Chapter222 – Get off me
He pulled the bowl away from her, sliding it in front of himself, and in its place he ladled her a serving of mushroom broth, then added pork neck and more beef to her plate.
The gesture didn’t go unnoticed. A chorus of teasing rose instantly from the table.
“Miss Clarissa, showing off again in front of us poor single souls?”
“Atticus, are you always this attentive?”
Atticus didn’t even blink. “Taking care of Clarissa is my duty.”
That only set off shrieks and laughter.
“So sweet!”
“You’re killing us!”
Clarissa could only wipe a bead of sweat from her temple.
Not far down the table, Xerxes watched, his face darkening. He downed a full cup of liquor, then another. To him, every man near Atticus shrank into irrelevance—and he hated it. What was so special about that guy? He was just a pretty boy kept by Clarissa.
Sooner or later, she’d be his.
By the time his agent, Tasha, tried to rein him in, Xerxes was already half-drunk. He shoved her hand off and staggered toward the bathroom. But when he rounded the corner, he collided with a broad chest.
He looked up—and froze. Atticus.
The man loomed over him, a head taller, his features cut sharp under the dim light. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What a coincidence.” His voice was smooth, but a dangerous edge coiled beneath it. “Tell me… do you think my woman’s pretty?”
Xerxes blinked, then sneered. “Your woman?” He laughed, unsteady but venomous. “You’re just a gigolo. Do you actually think Clarissa takes you seriously? That little heiress is only playing with you. Just wait. When I’m a real star, I’ll fuck her myself.”
Atticus’s smile lingered, though his eyes glinted with something cold, predatory. “Mm. You’re not quite what I expected. Aren’t you afraid your fans might be disappointed hearing that?”
“Fans?” Xerxes barked out a laugh. “They’re nothing but wallets. I smile, they scream, they throw money at me. That’s all they’re good for. I make more in a month than you’d see in a year. Without Clarissa, you’re nothing. Just a mutt living off scraps.”
He shoved Atticus aside with surprising boldness, snarling, “A good dog knows when to stay out of the way.”
Atticus didn’t stop him. He only watched, lips curling into a wicked, amused smirk. He licked his teeth, eyes glittering with dark promise. “I’ve been bored lately,” he murmured to himself. “Might as well have some fun.”
By the time Atticus returned, Clarissa had nearly finished eating and was watching the others get rowdy with drinks.
He dropped down beside her, his voice low and intimate. “Tired?”
“Not really.” She smiled. After all, she’d napped on the plane, and his massage earlier had left her completely relaxed.
Before he could say more, the crew spotted him. “Atticus, finally! Don’t think you’re escaping tonight.”
“If you want intimacy, you can get it later. For now, come drink with us!”
Atticus’s gaze flicked back to Clarissa. She only gave him a small smile. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”
Everyone on set liked him—especially the tech crew. Whenever equipment broke, they called him, and he never refused. Clarissa had teased once, “You’re supposed to be on leave. At this rate I should put you on payroll. Should I pay you?”
He’d caught her by the waist, bent to her ear, and murmured, “Can you pay me in sex instead?”
The memory made her cheeks burn even now. “You little bastard,” she’d hissed at him.
But when the drinking dragged on, Clarissa gave up waiting. She texted him and headed back to the guesthouse.
After a hot shower, she slipped into a pale green tank top and soft shorts, her damp hair trailing down her shoulders. The bamboo-scented breeze floated in through the window, lightening her mood. For the first time, it felt almost like a vacation.
She laid out hangover pills for him, adjusted the water in the bathroom to his liking, and waited.
An hour passed. Sleep tugged at her when the door suddenly banged open.
Clarissa jerked upright. A tall figure filled the frame, half-swallowed by shadows.
“…Atticus?” she asked, uncertain.
His answer came muffled, thick. “Mm.” Definitely his voice.
Relief washed over her—until he slammed the door and strode toward her.
In the next instant she was flat on the bed, his weight pinning her. “Clarissa…”
The heat of his breath—sharp with alcohol—fanned across her cheek and neck, making her skin prickle.
Her pulse raced. “You… you’re drunk. Take the pills first, okay? I’ll get them—”
But Atticus’s gaze was locked on her mouth, her lips moving, soft and flushed, teasing him without mercy. His pupils darkened.
“But I want to eat you first,” he growled, before crushing his mouth to hers.
“Mm—! Wait—” Clarissa tried to protest, writhing against his grip, but his arms were iron. He devoured her lips, swallowing every word, every breath.
Only when his hand slid lower, fumbling against the straining bulge in his towel, did some thread of reason snap back into place. He broke the kiss just enough to rasp against her ear, voice rough and shaking, “It’s still not over?”
Clarissa gulped in air, chest heaving. Her tank top was tugged low, her shorts yanked askew, her body exposed in a way that made her cheeks burn hot with shame and fury.
She shoved at him, gasping, “Get off me, now!”
She’d been prepared for this, but still—her heart raced, rattled.
Atticus lingered above her, frustration etched across his features. He wasn’t truly drunk. He knew it. But his blood burned, every nerve screaming for her.
Looking down at her—flushed, disheveled, infuriatingly gorgeous—he felt like he might snap.
“Fuck.”
The word tore from him as he shoved himself upright, storming toward the bathroom.
Clarissa watched his retreating back, caught somewhere between helplessness and amusement—and something softer.
But it was too late tonight. She’d only returned around ten, and now it was past midnight. Tomorrow was full of obligations. She couldn’t just let him have his way.
Half an hour later, Atticus finally stepped out of the shower, hair damp, skin flushed from the cold water. Clarissa had already drifted off.
On the table, he found a glass of warm water and a few alcohol-relief pills waiting for him.
His lips curved faintly.
After downing the pills, he moved toward the bed. She was curled on her side, a thin blanket wrapped loosely around her waist, her long legs bare against the sheets.
Atticus’s pulse, which had finally settled, surged again. In the dim light, his gaze devoured her—hungry, feral.
His breath grew ragged as he slid under the blanket and gathered her into his arms. His hard, burning body pressed against her soft, fragrant curves.
Even in her sleep, Clarissa stirred uneasily at his heat. She whimpered faintly, shifting, seeking comfort.
Atticus loosened his hold a fraction, and she finally settled again, breathing evenly.
He stared at her face, his chest aching, frustration flooding him. For the first time, he felt something close to helplessness.
“This is killing me,” he muttered against her hair.
Clarissa slept soundly that night. Atticus, however, lay awake until dawn, sleep only catching him for a few hours as the morning light broke.
When Clarissa woke, he was still there beside her, breathing evenly, the edges of his boyishness showing through in rest.
Her heart softened. In sleep, he seemed less defiant, less dangerous—almost gentle.
She leaned in, brushed a kiss across his forehead, pulled the blanket higher over his chest, and slipped out of bed to wash up.
By the time Atticus stirred, it was past ten. He pushed a hand through his messy hair, noticed the blanket neatly tucked around him, and realized Clarissa was gone.
Whenever he shared a bed with her, he slept deeper, better than anywhere else.
He sat for a long moment, thoughtful, before heading to the lobby for breakfast. He had barely sat down when a waiter appeared with a tray.
“I didn’t order anything,” Atticus said.
The server smiled. “Miss Clarissa arranged it earlier. She said these are your favorites.”
When the man left, Atticus looked at the steaming bowls and plates, his chest tightening with a warmth he couldn’t quite name. His mood lifted instantly.
He was finishing the last bun when Xerxes strode in.
Atticus raised a brow. By this hour, the crew should already be busy, yet here he was. Xerxes sneered when he spotted Atticus, then dropped into the seat beside him.
His assistant placed a pitiful spread in front of him—one boiled egg, some cucumber slices, and a purple sweet potato.
Atticus smirked, then deliberately ordered another basket of buns. He bit into them with slow relish, enjoying every bite in front of Xerxes.
Xerxes’s jaw tightened. By the time they reached set, he was already seething. The moment he saw the makeup artist, he snapped, “Get out of my sight!”
Upton finally lost patience. “You’re already late. We’ve shot everyone else’s scenes. All that’s left is you and the female lead. Stop wasting everyone’s time.”
“I drank too much last night. I feel like shit. I need coffee.”
Upton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where do you expect me to find coffee out here?”
“Then send someone to buy beans and brew them for me,” Xerxes shot back arrogantly. His gaze slid across the set until it landed on Atticus. A slow smirk spread over his face.
“There’s a free man hanging around anyway. Why not send him? The rest of us actually have work. What, you think this is some kind of vacation spot?”
Atticus held an umbrella over Clarissa and handed her a wet wipe. “Are you tired?”
“Not really. The sun’s just a little too strong. Thanks for the umbrella.” Clarissa dabbed at the sweat on her forehead, smiling at him.
Atticus’s gaze lingered on the beads of sweat glistening along her nose. “I’ll get some ice packs.”
She shook her head. “No need. I’ll be done soon.”
Her smile lingered as Tasha’s voice cut through the air.
“Well, looks like someone has free time. Perfect. Maybe you could go buy some coffee.”
Clarissa turned, confused. Upton and Tasha were approaching, Upton’s face especially sour.
“Coffee?” Clarissa frowned, glancing at him instinctively.
Upton threw up his hands. “Ms. Clarissa, I can’t deal with this anymore. You handle it. I just want to focus on filming.” He spun on his heel and stalked off.
Tasha crossed her arms. “Our Mr. Xerxes needs coffee, or he’ll be too tired to perform. And since there’s a… free hand on set, why not let him go fetch it?”
It was clear who she meant.
Clarissa’s brows tightened. Her voice went cold. “My people have no obligation to fetch coffee for your artist.”