by Luke Steel
She stops as Billy brings the next round. Then she stares at the mirror as if talking to herself. “I want that kind of respect. It’s almost as hard to be taken seriously as it is to break in at all, but I want it. So you know, I work twice as hard as everyone else and keep my head down. Bankability is important, but a solid reputation as a professional is worth more than a pretty face.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror over a row of bottles. “You and Bradley seem to work well together.”
“Yeah, we do.” Her voice lifts at the end in surprise.
“A lot of chemistry.”
“Quinn, are you asking if I’m banging my coworker? Please. The closest thing to romance I’ve had in a while was the other night in the bathroom.” She stills and the flush on her cheeks deepens. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. These Tahoe Ticklers are crazy strong, right?”
I’m thirsty as hell in a heartbeat and gulp a mouthful of my drink. “I’m here to help,” I joke with a shrug. We both examine the wood grain of the bar for a few seconds, and I tip a sip my third Tickler.
“What about you, Quinn?” she asks softly. “Where’s home for you? Is there a girl there, or are you a honey in every city kind of guy?”
In the mirror, her eyes are soft. Her fingers restlessly spin her glass on the bar top.
“Home is Ireland.” That will never change. “I haven’t been back in more than a year, though, so no. No girl there. It’s ah—it’s hard to have a relationship when you don’t stay in one place for long. I’ve a friend in New York who lets me stay there if I’ve got down time.” Sally is still toying with her third drink, but mine’s nearly gone. The buzzy heat of it warms me, pushes me to say more than I intend. “In fact, I was more than happy to help you out the other night. It was more contact than I’ve had with any woman in some time, even if it wasn’t exactly romantic.”
“Wasn’t exactly? What was it then, exactly?”
Her face in the mirror is a wonder of subtle challenge and sexy smolder.
“According to you, I was helping you out. But if there’s something else you wanted…”
She flips her hair over her bare shoulder. Not for the first time, I wonder if I’m talking to the real Sally or actress Sally. Under the bar, our knees touch, and she doesn’t move hers. My pulse thrums in my ears. The low-cut halter top of her dress shows the rapid rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath.
“Wanting things I shouldn’t is a habit with me. Or so I’ve been told.”
Her thigh presses against mine, a hint of pressure that reminds me her legs are open. I slip a hand under the bar, dry it on my jeans, and rest it just above her knee. I turn my head to gauge her reaction up close. Her eyes stay on the mirror, but in the dim golden light, the corner of her mouth curves up. Jesus. The alcohol hits me in another wave as blood rushes downward. My hand inches higher, and I curl my fingers around her inner thigh. I jerk my eyes front, cast down to the bar.
Quinn Buckley, you’d better think about this. Through the lust fogging my thoughts, I try to snap back to reason. I’ve been through every reason getting personal with a principal is a bad idea. Bad for me. Bad for her. No one I know has made this work. But that’s only as far as I know, the devil in me argues.
Despite my brain’s distant warnings, my hand keeps moving under her dress. It inches up her leg until my little finger brushes against lace. Her hips shift to a more accessible angle. There’s no doubting her intention, but I hesitate.
I say her name, low and hoarse.
She angles her head toward me and meets the question on my face with a smile.
“Quinn.”
Her lips, pursing and parting around the syllable of my name, shred the remnant of my professionalism. This woman has made a pact with the devil. Nothing else explains the hold she has over my body. I press my fingertips into the skin, under the lace wall, and slide one finger over her mound and into her cleft. She’s slick and hot. Ready. Her eyes go to the mirror again. Calmly, she lifts her drink.
I drag my fingertip out to circle her clit with a feather light touch. My cock throbs insistently, and I wish I could stroke it while I touch her. She’s so soft and wet. My own gaze lifts to the mirror, watching her face for any sign of what’s going on below this bar. Her nostrils flare, and her chest pulses upward with a quick breath when I press firmer on the smooth button of sensitive flesh. She doesn’t meet my eyes, making me feel almost like a voyeur, even though I’m here in this moment.
The way the alcohol slows things down, I lose myself in the simple touch. I press two fingers in a vee and slide them on either side of her clit, dipping down to bring up more of her wetness. The little nub feels engorged. I caress it on one side and then the other with long strokes.
I’d give anything to rip aside those panties and pull her onto my dick right here on this barstool. Her face shows almost nothing, unless, like me, you’re staring hard enough to see the strain in her neck, the way she almost trembles keeping her face from spilling the secret.
The front door creaks open, and my hand stills. She huffs a near-silent protest. My balls are tight and my cock straining against my jeans.
A couple of douchey looking guys in expensive haircuts sit on the short side of the bar, around the corner. They can’t see my hand, but they can see her face. My fingertip starts another slow circle of her clit.
“You want another round?” Billy steps in front of us.
“No, I think we’re good,” Sally says smoothly. She holds up her half-full drink. “I’ve got to drive after.”
My mouth is so dry I couldn’t have replied without giving everything away. She’s a fucking miracle. Billy nods and heads back to chat with the two guys sipping pint glasses of something on tap.
“I do appreciate your help last night,” she says.
I have to respond, or someone might notice. With a steady hand, I tilt my glass to let a trickle of liquor-flavored ice melt into my mouth.
“Any time your bruises need attention, just let me know.” Rocks fill my throat, but my face doesn’t give anything away. I focus on keeping it as stony as hers.
“Right now I think you’ve got it covered.”
I should pull my hand out of this woman’s panties, but I don’t. My finger glides over a spot that makes her gasp, which she covers with a cough. So I come back to that spot and work it relentlessly. Because we’re sitting so close, I can feel the tension in her body as it winds up tighter. Her forearms lie across the bar, almost casually except for the play of muscle and tendon in her shoulders as she presses down. My heart pounds in my cock, and it’s unbearably good. I want to tell her my filthy thoughts, but I clench the cold surface of my glass instead.
In the mirror, her eyes finally meet mine. I rub faster. Her back arches slightly, her lids lower halfway, and her chest thrusts upward with a sharp breath. Under my fingers, the muscles of her inner thigh spasm and quiver as the tendons in her neck strain. A hint of her sex scents the air. I grit my teeth, wishing I could spin her around on the chair, fall on my knees, and bury my face between her thighs. When her muscles relax, she allows herself a long, quiet sigh. I pull my slick fingers out of her pussy. I rest my hand on my thigh as I wonder what the hell I’ve just done.
Sally sips her drink again, her shoulders curved in almost defensively. Her eyes close as a stray, lingering shudder passes through her frame. I finally bring my deviant hand above the bar to signal Billy and prop my elbow on the bar. It’s an excuse, really, to let my fingers hover near my face so I can inhale the smell of her on my skin. As intoxicating one of Billy’s Ticklers.
Before I’m ready to move, she spins away from the bar so her face is thrown into dramatic shadows. “Ready to get out of here?” The breathy quiver in her voice is likely all the satisfaction I’ll get, at least until I get back to my room.
“Sure.”
We settle up and walk to the car, me a half step behind her. It’s late afternoon now, and the sidewalks seem noisy after the inti
macy of the bar. At Sally’s car, she slides into the driver’s seat. I shouldn’t let her, but my credibility’s shot. She starts driving without a word. Now I’m worried—did I misread her signals? She’d have stopped me, yeah? She’s probably regretting it, especially after that talk about professionalism and respect. I need to apologize and see if I can salvage this on any level. Another five minutes of silence, and I crack.
So does she, and our words tumble over each other. She wants to “talk,” but I head her off with an apology.
“I know.” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have had those drinks on the clock and definitely shouldn’t have crossed that line. I can give you some referrals to other guys I know who’ll do a good job.”
She jerks the wheel, and we swerve into an empty gravel lot at one end of the park where we first met. She throws the car in park, turns the key, and twists in her seat. The sheltering trees dim the afternoon’s golden light. I’ve got no idea what to expect.
“I shouldn’t be driving. Neither of us should after those drinks. I’m going to call a cab, but you owe me something first.”
I’ve already apologized, but I’ll do it again if it makes this situation any less terrible.
Instead of pausing for a reply, she reaches over me, her breasts brushing my chest, and presses the button to recline my seat. One hand grips the waistband of my jeans.
“Sally—”
“Quinn.”
And then she thumbs open the button, unzips me, and tugs the jeans down a couple inches. I lift my hips. Without her help, my cock springs to freedom through the front of my boxers, jutting up between us.
“Ah,” she says appreciatively. “I had a feeling you’d be hung.”
Holy shit.
She grips me in both hands, one firm at the base while the other loosely circles the head.
A groan slips out. Her soft hands apply pressure and friction up and down the shaft, handling me like she’s sculpting me out of wet clay. It’s been so long since other hands than mine touched me.
One hand goes down to cup my balls over the silk of my boxes, and her mouth lowers to my dick. I watch greedily. Her tongue darts out to catch the pearly drop on the tip. Then her parted lips ease over my cock, and she fucking moans.
I snatch at the bow on her nape, and the red sundress falls open. I fill my palm with the swaying globe of her breast. The areolas are small and pale pink, with a deep rose nipple that hardens under my palm. I can’t keep quiet. Don’t want to.
“Ah, these are fucking perfect, Sally. I love the way your nipples respond like this.” I appreciate their bounce as Sally bobs over my dick, swirling her tongue around the head before flattening it against me on the down stroke.
“Like that, with your tongue. That feels so good. Almost as good as watching you come. Your pussy was so wet for me, wasn’t it?”
Her eyes flick to me. They hold nothing but heat. She pulls her mouth slowly off me and holds my eyes as both hands wrap around my shaft.
Still holding my gaze, she pumps gently over the wet skin. “Yeah, I was, Quinn. I was so wet, I would have come if you never even touched my clit. If we’d been alone, I would have fucked you on the bar.” I roll her nipple between my fingers, and she moans.
My dick surges in her hands, and I thrust my hips upward involuntarily. Her talking back to me is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. My control is nonexistent between the alcohol and the long wait for a woman’s touch.
“Ah, I bet your tight pussy is still wet. Picture my dick sliding into you, Sally, all the way. Every hard inch of me in that sweet pussy of yours.” Her mouth encases me again in hot, wet pressure. She sucks me in and moves in sync with the hand still holding me at the base. I’m close. “Like that, Sally. Yes, let me feel your tongue. Fuck, that’s good.”
She increases her speed. My balls draw up as tight as a drum. Her left hand plays under them, slipping down to rub the ridge of skin underneath. Her tongue circles my head again. My hips rise off the seat. Her lips and hand pump in a syncopated rhythm. Blood hums in my ears. My hand gropes toward her. She’s hovering just off her seat to get over me, so I push her dress up and slip under her panties to grab a handful of her tight ass. Further down, and my fingertips find wetness. I dip into her arousal and bring my fingers to my face. The smell brings me closer, and then I stick the finger in my mouth for a taste. I close my mouth over the guttural groan as my hips buck. I come in hot waves of pleasure.
She stays with me through the last spasm and then rises off me to slump in her seat. I can’t move, can’t speak for several seconds, and then I tuck myself in and zip up. Her hands fall in her lap as she finishes tying up her dress.
I barely have time to adjust the rest of my clothing before there’s a knock at the window. It’s one of the crewmembers, a grip, I think. When Sally rolls down the window, he explains that he’s out here jogging and wanted to make sure she was okay. Sally shifts into her deadpan on-set demeanor and calmly tells the guy we’ve both had a couple strong drinks. Would he please drive us back, just to be on the safe side? He runs over to flip his keys to a friend, and Sally climbs into the back seat for the drive back to the set.
4
As the cast and crew grumble about Mondays, I shadow Sally around the craft services tables loaded with coffee and a buffet breakfast. Last night gave me time to regret crossing professional boundaries anew, once I reluctantly washed the smell of her off my hands. You wouldn’t know to watch her, but she’s doggedly avoiding me with cheerful smiles for everyone else on the set. In the end, I give her enough space, and she eventually wanders into another room with her coffee. I corner her in a little nook that lets me cut off her escape.
“Can we talk about—?”
“Must we?” She sips her coffee and somehow smiles with her eyes over the rim. “I had a good time, but I want people to remember my acting, not who I’m screwing on set. On the other hand, I also want to do that again. Soon.”
The atmosphere turns tense as quickly as a thought. The way she tells me what she wants, so plainly stated, makes me want her more. If this woman wanted to fake it, she could make you feel worshiped. She could rip out your heart and be gone before you noticed the hole, because she could be anyone you wanted her to be.
I step closer.
“You like the way I fingered you, don’t you? You like the way I’m hung. And you want my dick in your—” People pass in the hallway so close I could touch them. “Your cunt,” I finish in a whisper.
Her lips part and her chin lifts. She sways toward me before righting herself.
“Yes.” It’s almost a sigh. “I want every inch of that big dick of yours inside me, Quinn.”
I let my eyes linger on the front of her t-shirt, where her pebbled nipples give her away. I’m getting hard, and I need control. Now that I know I’ll have her, I can pull it together. I hope. I let my eyes linger on the front of her t-shirt, where her pebbled nipples give her away.
“As much as I’d love to give it to you now and here, this is a risk for me, too. My career will take a hit, a big one, if I get that kind of reputation. I’ve seen it happen to my mates.”
“Then I don’t see the problem. We’ve both got a good reason to keep this between us—and I mean strictly between us. We can be professional and eat our cake, too.”
“Cut! That’s it, guys. Sally and Bradley, you fucking nailed this scene. Come here, guys, bring it in. Everybody.” The director makes a big show of wrapping for the day, as if a thirteen hour day is a gift. “You’ve all worked really hard to get caught up, and I plan to show my appreciation for all your hard work this far. Drinks and dancing, off set, on me. Look sharp, everybody.” He glances around. “I want to see everyone there. Line up drivers. I don’t want anyone to have to drive back.” The last comment is directed at his assistant, who makes a note and starts scrolling through her phone immediately.
Sally said this morning that today’s shoot was a big plot twist reveal, so it would have to be perfe
ct. I’m surprised they’re calling it, considering all the angst about the schedule. A few people grumble about having only an hour to get ready, but mostly everyone seems stoked. Except Sally, of course.
“This is such bullshit. My nights are mine,” she grouses as we walk along the front side of the east wing toward the front door. “I hate doing the big campfire singalong, or whatever this team building stuff is. I can do my job without it. And anyway, I’ve been counting on continuing our conversation from this morning.” She flashes a wicked grin my way.
“Everybody seems to like you, though. How can it be that bad? I get the impression everyone wants to know you better. That’s a good thing, right, especially if you’ll be on at least two more films with these people if it does well?”
“I just want to keep things professional. I like my personal life to stay private, and hanging out with coworkers makes that difficult.”
A couple others join us, and I wonder why Sally’s so determined to be a fortress.
A line of dark sedans lines up outside the estate, and the cast and crew gather in huddles wearing tight-fitting clothes. My own navy suit is impeccably tailored to hide the holstered gun at my waist with little to no bulge. I wait at the foot of the stairs, and I nearly whistle when Sally steps a strappy-heeled foot on the first stair. Her lean runner’s legs are flexed just right in the heels and bared to mid-thigh by a shimmering plum dress. It clings over her hips and drapes between her breasts, pulling my eyes to the valley between the gorgeous breasts that keep me up at night.
