Chapter 1: Needle and Thread
I’m Raven, the best damn seamstress this side of Hollywood, and I don’t take crap from anyone—not even A-list actors with abs that could cut glass. I’m on the set of *Dangerman*, the latest superhero blockbuster, pinning and stitching costumes for a bunch of overpaid divas in spandex. My hands are steady, my mouth is sharp, and my patience? Nonexistent. That is, until David-freaking-Harrington, the star of this circus, struts into my makeshift workshop wearing a supersuit that’s torn at the hem like he’s been wrestling grizzly bears on his lunch break.
“Raven, I need a fix,” he says, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, flashing that million-dollar smile that’s probably insured. He’s all tousled blond hair and piercing blue eyes, standing there like he owns the damn place. Which, to be fair, he kinda does.
I roll my eyes, grabbing my needle and thread. “What’d you do, Harrington? Try to save a kitten from a burning building in character? This suit costs more than my rent.”
He chuckles, low and warm, stepping closer as I kneel to inspect the damage. “Just a little stunt mishap. Thought I’d impress the director by doing my own flips. Bad idea.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, my fingers brushing the fabric near his thigh. Too close. My breath catches, but I play it cool. “You’ve got a great body,” I blurt out, then immediately want to sew my own mouth shut. “I mean, not you... I mean—”
David’s grin widens, but there’s no mockery in it. He looks down at me, locking eyes with a gaze so intense it could melt steel. “I get what you mean, and thank you. I’m glad you like it.” His tone is calm, patient, but there’s a spark there that sends heat racing through me, making my knees—and other parts, if you catch my drift—go weak.
I clear my throat, focusing on the hem. “And I’m glad the suit fits,” I say, trying to steer this back to professional territory.
“It fits perfectly,” he replies, his voice dropping an octave, feigning innocence like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to me. The bastard.
I stand up, brushing my hands on my jeans, and step back to admire my work—and, okay, maybe him too. “Don’t go ripping it again, pretty boy. I’m not your personal tailor.”
“Oh, but I’d love for you to be,” he quips, leaning against the table, arms crossed, muscles flexing under that tight suit. “You’ve got magic hands, Raven. What else can they do?”
I smirk, not backing down. “Keep dreaming, Harrington. These hands don’t touch just anyone.”
“Challenge accepted,” he fires back, stepping closer, the air between us crackling like a live wire. His scent—clean sweat and something spicy—hits me, and I’m suddenly very aware of how small this room is. How alone we are.
My heart’s pounding as I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”
“Only the best kind,” he murmurs, his hand brushing my arm, sending a shiver straight down to my core. I’m wet already, damn it, and I hate how much I want to close the distance, to feel that hard body pressed against mine.
Before I can snap another comeback, he’s leaning in, lips hovering just an inch from mine. “Tell me to stop, Raven,” he whispers, voice rough with need.
“Shut up and kiss me,” I growl, grabbing his collar and pulling him down. Our mouths crash together, hungry and fierce, tongues tangling as I back him against the table. My hands roam, feeling the heat of him, the way he’s already hard under that suit. His groan vibrates against my lips, and I’m dripping now, aching for more as we stumble, panting, toward something explosive.
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga — or write a steamy tale starring you.