Chaos surrounds you.  Lights flash, people shout, music blares through speakers taller than your head.  Someone scrambles past you, almost knocking you off balance, but she’s gone before you can reprimand her.  Across the room, the energy seems to center around one man.

Justin Timberlake.

You’ve done photo shoots with him before.  In fact, you’ve been at every one for the past four years.  You’re used to this chaotic dance of shoot, change, shoot, retouch, shoot, change again.  You could practically run through this in your sleep, that’s how well you know this routine. 

Four years ago, you had been a lowly intern working with a photographer who needed an assistant.  Well, actually, he needed someone to be his gopher, but you were fresh out of college and you needed a job.  So you took it.  One of the first big gigs your boss had ever done was *NSYNC at the height of their fame.  It was epic.  The band you’d been following for years had plopped down at your job, commanded your attention and essentially stole your heart.  Especially Justin.  From the very first moment you’d been captivated by his charm and oozing sex appeal.  It didn’t hurt that the stylist for the shoot had come up missing so you’d been re-assigned.  You got to pick out clothing, adjust things, and pretty much touch every member of the band and it wasn’t creepy at all. 

It’s a cheesy story, really, and you laugh thinking back on how ga-ga you’d gotten over the five of them.  Apparently, though, you’d left a bit of a mark, too, because before they’d been swept off to their next destination, Justin slipped his number into your hands.

“I should have time to get dinner tonight.  Text me your number and I’ll call you with details.”

And the rest, they say, is history.

“Change!”  The loud, echoing yell of the photographer snaps you out of your reverie and you look up to see Justin charging towards you.  He looks frustrated.

“In the room, now.”  He barks, stepping past you and into the room where his wardrobe is being housed for the shoot.  “Everyone out.”  His voice leaves no room for argument, and the other assistants scuttle from the room before he beckons you with a nod of his head.

“You ok?”  You ask, eyeing him carefully.  He had been fine this morning, so you’re not entirely sure why he’s upset.

With a pathetic look, the anger drops from his face and he rubs his hands over his head with a long sigh.  “No, I’m not.”  He drags his hands over his face before looking at you with a pout.  “I’m so fucking uncomfortable in these jeans.  Every pair they ordered is too small…stupid idiots.”  He motions to his denim clad legs, and you cover your mouth to stifle the giggle that’s threatening to spill.

He eyes you warily.  “Don’t.”

You clear your throat and compose your face into a serious look.  “I asked you if you wanted me to have someone bring over other jeans.  I told you when we got here that the sizes were wrong, but you said it would be fine.”

“Yeah…well…it’s not fucking fine anymore, alright?”

You hold up your hands, taking a step back from him.  “Hey, don’t get pissy with me because the pants are too tight.”  He gives you another pathetic look and you drop your hands with a sigh.  “Come here.  Maybe if we put a belt on we can undo the button so they won’t dig into your waist.”  You grab at his waist band, easily undoing the button and adjusting the waist a little lower on his hips.

“It’s not the waist.”  His voice is low in your ear, a breath across your neck.

You stop tugging and your hands freeze on the band of his jeans.  “It’s not?”  Your eyes crash into his blue ones.

He shakes his head, looking down between the two of you as his cheeks go pink.  Your gaze follows the path of his, and your head falls back with a laugh as you figure out his problem.  His too tight pants are made even tighter by the obvious hard-on he’s got.

“Ali,” he warns, but you can’t help the giggles that shake your whole body.  You have to rest your head against his chest and brace your hands on his rib cage in order to stay standing.  “Ali, please.  It’s not funny.”  You can hear the pout in his voice.

You take in a series of deep breaths, willing yourself to calm down.  “I’m sorry.”  You manage, looking up at him again, a smile threatening to turn back into laughter.

“You’re so mean to me.”  He states, grabbing your wrists and pushing you backward until your back bumps into a table covered in shoes.  “I can’t believe you’re laughing at this.”

You grin, tugging on the denim again and eliciting a moan from his throat.  “You have to admit, though, baby.  It is pretty damn funny.”  His head falls to your shoulder and you wrap your arms around his back.  “I think there are some khaki’s or some cargo pants or something.  I’ll check the sizes on those.  If they’re still too small, I’ll go get you new pants myself, just to make sure.”

His breath is warm on your neck as he speaks.  “I can’t go back out there like this.” 

You sigh.  “Well…I don’t know what to tell you, babe.”

He lifts his head, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he grins at you.  “You could…fix it for me.”  He suggests, licking his lips slowly.

“Justin…” you admonish.  “We can’t.  Not here.  There are dozens of people out there waiting for you to finish this photo shoot.”

“So?”  His hands skim up your sides, slowly bunching your sundress, pulling it higher and higher up your thighs.  Quickly, you stop his hands and readjust your dress.  “Ali…” He whines again.

“Absolutely not.”  You put your hands on his chest and push him back, skirting around him to search for a more comfortable pair of pants.  Suddenly, it dawns on you.  “Hey,” you spin around to look at him, “just wear your jeans.  The ones you wore over here.”  As you talk, you move around the room.  “I’ve got some t-shirts that would work well, and I think they’d make for a great set of shots.”  You toss a few things at him, grabbing his own jeans from a chair in the corner and bringing them over to him.

He looks disappointed.  “You sure you can’t just…you know…take care of me?”

You grin.  “I am.  I’m saving this photo shoot.  Now change.  I’ll be out side waiting for you, so hurry up.”

“You’re so mean.”  He calls after you, but you just blow him a kiss and step outside the room, closing the door behind you.

~*~

The rest of the shoot finished smoothly.  Justin looked just fine in the final outfit, but you could tell that he was still upset with you.  No one else would notice that his smile was forced, or that his laughter was just a bit louder than usual.  You did, though, and you knew that he was probably going to give you hell for weeks over this.

With a sigh, you headed back into the dressing room and started to pick up.  It would be the magazines job to cart all of the clothing back to the designer, but you knew they would appreciate it if you cleaned up first.  Belts were sorted, shirts were hung up, and the too-small jeans were folded back into piles and set into their bags.   You started boxing up the shoes when the cheering and “that’s a wrap” floated in from the studio room.  The shoot was done.

As your grabbed another pair of shoes, suddenly, a pair of hands wrapped themselves around your waist and you let out a yelp.

“Shhh.”  His voice whispered into your ear.  “I closed the door, but they can probably still hear you out there.”  Justin’s hands made quick work of your dress again, bunching it up over your ass.  There was a mirror in front of you, and your eyes met his in the reflection, a devilish grin on his face.

“What are you doing?”

His smoldering gaze seared into yours as his hands danced across your flesh.  “Well…” he drawled, his lips kissing down your shoulder.  “I still have that little…problem…from earlier, and now that the shoots done.”

You were about to protest when one of his hands slid across your stomach, tracing the lace of your panty waist before sipping underneath the fabric, his hand cupping your heat.  You watched him through the mirror, mesmerized.  Slowly, ever so slowly, his fingers slipped between your legs, causing a rush of heat to flash through you, instantly getting you wet.  He took his time rubbing your clit in slow circles, sliding into your wet heat.

“I’m not the only one whose ready, I see.”  His own eyes watched in the mirror as he pulled your panties down your hips, letting them pool on the floor.  Now, with you dress still bunched up over your hips, you were exposed to his hungry eyes.  “Damn.”

He let his left hand moving back to your center, causing you to whimper and writhe as he stroked you slowly.  Behind you, his right hand made quick work of his button and zipper, his own jeans falling to the floor moments later. 

“Justin.”  You panted his name, trying to remember what was so important for you to say but your mind was hazy with his touch.  A loud crash outside the room caused you to jump, suddenly reminding you where you were.  “We can’t.”

His teeth caught your earlobe and he tugged, grinning at you.  “The door is locked.”  His tongue traced a path down your neck.  “You’re not getting away from me again.”

Suddenly, with a swiftness that you weren’t expecting, Justin bent you over.  Your hands went out to the table so you could brace yourself as he lifted your skirt even higher and admired your ass.  He sent you another sexy smile through the mirror, and then slammed into you, not even giving you a chance to prepare for the feel of him inside you.

“Shit, Ali.”  He cursed, his right hand on your hip and his left holding onto your shoulder.  It surprised you a little, but watching him through the mirror, seeing the obvious pleasure on his face, was turning you on even more.  You lowered yourself down to your elbows and pushed your ass higher into the air, sending him deeper inside you.

His head had been thrown back, eyes closed, but when you moved, he opened his blue orbs to stare at you.  Slowly, you rotated your hips into his, causing sweet friction to build between you.  He watched for a minute before tightening his grip on your hips and setting a frantic pace.  You bit your lip against the scream building in your throat, knowing that there was a roomful of people just outside the door.  You didn’t want them to know that Justin Timberlake was fucking his girlfriend in the wardrobe room.

When one of his hands left your hips and snaked between the two of you to play with your clit, you had to cover your mouth.

“Come for me, baby girl,” he panted, his pace increasing.  Your belly twisted with tension as your orgasm built.  You bit down on your fingers to keep from screaming out as the shudder ripped through your body, all the way down to your toes, and you clamped down around him.  “Fuck.”  He grunted.  It only took a few more thrusts before he spilled into you, pulsing inside of your tightened walls.

His head dropped to your back, his breath fanning across your heated skin as he tried to come down from his high.  Your own body felt weak, and you were glad of the table underneath you.  Slowly, he pulled out and adjusted your skirt back down your sides, bending to pick up his boxers and hand you your panties.

You turned to face him, your face flushed.  A lazy grin spread across his own face, and he leaned in to kiss you.

“This is why I love having you as my stylist,” he mumbled against your lips, deepening the kiss for a moment before pulling away.

You cocked an eyebrow at him but said nothing, because even though you would never admit it aloud, the hot, crazy I-have-to-have-you-now sex was also part of the reason you loved being his stylist.  It was probably the best perk of the job.