs.
Holy fucking shit.
My brain short circuits and the whole room tilts.
“What were you thinking about when you said my name?”
Before I can answer, her tongue flicks over the tip of my cock. A sharp, broken sound tears out of my throat.
“Oh, fuck—Johanna—”
She gives a satisfied hum against me, and the vibration of her lips against me nearly unravels me on the spot.
“That’s what I thought,” she breathes before dragging her tongue slowly, teasingly up the underside again. “You were thinking about my pretty mouth on you.”
I’m so delirious with pleasure, I can barely sit upright. My hand flies into her hair out of instinct or a desperate need to hang on, but she swats it away with a soft warning click of her tongue.
“No touching,” she says, her eyes glinting up at me. “Not unless I say.”
I drop my hand instantly, obeying without thinking.
She gives a slow, wicked smile before she wraps her fingers around my base while her mouth closes around the tip. The warmth is intoxicating, and it takes everything I have to not fuck her mouth the way I want to.
A ragged groan rips out of my chest as she takes me deeper in her throat. Despite my best efforts, my hips jerk towards her involuntarily. I’m fucking shaking, and I know I’m close now.
“Johanna, baby,” I pant, my voice cracking a little. “If you keep—fuck—I’m gonna come in your mouth—”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her breath uneven and lips swollen.
“Good,” she says. “I want you to.”
I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.
Where the fuck did this naughty, gorgeous angel come from?
My balls tighten as she says it, and she wraps her mouth around me again, working me in perfect rhythm. Her breasts graze my bare legs as she moves up and down my shaft. My eyes roll back in my head as her lips hit the base and my tip hits the back of her throat. She gags and I—
“Johanna—” I huff.
One final, broken warning.
Her eyes flick up and she gives the smallest nod—an unspoken but certain yes—and my entire body tightens.
Heat surges up my spine, white-hot and blinding.
My release hits so hard, I swear I black out for a second.
I grip the sheets with my jaw clenched as my cum spills into her beautiful, waiting mouth until there’s nothing left but the sound of her name on repeat in my head.
She never looks away—not once. Not even as she’s licking her fucking lips when I’ve finished.
I’m still trying to fully catch my breath when I hear it—the front door slamming open and chaos descending.
“Guess who’s back!”