“Chill.” He laughs once. It’s deep and throaty and sexy as hell. “I’m kidding with you.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Cool.” I take a deep breath, pressing my hand to my chest.

Needing a moment to cool my face down, I turn to the table, get my wrist pincushion, which is already loaded up with pins, and fasten it to my wrist.

I turn back to him, feeling a little more in control, and without looking him in the face, I get down to my knees in front of him, putting me at cock-level.

I’m on my knees in front of Vaughn West. Sure, I’m only pinning his pants, but still…it’s one for the books.

“Okay, so if you could just spread your legs a little for me, that’d be great.”

I hear those words back in my head and want to die. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment and just shifts his stance, parting his legs for me.

I try to relax because I am nervous…because he’s him.

Come on, Charly, you’ve done this a thousand times. He’s just a man.

A hot, gorgeous, famous man. But a man all the same.

Sucking in a silent breath, I start on the right inner thigh, hemming the material in and tacking it with pins. Vaughn tenses.

Lots of people get uncomfortable when I’m doing this. I mean, it is weird, having a stranger this close who is sticking pins in the clothes you’re wearing.

I shift over to his left leg, and he tenses again. Discomfort is radiating from him, which is making me feel uncomfortable.

He clears his throat.

I look up at him. His brows are pinched. He looks like he’s in pain.

“Almost done,” I tell him.

Now, for the crotch area.

I’ve been purposely keeping my eyes away from this part of his body, but now, I have no choice but to look.

And…oh my God.

He’s got a boner. Well, not a boner, boner, but there’s definitely a semi going on there.

Then, it hits me.

Vaughn West has a semi over me.

The things that is doing for my self-confidence right now.

I feel like doing an air punch. And possibly another twerk.

But, of course, I’m a professional, so I pretend not to notice. Expression schooled—and I can’t even begin to tell you how hard that is, pun intended—I say to him, “Okay, a few more pins, and we’re done.”

I take a pin from the cushion and turn the fabric in to pin it. As I move my hand, my knuckles accidentally—and, I swear, it’s an accident—brush against him. His hips jerk forward right as I’m pushing the pin in the material of his pants, and—

“Jesus! Fuck!” he yells, jumping back away from me.

I stare up at him in shock.

Oh, shit. No…

Please no.

I just stabbed Vaughn West in the cock with a pin.

I just stabbed the world’s biggest movie star. With a pin. In his cock.

I snap into action, leaping to my feet. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I just did that! It was an accident, I swear! I can’t believe I stabbed you in your cock! I mean, penis! Oh, Jesus.” I cover my face with my hands.

“Ball sack.” He moans a pained sound.

I drop my hands. “What?”

“You got me in my ball sack, not my cock. Jesus, fuck, this hurts! What did you stab me with? A knife?”

“A pin. And it was only a small one.”

The glare he fixes me with makes me want to piss my pants.

“I really am sorry. So, so sorry.” I wince.

I’m so fired.

“Let me help you.” I move toward him, but he backs away from me.

“Seriously, stay the fuck away. I can’t believe you just stabbed me.”


He glares again.

“Sorry,” I mumble, dropping my gaze.


“What?” he snaps.

“The pin…it’s still in…there.”

His eyes follow mine down. “Jesus Christ,” he groans.

“Do you want me to pull it out?”

“No, I don’t want you to fucking pull it out! I’m not letting you anywhere near me ever again. You’ve probably just killed all my best swimmers. I swear to God, if I lose a ball because of you—”

“That’s a tad dramatic. It was just a tiny pin.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as angry as he looks right now. His face his red, bordering purple.

“Okay, so let me stick a tiny pin in your clit and see how you get on,” he grits out.

“Okay. Point taken.” I clamp my thighs together.

And I watch quietly as he takes a few deep breaths before he takes ahold of the pin and yanks it out.


“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay!” he snaps.

He opens the button on the pants and carefully pulls the zipper down, and I realize he’s about to check his damaged goods.

Should I look away or watch? That’s the million-dollar question.

“Can you turn around?” he barks at me.

“I was just about to,” I mumble, turning away.

And I swear to God I was going to.

I hear him groan.

“Christ, I’m fucking bleeding. What the hell kind of pin was that? And what the hell kind of seamstress are you?”

I have to stop myself from correcting him that I’m actually a wardrobe assistant and not a seamstress, but something tells me that wouldn’t go down too well. So, all I say is, “Sorry,” for the hundredth time.

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