Buyer’s Market(67)

“Brittney … #26,” the casting director reads my name from a sheet of a paper, and I go up to my feet, a subtle smile on my face. Unlike the others, I’m not wearing a raunchy outfit; instead of going for the stripper shorts and dancer bra, I’m wearing a black tight fitting dress. It hugs my curves perfectly, and as I get up from my seat and everyone looks at me, I know I’ve made the right choice.

Both Ethan and the casting director—I believe his name is Joel?—lean back in their seats, their eyes roaming over my body. Walking with a slow but sure step, I walk past Ethan. I do my best to ignore him and head straight for the director. I tuck one lock of hair behind my ear, and then lean into him, my lips brushing against his ear as I speak. He listens attentively, his eyes lost on my cleavage, and then nods.

“Thank you,” I whisper as he gets up from his seat and dims the lights. He says something to the intern on the corner, and after he taps the keyboard on his laptop twice, the speakers mounted on the walls start to fill the whole room with a steady beat. Lights, music, action—here I go.

I walk straight to the center of the room, my back turned to Ethan, and I place my hands on my hips. Swaying my hips to the mellow rhythm of the music, I slide my hands down my legs as I bend over. I can almost feel Ethan’s eyes going over the curve of my ass as my dress hikes slightly up my legs.

I turn on my heels, and as if I was walking along a thin rope, I go straight toward him. I don’t care about the casting director or anyone else; Ethan is the one who matters here, and I only have one shot to impress him. You can rest assured that I’m not going to waste my only shot. Oh, no, I play for keeps—always.

Ethan leans back against his chair, his eyes locked on mine. I have his attention, but I know it’s not enough; a man like him is used to having whoever he wants, and I’m more than sure that women throw themselves at his feet every waking hour of the day. If I am to succeed, I have to be better than that.

Running my tongue over my lips, I place my hands on his knees and I lean in. Our mouths are so close that I can almost feel the air crackling around us as electricity builds up. I pull back then, arching my back and running my hands up his legs; my fingers are dangerously close to his groin, but I don’t dare to go any further. Good seduction isn’t about what you do; it’s about what happens inside the other person’s head. The trick is controlling what happens there.

“Brittney, right?” he asks me, his smart eyes widening with hunger. This is a good start.

“Brittney,” I tell him, leaning into him again. I look down at his lips, and then up. “Don’t worry, I have a feeling you’ll remember my name well enough.”

“We’ll see about that.” His tone is a calm one, but I can feel all the anxiety coiled underneath it. He can try and act aloof, but the grin on his face tells me all that I need to know. I’ve thrown my bait and he is already nibbling at it. Once he bites, all that’s left is for me to reel him onto shore.

My hands move over his crotch, and I hook my fingers on his belt. Biting on my bottom lip, I start to unbuckle it, swaying my hips at a slow tempo. Once the buckle is free, I pull the whole belt out from its loops; in one fluid movement, I place it behind his head, and grabbing both ends with my hands, I force him to lock eyes with me. Moving as if he were in a trance, he places his hands on my legs, his fingertips brushing against the hemline of my dress. As he motions to hike up my dress, I pull the belt from around his neck and snap it against his arm.

“No,” I say firmly, his eyes widening in surprise. He’s not used to having anyone take control, let alone a woman. Slowly, he takes his hands off of me, a grin of defiance on his face. Show me what you got, his eyes seem to dare me. Grinning back at him, I go around his chair, and once I’m behind him, I lean in and place both my hands on his chest. “You’ve never met a woman like me, Ethan,” I whisper into his ear, my fingertips tracing the contour of his hard pecs. Christ, what is he hiding under his shirt—marble and steel?

“What makes you think that?” he says, that defiant grin still on his face.

“Trust me,” I whisper into his ear again, my fingers sliding over to the collar of his shirt. One by one, I undo the buttons on his shirt, his chiseled chest coming into view. Yanking on the shirt, I bare his chest and let my fingers brush over his skin; his muscles seem like hard ropes of manliness, and something inside of me tells me to get a better view. “I’m not like the others.”

I walk around the chair again, and stopping right in front of him, I let my eyes wander over his naked torso. Not that I have a choice, as his hard pectorals and chiseled abs demand all of my attention. I mean, he has an 8-pack, for God’s sake. It seems that he’s part of that very special breed of men; money and pussy simply isn’t enough for them, and they want perfection in everything they are and do. I can’t wait to see if the rest of his body matches what I’m seeing right now…