© 2019 Lisa Suzanne
CHAPTER 1
 
ZOEY
 
I wring my hands nervously in front of me, and then I force myself to stop. I wipe them down the front of my dress that’s purposely a little too short as I try in vain to eliminate the clamminess.
You can do this. You got this. Just go do it.
Be daring.
Be expressive.
Be bold.
I take a deep breath as I stare at the nameplate on the heavy wooden door. Derek Jensen.
He’s a Hollywood heavyweight, the casting director for an entire network, and I’m here for my interview spot for the reality dating show Single Life. Twenty women vie for the attention of one hot single guy, and I want to be one of the twenty.
If nothing else, it’ll get me a step closer to my real goal: a career on the silver screen. Plenty of successful actors got their start on a reality show. Jennifer Hudson, Emma Stone, Katharine McPhee…shit, even Jon Hamm failed on a dating show.
If they could do it, so can I.
I lift a shaking hand and knock on the door.
“Come in.” The voice on the other side is deep and muffled by the weight of the door.
I turn the handle and let myself in. I spot an open chair in front of the executive desk, and I force one foot in front of the other to get to it. I pause in my pursuit and glance at the man behind the desk, and I find myself frozen for one hot beat.
He’s a goddamn Greek god sitting there in a suit.
My first thought is that maybe it won’t be so bad to do whatever it takes to get what I want.
I wonder what he’s packing beneath his professional clothes. A six-pack of abs for sure. More than likely something long and thick beneath his belt. A broad chest that could hold me in the afterglow.
The door swings shut behind me as I study him. His lustrous and shiny dark hair is styled in a textured, slicked to the side way, and his dark eyes hold an edge of mystery as they pin me to my spot. I wonder for just a beat how old he is. Definitely older than forty…maybe older than fifty? It’s hard to tell, but age is just an unimportant number. It wouldn’t be so bad to do something illicit bent over his desk to get my spot on the show.
That’s how Hollywood works, isn’t it?
I tip my chin up with confidence. I refuse to be intimidated by a man even if he’s a stunningly handsome one like this guy. “I’m Zoey Fuller.”
He pushes to his feet and reaches his hand across his desk to shake mine. I place my clammy one in his and find his to be cool. Collected. Much like him.
“Derek Jensen. Have a seat.”
I follow his orders, and one side of his mouth tips up in a smile.
He leans back comfortably in his chair while I sit forward with unease.
“Why do you want to appear on Single Life?” he asks.
I draw in a deep breath. “I’ve been looking for love my entire life, Mr. Jensen, and I haven’t found it yet. Maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places.”
“And this has nothing to do with the doors appearing on a television show might open for you? You’re a gorgeous young woman, after all.” He glances at the paper in front of him. “A background in dance,” he says, and then he pauses as his eyes fall to my chest, my legs, and back up again, searing each part of my body as they trail along. “Lovely blonde hair, a pretty face that would work well on the screen. Big, blue eyes that scream innocence but a dancer’s body that says otherwise. How many Instagram followers do you have? I can’t tell you how many ladies who think they’re Instagram famous come through my door.”
A dancer’s body that says otherwise. His words echo in my head as I basically ignore the other things he said.
Is he coming onto me, or is this just how these interviews work?
I’m not sure, but he did ask me a question. “This has nothing to do with doors opening, sir. I have connections of my own that I could use if that was my end goal.” It’s a lie, but I’ve practiced it so many times it feels like the truth. The lie is that this has nothing to do with doors opening. I want to go on television because I want to be discovered. And while my brother certainly has connections, I want to do this for myself.
He raises a brow and glances down at some papers on his desk. “I see that here.” He nods. “Ethan Fuller, the drummer of Vail, is your brother?”
I was hoping to get through this interview without that coming up. I nod and lean forward a bit. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I watch as his eyes flick down to the cleavage spilling out the top of my dress before they trail back to mine.
“Hmm…” he muses. “How long have you been dancing?”
“My whole life. I started ballet before pre-school.” I don’t mention that it was also before my father was hauled off to prison. I leave out the fact that I missed a lot of lessons growing up because my mother was too busy with her man of the week to drive me to them. My aunt often helped out, and even today she’s the mother I never had to my half-sisters. I was always quick to pick up what I missed, though. But dance isn’t what I want out of life, either. “I danced all through high school, too. I taught a few private lessons during college to earn extra cash.”
His eyes fall to my body again, and I feel their blazing heat everywhere they land. “Interesting indeed.”
I take that as my cue. I’ve never been to one of these casting interviews before, but I’m sharp enough to understand why his door has no window on it. I stand and press my palms on his desk as I lean forward, allowing more cleavage to spill out. “I don’t want to talk about my brother, Mr. Jensen.”
He raises a brow at me. “What, exactly, do you want to talk about, Ms. Fuller?”
I look him square in the eye and use my most sensual voice to answer. “I’ll do anything to get on the show, sir.”
“Are you offering what I think you’re offering?” His hands rest comfortably on the desk in front of him, and I spot an empty third finger on his left hand. My eyes fall to his lips. They’re not too full, not too thin. They’re firm, and they make me think he must be a really good kisser. I want to find out.
“I’m offering whatever it takes to get on the show.”
His eyes dip to my cleavage again, and I can’t help but think how easy men are to read. “I know what I want,” he says. He flicks his head to indicate I should come behind his desk.
I step over to him, and he swivels in his chair to face me. He stands and kicks the chair out behind him with practiced ease. Clearly this isn’t the first time he’s allowed someone auditioning into the space behind his desk.
I gaze up from lowered lashes into those dark, mysterious eyes. I think for the briefest second that I’d like something more than a quick romp over a desk with this man. He’s powerful. He’s handsome. He’s smart. He must be loaded.
That’s all I’m looking for.
What I’m not looking for, however, is someone who would allow a girl like me to seduce him just for a spot on a television show.
So I’ll do what needs to be done, and then I’ll forget all about this Derek Jensen guy.
He sweeps my hair to the side before he runs a long fingertip along the curve of my neck. I whimper and allow myself to get lost in what’s about to go down in this office. People on the other side are doing their jobs, earning a paycheck as they hustle and bustle around, with no idea of what’s about to happen in here.
Or maybe they do know. Maybe this is something Derek does all the time.
But I’m in here now, and he’s never done this with me before.
Not that I’ll be the one to change him, to get him to stop his wild ways and commit to me. Not that I even want that. But for a split second, I get lost in the fantasy anyway.
He turns me quickly around so his front is to my back, and his lips replace his finger on my neck. I groan with lust at the feel of those lips on my body, and then he bends me over his desk so fast I don’t even see it coming. I grunt as the edge of the desk knocks the wind out of me a little, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. He runs those same fingertips along my spine, and then he reaches beneath my dress, not wasting a single moment. He probably doesn’t have time to waste. Our interview was scheduled for fifteen minutes, and we already wasted the first five talking.
He pulls my panties to the side, not bothering with things like removing our clothes, and sinks a long finger into me. My eyes roll back and my abdomen presses harder into the desk as I fight the urge to come all over his hand. There’s something so illicit, so hot, so wrong about what we’re doing right now. I love it. I want it. I crave it.
“Shit, that’s wet,” he murmurs with appreciation.
I hear the zip of his pants followed by the tear of a wrapper, and seconds later he plunges into me. He’s thick, so he slides in slowly to allow my body to adapt to his size. He pulls nearly all the way out before he thrusts back in, and once he’s coated with my wetness, he drives in harder and harder. Each thrust forces a grunt out of me, and each time he rears back and pushes forward again, I find myself closer and closer to ecstasy.
It’s only a few more thrusts before I lose control. I spiral down into the blackness of bliss, the pleasure spotting my vision as my hands clamp down on the edge of the desk to brace myself against the onslaught of an orgasm. My body pulses and I cry out with it, the soundtrack in this office our voices mingling in an orchestra of satisfaction. He grunts out his release after my body relaxes into his desk, and he pulls out nearly immediately after he finishes. He disappears into a private restroom connected to his office, and I smooth my dress back into place. I’m sitting back in the chair facing his desk when he returns.
He clears his throat. “My secretary will be in touch with whether you’ve earned your spot on the show early next week.” His face gives nothing away, yet I can’t believe what we just did didn’t earn me a spot.
I grin. “Thank you, Mr. Jensen.”
He doesn’t smile back like I expect him to—like most men would after what we just did. “You can see yourself out, Ms. Fuller.”
I nod and stand. I’m sort of at a loss for words. It’s not like I expect that we’ll do this again, but I did kind of expect to know by the time I left today whether I’d be one of the twenty women appearing on Single Life.
I don’t say anything, though. I allow his words to be the last ones spoken in the office as I walk out the door with my head held high.
I did what I had to do, and it’s not like I didn’t enjoy doing it.
I completely ignore the dirty feeling that washes over me as I walk out of the building and toward my rental car.