Then I slid inside her.
Tight. Wet. Fucking perfect.
And then, yeah, I did the unthinkable.
I did something that I had never done before.
Not just on screen, but in my personal life.
There were still, it seemed, many more firsts to be found in life.
Like what I had done with Rosie the day before. Something that, had I not had physical evidence right there in front of my face, I might have been able to deny if I tried hard enough.
But there it was.
There was something I had never done before.
Make love.
Faire l'amour.
Something I barely even knew existed, figured was some cheesy shit they put in Hollywood movies to make people swoon, to make them strive for some impossible goal, some ideal of intimacy that simply didn't exist.
But, as it turns out, it did exist.
And it didn't even have to take place between two people deeply in love.
No.
It could happen between two relative strangers.
It wasn't necessarily about romantic love at all. It was a feeling, a connection, a level of intimacy.
And it was something I hadn't ever had with someone else, had never wanted with anyone. Or so I thought.
Until Rosie.
Until I saw uncertainty, need, and trust in her eyes. Until something within me responded to it fully, wanted to ease the uncertainty, stoke and satisfy the need, then prove her trust was well placed.
It hadn't even been a discussion in my head.
I didn't have to stop and think about what I was supposed to do, how it was supposed to happen.
It was instinct.
I'd made love to her.
And it beat - by leaps and bounds - any other sexual experience in my life.
I sat there, watching as we both struggled to bring some semblance of order back into our bodies, as I rolled to her side, trying to gauge her reaction.
Because I always cared, of course.
But it was more than that.
It was because I knew that one taste wouldn't be nearly enough. That I needed more. That I needed her to be okay so I could see her again, touch her again, hear her cry out as her walls clenched around my cock again.
Selfish?
Yeah, probably.
But it was true nonetheless.
She'd said she was fine.
She'd agreed to another scene.
But there was something there, a lie. Maybe small, maybe nothing. Likely none of my goddamn business. But it was there. Something that made her stiffen, made it hard for her to hold eye contact.
And I had no right to ask.
But I wanted to know.
A strange part of me needed to know.
There was a three-tap knuckle knock on my doorjamb - a signature one, making me jump, realizing he had opened it without me noticing.
"That the new girl?" his voice asked, making my eyes shoot to the screen, relieved to find Rosie was fully clothed, looking at me while I texted Coop telling him to have her check waiting.
There was something in her eyes, something I had missed because I hadn't been looking. Something raw, but I couldn't tell if it was in a good - or a very bad - way.
I closed the window, spinning around to face him.
Merrick.
The new, well, me.
The only name in the business - on the male end - that still meant anything.
Every woman's wet dream.
Six-two, built without being jacked - a preference we found in most of our marketing research for both men and women -, square-jawed, hollow-cheeked, dark hair, some scruff, a strong jaw, deep green eyes that - with the right lighting - could look almost moss-colored.
Hell, he even had an accent.
Not like my barely there French one.
But his own barely there Irish one that got thicker when he was in a scene, wrapped up in the moment.
He did a number of different scenes, but all the panties got wet over him doing vanilla with just a teeny hint of dominance - some ass slapping, some demands, some telling his co-star that she was a good girl.
As far as I knew, it didn't seem to matter how old a woman got, every single one of them wanted to be a good girl for an attractive, confident, alpha male.
Where I maybe won over my audiences with my intensity - something so ingrained in me that I wasn't sure there was even a way to do a scene that didn't include it, women went wild over Merrick's natural charm, his ease, his laid-back confidence with women.
"Yes," I answered, my tone maybe a bit more clipped than it should have been.
"You know, I checked down in editing for the footage. I think everyone did. Damnedest thing. We were told that the videos were never turned in."
"As you already know since you see that I have them," I agreed, affecting a bored tone even if my pulse was quickening, wondering if I was as see-through as I felt in that moment, if everyone could see some weird, unknown conflict going on with me, this strange compulsion to be this woman's only scene partner, despite being retired, despite knowing that viewers like variety between partners - most of them stuck in their own monotonous, variety-free marriages, needing the fantasy, not some high-quality representation of a reality they already knew too well.
"Know what is even more interesting?" Merrick asked, moving into my office, dropping down in one of the seats across from my desk.
"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"That there wasn't even a whisper anywhere within these walls - or in any of the bars we have been out at together - about a comeback. Then suddenly, the schedule goes out, and you're on it. With some new no name, one of the girls said was shaking like a fucking Chihuahua in winter when she came in for an interview."
"This is a riveting retelling of recent events," I drawled.
"Then," he went on, unfazed by my sarcasm, "the day comes, everyone gets excited. But it's a closed set. No no no. Not just a closed set," he said, holding up a hand as though I were about to interrupt, "but an un-staffed set. An advocate-free set."
"Are you finished?" I asked, tipping back in my chair, going for casual even though hearing the wholly unusual chain of events displaying my uncharacteristic decisions laid out before me by an old friend made them all the more strange, almost unbelievable.
"Just find all this very, ah, intriguing, man," Merrick said, lips curved up slightly, enough to make the edges of his eyes crinkle.
"You're not the only one," I agreed. "I am getting sick of eyes following me," I added.
"Can you blame them?" he asked. "You give them nothing, so they have to make up their own ideas. And, let me tell you, this is an inventive lot."
"It's no one's business."
"Yeah, 'cause that ever stopped anyone from wanting to know something, speculating about it, right?"
He had a point.
And I really hated being the least reasonable, level-headed person in the room.
"So, is she a one-and-done?" he asked, knowing many of the women simply never came back, decided to cut their losses, take their checks, and pretend this never happened, all the while praying their fathers, brothers, uncles, friends, past and future lovers never happened upon the movie.
"No."
"She's coming back? Really?"
"Why is that so surprising?"
"The sound guys said she was losing her shit."
"And?"
"What? You gonna claim your cock is a therapist now?" he asked, eyes dancing. "One shot and you cure her anxiety issues?"
"Easy. Or I will schedule your ass for a scene with Tilly," I warned, meaning the Amazonian dominatrix who made you lick her boots and go down on her until your fucking tongue went numb.
"Nah," he said, getting to his feet, walking toward the door. "I want a scene with the new girl," he said casually. It was a normal request, after all.
"You're not getting a fucking scene with her." The words were
out of me before I could even think better of them. And they were harsh, sharp, final.
And, I realized as he turned back with bright eyes and a knowing smirk, that was exactly what he wanted, what he was expecting when he'd made the demand. He didn't really want a scene with her. He just wanted me to tell him that he couldn't have one.
"Hope your ass knows what you are getting into here," he said, voice uncharacteristically serious.
"I'm not getting myself into anything. You've done six scenes with Mila. Because there was something there, a chemistry. There are repeats all the fucking time in this industry. We only have so much talent."
"Sure, boss, sure," he agreed, nodding as he moved out of my office. And I could hear his low, throaty chuckle as he made his way down the hall.
I listened to make sure no one else was around yet, then turned back, loaded the other video, watching the scene from another angle.
About an hour later, as I pulled the memory card out of my computer, placing it on the desk with the other, I realized something.
Something that should have made me call Coop, tell him to cancel my scene with Rosie, tell him to set her up with others, don't let her cross my path again.
Something that I knew was dangerous. Professionally, personally, all the way a-fucking-round.
I didn't want anyone to ever see these movies.
I didn't want anyone else getting to see her like I got to see her.
I didn't want them seeing her body, watching the way it writhed, silently begged for what she wanted, what she needed.
I didn't want them hearing her whimpers, moans, begging, the way her breathing hitched right before she came.
I wanted that all to myself.
There was no denying what that was.
Possessive.
It was as foreign an idea to me as love, as making love.
You didn't get possessive in this business. Everyone you have been with has been with all your friends in the business. You all knew how each other's bodies worked. You knew you were being weighed and measured against one another. You knew that no one belonged to you.
But there was no denying that was what I wanted with Rosie.
I mean, just for the scenes, of course.
I wanted her to belong to me.
Just me.
The problem was, how the fuck could I pull that off? Lie to the other stars, to Coop, to the crew, the editing team. And, well, let's not forget her.
I'd have to lie to her too.
I'd have to let her believe it was all status quo. That things were going as they always went. That there was nothing unusual about the arrangement I had with her. That these movies would one day be uploaded onto the service. That she was being utilized and paid like everyone else was.
Because I couldn't tell her the truth.
The truth was some fucked up stalker type shit.
There was no other way I could see her viewing it.
Who the fuck else wanted to pay you for sex, film it, then refuse to let anyone ever watch it?
Taking the memory cards, I tucked them inside a box in my drawer again, locking it.
I didn't stop to think about the possibility of complications with the plan, how many lies I - an honest to a fault type person - would need to tell to keep it going.
I just made the decision.
And that was that.
"You're starting to make me feel like I am slacking," Cooper told me a few minutes later, bringing in a fresh cup of coffee. "And I'm here two hours before anyone else," he clarified.
"There's always work to do," I said, shrugging it off. "Anything I need to know about?"
"Um, well, you gave me the news of your scene sort of last minute. I didn't get a chance to tell you that we already had the room you had yesterday booked for the time today."
"What is open?" Weekends were a big filming day since a lot of our stars had other jobs or kids or life shit to deal with during the week. I should have thought to check.
"Really, just the black room," Coop told me, sounding apologetic.
"Is the lighting done in there?"
"Enough. Or, at least, that is what the crew said. It would work. Might come out a little darker, but it would look like it was on purpose. The acoustics should be great," he added.
And, yeah, they would. Seeing as it was the old music room, well insulated, tucked down a hall all by itself. It was smaller than all the classrooms too at only fourteen-by-sixteen. How they'd once fit an upright piano and a couple dozen kids with recorders in it was beyond me.
The black room had been Merrick's idea, thinking it would contrast many of the all-white rooms nicely without the somewhat seedy edge that the dungeons in the basement had for all the BDSM shoots.
The walls had been stripped of the hideous wood paneling and chalkboards, replaced with tufted material walls, just the slightest shade lighter than pure black. The floor had been ripped up - the chipping, ugly off-white linoleum - replaced with an almost black wooden floor.
The only thing in the room itself was a low rise king-sized bed in the center, covered in black silk, pillows, everything to make a great sexy vanilla scene. Without all the virginal white you usually saw. Or the gaudy red.
"I'll go check it out," I told him, taking my coffee, grabbing my cell.
I hadn't been in the room in over a week, when the guys had decided the overhead lighting that we had opted out of changing made everyone look yellow on film - and there was nothing sexy about jaundiced-looking skin. So everything had been tarped, we'd called people in, and they were supposedly hooking us up with a lighting package that would give enough for the cameras to work and also make the actors look great.
"Hey, boss," Amber called as she walked past. Amber, one of the twins. One of the twins who - for fuck-knew what reason - liked doing group scenes together. It wasn't my place to wonder about what the fuck could have happened in their lives to make that seem normal for them. And, well, twins were popular. Especially when it was clear they were real twins, not just two actors we found who looked remotely alike. Amber and Ashlyn were identical. They always dressed the same as well.
"Hey Amber. Scene today?"
"You know it. I heard you're back," she added, wanting to be the first person to actually get the scoop.
Unfortunately for her, that wasn't happening.
"For the time being," I told her, moving past. "Have a good scene," I added, ducking into the black room before she could say anything else.
The tarps had been lifted despite not all the work being done - likely at Coop's request when he'd realized the scheduling dilemma.
He really was on top of everything.
The bed looked soft, the sheets velvety, and one of the new chandeliers that was installed had dozens and dozens of crystals that reflected and refracted the light, making little jewels of white dance across the surface of the sheets, spark the walls like stars.
Merrick had been right.
It was perfect.
He probably should have been the one breaking it in.
But, as it would turn out, that honor would belong to me.
I wondered if Rosie would see it the way I was seeing it, the way everyone in the industry would see it. Or if she would find the black too oppressive, too masculine, too creepy.
"Christ," I hissed to myself, shaking my head.
Why did it matter what she thought of the room itself? She was doing this as a job, nothing else. She wasn't going to be analyzing the thread count or noting how the crystals gave the space an almost upscale look it had been lacking before.
"Preston," Coop called down the hall, making me turn, move out, close the door behind me.
My usually unflappable assistant seemed, well, flapped. If flapped was a word.
"What's wrong?" I asked as I took long strides, closing the distance faster.
"It's Ryker."
Ryker was nothing but a problem. I firmly believed it started with his mother naming him Ryker. But he
was the only Dom we had who catered to some of the more bloody types of kinks.
"What now?" I asked as Coop led me into the office, down the hall, toward the nurse's room where Ryker was sitting on one of the tables, jaw tight, eyes a little bloodshot.
"Show him," Coop snapped.
"There's nothing to show," Ryker told him, but there was something in his tone. Something like a kid caught stealing cookies. Guilt.
"Fine, I'll show him," Coop said, yanking up his shirtsleeve to expose the crook of his arm. "And he hasn't been giving blood," Coop explained, making me realize what he was saying.
My gaze flew to his arm, seeing the little telltale dots.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I growled. "How long?"
"Look, Preston..."
"How the fuck long, Ryker? And don't try to tell me it's none of my business. Because it is my fucking business since it is in your contract. No intravenous drug use. No putting your co-stars at risk because you can't control yourself. So, how the fuck long have you been shooting up?"
Ryker's head fell, shaking from side to side. "Just, like, two months. Ten weeks. Tops. I've never shared a needle, Prest, never. I wouldn't put the girls to risk like that. You know how I feel about the girls."
"Get him an appointment. Get him tested. Regardless of what those tests say, you're not working here again. Not unless you get some time in. Get your shit together. Don't put yourself or the girls at risk. I won't have that here."
I flew back out of the room, out of the office, slamming my hands into the front doors to push them open, then curling my hands into fists.
"Whoa, everything alright, boss?" a voice asked, and I was too distracted to even note who it was as I moved past, followed the path around the back of the building, around the playground equipment, into the path in the woods where some sick fuck used to get his jollies off by flashing kids on their way home from school. It was, I imagined, one of the things that led to its demise since they never did catch the bastard.
Was everything alright?
No.
No, it definitely wasn't.
It sucked for Ryker that he had a problem, that it was clearly escalating if he was shooting up instead of taking pills or snorting.
That sucked.
For him.
For his family.
But shooting up could, potentially, suck for a lot of other people. A lot of women who put their trust in him, in his judgment, in his desire to think of them, not only himself.
faire l'amour Page 7
