I cringe at the thought of them doing the walk of fame, arm in arm, all smiles and waves, the paparazzi having a field day. Technically, I shouldn’t even be working. Sunday is my one day off. But because of the Golden Globes, Brandon demanded my presence. I have no choice.

Brandon tosses his cell phone on the coffee table. “I’m going to shower. Meet me in my bathroom in ten minutes.”

The still steamy bathroom smells intoxicating, a mix of Brandon’s expensive hair products, body lotion, and cologne. Clad in a thick white towel that hangs low on his hips, he’s perched at the vanity counter, studying himself in the lit-up, wall-to-wall mirror. I stare at his reflection, mesmerized by his sculpted pecs, muscled arms, and gorgeous face. A few strands of his unruly damp hair dangle just above his dark brows. His violet eyes sparkle. He’s everything a movie star should be.

With his good hand, he scratches his beard. With his sprained fingers, he hasn’t been able to shave all weekend. Usually he has a faint trace of stubble along his sharp jaw line, but it’s grown in thick like thistle. It’s a new form of sexy that I rather like. I long to run my fingers through it and try to imagine what it feels like. Wet velvet? Raw silk? Sweet blades of grass?

Catching my reflection in the mirror, he narrows his eyes. “I need to shave.”

“You look good with a beard.”

He cocks a brow. “You think so?”

“Totally.”

He quirks a sexy smile and strokes his jaw again. “My fans won’t like it. It’s got to go.”

He’s right-handed. His right hand is useless. It takes me a second to decode his words. Gah! He wants me to give him a shave. Take a razor to his face.

“You trust me to shave you?” I ask nervously.

“I have no choice. Have you ever shaved someone?”

“Yeah. I shave my armpits and legs all the time.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, I mean a man.”

I used to pretend-shave my Ken doll when I was little, but that doesn’t count. I shake my head no.

He hoists himself on the marble counter and faces me. We’re almost eye-level.

“What if I cut you?”

“You won’t. Just follow my instructions and you’ll do fine.”

He has more confidence in me than I do.

A few minutes later, I’m gripping a badger brush and lathering his face in circular motions with his shaving cream. It smells clean and rich, intoxicating like him. His warm, minty breath tickles my neck. My skin is prickling.

He brushes the fingertips of his left hand along his foamy beard. “Perfection.”

I beam. A tingly sensation sweeps through my body. Mr. Put Down just gave me a compliment. My confidence surges.

I set the brush back down on a silver tray and take hold of the shaver. It’s an old-fashion safety razor, not a disposable one. With a hint of melancholy, Brandon tells me that it and the brush belonged to his late father. I have the burning urge to ask more about his deceased parents, but we’re short on time and I don’t want to arouse any more memories that may dampen his spirits on this big night. Maybe some other time. What I’ve learned, however, is that behind his macho, controlling façade is some tenderness and vulnerability.

My heart leaps back into my throat as I put the razor to his face. What if I screw up? Mutilate him? Make him bleed to death? Even the tiniest nick can spell disaster. All these worries bombard me as I glide the sharp blade downward toward his jaw with my unsteady hand. He holds himself perfectly still as I clear his bristle. Bingo! I repeat my actions, and before long, I’ve cleared the entire right side of his face. I can’t help running my fingers along his jaw. It feels smooth, but I’ve managed to leave just a fine layer of stubble. He mimics my action.

That dazzling smile flashes on his face. “You’re good at playing barber.”

I smile back at him while I rinse the blade and then shave the other side of his face. My confidence is soaring. And so is the bubble of sexual energy rising inside me. This sensuous experience is turning me on. And then when I set the blade down, my eyes pop at the sight of a tent between his legs. Holy shit! It’s turned him on too! Beneath the towel, he’s got a raging hard-on! I swallow hard. My heart pounds. So close to him, I’m sure he can hear it.

A smug smile curves up his delicious lips. Oh yeah, he knows. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I stammer. Who am I kidding? I’m so sexually charged I may combust.

“Good. You’re almost there. You just need to douse my face with some of my aftershave.” He points to the bottle on the counter. I grab it and pour a little of the lavender-scented French cologne onto my palm. And then I splash it on his smooth skin, cupping his breathtaking face in my hands, his lips dangerously close to mine. My hands linger and my mind wanders back to that shower with him. I replay his kiss. And feel those luscious lips back on my own. My mouth parts involuntarily as if ready for his deft tongue.

“Zoey, we don’t have all day. I need you to help me blow dry my hair.”

His gruff voice puts an end to my reverie. My hands fly off his jaw. “Right.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve styled his hair perfectly and know all his secret products. At the last minute, I rake my fingers through his thick onyx locks to give him that groomed tousled look he’s famous for.

He jumps off the counter and faces the mirror. “Wow! You’re good with hair too.”

I meet his breathtaking reflection. “I was raised by a hairdresser. She taught me a few tricks.” It’s a shame I don’t use them on my own hair. Like Mama’s, it’s long, thick, and lustrous. Usually, I just throw it into a utilitarian ponytail and never make a fuss. It drives Auntie Jo nuts.

While my gaze stays riveted on him, Brandon glances down at his watch. “C’mon. We don’t have much time. Help me get into my tux.”

Before I can say a word, he grabs my hand with his good one and leads me to his bedroom. Just like the rest of the house, it’s furnished with hi-end Italian furniture. A giant king-sized bed with a mountain of fluffy pillows dominates the room and faces a mirrored wall. A shudder runs through me. Is this where he fucks Katrina? I haven’t thought about her until now. Jealousy rears its ugly head.

“Where’s your tux?” I ask glumly.

“It’s in that garment bag hanging on the closet. Everything you need is inside it, including my shoes.” He points to it, and with my back toward him, I retrieve it.

When I swivel around, my jaw crashes to the floor and my eyes pop. He’s standing stark naked before me. The towel is pooled by his feet.

“What’s the matter, Zoey?”

I can’t get my mouth to move. Or my feet.

“Are your legs stuck in cement?”

A croak escapes my throat.

“Sheesh, Zoey. You’ve seen my cock before. And my body. And seriously, how did you expect to get me dressed if I didn’t undress?”

He makes some valid points. But right now, there’s no room in my head for any form of rationality when the epitome of manly perfection is standing before me.

Holy mother of Jesus! His body is a total work of art. All lean, polished bronze muscle, his chiseled torso and limbs fitting together to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. It belongs in a museum or something. Except there’s no fig leaf big enough in the world to cover up his package. His cock is the size of Texas and below it, a big sac of balls hangs low. He moves to the bed and I get a glimpse of his gorgeous ass before he sits down. Holy cow! Sculpted buns of steel! They’re practically surreal!

“Zoey, come on, now.” He’s beginning to sound irritated. “I’m not the big bad wolf. I’m not going to bite.”

That’s just the problem. I want him to bite. I want him to tear off every stitch of my clothing with his teeth, mark my body, and bite down on my lips. And then ravage me. Lick me with his tongue. Suck me with his lips. And then fuck me every which way he can.