by Nicole Snow
“I don't care about his damned standards, Robbi. What about mine? I want you out of this, before it's too late. There just has to be another way you can make your mark in Hollywood.”
I pause, trying and failing to find words to make her understand, that won't piss her off. There are none. “Well, there isn't, mom. I'm finishing what I've started. I'm not backing down because we're supposed to consider every minute with a Shaw a dance with the devil. I'll wrap up my scenes with Luke, see him at the award ceremonies if we're that lucky, and never deal with him again. Easy.”
“Easy?” She pauses, sniffing back what have to be angry tears. Way to make me feel guiltier. “Easy was how your father and I had it before we ever took jobs with the Shaws. I'm telling you, that place was cursed. Not with black magic, but with human evil I've tried my entire life to keep away from you.”
She pauses. I should take advantage of the gap in the conversation to reassure her, tell her the past isn't repeating itself, but I have no proof.
I have no fucking proof...do I? For all I know, Luke could be setting me up for my next great fall, especially if he's even half as bad as his father.
“Keep working with him, then. Don't listen to me. I'll let you get burned, Robin Marie, and if you continue on with a man like him, you absolutely will.”
The phone clicks dead. I throw it on the couch, crashing down on the opposite side with my face in my hands.
There's no winning this. No understanding it. No truce, and no peace.
Every time I've found my escape from being hopelessly fucked, I'm hurled back into the same battlefield. Caught between the love, the hate, and the man who leaves me a broken mess over ninety percent of the times we interact.
I don't know when the stalemate will ever end, but it has to be soon.
“I never should've sent you alone, Ali. I'm going to kill him.” Miles Black scoops me up in his strong, heavily inked arms. His fingers gingerly touch the fake bruises and scratches on my skin, injuries my character sustained running from Senator Bluhd's guards with the files from his office.
“I never should've sent you alone,” he says again.
“I had to,” I say tearfully. “Please, sir, don't blame yourself.”
He stops just before we're in the bathroom with the massive windows overlooking the summer beauty outside. His eyes bore into mine, but it's not a fictional billionaire looking at me. It's the real one, the man I loved. “Miles. No more of that sir and sado crap tonight. I'm cleaning you up, baby, and then we're making love. What you've deserved from the start.”
No, not Miles Black, but Luke. There's a heart wrenching note to his tone far greater than the script calls for. For a second, I'm worried Pierce is going to butt in, and make us re-do it.
It's like I can feel his inner anguish as he carries me into the bathroom, unclasps my robe, and guides me gently into the shower. My face heats against the wall. I'm grateful Ali doesn't have to watch him undress because I think right now I'd blow it.
I don't look at him until he steps into the shower, naked with me, reaching to turn the nozzle while his other arm goes around me. “This ends here. No more pulling you into my world, my danger, my pain. You're not my secretary anymore, Ali. You were never meant to be my spy. You're going to be my wife and the mother of our children.”
The shower hisses to life. I'm not sure whether my heart or my pussy melt faster as I lean into him, hazy warmth flowing around him, brushing his rock hard cock with my ass.
Of course, we're both wearing skin-tinted body shorts from the waist down. But it leaves nothing to the imagination when he comes in close, moving his hardness against me, grabbing the silk cloth off the little hook next to us.
He washes me while the shower beats down on our skin like frothy tears. Thank God, too, because I can't hold in all the emotion. It slips out through the cracks in my heart, beckoned by this stupid scene that means more than Pierce will ever know.
The shower's steady beat hides my real tears. The soft growl spilling from his throat hides the moan that leaves my lips when they open, excitement and sadness oozing out of me in equal measure.
His hand lays the washcloth against my thigh. He glides it around slowly, moving his fingers between my legs, pushing against the fabric the CGI will touch to naked glory later.
There's no need for him to use as much pressure as he does. No professional reason, I should say. The desire, the touch, the possessive flick of his strength...that's all Lucus Shaw, and I'm ashamed to say I love it.
I want to turn around and kiss him right now. But the script says Ali is too tired for that, too broken after escaping her near beating from the guards. I'm also scared for what's coming next, when he's done cleaning me.
Luke's hand keeps moving. His touch is electric, fierce, so damned real I don't have to fake anything when the shower's beat grows to a shrill crescendo in my ears.
I'm coming on his hands through my panties. He's loving it, devouring me a little more at a time as my breath comes out in desperate huffs, jaw clenched tight, trying not to cry out his name and ruin the entire scene.
When the hot, swift fire sweeping through me recedes, I flatten myself against the wall, trembling a little more than I should for the scene. Luke turns off the water. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he leads me gently through the opening in the thick glass door, wrapping me in a towel as he wipes the last water droplets from my face.
“God, you're beautiful.” He says his line, but it's so much more than words crafted by a dialogue editor.
It's honest, heartfelt, and no, his eyes don't lie. Neither do his fingers when they sweep over me again, more softly than before, tucking my wet hair back against my head. Then his face moves in.
My eyes go wide because he's not supposed to do this. There's no kiss written into this scene, and I don't know why the hell he's risking going off script. Oh, crap. He wants us to do it again, doesn't he?
I'm frozen. There's no room to do anything except play along. If the improv with his needy lips doesn't completely offend Pierce's perfectionism, then throwing a fit over it certainly will.
I kiss him as Robbi. Not Ali. Slinging my arm around his neck, pulling him in closer, sharing a beautiful moment that's either going to get us praised or yelled at.
When he breaks away, his eyes glow the same way they do when he smirks. Amazingly, Pierce hasn't screamed at us yet. The cameras keep rolling. I'm smiling, and not because I have to, when he lifts me into his arms, carrying my naked body to the huge bed just outside his master bathroom.
He never breaks eye contact as he lays me down. I don't realize how hard I'm breathing until my breasts go plush against his chest. Both my aching nipples sizzle when they touch his skin, willing slaves to the screaming falcon inked on his breast.
“Is this what you want, baby girl?”
Ali, I try to tell him subliminally, knowing he's going off script again. You were supposed to say Ali.
I don't know what's real anymore. A hundred death defying drops in his plane won't tell me, won't tell either of us, more than his kiss.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice shaking as I mouth Ali's lines. “I want it all, Miles. Give me a baby.”
Give me the children you promised years ago, Luke.
I'm begging. Shamefully, relentlessly, openly begging him in my touch, my kiss, my every caress.
I keep waiting for Pierce to scream 'cut' through his megaphone any second now. Especially when Luke's hand drifts between my legs while he's taking my bottom lip with his teeth, pulling my mouth open for his tongue.
None of this is in the script. We're playing with the most exquisite fire possible.
His fingers go down, dipping into my panties, and pull. He shifts his legs, making sure his body blocks what's really happening. My bare, wet pussy rubs his cock through a single thin layer of fabric when his hips roll forward. He makes me feel his ridge, his hardness, his furious desire racing through every insatiable inch of him.
�
�Fuck me,” I moan, a silent whisper I'm praying the cameras can't see.
My hips betray me for the final time, lifting up, grinding into him. My eyes shut before the hot red flush taking over my body swarms through my blood.
I fake another orgasm on his thrusting hips, just like the script calls for, but barely. If it wasn't for the last razor-thin layer of his underwear between us, he'd be inside me, and then I'd be coming on him for real.
The cameras wouldn't stop us.
Neither would the pain. Or the past. Or my mother's horror. Not even my own fucking shame.
He watches me intently as I fake my O. His forehead presses mine, and he's growling. Probably because he knows I haven't given it up for real.
His cock rubs violently against my pussy, dry humping me into submission. Sex is taking over. I can't remember what's supposed to be in the script anymore as he takes my hands, throws them above my head, and pins them down.
“Come for me, babe,” he whispers, lowering his voice just enough for the part that comes next. “I said come, little bird. Do it. Right. Fucking. Now.”
My heart might be drowning in a moral dilemma I'll never resolve. But my body hears his command perfectly, and it obeys without question.
My pussy convulses. He grinds his cock into my clit so hard it lifts me off the bed, my arms slung over his neck, legs locked onto his. I'm rocking, losing, surrendering to his latest gift of white hot ecstasy.
The last thing I see before the pleasure becomes blinding is Luke's intense eyes burying me alive. He stares down, all love and blue fire, his pupils pinpricks because he's struggling to hold back his own release.
My fingernails dig into his skin. My whimper becomes a scream. There's no fade to black, just white hot lust hurling colorful stars across my field of vision. I'm swallowed up in the thunder booming in his throat, the soft, crisp creak of the bed beneath us, my own sweat becoming lava as it runs down my skin.
He'll kill me, this man. That is, if there's anything left to kill and destroy after coming like this on the set, in front of the voyeuristic cameras, and then for a billion people if this scene makes it to the final cut.
Could I be the first mainstream actress to win an award for best orgasm?
His breath brings me home to earth, and so does another sound. It's Pierce, coming toward the bed, saying something I can't fully make out yet. Luke runs his fingers through my slick blonde hair one more time as he rears up, rolling off the bed and sitting to hide his erection. He throws a sheet over my legs just in time to hide the swollen mess between my legs. My thigh brushes the wet spot I've left on the sheets.
“My God, boys and girls. Haven't seen passion like that on this set since I did Make Me, Woman.” He extends a hand.
Luke takes it, smiles, and sucks in a deep breath before he answers. He still hasn't replenished his oxygen. “We've been practicing in our off hours. Seriously an honor, Mr. Rogan. I'm aware I took some liberties that weren't in the script –“
“Lucus, you shined. Take all the creative license you want when we get to the final sex scene at the end of the film, if you'd like, as long as you leave the story to me.”
“I wouldn't have it any other way. Robbi?” He turns, reaching for my hand to give it a squeeze, urging me to say something.
I hate having to remember how to form words after the most savage, orgasmic loving of my life. “I gave it my best. I'm glad it paid off.”
Pierce grins. “Lovely lady, there's going to be a whole new category at the awards for best sex scene by the time we're through.”
My stomach crawls into itself a little. I'd honestly much rather be remembered for something else.
Good motivation, at least. The big finale is coming up, where Miles takes down the Senator, exposes his human trafficking to the world, and rescues me once more. Mustering the same passion in the action scenes as the sort I've just had between the sheets shouldn't be hard – especially with Luke by my side, looking at me the way he is now, one eyebrow askew as he waits for me to crawl naked from the sheets.
I wait for Pierce to disappear before I make sure my panties are pulled up. Then I slink away, stopping near the hallway as a whole new ache begins between my legs. Luke stands, moving to the side, waiting with his eyes on me while the production crew swoops in to clean up the set.
My teeth pluck my lower lip. I wonder if it's time to breach the last boundary between us. His look makes the decision, every part of me tingling as his gaze traces my curves, starting at my legs and moving over my bare breasts, across my neck, along my cheek.
I can't stop my fingers shaking when I lift my hand, fist forward, beckoning him with a single finger. Come to me already, you irresistible bastard. Make me come undone. No more cat and mouse.
He almost pushes several men out of the way as he makes a straight line for me. There's no cat in his stern footsteps, but a falcon swooping in on its prey, hungry and determined.
When he reaches me, he grabs my hand with a jerk so tense it drops my jaw. “Your room, or mine?” he growls.
“There's less crap on your dresser,” I say, knowing how much makeup, lotion, and empty water bottles are all over mine.
“Who said I'd need a horizontal surface? If you're lucky, I won't fuck you through the nearest wall when I spank your clit with my balls for teasing me on set.”
Holy shit. “Um, me, teasing? Like you're not the one who started this?”
“Like your nipples haven't been calling to my mouth from the second I ripped open your robe?” He reaches up, grabs my breast. I'm almost jumping out of my skin, swatting at his hand. “Luke! Not here. People.”
“Fine. Let's do it your way. One crappy studio wall between us and the world, and it will be rocking.”
I'm smiling, doing my damnedest not to blush as he leads me out, unsure whose skin feels hotter to the touch. This is about how much he compromises, and as much as my body will tolerate.
I'm in heat. I'd never admit it and inflate his ego more, but if he wasn't leading me away, I'd be leaping in his arms, without even caring who sees us.
He isn't kidding about the wall.
As soon as we're in his room and the door slams shut, Luke hoists me up, backs me into the nearest corner, and kisses me into submission.
Those lips...holy shit. Even after all these years and so little experience cut short, he knows me.
He knows my body, reads it, and reminds me who it's always belonged to.
His kiss comes sultry when it should, rough when it needs to, and always, always hard. His teeth, his tongue, his entire mouth owns mine, while his thick hands slide down my body. Who knew foreplay could be equal parts torture and delight?
I want him in me. Hell, I need it.
My hand reaches between his legs, tugs on his boxers, and I swear there's fire beaming out my eyes when they lock on his. “Fuck me, Luke. Now.”
He smiles, moves his hand between my legs, and slips his fingers into my panties. Lightning zips through me when he brushes my clit, cups my sopping wet pussy, bringing the touch I've craved for years.
“You think I've waited all this time to hear those words, and let you give the orders?” He kisses my neck, teasing and furious, working his way down.
I'm about to tell him he can walk the hell out if he isn't going to get inside me in the next sixty seconds. But then his mouth pulls my nipple into it, clenches down with his teeth, and I can't think about my pride at all.
If these are second chances, count me in.
If it means more steaming kisses, more of his body pressed against mine, more of those aggressive hands owning every inch of me, then I'm done fighting.
I arch my back, pushing my hips into him as he sinks down. When he spreads my legs, he looks up with a you are in fucking trouble intensity causing muscles I didn't know I had to tense in anticipation.
“Ride my tongue, babe. Show me how bad you missed it the last five years if you want me inside you tonight.”
He's as crazy
as this ultimatum. But there's nothing insane about how I melt into him when he flicks his tongue through my folds, pushing my legs apart with his huge arms. He buries his face, tasting me like a starving man, smothering my clit in desperate licks calling to my thighs.
They quiver. They clench. They take the rest of me down with them when release comes embarrassingly fast.
I'm coming on this gorgeous asshole's face for the first time in half a decade.
Did I say asshole? No, angel. I'm not sure how they're different anymore.
I tip my face to the ceiling, push my desperate hands into the walls for support, and scream.
It's all coming out. The hate, the pain, the loss, and the sorrow. The urge to get it right this time, to love him the way we should've loved before.
Mostly, the animal need to have him rise up, slam his hips into mine, and hate fuck me into next year. Going off script lit a fire that isn't dying anytime soon. Not before I take every seething inch of him, skin-to-skin, and bring him off deep inside me.
Ali's the one with baby fever, according to the movie's plot. He doesn't know I've got it for real, a hundred times worse, and the pulse between my legs throbs with wicked intent every time I think about leaking his come.
“Fuck me, Luke,” I whimper. “Please!”
He comes up wearing a full smile. I taste my cream on his next kiss, and he delights in it. “Just like old times. How the hell did we survive without this?”
His full, naked hardness rubs against my slit. He pivots, pushing it between my swollen lips, rubbing his tip so close to my entrance I'll cry if he's not in me in the next twenty seconds.
His hand comes up, cups my cheek, and his eyes drink in my torture. “There are two nights I'll always remember, Robbi. One was when I took your cherry all those years ago. The other's tonight, when we start fucking like we're meant to.”
“Please,” I whisper again, the only word I'm able to form in my fuck-me-or-fuck-you state.
“You're on the pill or something?” he asks, a question he really should have brought up earlier.
