Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“Beg,” he rasps.

“Please, Cosmo–make me cum,” I wail.

He begins pumping his fingers deeper inside me and my arm nearly buckles.

“I’m so close Cos, please–I need you to let me cum,” I sob.

At those words, his mouth is on me and his hands are moving—I break apart; my muscles firing with a thousand sensations, my heart hammers against my chest like a bird throwing itself against the bars of its cage. My hands fly out behind me—slamming down jerkily on the black and white keys of the piano—discordant notes ring out into the night, along with my orgasmic screams.

Exhausted after our escapades in The Studio, I fell almost instantly into a deep sleep on the ratty sectional couch, packed tightly against all six feet five inches of Cosmo Lamont until the sun rose—bright and golden through the vast wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

We get coffee and pastries at a cute cafe with walls plastered top to bottom in famous black and white photos of Hollywood stars signed genially in the bottom or top corners. He drives me back to Tern’s Nest to get ready for the music video shoot later this evening; promising that he and Magnus would come to meet Julian and I for dinner at The Ranch after everyone had escaped their respective soundstages and back lots for the day.

Though I had been so exhausted that I had quite literally passed out as soon as I laid my head down the night before, it was hard to ignore the fact that my suppressant meds did not seem to be having the desired effect.

Thankfully, I was alone in Tern’s Nest, save for Rupert that is, while getting ready. Even without any of the boys here to set me off, just thinking about Cosmo and I’s date the night before has me nearly unable to function.

It’s barely lunchtime and already I’m taking my second ‘only-as-needed’ supplementary suppressant dose. I can barely spill out the rest of my glass of water and wobble to the bathroom to take a shower.

I fumble for the shower knobs, my skin feels tight, my mouth dry and my heart is skittering and racing on the knife’s edge of anticipation.

Is it because I’m a late bloomer? Is there something wrong with my meds? Surely it has to be me, my situation. I’ve been taking my meds every single day since Vinny picked up my refills. Before then, I hadn’t had to dip into the supplements, but that was also before I had started courting Pack Silver.

I stand under the steady thrumming stream of the water until the heartbeat in my ears matches time with the constant rush of the water; the coiled serpent of anticipation loosens its crushing grip on my insides—slithering away like water down the drain.

My panic abates, but only slightly. I’m down to my last supplement dose for the day, but there’s an entire shoot ahead of me—potentially up to twelve hours of continuous time on set, according to the screen actor’s guild. twelve hours on that single suppressant doesn’t seem possible after the last few days I’ve had, but what choice do I have?

I haven’t exactly been open and honest with my agent about the fact that I’ve already started courting Pack Silver. Who knows if I even would have booked this music video gig if the boys from Lost Daze knew I wasn’t exactly on the market anymore.

There’s also the matter of my own professional reputation being on the line. It’s not just about Vinny or even the prestigious Lost Daze pack. It’s about the video director, the choreographers, the cinematographers, the other talent on set—even the hair and makeup artists.

In this town, everybody talks. I can’t afford to develop a reputation as an unprofessional flake who nobody wants on the job. So, I pull on my warmups and twist my damp hair into a claw clip on top of my head to get myself ready to head to the shoot.

I get to the set, a soundstage on the record company lot. A young, plucky makeup artist named Ursula, with a head of thick oil black waves tossed into the messiest bun I’ve ever seen, greets me.

“Oh my gawd, you are wicked pretty, Vinny wasn’t totally full of shit this time!” she crows happily in her thick Boston accent.

I wince a little at the backhanded compliment, but Ursula keeps rolling right along.

“Ok we’re going to do a few different looks for this shoot. First one is going to be a very classic down home country babe—think hot horse girl,” she chirps happily, pushing her massive, red plastic glasses’ frames up her nose, their warped lenses making her amber eyes look huge and bug-like through their magnification.

I just smile and nod, allowing Ursula to lead me to the green room.

“Alright, Cut!” The director calls across the busy set.

I climb down out of the fake bay window bench and stretch my arms and legs. I’ve been sitting in awkward positions in this fake window for the last hour or so—my hair in two french braids; a powdery pink plaid button down, and teensy daisy duke jean cutoffs that are getting absolutely eaten by my ass.

“That looks great Daphne. You can head to hair and makeup for the bike scenes,” the director calls to me, Ursula already peeking her head around the fake bedroom wall with its ugly floral wallpaper.

I follow her back to the green room and I’m surprised to see Vinny, of all people, leaning casually against Ursula’s station—his thumbs speedily tapping away on the screen of his phone.

“Uh, hi Vinny,” I greet cautiously, his bushy brows pinched and angry.

“Hi, Vinny,” he does a cruel imitation of me, my voice high pitched and ditzy sounding in his rendition.

Ursula and I flash each other looks of apprehensive confusion.

“Um, is there something wrong, Vin?” I press, absolutely baffled by his nasty attitude.