Avoiding Intimacy (Avoiding #2.5)(3)

“Here you are, darling,” Giselle said, pointing at a door labeled Director.

“Grazie.”

Chyna thanked her gratefully.

Giselle’s smile quirked at Chyna’s clipped Italian accent, but she acknowledged her no less before departing. “Prego.”

Chyna turned toward the rustic door with a solid gold placard and knocked.

“Come in,” Marco called in a beautiful Italian accent.

His voice was out of this world.

Chyna’s body warmed at the sound.

She opened the door to the director’s office and found Marco sitting among a collage of tutus, sequins, and fabrics.

Her eyes darted to the massive hardwood desk, and she smirked. A long black costume bag hung against the back wall with a shiny gold imprint marked on the top. She would recognize Marco’s handiwork anywhere, even without being able to read his glossy name from a distance.

Finally, her eyes returned to the man behind the desk. He was staring at her with those deep chocolaty eyes like a predator feasting its gaze upon its prey.

He stood, almost regally, from the desk upon her entrance. His square jaw, those broad shoulders, and cut waistline were perfection. He could have modeled, but he was just as talented in design, business, and behind the camera. He had shaved his ever present five o’clock shadow, and his brown hair was slicked back so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes like she was so accustomed to. It had been cropped much shorter when she had first arrived. He was way past due for a haircut, but she thought the longer look suited him.

“My star,” Marco muttered.

He had begun calling her that after their first late night photo shoot, centered near a large, open window in his apartment. He had told her that she outshined the stars in the background of the photos. As far as he was concerned, she would be his brightest star. He had been calling her his star often enough that it was now her pet name.

“Marco,” Chyna said huskily, closing the door behind her.

As conflicted as she was away from him, when she was in his presence, he was like a heady perfume. The sweetest aroma in the world.

“You’re late,” he said sternly, with a glimmer in his eye.

“Marginally,” she volleyed, walking toward him while he still stood imposingly behind the desk.

Oh God, that desk.

“You haven’t even seen hair and makeup, and you smell like sunscreen,” he chided.

“Can you smell me from all the way over there?” she asked, walking a slow catwalk toward him.

“Don’t think I don’t know all.”

“I’d never entertain the idea,” she murmured. She focused on the lessons he had given her about her runway walk— one foot in front of the other, relax your hands, move your body naturally, smooth out that step, smile through your eyes.

“That one,” he pointed crassly, pointing out the second step on her left foot. “That’s the step you rush every time.”

“After four weeks of detailed scrutiny, don’t you think I know which step I falter?” Chyna snapped instinctively. She chewed on her bottom lip as his eyes hardened perceptively.

“What was that?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing. Never mind,” she said quickly, realizing her f**k up.

She was always so brash with everyone. Having a boss was not something she was used to, especially when it was someone like Marco.

“Get your ass over here,” he demanded, pointing at the desk.

Chyna tried not to smile. It would only set him off more. God, did she enjoy doing that. She trailed her hand along the fine piece of carpentry, wondering how old the desk was and if she could acquire it for her penthouse at home. Frederick would freak over it.

“By all means, take your time,” Marco growled.

As she slowly rounded the desk, he reached out and gripped her arm, lurching her forward into him. She swallowed hard. This was his favorite part—taking control.

“Were you talking back to me?” he asked into her ear, nipping her earlobe.

Chyna melted. She would do anything for a domineering guy. It was so her type.

“Yes,” she whispered into his chest.

She loved that he towered over her, even when she wore heels.

“That’s what I thought. You never learn your lesson. I almost think you like it,” he said, his hand fisting softly into her hair. “Do you like it?”

She was having trouble remembering what she was supposed to say as her body pressed up against him. “Yes.”

“You enjoy infuriating me?” he questioned, pulling harder on her hair.

“Oh no! No, Marco. That’s not what I meant.” She nearly groaned. He was so f**king sexy.

“Bend over the desk,” he told her.

“Marco,” she murmured shaking her head. We have no time for this.

“Bend over the f**king desk,” he repeated slowly.

“The Ball—”

“Do you want me to force you?”

Did she ever!

Chyna couldn’t hold the smirk back, and it set him off like it always did. His left hand tightened in her hair, and he used that as leverage to grab her hip with his right hand, turning her around to bend her face first into the desk. Her breathing was heavy, and her lower half was pulsing.

She felt the walls of her sex tightening in anticipation.