by Ember Casey
I should have known Christian wouldn’t keep that to himself.
“It was just a few quick sketches,” I say. “About a beautiful and intelligent hero named Panty Girl.”
Orlando laughs so long and so loud that I’m shocked he doesn’t run out of air.
“Tell me about her adventures,” he says.
I do. Mostly because I want him to keep laughing. After that, we chat about lots of things—his favorite films, my favorite cheesy reality shows, whether Atlanta or L.A. has worse traffic. Eventually, I glance at the time and realize we’ve been talking for two hours.
“Shit,” I say. “You probably need to get to bed. You probably have to be on set in like four hours.”
“Four and a half, actually,” he says, and he sounds strangely disappointed by that. “You’re right, I should go. Goodnight, Panty Girl.”
I smile dreamily. “Goodnight, Mr. Fontaine.”
“Orlando.”
When we hang up, I fall back on my bed with a contented sigh. I could have talked to him for hours more.
Maybe this is not just a physical thing, I think. Maybe it’s something more.
And with that magical thought, I curl up and go to sleep.
* * *
That isn’t the last time Orlando and I speak on the phone. He starts calling me every night after filming wraps up for the day. We talk about everything—our favorite books, favorite foods, favorite music. I learn that Orlando is a surprisingly good swimmer, and that he takes camping trips up in Northern California a few times a year. I tell him about my acting debut in Peter Pan and confess that I don’t know how to ride a bicycle.
More than once, I find myself thinking about what Christian said about Orlando being two different people. He laughs so often during our calls that I’m beginning to wonder how he could ever turn off that humor, even at work. His intensity is still there, though. Every so often he’ll say something that launches a surge of heat through me, and my body sends me constant reminders of how much I want him. I start having some pretty wild dreams about him after those calls—dreams that leave me panting and dizzy when I wake in the morning.
Sadly, the day I finally return to set—the day we film my big line—is rather anticlimactic. Christian is so much better than Ford at the scene that we finish the whole thing in only a handful of takes first thing in the morning, and Karen sends me home when we break for lunch. I was hoping for the chance to speak with Orlando for a moment—just a moment!—but he’s caught up in other things. I don’t want to distract him from his work, but after the connection we’ve had these past few nights, I’m disappointed that I don’t get the chance to say even a couple of words to him in person.
Especially since this might be the last time I ever see him. I didn’t let myself think about that until this moment, but it’s true. My scenes are done.
“What are you still doing here?” Karen demands. “I told you to go home.”
And that’s how I end up on the couch in my pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, eating a pint of ice cream straight from the carton.
Is this it? I lament into my fudge ripple. Is my little fantasy crush over? I turn on a marathon of some home-buying show and try not to think about it.
When, sometime after nine o’clock, my phone goes off, I feel like heaven has opened up and the angels are singing just for me. My brother gives me a weird look as I leap up off the couch and hurry into my room. I accept the call as I close the door behind me.
“Hello?” I say.
“You sound out of breath.” Orlando’s voice is rich and deep, the sort of voice that can get a girl into a whole lot of trouble. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Not at all.” I drop down onto my bed. “I didn’t know if you’d call.”
“You didn’t?” He chuckles, the same suggestive chuckle that gets me all twisted up every time I hear it. “It was your last day on set.”
“I know. And I was disappointed I didn’t get to talk to you.”
“We can talk now.”
“Yes, but it’s more fun in person.” I smile. In person I can gaze into those golden eyes.
“True, it is.” His voice is filled with desire, and I rearrange myself on the bed. Something has just occurred to me.
“If I’m done with my last scene,” I say slowly, “does that mean I no longer work for you?”
“Technically,” he says, his tone just as careful and measured as mine, “you haven’t been given your final paycheck yet. And usually, if someone has worked on any part of a production, I consider them as working for me until—”
“Does that mean you still want to keep things platonic?” I ask.
He laughs. “Maggie, this has never been platonic. And yes, we should probably avoid doing anything physical until production is complete.” He pauses. “But it’s not technically physical if we aren’t actually touching, is it?”
I’m pretty sure all my blood has just rushed between my legs. “You mean…”
“I mean I think we should finish what we started a few nights ago.” His voice lowers. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then I want you to take off all your clothes for me.”
I sit upright. “What?” This went from zero to a hundred really fast.
“You heard me,” he says, and his tone indicates that he won’t tolerate being disobeyed. “Take off all your clothes. All of them. Don’t speak again until you’re completely naked.”
Maybe I should argue with him, but I don’t. I want this. I climb up off the bed and peel off my pajamas and underwear, leaving them in a pile on the carpet. Then I sit back down on the comforter and pick up my phone.
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’m naked.”
“Good. Where are you?”
“On my bed.”
“Lying down?”
“Sitting.”
“I want you to lie down for me. On your back.”
I do as he says, spreading out on the comforter. The room isn’t particularly cold, but goosebumps rise on my skin. I look up at the ceiling fan overhead, watching it spin around and around.
“I’m on my back,” I tell him, and I almost don’t sound like myself.
Orlando is ready.
“I want you to touch yourself,” he says. “Start with your breasts.”
Obediently, I lift my hand and let my fingers drag across the skin of my left breast. My skin feels hot to the touch, but I still have goosebumps.
“I’m touching my breast,” I tell him.
“That’s a good girl. How does it feel?”
“It feels soft,” I tell him. “And warm.”
“And your nipple?”
I let my fingers slip across my nipple. It’s already a hard point, and even the lightest touch sends another ripple of sensation shooting straight between my legs.
“Squeeze it,” Orlando murmurs into the phone, not even waiting for me to answer.
I obey, and a soft whimper escapes me. Orlando must hear it, because he lets out another of those devilish chuckles.
“Imagine it’s me touching you,” he orders. “My fingers squeezing you, bringing you right to the brink of pleasure and pain.”
I make another involuntary sound, this one loud enough that there’s no doubt he hears. But it’s too late for embarrassment, too late for anything but to give my body what it wants.
“Imagine me leaning down and taking that nipple into my mouth,” he says. “Imagine my teeth closing around your delicate skin and my tongue flicking against it until you’re trembling in my hands.”
I’m trembling now, even though I’ve touched nothing but my breast. Before meeting Orlando, I never thought I’d be into anything like phone sex—it just seemed so awkward and impersonal—but this, right here, is hands down the hottest thing I’ve ever done. And we’ve hardly started. I’m going to be half-mad by the end of this.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me, as if he can read my thoughts. “I won’t tortur
e you for long. In fact, I’d like you to stop touching your breast, now. Let your hand slide down your body.”
I do as he says, exhaling a quivery breath as my fingers move across my ribs and down my belly. They slide over my bellybutton, across my lower abdomen, toward my thighs.
“Spread your legs,” he tells me, though the order is unnecessary. “But don’t touch yourself there yet.”
“O...okay.” I’m starting to have trouble forming words.
“Are you shaved?” he asks.
For a moment, I panic. Don’t people out in L.A. expect everyone to wax off every ounce of their body hair?
Before I can decide what to tell him, he says, “I want the truth, Maggie.”
The truth is that, were it not for my scenes, I probably wouldn’t have shaved my legs this week. You get lazy about a lot of things when you don’t have a job or real boyfriend. But if he wants the truth, I’ll give it to him.
“No,” I say. “Would you like me to go do that now?” I’m not sure how sexy that will be over the phone, but I’m willing to try it.
He seems amused by my suggestion. “That won’t be necessary. I want you just as you are. I’m simply curious what you look like.”
“Oh.” I go all warm and trembly at that admission. “I’m not sure I can really describe myself down there…”
“Then tell me how you feel there,” he says. “Right now, when you’re not allowed to touch yourself.”
“I feel…hot,” I tell him. It’s hard to think of creative ways to say that when I’m this aroused. It’s hard to be articulate in general. “And tingly. And…and wet.”
“Good,” he tells me. “You can touch yourself there now.”
Slowly, I let my fingers dip between my legs, slipping lightly across my skin. As they brush past the sensitive nub of my clitoris, a tremor moves through me, but I don’t let myself linger there or this will be over way too fast.
“What happened?” Orlando asks me.
“Hm?”
“I heard your breath catch. Tell me what you’re doing. What you’re feeling.”
“I touched my clit,” I confess. That little nub still pulses from that tiny bit of pressure.
“Touch it again,” he commands.
“But—”
“Touch it.” It sounds like an order and a plea at the same time.
“Okay,” I whisper. I press my finger against it again, a little more firmly this time, and then again. Each time my breath catches, and I don’t try to stifle it. I want him to hear.
I’m practically panting by the time he says, “How close are you?”
So close I can hardly speak. But I manage, “Really close.”
“It doesn’t take very much with you, does it?” I can hear the wicked smile in his voice. “Why don’t you move your hand a little lower?”
I do, letting out a shaky breath.
“Slip a finger inside yourself,” he tells me. “But use your thumb to keep massaging your clit.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I do as he orders, letting out a sigh as I begin to massage myself. I’ve never felt this brazen, and my body is responding by becoming extra sensitive to my every touch, both outside and in.
“How do you feel?” Orlando asks me.
“Amazing.” It’s more of a groan than a word. The more I touch myself, the hotter my skin becomes, and the tighter the tension between my legs. I won’t last long now, not like this. A bead of sweat drips down my temple.
“Keep touching yourself,” he tells me, as if there were any question. “But imagine—” His voice cuts out for a moment, and when it comes back again, he’s cursing.
“Incoming call,” he growls. “Hold on, let me reject it.” A couple of seconds later, he sounds much better. “Now, where were we?”
“You were telling me to keep touching myself.”
“Oh, yes. Keep touching yourself, but imagine it’s me there instead. It’s me caressing you between your legs. Me sliding my finger in and out of you. Me massaging your clit with my thumb.”
I moan again. Imagining him anywhere near me intensifies everything a hundred times.
“But I’d do more than that,” he says, his voice so raw it’s almost unrecognizable. “If I were that close to you, I wouldn’t be able to resist leaning down and having a taste. I’d lick you from your clit all the way down to your—”
I cry out in pleasure as my climax overtakes me. It comes on so fast, so suddenly, that I don’t have time to warn him, let alone try to stop it. All I can do is ride out the pleasure. I buck against the bed, unable to do anything but submit to the sensations coursing through me.
It’s so intense that I nearly forget Orlando is there. At least until I hear his deep chuckle in my ear.
“Enjoy yourself?” he asks me.
I’m so spent that it takes me a moment to figure out how to move my tongue.
“That was…amazing.” I sound just as deliciously drained as I feel. “I…know I should have waited…”
“Waited?” He laughs again. “Oh, no, sweet Maggie. I’m not one of those men who dictates when and where a woman can orgasm. I want you to have as much pleasure as you desire.”
I roll over onto my side, feeling so happy and dreamy. “You’re really amazing, you know that?”
“As are you, Maggie. I wish I was there to see the look on your face right now.”
“I wish you were, too.” You could be, I think. I would throw myself in your arms the minute you walked through the door. I don’t think I have any shame anymore.
“I tell you what,” he says. “What if I—” His voice cuts out again. “Who the hell keeps calling me at this hour?” He pauses a moment, then says, “I’m sorry, Maggie, but I should take this. Can I call you back?”
“Sure,” I tell him, still having trouble forming words.
It takes a few minutes to recover. Then, with a sigh, I roll over and climb off the bed, fumbling around for my pajamas. When I’m dressed again, I head into the bathroom and get ready for bed. My body is still weak and my legs can hardly hold me upright. I feel sated and exhausted. I wonder who could be calling him at this hour, what could be so important that he’d hang up on me so quickly.
You knew what this was, I remind myself as I stare into the mirror. You’ve known all along that you’re just a diversion for him. That you’re not the most important thing in his life right now. You told yourself you were going to enjoy it while it lasted. And that’s still the plan. So much has happened in the last couple of weeks, but even if it ends tomorrow, I don’t regret a moment of it.
Or so I tell myself. That girl in the mirror—the one with the messy bun, the zits along her hairline, the bit of toothpaste foam leaking out of the corner of her mouth—that girl doesn’t get many chances to do something like this. So when those chances come her way, she just needs to revel in every minute of it.
After spitting out the rest of my toothpaste in the sink, I plod back into the bedroom and plop down on the bed. With a sigh, I pull the Complete Works of Shakespeare onto my lap and flip to Cymbeline. But my mind keeps wandering as my gaze slips over the lines.
I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that the sudden sound of my cell phone ringing nearly startles me out of my skin.
It’s Orlando.
“Hello?” I say, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Maggie.” He sounds exhausted, a far cry from his mood only a short while ago. “Sorry that took so long.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. I don’t tell him that I wasn’t expecting him to call back at all.
“That was my brother.” He doesn’t specify which one. “Unfortunately, it sounds like my father isn’t doing so well.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I’ve just been talking to a couple of my producers, and I think we’re going to scrap those last couple of scenes we were planning to film here.”
“Oh,” I say, instantly filled with trepidation. I have
a feeling he’s about to deliver some bad news.
“Unfortunately, that means the production is moving back to L.A.,” he tells me. “It was the plan all along, once we were done with principal filming. The incident with Ford threw us off schedule for a little bit there, but we’re nearly back on track. Which helps me, because I really need to go see my father. I’m planning on taking a flight out there first thing in the morning.”
“Oh. I understand.” Disappointment floods me, but I try to keep it out of my voice. I knew he’d have to go back to Hollywood. I’d just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.
But his next words change everything.
“I want you to come with me, Panty Girl.”
CHAPTER NINE
“What?” I sit up so fast that the Complete Works falls off my lap and lands with a heavy thud on the floor. “Are you serious?”
“Quite.” He clears his throat. “I know this is short notice, and that we’ve had a rather unconventional start to our—”
“Of course I’ll come,” I blurt. “Of course.”
He chuckles, though the sound is missing some of the warmth it had earlier. He’s worried, and exhausted.
“I’m glad to hear it. I don’t know how long you care to be away from your own father, but I was hoping you might like a little vacation.”
“Dad’s been doing better this week,” I tell him. “It looks like his latest treatment might actually be working. And I’m sure no longer having that debt hanging over his head is helping, too.”
“Good.” He sounds genuinely pleased. “A car will be there to pick you up at five-thirty in the morning. Can you be ready by then?”
“I could be ready in half an hour.” Maybe I’m not supposed to sound this eager around the guy I’m into, but I can’t help myself.
That earns me a genuine laugh. “Then I’ll let you get packed. Goodnight, Maggie.”
“Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
When we hang up, I have to fight down a squeal. Orlando wants me to come to L.A. with him! I can’t believe it!
I fall back on the pillows with a delighted sigh. I have no idea what I was so worried about—Orlando might be way out of my league, but we obviously have a connection. I should have known he’d be just as unhappy to give it up so soon. The fantasy can live on for a little while longer, at least.
