Beautiful.
The art is mostly thick set women, showing more than just their heavy chests, but done so well it truly is art. And all in thick, heavy wooden frames.
Maybe there’s hope for me yet?
Maybe I can see myself in a couple of those old masters renderings? Maybe the classical figure is making a comeback…
Who cares? If Tony likes that sort of thing, I’ve got plenty of-
“Ashlee!”
I take a breath, roll my eyes and hustle to where my mom is, a large walk in closet filled with cleaning equipment at the end of the hall.
“Tony, Mr. Fontana, left for Europe today. We have to do a section of the house today and the rest through the week. He doesn’t like people in the house for more than an hour, so we need to hurry,” she says in her prim, clipped and professional tone, the voice she uses when she chews me out.
The voice she uses when I remind myself she’s my mom and has to tell me what to do sometimes. Even though I’m pushing twenty now.
Half talking to herself, half telling me what I need to do, she tells me to start in the main bedroom, giving me directions to start closest to the front door we just came through.
“And no fucking around, Ashlee. I mean it,” she says earnestly.
I’m already walking towards the scent, the feel, the opulence of his bedroom.
Tony.
The place is spotless, but I’m not complaining. Less work and more Tony suits me just fine.
Privy to Tony Fontana’s own bedroom… I figure my mom knows just how much this means to me, and I behave accordingly, treating each step into his private world as I would a religious shrine.
The huge four poster bed. The even bigger walk in closet. The simple elegance of the whole place.
Within seconds I’m sniffing one of his shirts, clawing at an open drawer for his underwear.
I can’t help it.
But all too quickly, something is terribly wrong.
Someone else is in the house, I hear the front door open, sensing a third person.
My heart backflips as I think of a home invasion gone wrong.
The deep, gruff voice of a man, followed by the front door slamming makes me freeze on the spot, then a warm rush of heat to my center makes me purr as I recognize that smoky, sultry tone.
“I don’t give a fuck about that, Paul. A canceled flight is worth calling me about, what the fuck am I paying you people for! Jesus man, a whole day’s delay? If I lose the Paris shoot I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got, which is mostly mine anyway. Asshole!” he growls angrily, hanging up his phone and sending soft designer luggage skidding down the hallway before turning sharply into his bedroom.
Stopping dead in his tracks, his eyes fixate on mine in a second.
His low growl extends from anger to intense satisfaction in a single moment.
He’s caught me sniffing one of his shirts with my hand wanting to glide between my legs along with some of his underwear; desperately trying to cup my own chest at the same time as I moan softly at the very sound of him, the very thought of him… the man himself.
Tony Fontana.
CHAPTER TWO
Tony
My homecoming from Europe is a little… okay, a lot sooner than I anticipated. I spot the agency’s cleaner’s car and groan.
I don’t feel like dealing with anyone right now, least of all busty, Malibu Barbie type cleaners.
I've only run into her once, by accident. And I never wanted to again.
I like things just how I like them, usually with just me and my lines to rehearse. Not a fucking audience that wants to gush over me.
Paul, my manager, is being a shit as usual. Sent me to the airport for nothing and now I’ve missed a whole day’s worth of scenes from my new movie being shot in Paris.
I’m expecting the director and producer on the phone any minute. ‘Time is money’, they’ll say. ‘The fees you’re charging…’ blah, blah, blah.
They’ll want to renegotiate on the whole contract. Pity. I really wanted to do the movie my way.
But what I see waiting for me in my bedroom is more than enough to make up for it.
All thoughts of the movie, the contract, hell even my whole acting career can go to hell once I see her.
Crazed fan?
Is she sniffing my shirt? Holy shit are those my...?
A low growl escapes me and my dick twitches as I take in her form.
Fuck, she’s perfect!
She is… she’s about to sniff my fucking boxers from the linen basket, while touching herself? Holy Christ.
We’re both frozen in place, staring at each other. I feel my brows go up, in time with the pulsing in my pants as all the adrenalin from my anger at the day changes into something new.
Something special.
Something just for her.
I watch her clear blue eyes grow wide with surprise, then guilt, fear and finally… arousal as her pupils dilate and then narrow slightly. A sound escaping her she can’t help.
A call for assistance, the signal to my own body that hers is going to be mine.
“I’m Tony. Tony Fontana,” I hear myself say, sounding like an idiot in my own home.
Her head nods slowly, as if in a dream and she mouths some words but there’s only some more of that sound, that whimpering, needful sound.
My instinct is to go to her, take her in my arms and well… to throw her on the damned bed and claim her as my own. To throw myself at her and hope she’ll have me. That’s what my instincts are screaming.
But first things first, who the hell is she and why hasn’t she been in my room before now?
Her long blond hair is tied up in two plaited ponytails, one on either side of her round, lightly freckled face. A button nose and dimpled cheeks flush with color that’s gone way past embarrassment, all the
