As her boyfriend, he’d hated every second of it. It was enough to give any man an ulcer.

It had proven enough to make Rick beat the shit out of the punching bag at the local gym nightly—when he could find one.

When he couldn’t find a nearby gym with a punching bag, he’d run.

Run until his lungs and his legs gave out and his brain had enough endorphins pumping to it that Rick was no longer tempted to beat the crap out of Sierra’s co-star instead of a punching bag.

The director said something else Rick missed as the red haze of rage clouded his senses. In response, the couple tumbled onto the mattress.

It didn’t matter that the bed was a prop set up in a studio and surrounded by a dozen members of the crew. It was still a bed and they were still naked together in it.

Drawing in a deep breath through his nose, Rick watched, arms crossed, fists tight, blood pressure rising.

“Jamey, I can see the sock,” the director said.

The sock. Or more specifically, the cock sock. The only mother-fucking piece of clothing—if you could even call it that—separating this naked man’s junk from the part of Sierra’s body that belonged exclusively to Rick.

Jamey Garret, Hollywood’s newest hot leading man, adjusted his naked ass on top of Sierra’s equally nude body as Rick’s heart pounded.

“Christ.” Jaw set, Rick blew out a curse beneath his breath.

The assistant director standing next to him shot him a glare.

Rick knew to be silent once the director shouted action. He wasn’t stupid. But he was livid.

The gym wasn’t going to do it tonight. He needed to search online for a shooting range. Maybe blowing a few hundred holes in some paper targets would help.

Maybe he could get his hands on one of Jamey’s headshots for inspiration.

Shit. What the hell had happened to the cool, calm Navy SEAL he’d been just a few years ago?

Based on his current thoughts, he sounded more like one of the terrorists he’d dedicated half of his adult years to fighting, rather than a highly trained operator.

Actually, his inner dialogue sounded like that of a maniacal murderer, because it wasn’t democracy or masses of innocent civilians he wanted to destroy like the radical jihadists.

Oh, no. Rick’s crosshairs sat squarely on just one target. A single pretty boy movie star.

Particularly right now because, dammit, this guy was cupping Sierra’s naked breasts.

And fuck, now his mouth was on her, sucking the same nipple Rick had just hours ago.

He’d woken before dawn and, knowing which scene they’d be shooting today, had given Sierra something to remember him by before they left for the lot.

It took some doing, but he’d restrained himself from sucking on her until he bruised her porcelain skin, marking her as his territory like some wild animal.

Even with as wild as he felt watching this shit happening in front of him, the logical part of his brain knew she’d be pissed and embarrassed if the make-up people had to cover her hickeys because her boyfriend couldn’t handle seeing her make out with her hunky co-star.

Meanwhile, the bastard had graduated from just kissing Rick’s girl, to making love to her.

Okay, so it was simulated movie sex, but it felt all too real as Rick watched.

It looked pretty frigging real too as Jamey thrust his hips against Sierra, who reacted by scratching her nails down his back.

Fuck.