A low rumble moved through me in response as desire started to swarm my system as my lips pressed harder, demanded more. And as her lips parted on a sigh, my tongue moved inside, claiming hers, making her whole body melt into mine. One hand left her hair, slipping down her spine to cross over her lower back, anchoring her to me as her lips became less passive, demanded more as well.
Her hands, so steady at her sides, rose, pausing to plant at my elbows for a long moment before slipping upward, curling around the back of my neck, forcing her up on her tiptoes, her breasts crushing to my chest.
My teeth sank into her lower lip, making a surprised jolt rack her body. But her fingertips dug into the flesh of my neck, urging me on.
My hand shifted down, sinking into her ass, pulling her forward, removing the small space that had been between our hips, crushing her pelvis to mine, giving her the indication she needed to know it wasn't just her body that was suddenly aching for more.
Emboldened by that information, her hips shifted, rubbing against my cock, something that sent a shock of need so strong through me that it had my lips breaking away, surprised, a little overwhelmed.
And I didn't get overwhelmed by my own fucking body. I wouldn't be a pro if I did. I'd be a shit leading actor if just a fully clothed brush of hips on my cock got me almost to the brink that quickly.
"Bed," I rumbled, my voice low, thick, as my other hand sank into her ass too, grabbing, lifting until her feet dangled before jerking them up, folding around my lower back, holding on.
My lips sealed to hers for only another minute, not wanting my eyes closed as I moved across the floor that could have wires or tripods set up with expensive film equipment perched on top.
And that was my mistake.
That was where I fucked up.
That was when I lost her.
Her eyes, no longer weighted and needy opened groggily for a second before she caught sight of Jerry, the sound guys, Marie.
I felt the shift immediately.
Her body went from soft, liquid, to tense, her spine ramrod straight as I finally made it to the bed, turning, sitting my ass down, turning her back to them.
But it was too late.
Her knees planted, lifting her hips from mine, suddenly not wanting that intimate contact.
And something in me said I wasn't going to get her there again, get her warm and melting, ready.
"Focus on me," I demanded, moving my hands from her ass, settling them on her ribs instead, intimate without being possessive, thumbs moving to tease upward, just barely gracing the hard edge of underwire to her bra.
But even as the words came out, it started. At first, in her lips, jaw, then belly, thigh, arms.
Trembling.
Her eyes - just a moment ago so heavy-lidded, drunk with need - welled a bit, threatened tears.
"I... I want to," she admitted.
"You want to focus just on me?" I specified, not giving a fuck if the mics were picking this up, if we were ruining footage. "But you can't because of them?" I added.
Her head nodded, shifting a little closer, ducking down near my neck. "I'm sorry," her voice whispered.
"Nothing to be sorry for. You don't have to do the scene."
"Yes, I do." There was an edge to the words, something I didn't know her well enough to place. Something almost heated, angry, but with an undercurrent of determination, or maybe it was desperation. It was over too fast to analyze.
"I won't do a scene with someone who doesn't want to do a scene, babe," I told her, the very idea of it making me feel slimy.
"I want to," she told me, suddenly pulling back, dropping her lap none too ceremoniously to mine, her hands reaching for my wrists, grabbing them, pulling them upward, covering her breasts with them.
This wasn't passion.
It didn't even tease at intimacy.
It was duty. Like a tired wife rolling onto her back in bed to be used just so she could finally get to sleep, inwardly going over her calendar for the next day.
There was nothing, fucking nothing, sexy about duty, about obligation, about sex as a means to an end.
It was then I should have called cut, scrapped the scene, suggested to her to find a different career. This was clearly not one for her.
But I didn't do that.
Maybe it was something to do with the stubborn set to her jaw, the way she seemed hellbent on getting this moving, like she had something to prove.
I felt something akin to that growing inside me, this marrow-deep need to get her past the idea of duty and squarely back into need, into a different kind of desperation.
My hands pushed outward, knocking hers away as my fingers slipped to the sides, framing the outsides of her breasts, leaving just my thumbs forward, gently stroking side to side over the cool, smooth material of her sundress and what felt like an equally smooth bra beneath, thick enough to provide support, but thin enough to allow her nipples to harden despite her body still being stiff, still trembling slightly with uncertainty.
Once they were at firm points, I rolled them in circles, feeling her thighs lose their tension, sinking into me. Her hands rested lightly on my shoulders, fingers curling in as one of my hands slipped in and up, pressing between her breasts for a moment before snagging her top button, releasing it, letting my fingertip trace the newly exposed skin before going to the next. Then the next.
I could see the very edge of a baby pink cup of her bra before my gaze went up, finding her eyes on me, lids getting heavy again as her breathing labored a bit.
There was a soft scraping sound at our side, maybe a camera being moved or something, barely audible.
But it might as well have been a fucking airhorn going off with the way her body tensed, her head whipping around to spot Jerry before they turned back to me, desire gone, nothing there but surprise, fear, uncertainty.
"Out," my voice hissed, loud enough to carry, to make Rosie's body stiffen at the fierceness behind the word. "Leave the cameras on and get the fuck out," I demanded, frustrated. The start-stop, the needy, fluid woman followed by the panicked, freaked out one, it was like whiplash to my system, like torture to the need for release growing inside of me.
Logic was not prevailing.
Just my own kind of desperation.
To get more of her.
To get all of her.
Because I wanted it.
Because I knew she wanted it.
And if the only thing standing in our way was the crew, well, fuck the crew. Fuck production quality. Fuck anything but getting those big eyes of hers heavy and needy again, getting her fingernails to press crescents into my back once more, to get her writhing above and beneath me, losing herself in me.
"I'm afraid I can't allow..." Marie started.
"If you value your job, you will get the fuck out," I snapped, eyes pinning hers, making her stiffen, stuck in place for a long moment before she remembered her job was to stand up to the male stars if she thought the women needed an advocate. She moved forward, stopping at the side of the bed, curling her body around to get Rosie's eyes.
"You don't have to do this scene. And you especially do not need to do a scene without an advocate here, without someone here looking out for you. If you want me to stay, I will stay. He can't make me leave."
Even if she was possibly being a cockblock, I made a mental note to call her in for a meeting sometime soon, praise her balls, maybe give her a raise. She deserved it if my growl didn't shake her confidence. Unshakeable, intimidating men had cowered at the sound of it before.
"I... I'm fine. I, ah, I would prefer the, um, privacy," she said, shaking her head a little like she knew it was a silly thing to say about a movie that was likely to be seen by thousands of people.
"Okay. Well. I am going to get a chair and wait in the hall," she said, unsure, but determined in her own way as well. "If you call, I'm here in seconds," she added.
My gaze followed her retreat, noting that the crew had left without a wor
d, without objection, and that there was a steady blinking on the cameras that said they were still filming.
The click of the door made her body jump.
"Breathe," I reminded her, my hand pressing harder into her chest between her breasts, encouraging her to take a few long, deep breaths that shook at first before leveling out, seeming to take some of the tension away with each exhale. "You sure you want to do this?" I asked.
Her head turned, looking around for a long moment, not trusting the crew as much as I did, before turning again, head nodding.
"Yes."
--
Rosie
The crazy thing was, I did want to do it.
Want being the operative word.
If you would have suggested to me that morning that a scene would be anything more than some Grade A acting, I would have scoffed, laughed, questioned your very intelligence.
Because there seemed like no possible way that the nervous skittering of my heartbeat, the panicked prickling over-sensitivity of my skin, the knot of unease in my belly could be calmed, could be eased into something else entirely.
But there was no mistaking that was what happened when he pulled me closer, when he seemed to effortlessly realize that I would sell my soul to have someone play with my hair, gently massage my scalp, when his lips claimed mine, somehow both soft and coaxing and hard and demanding at the same time.
My body didn't even ease into it.
It fell face-first into desire.
It fell so hard and fast that I couldn't see a single way out of it as my lips begged for more, as soft, mewling moans met my ears, knowing they came from somewhere deep within me.
Fire bloomed through me, hot, demanding, destroying everything in its path. Like my fear. Like my insecurity. Like my reservations.
Gone.
They were all gone.
Smoke rising, unfelt, unseen because the flames were licking, devouring.
But then my eyes opened.
Water poured down, banking out the fire, leaving nothing but cold embers in its wake.
I was sure that was it, that I would simply have to fake it, find a way to stop the shaking, or simply get myself under his body so it wasn't as noticeable to the camera.
There was no way he could make the world fall away again.
But then he did.
Easily.
All but effortlessly.
My defenses were nothing - it seemed - compared to his expert hands, rubbing, rolling, making the fire stoke once more before it burned out again.
But even alone in the room, painfully aware once again of the reality of this situation, there was no denying it.
I wanted it.
Like any woman wanted any man.
There was no other way to explain the weighted feeling to my breasts, the constricted sensation of my chest, the heavy, oppressive weight on my lower belly, the aching hollowness begging for fulfillment between my thighs.
I wanted this.
I wanted him.
I wanted to know what else he could show me.
"Just you and me," he told me, leaning forward, planting a kiss in that perfect spot just behind and below the ear, a sweet touch that somehow still managed to shoot sparks off at the contact.
Logically, I knew the cameras were there. Two of them - one almost ten feet from the foot of the bed, the other maybe only five feet from the side. But, somehow, the cameras didn't matter. It was - in the moment, at least - just the two of us.
No one was watching, no one was hearing the low whimper that escaped me as teeth nipped my earlobe.
No one but Preston, that is.
He was a stranger.
Yet, in an odd way, he wasn't.
I'd seen him hundreds of times before. He'd been there - in a distant sort of way - when I had been in the throes of need, when I had soared into orgasm.
And even if I didn't have that prior knowledge of him, something in me would have known - I was sure - that he was something unique, someone capable of showing me sides of myself, of my body, of what it was capable of that I had never been aware of before.
I barely ever kissed on first dates, let alone screwed around with someone I barely knew, but nothing about this felt awkward, felt weird or seedy.
As crazy as it would seem to a less turned-on me, this felt connected, intimate, even.
"There you go," he murmured in my ear as I leaned forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder as his lips trailed down the side of my neck, the scrape of his scruff burning over skin I knew would look inflamed for days, and took a twisted sort of pleasure in the idea that he had marked me, that others would see it.
When his lips grazed my clavicle, my hips jerked forward, grinding my need down on his hardness, a sensation that seemed to make my body do another roll without intending to, without being cognizant of it happening until I felt him press hard against the throbbing bud of my clit, making my breath hiss inward as my nails dug into his neck.
His hands moved inward once again, working more buttons free until the deep V dipped down to my belly, exposing my skin to the slightly cool temperature in the room, making goosebumps prickle up over my skin.
I hadn't been able to talk myself into going out to buy something new and pretty for something I was convinced was going to be a period in my life that I would choose to wipe from my memory. So maybe my lingerie wasn't exactly the sexiest in the world. But I thought the smooth, silky cups and the light pink color of it and the matching panties were sexy in a sort of sweet way. A vanilla way. Which was fitting.
Preston's forehead shifted to rest on my shoulder, head tipped away to allow his gaze to move downward, watching the swells of my breasts above the cups, the way they moved gently up and down with my somewhat quickened breathing.
I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe for his hands to grab the cups, rip them down, expose me to his gaze. I'd seen that, after all.
But that wasn't what he did.
His body sucked in a deep breath as his head slid downward, resting in the center of my chest between my breasts for a long moment, taking another breath, breathing in the lotion I had slathered on a bit insecurely over every inch of my body - a few times - before I had finally dressed for the day.
His lips pressed a kiss to the space above the closure of my bra before straightening, hands sinking into my hips, pressing me back a few inches, putting space between us that I found myself not wanting, feeling better closer, connected, not wanting distance which I associated with a disconnect.
His hands glided upward, tracing over my ribs for a moment before closing inward across my belly, searching once again for the buttons that went all the way down my front. His gaze lifted, finding mine, holding even as his hands slowly worked each button free, exposed more and more of me until my dress was divided at each side.
Realizing this, feeling the intensity of his gaze, my thighs tightened a bit, itched to get closer, to feel his need pressed against mine.
Feeling it, his lips tipped up ever so slightly at one side as his hands searched upward, finding my shoulders, sliding the silky material down my upper arms until it pooled at my elbows, making me have to shift, slip out of the arms, the dress sliding backward, finding a new home on the floor.
Unsure when he did nothing after undressing me, my hands lifted from their resting place, sliding his suit jacket off, watching as he flicked it carelessly to the floor - this jacket that likely cost more than my car was worth anymore.
When I didn't immediately move to do so, his hands lifted to undo his top button, his head dipping to watch though it hadn't needed to when he undid mine.
I wasn't even aware they were going to do so until my hands shot out, covering his as he moved to the next button, making his gaze lift, those blue eyes pinning mine, curious, questioning.
"Let me," I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper. But it didn't shake. It didn't pitch awkwardly. It sounded like what it was - needy.
His hands slid out fr
om under mine, moving instead to slide up my thighs, settling high, but not quite high enough, making my hands falter for a second before undoing the next button, then the next, until his shirt split like my dress had, exposing a midsection strong and wide of chest, tapering down to a thinner waist, the indents of his muscles deep and defined, but not too thick, not too bodybuilder like - a look that had never worked for me personally.
My fingers curled into his shirt material for a long second, the heat from his skin meeting the backs of my hands before Preston's voice spoke, low, near my ear as he leaned forward, his fingers slipping up at the same time to trace the space where my panties skirted my thighs. "Take it off."
The command sent a shiver through my belly, something smooth and undeniably delicious as my hands shot up to push the material off, realizing that as soon as I did, I could feel his skin on mine, unobstructed, his hard lines against my much softer ones.
As if he knew my thoughts, his hands slipped from my thighs to my ass, using it to drag my body to his, tighter even than before - my breasts crushing, his cock pressing against my clit, and my hips rocked shamelessly, making the pleasure shoot through my body, his lips sealing over mine, muting the whimper that escaped me.
His fingers dug in, rocking me against him, driving my body up higher, faster, my breathing getting caught in my chest, making my whimpers become almost airless moans.
My skin - already warmed - set to fire. The need - already crushing, oppressive - became unbearable.
"Pas encore, ma chérie," he murmured, making my sex tighten hard. "Not yet," he translated, fingers sinking into my hip bones, dragging me backward just as my body threatened oblivion.
I could only describe the sound that came out of me as something akin to a whine, making a rolling little chuckle move through Preston's chest.
But his hands rose, sliding up my bare arms, snagging each of my bra straps, slipping them off my shoulders to hang limply down my arms as his fingertips traced across the cups of my bra, making my already hardened nipples tweak tighter as he snagged the sides of the clasp between my breasts, working it free, then letting the material slip away like he had intended, exposing me to him.
faire l'amour Page 5
