“This is serious. I’m going to shit any minute.”
I swipe at my tears. “Okay. Stand still.”
He does as bid. A breath away from him, I work the button of his low-slung jeans. My hand grazes his cock. A bulge rises between his legs. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think he’s getting a hard-on. Holy shit! My fingers fumble. This is much harder than I thought. It’s much harder. I can’t concentrate. My fingers keep skimming his hard as rock length. It’s all I can think about.
“Zoey! How are you doing?” His voice sounds panicked.
“Not good. I can’t get this fucking button through the hole. It’s so tight.” To my horror, my words are loaded with sexual innuendo. An electrical current zaps my body and travels straight to my core.
“Figure it out!”
“I’m trying! I’m trying!” I reply, fiddling madly with the impossible button, my hand grazing his swelling organ. I need a new approach. So, I sink to my knees. His bulge is in my face. I work feverishly at the button.
“Hurry, Zoey. It’s coming!”
“Hold on!” In my mind, I wish he were saying, “I’m coming.”
With one more push through the buttonhole, I manage to unbutton his tight-ass jeans. “Did it!”
“Phew!” His good hand immediately pulls at the zipper tab. Panic fills his voice.
“Fuck! The zipper’s stuck!”
Oh, God. No!
“Do something, Zoey!”
In a dither, I try shoving down the fly, jiggling and joggling it. It won’t fucking budge. My knuckles brush his rigid length beneath the denim with each successive tug.
He hisses. “Shit!”
At the sound of that word, I grow more heated and frantic. Breaking into a sweat, I work at the zipper harder, faster. His cock grows bigger, harder. I can feel it pulsating!
“Jesus, Zoey! I’m so close!”
Close to what? Pooping? Or coming? Either way, his voice sounds so desperate. Without stopping my movements, I pray to the fly gods. Please! Please! Help me! On my next forceful tug, a miracle! The zipper slides down with ease.
My jaw drops to the floor and my eyes grow as wide as saucers. He’s commando. At full attention. All rock-hard ten-inches are in my face. So close I can smell his manliness, feel his heat on my cheeks, and practically taste him in my mouth. Speechless, I behold his erection like a magnificent piece of abstract art. Seeing it shrouded today at a distance and on a monitor was one thing. But seeing it in its full glory, up close and personal, is another.
I can’t take my eyes off it. His cock is spectacular—a monstrous pink sculpture with a violet vein that matches the color of his hypnotic eyes. Its unexpected beauty takes my breath away as it arouses every one of my senses. It takes all I have to fight my burning desire to touch it…wrap my hand around his girth and feel the hot pulsing velvet in my palm. And then wrap my mouth around the crown, suck it, and then slide my lips and tongue down his length, tasting and inhaling the essence of him. And that’s just for starters.
Brandon doesn’t give me much time to stretch my imagination. Hastily, he shoves his jeans below his knees with his good hand and plunks down on the toilet. His enormous package parks to the right. My eyes don’t stray.
“I’d better be going,” I manage.
His intense gaze meets mine. Our eyes connect.
“No, Zoey. Don’t leave; stay with me. I may need you.”
Oh, God. Is he going to ask me to wipe his ass? Millions of women would kill to do that. But seriously?
He grimaces. “Don’t worry. I just want to look at you.” And then he grunts.
Watching Brandon Taylor take a shit with his violet eyes on me becomes the most perversely sensuous experience of my life. Personal assistant has a whole new meaning.
The bathroom incident is just the beginning of my week from hell. In addition to enduring the wrath of Hurricane Katrina for ordering the wrong brand of champagne (Dom Pérignon instead of Cristal), physically challenged Brandon is totally co-dependent on me. While he’s taken to wearing easy to pull on and off sweats, there are so many things he can’t manage. I only hope fingering Katrina is one of them.
On top of everything, the Golden Globes are coming up. They’re being held on Sunday at the Beverly Hilton. Brandon’s nominated for one in the Best Actor in a Television Series, Drama category. Half my days I spend dealing with his stylist and publicity team; the other half schlepping him to the set and various pre-awards events. Since both of Brandon’s sports cars are shifts, he can’t drive them with his splinted fingers. The spoiled brat refuses to ride in my cute little Mini. He says it’s too small for him—there’s not enough legroom and his head almost hits the roof. The truth is there’s barely enough room for his cock in the front seat. So, I’m stuck taking him around in his Hummer, which he also refuses to drive. His excuse: he’d rather sit back and use the time to study the file of nominees and presenters I put together for him. With his amnesia, he doesn’t know who’s who.
The bright red Hummer isn’t a car. It’s a veritable monster that takes up two lanes. I can barely navigate it let alone see above the steering wheel. It’s made for someone built like Brandon, not diminutive five-foot three me. Every time I get in it, sweat pours from behind my knees, and I think my heart is going to ricochet out the windshield. Today’s no exception.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” Brandon yells at me. “We’re going to be late.”
Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I gulp. Driving at a snail’s pace is the best I can muster. Mr. Impatient will get to his pre-awards luncheon whenever. And that may be never. As the Hummer slowly winds down the narrow twisting Hollywood Hills streets, a speeding Jag comes at us at full force. Oh, no! We’re going to collide! With an ear-piercing screech, I swerve off the road.
“Jesus! What the fuck are you doing, Zoey?” screams Brandon as I jam down on the breaks. “You’re going to get us killed!”
I narrowly miss crashing into the hillside. Catching my breath, I’m near tears. “I don’t know how to drive this car. It’s too big for me.”
“Well, you better learn because you’re going to be driving it for a while.”
Hasn’t he heard of the words “Uber” or “taxi”? And there’s a new service called Lip Service. My entire body shaking, I get back on course and silently pray that we’ll both still be alive for the awards. Five minutes later, I sideswipe a delivery truck.
By Friday, as if all this Golden Globes stuff isn’t enough, I’m dealing with one insurance claim after another. I’ve hit so many cars parking the fucking monster I’ve lost count. While there’s hardly a dent on the invincible Hummer, the damage I’ve caused is substantial. I even knocked someone’s fender off. Brandon’s insurance premium is going to skyrocket.
I do some online research. It could take several weeks for a finger jam to heal. I’m not sure I’ll last that long with him. I’m exhausted from everything I’ve had to do for the invalid. From driving to spoon-feeding him. You’d think he’d be appreciative, but he’s not. He’s been in a bad mood all week. And with each passing day, he’s grown testier—a combination of frustration and pre-awards show jitters. He no longer talks; he growls.
Saturday rolls along with the force of an avalanche. The Golden Globes are only a day away, and he still hasn’t written his acceptance speech should he win. We’re engaged in a working lunch. Awaiting our delivery order from Brandon’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Chin Chin on Sunset, we’re sitting side by side on the couch. He’s so close to me I can feel his warm breath on my face. His long, muscular legs are stretched out onto the coffee table. I’m sitting cross-legged with my laptop on my thighs.
“Let’s try this…” He’s dictating his latest version of the speech to me. “This has been the greatest year of my life.”
I hastily type the words. I’m a super-fast typist…another one of my outstanding personal assistant skills.
“Scratch that. That’s so untrue. Someone ran me over. I’ve got fucking amnesia. I can’t remember a goddamn thing. For all I know, this year sucked.”