Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“These are very good,” she says, her voice serious, but the quirk of her lips is all mischief.

“Hmph, it helps to have a good and gracious subject,” I shrug dismissively.

“You should see the kind of photos his directorship snaps,” I deflect, keeping an eye on Daphne as I make my way back to turn off the cursed overhead lights.

Her lips purse into the shape of a heart before she turns away from me, floating toward the imposing glossy black piano by the bank of massive windows.

“No fucking way!” Daphne shakes her head, coughing a dry laugh.

“You play piano too?” she scoffs, running her fingers gingerly over the gold Steinway and Sons logo on the gleaming black baby grand.

“Yeah, believe it or not, I thought the concert piano circuit was going to be my meal ticket for a while; not film or acting.”

I surprise myself by letting that factoid slip on our first date, but Daphne looks elated. I can tell that she’s only barely biting back a request to make me play. The fact that she hasn’t forced me to perform only makes me fall for her more.

She opens the key cover and plunks out a single soft note, middle C.

For a moment I wonder if she herself has any musical experience, or if the choice of key was just a happy coincidence.

“Alright—so you sculpt, you take photos and from what I can tell from the carnage over there—” she nods to my table of brushes and paints and the several sheet covered canvases on easels just beyond, “you paint and play the piano too?” She shakes her head, incredulous—fingers gently leafing through the sheet music still at the piano.

I can tell that she’s just noticed that the notes are rendered in blue pen ink, entirely by hand as I say, “Did I mention I compose for piano as well?”

Daphne crosses her arms over chest, shaking her head.

“OK, so if anyone was laboring under the delusion that you weren’t entirely perfect.” She walks toward me, her hips switching slightly—winding side to side with the hypnotic motions of a snake.

“What can I say?” I shrug out of my tux jacket and toss it onto a nearby metal stool.

Daphne melts into my arms—her face lifting toward mine as we fall into a kiss.

“I noticed a couch, but no mattress,” she breathes huskily as our lips part.

“A keen eye for detail, Miss Dale,” I do my best impression of a disaffected museum curator.

“You better not give me fucking carpet burn before that damn music video shoot,” Daphne threatens, her hands already at the abalone buttons of my tuxedo shirt.

“I have no such intentions of injuring those shapely knees. What would old Vincenzo say if I delivered you to your first day of shooting in denim mini skirts with rug burns?” I razz, my fingers slipping beneath the rippling satin on the shoulders of her gown.

“Cut it out,” Daphne laughs.

For the first time in a long time, I’m laughing too. Easy, natural—our bodies falling into one another.

As our kiss begins to deepen, I move forward, pressing her toward the piano. My hands continue their nimble work. Daphne shrugs out of her gown as I slide the draped satin from her shoulders.

The shimmering fabric falls away, her perfect upturned breasts, punctuated by hard, pink nipples.

I bring my lips to the soft points of flesh. Daphne sighs with pleasure as I flick my tongue across the tender skin.

Without warning, a vision of Daphne is illuminated behind my closed eyelids; her walking onto set for the filming of the music video—my bite, my bond, still red and livid at the edge of the rosy halo of her areola, or maybe out in full view for all to see—in the space between her neck and shoulder.

I help her step out of the ring of silvery satin, guiding her still backward toward the cushioned bench of the piano.

The light in Cosmo’s studio is a mix of orangey pink lamps, warm amber string lights and the cool shine of the night sky and city skyline.

Cosmo looks almost as if his skin is pink marble, lit from within as he stands before me. His tuxedo shirt abandoned on the floor, my hands fiddle with the metal hooks and melamine buttons of his slacks.

“Don’t worry about that right now.” He takes my hands, guiding them from his buttons to reach up and around his neck—his mouth pressing against mine in another kiss.