Page 17 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

Artful and beautiful sex is harder to direct than one would think. But she does it so goddamn well.

And when she isn’t snapping at Lance—not sayinghedoesn’t deserve it—I’ve caught the tail ends of her conversations with Vienna and Tucker, and I’ve heard her on set with Alexa, trading lines. She’s funny, never failing to pass the baton of sarcasm right back.

Thoseare his favorite qualities in a partner. And the more I’ve gotten to know her in the last week and a half, the more paranoid I become. Because if the two of them ever pumped the brakes on the fucking arguing, they’d probably fall the fuck in love.

I’ve yet to have the opportunity to turn into a jealous, ugly monster, though, thank fuck. Because Lance and Brielle can’t stop bickering. Cursing at one another, arguing about anything at all. This morning it was about city management of the gutters on public roads—yes, they argued about that. Talking over one another—I can’t fucking take it.

I work with adults because I don’t want to deal with things like this.

So no, I haven’t been jealous. And all the enjoyment I initially got from the two of them not getting along? It’s gone, every last drop. I’m snapping at both of them because they’re on my nerves so fucking badly, and I’m tired of being a mentor that spends majority of his time talking himself out of losing his patience.

And to make things worse, my dick turns to steel when Lance gets angry. I fuckingloveit. The first week he worked here, as the director and operations assistant, a delivery man tried to lie about a missed delivery.

It was the first time I saw him get angry and I jerked off so fucking hard that night thinking of it. What that says about me, I don’t know, but since then, I love him fired up. Passionate. It turns me to stone.

I’ve been hard non-stop for the last week and a half.

It doesn’t help that I’ve got Brielle’s eyes on my crotch, ass, chest, and beard no less than fifty fucking times a day. She’s been trying to be discreet but unlike her directorial skills, she sucks at it. Because there is no question she’s been checking me out almost as much as I check out Lance, which is saying something.

The thing is… she’s been checkinghimout, too. And I don’t fucking like that.

But then again…I’vebeen checking her out.

I feel like an asshole, a traitor to my efforts to win back Lance, but… it’s been a year since I’ve had sex with anyone that isn’t my damn fist. And Brielle is also,surprise, surprise, my type. Lance and I share a list of things we favor. And while Lance is attracted to a mind and soul only, falling for the body that comes with the former traits, I’m not pansexual. I’m bisexual, and when it comes to women, I fucking loves curves. Hips to control, an ass to slap—fuck.

It’s been a weird, hard week.

And now I’m coming back from what is supposed to be a mind-clearing run to find Lance and Brielle inches from each other's faces, both screaming. When I opened the back door to the studio, Cohen appeared, eyes on me.“They’ve been at it since you left,” he said quietly before adding, “but I closed the door.”

We do not scream and yell at Crave. We don’t. In fact, we have actors here that are recovering from being at a place like that, and it’s exactly why I apologized to Cohen before heading to the office. Because his wife Scarlett is one of those people, and triggering someone who is healing is not something I’ll tolerate.

Brielle and Lance stare at the soaked towel lifeless on the floor. I’ve not raised my voice this way…ever. It’s not my style. But unending heartbreak paired with the sexual frustrations and endless bickering, I’m fucking toast.

I get in Lance’s face, my love and desire for him on the back burner. Because I love Crave, and he knows as much. I thought he loved it the way I did, too.

“I expect more from you. You know what this place is about,” I hiss, nostrils flaring, blood coursing through my veins faster than usual, my heart firing off in rapid, uneven beats. “We don’t scream and fucking yell, Lance.Ever.Andshemay not know that, butyoudo.” I shake my head, loose drops of sweat sliding down my face, chest heaving. Though in truth, I don’t know if it’s this work environment or the run making me lose my fucking cool.

The energy radiating off me sticks to him, because his shoulders relax their stance, and his face falls. I force myself to hold his gaze, and not to look at the way his full lips part, how wordsfor oncefail him. “Crave means the same to me,” he says finally, and bumps break out along my neck when his voice falters for a moment, growing wobbly on the last two words. “I apologize,” he adds, forcing huskiness to his voice, straightening his spine. He only turns his head when he looks at Brielle and says, “I apologize for my behavior.”

A moment passes, and I finally turn to face Brielle, foolishly thinking she too will apologize.

I widen my stance on the cold tile floor to accommodate the way my dick shifts in my stupid running shorts, getting hard for the way her arms are contrarily folded across her chest.

Gorgeous amber eyes narrowed my way, her foot fucking tapping. This fuckinginfantto the film world is standing in my office after bickering with my ex-boyfriend…tapping her goddamn foot like I owe her something.

And just like with Lance’s anger and attitude, it’s turning me the fuck on.

“What?” she snaps, one of her beachy waves slipping over her shoulder. I watch her pink fingernails as she pushes the hair back, returning her hand to its position on her bicep. “Thanks,” she adds, looking now at Lance. “I accept your apology.”

Jesus Christ.I can hear his anger bubbling up, frothy on his probably pinched lips. Before I can hand hold her to an apology owed to Lance, he does something surprising and lets it go.

Clearing his throat, he levels an arm toward the door. “Let’s get back on set and move forward, yes?”

I look at Brielle’s posture soften, her arms dropping to her sides, and then they’re gone. Closing the door in an attempt to center myself before a quick shower and the remainder of the day working with them, I push the lock and flop down in my leather chair behind my desk.

Letting my eyes close, I grip the armrests of my office chair, taking a deep, slow breath through my nostrils, holding it the way Dr. Evans has advised, and release it. I do that a few times before opening my eyes and resolve to calm the fuck down.

But when I open my eyes, they land straight on a folder on my computer.

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