Behind the Scenes

by Christina C Jones

  “That’s amazing, P. Congratulations,” Logan said, patting me on the leg again. “You decided on something and stuck with it, which is more than a lot of people can say about anything, let alone something so intense. And now you’ve done it again with the show, which is honestly a freaking masterpiece. I’m really happy for you.”

  “I appreciate that,” I told her, grabbing her hand before she could pull it away. “I swear, I wasn’t trying to… out-traumatize you or anything like that. I just didn’t want you to think you’re alone in how you feel, or… hell, like being grown means that we’ve got this shit figured out now. We’re all still living under the weight of our parents, for good or bad. We just have to figure out how to approach it.”

  Logan smiled, but said nothing, which… kinda blew me a little. I couldn’t say what I was expecting, but her sudden silence had me wondering if I’d fucked up by not keeping my mouth shut.

  My “story” was a lot.

  As much as I could relate to different characters in my script, for different reasons… I’d really stopped short of writing in much of the real-life horrors. I’d seen and done way too much, before I was even legally an adult, and a lot of that shit didn’t just… go away.

  Even once you were past it, the shit left scars of the worst kind.

  And if I was reading Logan right… I may have pulled the mask back on mine a little too much.

  9

  Logan

  Who even is this man?

  As I listened to Pierre talk about his life – talk about his wounds – I couldn’t help wondering. Every time I thought I had him pegged, he threw me more information for my “hard to read” file.

  Maybe a DUI or something, sure. A stint in rehab wasn’t even that surprising for spoiled rich kids – of which I was including myself in the number. I’d been too scared to do anything more than drinking or smoking a little weed and drinking risky convenience store energy boosters to get through a rigorous schedule of classes and partying in college. But my friends, and peers?

  Oh, I’d seen it all.

  What Pierre was describing though, wasn’t the kind of shit that came from boredom.

  He was a lonely, hurting, grieving young man, in search of attention and acceptance from his father. It wasn’t overtly mentioned, but it almost seemed as though at some point… maybe the self-medicating had even been part of their bond.

  And then he lost him too.

  It didn’t feel fair.

  He was quick to make sure I understood he wasn’t trying to compare our situations at all, just to relate. And I believed him, too.

  But it did put some things in perspective.

  Before he showed up at my door, I’d stressed myself into a mild panic attack, with the realization I was going to have to tell my parents about my breakup with Les. It was why I couldn’t sleep and had been able to return his text at all. I was in the midst of calming myself when it popped up on my screen – that momentary excitement for him had given me something else to focus on.

  But then came the hot tears of disappointment in myself, for being so damn weak and whiny in the first place.

  I was a grown ass woman.

  I paid my own bills.

  Had my own job.

  Why the fuck was I so scared to tell my parents I wouldn’t stay with – and especially wasn’t going to marry – a man that didn’t make me happy anymore?

  It was the complete opposite of the Byers energy they’d taught me.

  I was supposed to stand up for myself, supposed to refuse to settle.

  And yet, I was panicking about even the thought of admitting I was doing both of those things.

  Pathetic.

  Except… when I left the firm… things had changed. They accepted my decision, but they weren’t happy about it. I got fewer calls about grabbing dinner, hitting the tennis court, coming shopping, all the things I’d always done with my parents that made them feel like friends too. I understood not talking shop about the firm anymore, but all the other stuff?

  It hurt.

  No, they hadn’t cut me off or anything that drastic, but they weren’t happy with me.

  And they’d let me feel it.

  I still felt it, even though we’d been slowly approaching normal again, as they saw – even though they pretended not too – that I was running a successful, legit business.

  And now I was going to disappoint them again, and maybe drop a bomb on a forty-year friendship between our families by not marrying the man they’d practically handpicked.

  So… yeah.

  “Did I say too much?”

  The sound of Pierre’s voice pulled me from my musings. He’d just said something about living under the weight of our parents – the “expectations” part was silent – and maybe I’d been musing on it too long, if he’d gotten that impression from my silence.

  “No, not at all,” I assured him, instinctively leaning in. “I’m honored, honestly, that you trusted me enough to share any of this. Obviously, everything stays between me and you.”

  “I know,” he told me, with a confident smile that landed right between my panty-less legs, making me regret the decision to choose either those, or the robe, when he knocked on my door.

  In my defense, I wasn’t expecting visitors at all, and certainly wasn’t expecting to end up this close to him, for this long.

  Nor was I expecting him to look as good as he did.

  Which was dumb.

  Of course he did.

  “So… um… I guess things are going to really start moving with the show now, huh?” I asked, trying to shift to something more neutral.

  “Yeah, thanks to you.”

  He squeezed my hand to emphasize his words, which was how I even noticed he was still holding it, from several minutes ago. It felt so natural that I’d barely registered it.

  “I was actually talking to Nick about how good you are with this – you sure this is the first show you’ll have worked on?”

  I nodded. “In this capacity, yes, but I’ve seen a lot in my experience working with some of the execs at the network, and I’m… kind of obsessed with the process,” I admitted. “I’ve always been into seeing how things work, building things from scratch, all that. So while I love what I do, generally speaking… what I’m doing with you now would be my ideal role all the time. Like if I could bridge the executive concierge thing specifically into working behind the scenes in TV and entertainment. So I’m actually having a lot of fun.”

  “Really? That’s dope,” Pierre mused, offering me another grin. “You’ve never thought about any of the other parts? Maybe being in front of the camera?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ohhh, here you go…”

  “You look good, shorty, I can’t help it,” he insisted, still holding my hand. “I’m saying – if you were on my TV screen, I’d be tuned the fuck in, on time. No matter what hour.”

  “Stop.”

  “For what?” he asked, using his extended grip to pull me closer to him. “Why I gotta stop?”

  I bit my lip, relinquishing my fight not to meet his gaze. “Because… like I’ve said countless times, you’re making it very hard for me to maintain my professional distance.”

  “Why you tryna do that anyway? I already told you, you’re not on the clock.” That sexy smirk came back to his face, as his gaze drifted up to my head. “You got your hair tied up, your robe on, talking about professional distance. Ain’t nobody trying to hear that,” he teased, tugging at the edge of my robe, but not actually pulling it up. “What you got on under there?”

  I sucked my teeth. “A nightgown.”

  “I’on believe you. Show me.”

  I knew that shit was a setup, but unbelted my robe anyway, pulling it open to show him the soft, hella-comfortable but still hella-pretty Scantilily nightie I had on. His heated gaze drifted over me, from my thighs to my breasts to my face, then back to my thighs.

  “What’s underneath that?” he asked, sitting up to get eve
n closer. His fingers skimmed the contrast lace on the hem of the negligee, and I quickly closed my robe, backing up.

  “None of your business.”

  “So… nothing?”

  Shit.

  The lust in his eyes, the way his energy changed when my reaction – or lack of one – told him he’d guessed correctly… shit.

  Neither of us said anything… I was just looking at him, and he was just looking at me, and then… fuck it.

  I climbed in his lap.

  If he was surprised by my sudden willingness, he didn’t say so – he just accepted it with open arms, taking over as soon as my mouth dropped to his. One hand came to the back of my neck, gripping me there to keep me in place as his tongue pressed between my welcoming lips. He wasted no time in slipping the other beneath my robe.

  I admired his restraint.

  At first, it was just about the kiss, just about the meeting and tangling of our tongues, the tasting of each other. That hand that was under my robe, he kept respectfully planted on my upper thigh, or at the small of my back to pull me in. Nowhere in between.

  At least, not until I sank a little lower against him, purposely grinding against the prominent bulge in his sweats.

  Then, he went for skin.

  Both hands, gripping my ass and squeezing, pulling me against him. And then, as he grew even harder, went to work stripping the robe and nightgown off me, leaving me completely exposed in front of him, tummy and love handles and all.

  Not that he gave a shit.

  He was very indiscriminate with those big, skilled hands, caressing and touching and cupping my breasts and teasing my nipples until he finally stopped kissing my mouth to focus on other places. My neck, my collar, a steady journey southward until he reached my nipples.

  His teeth, tongue, and lips stayed busy there until I was squirming in his lap, held still by one firm hand against my hip. The other, he slipped between my legs, playing with my clit as he brought his mouth back up to mine, kissing my breath away as his fingers worked between my legs. His tongue sank deep into my mouth, and his fingers sank deep into my pussy, the two sensations working in tandem. I groaned against his lips, getting wetter and wetter as he played with me, even as in the back of my mind… I knew this was a mistake.

  But then his fingers moved to my clit, pinching and holding at the same time as his teeth sank into my bottom lip, gripping as I squirmed against him.

  And I… forgot everything.

  Everything except this.

  He pulled my lip into his mouth, sucking away the sting of that bite as an orgasm pulsed through me, making my ears ring. I was only half-lucid, still high off that feeling when I reached between us, maneuvering to pull him free from his boxers so I could sink onto his dick, closing my eyes as my body reacted to the sudden imposition.

  “Fuucck,” he whispered against my lips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of my ass as leverage to pull me closer, to bury himself deeper, making me whimper in dual pleasure and pain.

  I didn’t move.

  I just… relished it.

  Both the feeling of him inside me, and the look in his eyes – as he stared into mine, and then between us, at where we were connected. Our gaze met again, and there was this moment of unspoken agreement where, without me leaving my position, we stripped his clothes off.

  So then it was just… us.

  Nothing in the way, anywhere.

  Then I started moving, riding him in purposefully slow circles, so I could feel him against every inch, and could feel every inch of him. His hands drifted up my thighs, up my hips, over my stomach, to my breasts to cup and squeeze again as he watched me, and then finally, his mouth came back to mine.

  Urgently.

  In what seemed like no time, I reached that point where slow wasn’t working – I needed the friction, needed faster, deeper, so that’s what I did. With my hands anchored on his shoulders, I rode him harder, until I’d lost any semblance of pace or control, and was working purely in pursuit of bliss.

  It came quickly.

  And hard.

  No warning.

  I was just… somewhere else, still connected to him, but also connected to a depth of pleasure I’d had yet to experience with anybody.

  Even myself.

  It rocked through me, arresting my movement, but… that wasn’t the end. Pierre pulled me off him, placing me in the seat where he’d been before he dropped to the floor in front of me. I didn’t have time to think much of it before his face was between my legs, his arms hooked around my thighs as he ate my pussy like he’d bought tickets and this was the main attraction.

  And then… I was right back where I was before, on some kind of sex-induced mental trip that had me feeling like I was floating.

  But no, I was very much still grounded, still rooted in the blissful reality of Pierre’s tongue on my clit, lapping me up like he was starving for me, holding me steady while I fucking… vibrated.

  That was the only way I could describe it.

  He finally came up for air, not even bothering to wipe me from his face and beard before he pulled me to the edge of the couch. Once I was in the right positioning, he buried his dick in me again. I locked my legs around his hips as I gripped the edge of the cushions, trying to keep some semblance of composure, but it wasn’t easy.

  Not with one hand at my neck, holding me in place as he kissed me, his other hand between my legs, playing with my clit as he stroked me.

  So I stopped trying.

  I just… let go.

  I let everything go, all the concerns about professionalism and worries I would be too loud, or what my face might look like, and I fucked him back, rocking my hips into his to meet his strokes.

  He seemed to like that – it made him press even harder, grip me tighter, bury himself deeper, push his tongue further into my mouth, stroke faster, until he reached his own nut, about two seconds after I came completely, utterly, unglued.

  I had no sense of my legs, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, I could just… feel.

  And it was so fucking good.

  Afterwards… I kinda expected a repeat of last time – he’d sneak out while I was in the shower.

  Instead, I’d only been underneath the hot spray for a few moments before I felt the shift in energy that told me he’d come into the bathroom. I went still, listening to him pee, flush the toilet, wash his hands… and then he stepped into the shower with me.

  At first, just to get clean.

  But then, he pressed my back against the tile and kissed me.

  And I let him.

  I let him make me cum again, and then I let him eat too many of my granola bars, and then… I let him into my bed.

  Maybe it was stupid.

  Maybe I was stupid.

  But it sure as hell felt good.

  10

  Pierre

  Even in slumber, Logan was the most put-together person I’d ever experienced.

  I’d been awake for about twenty minutes, but didn’t want – this time – to leave without saying anything. I didn’t want to wake her prematurely either, with what I knew about how fragmented her sleep had been last night. So instead of doing either of those things, I was observing, as the sun made its debut through the window shades.

  She was facing the window, so the first rays of sun appeared in bands of light across her face. Logan was already beautiful – the light made her ethereal. The perfect, velvet-soft surface of her lips parted, taking in an extra breath as she rolled onto her back, eyes still closed, even through a brief moment of tension where her hand came to her head, checking for the presence of her scarf, which was still securely tied.

  Her hand dropped, and she drifted fully into sleep again.

  A few moments later, a faint buzzing sounded, and she stirred again. This time, her eyes did peel open, just enough to see the watch on her wrist as she lifted it in front of her face. She held it there as she tapped the screen, flipping through notifications that had
been filtered there from her phone.

  It took her a bit to realize I was there, sitting up in the bed beside her.

  When she did, it startled her so bad that at first she rolled away from me – so fast and recklessly that I had to catch her arm to keep her from falling out.

  “Holy shit,” she hissed, putting her free hand to her chest to calm herself as I laughed at her unanticipated reaction. “I was not expecting… anybody. I’m not used to having someone in my bed.”

  I sucked my teeth. “You had a whole not-fiancé, but used to waking up alone?”

  Her gaze dropped, embarrassed. “I would… usually go to his place. He always said mine was too frou-frou-girly.”

  Looking around, a frown slipped onto my face. Yes, the soft gray décor with peachy accents was feminine, but it wasn’t like some overwhelming explosion of pink. It was elegant, and tasteful, and… fit Logan perfectly.

  Of course that nigga had a problem with it.

  “What a bitch,” I muttered, getting distracted halfway through the statement by Logan’s exit from the bed. She’d put that little nightie thing back on, but it had ridden up around her hips, giving me a brief peek of ass before she pulled it down, covering herself.

  “You know I heard that, right?”

  “So?” I shrugged. “Fuck him.”

  I climbed out of the bed too and she blushed, averting her gaze – I hadn’t put a damn thing on, but I wasn’t sure why she was so embarrassed about it.

  “I know you’re not getting prude now, like you weren’t all over my dick just a few hours ago, shorty,” I teased, padding across the soft carpet to where she’d stopped at her dresser, pulling out matching bra and panties.

  She rolled her eyes. “Why do you keep using that word for me. Prude.”

  “Because you keep acting all uncomfortable about sex. Does it offend you?”

  “I’m not offended, it just doesn’t fit me.” To make her point, she grabbed my dick with both hands, squeezing in a way that made a groan push from my lips. That seemed to be the reaction she was looking for – a reaction she rewarded by unexpectedly sinking to her knees in front of me. “If I were so uncomfortable… would I do this?”