Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE RISING B-LISTER IS BOOKING ROLES, BUT HE ISN’T HAVING THE SAME LUCK WITH PARTIES…
TRIPP
I’d gone to bed with Greer, but I hadn’t expected to wake up with her in my room.
Because the Greer that’d crawled up the mattress the night prior had been in my head. A fantasy I’d conjured while I’d stroked my dick.
It hadn’t even occurred to me until after I was finished that I could’ve invited one of the women—hell, more than one—to stick around to be a piss-poor substitute for my pretty employee.
But even drunk, I hadn’t wanted to party with them much less fuck them.
That was why I’d kicked everyone out early before stumbling up to my room alone.
I scrubbed my palm down my face before scanning my surroundings.
The wrong room.
Again.
Thank Christ I didn’t take the role in London. I’ll never feel settled in this place if I don’t actually stay here.
Not to mention…
I shook my head, not pathetic enough to let that thought form.
Climbing from the guest bed, I went into the bathroom to give my dick time to go down.
It’d instantly thickened when I’d seen Greer standing over me, and the ache of it begged for attention.
But other than one rough tug on the barbell under the head, I ignored it as I started the shower.
I didn’t wait for the water to warm before stepping under the icy barrage.
It should’ve been enough to make it shrivel. Hell, it was so cold, I expected my balls to retreat inside me. Neither happened.
Because thoughts of burying myself in her warmth made me throb as precum leaked.
Fuck.
Am I really that much of a sick bastard to jerk off in the shower while she’s waiting downstairs?
A downstairs that’s apparently trashed.
I couldn’t believe that I’d fucked up the good impression I’d wanted to make. Actually, I could. I had a habit of making shit worse.
Shame sank in my gut, but even that did nothing to lessen my hard-on. I continued ignoring my greedy dick as I quickly scrubbed the night off me, but it didn’t go down.
I guess I really am a sick bastard.
Facing away from the showerhead, the tepid water massaged my back as I gripped my cock.
I didn’t go slow. I’d never been about delayed gratification.
I’d never had to be. But even if I wanted to, my control wasn’t strong enough.
My strokes were rough and frenzied as mini fantasies popped into my head like a pornographic flipbook.
Greer standing over me in bed.
Climbing on top of me.
Sinking down onto the hardness that surged the second I realized it was her.
Her watching me fuck my own hand to thoughts of her.
My palm slapped against the wall next to me as that nearly took my legs out from under me. I sank down onto the built-in bench, the cold stone fighting the heat of my body until the base of my spine tingled.
The door was closed, but that didn’t stop my gaze from shooting to it anyway.
Picturing Greer there. Her wide hazel eyes staring at my fist as it moved up and down my length at a blurred speed.
Her own hand running over her perky tits.
Her stomach. Settling between her legs as she matched my brutal pace.
Imagining her crawling to me. Opening her mouth to flick her tongue over my piercing before…
Fuuuuck.
My orgasm hit suddenly, cum shooting out to paint the dark tile. I slowed as I hung my head back, my breaths short and ragged.
Christ, I’m a fucking prick.
I quickly cleaned myself and the shower before climbing out to wrap a towel around my waist. When I got into the hall, it took me a few seconds to place where I was. I went down a few doorways to my room.
At least I was closer than last time.
After brushing my teeth in my own en suite, I threw on a pair of loose sweats and a t-shirt before starting for the door. At the last second, I turned back and changed into jeans that would make it easier to hide a future hard-on.
When it happened, not if.
By the time I got downstairs, Greer was pacing around my kitchen island, pausing every once in a while to swipe at some spot. She looked up at my approach, and I wanted her to smile at me.
I fucking needed it.
She didn’t. She just held my gaze.
After a few ticking beats, she gestured outward. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What’s missing? Do we need to call your insurance or just the cops?”
I tore my focus from her long enough to look around. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. It sure as hell wasn’t as bad as it usually ended up, mostly because I’d cut the party short.
I didn’t share that.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“If stuff was stolen—”
“It wasn’t.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I bought the house during filming and haven’t had time to decorate.”
That was a half-truth. I had bought it while filming Old Flame, but I’d had more than enough time to decorate. Or at least hire a professional to do it for me. I just hadn’t given a shit enough to do it beyond the bare minimum.
I had TVs. A couch. A bed.
What else did I need?
Her shoulders dropped with relief that I wasn’t the victim of a ransacking. “Okay, good. I didn’t want to mess with too much in case it was an active crime scene, but if you’re sure everything is here, then I’ll start cleaning up.”
“No.”
At my firm tone, her eyes snapped to me. “What?”
“Cleaning up my messes isn’t your job.” Her mouth opened, but I spoke over her. “Not my literal messes. I’m sure there will be enough other kinds I’ll need you to fix. Like the thing with Intrepid.”
Shockingly, she wasn’t happy to take the out. Her full lips pressed into a tight line at my refusal, and she gave a stubborn lift of her chin. “I’m your assistant.”
“Exactly. My assistant. Not my housekeeper. I have a service for that.”
“Then I’ll call them.”
“They’re already scheduled to come later.”
She looked skeptical, but it wasn’t a lie.
Since I’d thought Greer was coming over the following day, I’d scheduled a deep clean with my service that already came twice a week to dust the mostly empty rooms. I’d also ordered fresh fruit to be delivered in the morning so I could make the water I knew she liked.
Much to my frustration, her Instagram profile was private, but I was able to see the pictures she tagged Maddie in.
Very few were of them. The majority were of French toast or their drinks.
The most recent celebratory cocktail picture had included a joke about mozzarella sticks, and I’d called the dive bar to buy them for her.
I’d known the frequently appearing fruit water must’ve been Greer’s since the other drink with it was Maddie’s coffee that was more whipped cream than actual coffee.
Not that I was a stalker.
Okay, fine, I fucking was. But it’d also been thorough research so I could make a good impression. Or at least a better one than the first impression of me on the roof or me running late for our meeting with Tony.
Instead, it was yet another on my long list of fuckups.
“If you’re sure,” she said even as she continued to scrub the counter.
I reached out and stilled her motions with a hand on her upper arm. “Greer.”
Her wide eyes met mine as her lips parted, and the look hit me in the gut… and the dick.
There’s a reason I shouldn’t kiss her. I know there is.
But I can’t for the damn life of me remember what it is.
She did, though. Breaking the tense moment, she stepped away to rinse the rag she held. “I’ll be back tomorrow then. Unless you’d rather reschedule. That’s fine, too.”
“Like I said upstairs…”
When I was naked and hard and imagining you crawling to me like in my fantasies.
I cleared my throat and finished, “You’re already here. Let’s go over everything now.”
Her hazel eyes went to the side before she admitted, “I have my stuff in the car. Are you sure?”
“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”
I’ll just come up with an excuse to see you tomorrow, too.
Her expression lit with something other than worry. “I’ll grab my bag.”
I waited until she—and the view of her tight ass—was out of the room before letting out a groan that was half sexual frustration and half regular frustration.
The latter grew as I walked through the house, becoming more embarrassed as I went. The place was a fucking dump.
Slowing enough to pick my camera out of one of the few potted plants, I continued into the main living room—the only one I used.
I collapsed onto the couch before launching forward to wipe away the white powder residue from the coffee table.
For once, the residual coke wasn’t mine, but I doubted Greer would care about the logistics.
Just as I finished, she came in with the leather portfolio she’d had at her interview and Hullywod.
Lifting the camera at the last second, I snapped a picture, hoping she was in frame.
She immediately glared. “What was that for?”
“Posterity. Have to commemorate your first day of work.”
“I thought the meeting was my first day?”
“Yeah, but I was running behind and didn’t have my camera then.”
She shook her head and scanned the coke-free table in front of me. “Where’s your scheduling stuff?”
“I’ll grab it.”
Knowing better than to leave the camera, I brought it with me as I backtracked to the kitchen. I put it in a cabinet out of Greer’s reach before getting what I needed. I returned to see her sitting on the floor with the coffee table between her and the spot on the couch where I’d been.
“You can sit on the couch,” I said, gesturing to it. “There’s a little room.”
Her lips tipped since she could sprawl out and still only take up one-fifth of the thing. “I’m good.”
“We can use the kitchen island,” I offered, wishing I had a table. Or at least a surface that hadn’t been dusted with blow.
“That’s okay. This gives me room and reach.” When I tossed the papers and my cell in front of her, her brows lowered. “What’s this?”
“My schedule.”
“These are sticky notes,” she said slowly like I didn’t know.
“Yup.”
“And your phone.”
“Yup,” I repeated.