&&&. PAIGE BUECKERS x ACTRESS!READER
summary. the met gala reunites you and paige for the first time since your one night stand. why not make it two? includes. 20.3k words. sexual content. links. my masterlist. a/n. this is a part two to my old one shot the tonight show … could be read as a standalone but probably more fun together. have fun freaks
PAIGE IS AFRAID she might actually fall asleep sitting up. Definitely not in a graceful way, either. Like, she feels as if her head might tip forward, makeup artist mid-blend, and just completely clock out in a room full of people who are being paid to pretty her up and send her off. It would be humiliating. A headline, probably. WNBA Rookie of the Year passes out before Met Gala. Something of the sort; they're all about their headlines lately.
Instead, she just blinks hard, trying to fight it off.
Her phone glows dimly in her hand, brightness turned all the way down because anything more would feel like a violent against her retinas right now. Her thumb scrolls with no intention, switching from Instagram to iMessages, then back to Instagram, then somehow she's staring at a photo she doesn't even remember clicking on, something in her suggested. It's a courtside shot from her final season at UConn, from one of the games during their infamous March run. She looks younger in it.
"Can you tilt your chin up a little for me?"
She hums something that's supposed to be a yes and does it automatically, muscles moving before her brain is even consciously telling her to do so. There's a brush at her cheekbones, soft but precise, and something powdery floats into the air. It smells expensive. Everything here smells expensive. Floral and warm and like money.
Her eyes drift from her phone to the window instead, to the stretch of New York laid out clean in front of her, something that looks straight out of movie. It's too clean and structured; it looks almost cinematic. Tiny cars, yellow cabs threading through traffic, looking like they're part of some simulation. People moving in quick, purposeful lines below.
Last night feels like it happened a week ago.
Moody Center, loud and alive and real and fun in a way this honestly isn't. Sneakers squeaking against hardwood, the thud of the ball, the way the game was really just flowing. That is the kind of tired she likes—earned and buzzing, adrenaline still flickering under her skin even after the final whistle, her knees and shoulders aching a bit from so much use.
This is a much different kind of tired. It's the type that sits heavy behind her eyes, makes them want to droop, makes everything feel a half-second delayed. The flight out of Austin was just brutal. It was too early, depriving her of any real sleep, her body still wired from the game but also begging her to shut down. She didn't even get to go back to Dallas. Straight from the arena to the airport as if she's some sort of machine.
She kind of is sometimes, honestly.
Paige shifts in the chair, rolling her shoulders slightly. One of the many people around her immediately steadies her head.
"Sorry," she mumbles, though she's not even sure who she's apologizing to.
Her thoughts drift again, back to the game, because basketball is the one true thing always at the forefront of her mind. It was good, actually. Like, really good. And not just for her, but for the team. For maybe one of the first times since she's played for the fucking Dallas Wings, things began to click, like they weren't all just on survival mode, hoping to not get completely blown out.
Last season had been hell. A good learning experience, sure, but for someone like Paige who's so desperately competitive... it had been hell, no other way to put it. Injuries staked on injuries, lineups changing every other game, a useless coach that did more harm than good, and Paige—the rookie—doing her damnedest to hold it all together while it crumbled between her fingers. It had genuinely felt like dragging a broken body through a season that wouldn't end.
This year is different, though. She already knows that and she thanks God for it. She knows it's still just preseason and the only two games they've played in have been exhibitions, but she can just tell. They've got Alanna, and Azzi, and Jess, and a healthier Rike, and several other pieces that fit much, much better than last year's did.
She's excited. She really is.
And tonight—her lips twitch faintly at the thought. Tonight is just surreal, something made out of a dream or a bucket list, not her real life.
The fucking Met Gala, her first one ever. Even thinking it in her head feels kind of ridiculous. She's seen it her whole life the same way everyone else has: clips online, red carpet photos, people arguing about outfits like it's life or death. That always seemed distant, not a part of her world which revolved around smooth courts and flimsy nets.
And now she's sitting in a luxury hotel room in Manhattan, getting her makeup done by a luxury-level team, wearing something custom from the luxury brand Coach.
If she had told herself three years ago that she would be here, she'd have probably laughed in her own face. Sure, women's sports were growing and she had a following back then, of course. But this is different. Like, this is the Met Gala. This is where celebrities like Rihanna, and Beyonce, and the Kardashians, and—well, you—congregate, not basketball players like her.
That last one sticks in her head a bit longer, stupid and slightly infecting.
You might be there tonight.
It's dumb. Like, seriously, it's not a revolutionary thing for you—of all people—to attend the Met Gala. You've done so before, several times actually. Paige has seen the red carpet photos. And still, her gut warms a bit at the idea, mind flicking back to last year about this time. It's just idiotic, considering she's had several one night stands and she's sure you have, too.
But sue her, honestly. It's not often you get to fuck your celebrity crush. And she likes to think about the time she did, and the possibility of it happening again.
She's delusional, probably. Sure, she remembers the noises you made and the gushing of your cunt on her tongue and fingers. But you've definitely had other people just as hot and famous as her, if not more. She can't be sure she stuck out—though, if she's honest, the small band of cockiness that sits at the back of her brain, not often displayed, can't help but think that maybe she did.
Still, all of that doesn't mean anything. It's just mere curiosity. That's all.
"Okay," Hayley's voice cuts through, interrupting her thoughts. "We're basically done."
Paige blinks, focusing back in. "Yeah?"
Hayley smiles down at her, warm and familiar. They've known each other for a while now, her having done both Paige's and Azzi's hair several times, someone she can trust. "Take a look."
She hands Paige the mirror, and for a second the blonde merely stares, caught slightly off guard.
"Damn," she says before she can stop herself, eyebrows lifting a little.
It doesn't even really look like her. Or—no, it does, but it's like a version she's not used to seeing, one that's sharper and darker. The smoky eye is the first thing she's drawn to, black and smudged, looking just slightly messy but also entirely intentional. The liner is heavier than anything she'd ever do herself (because, honestly, what can she even do herself besides mascara?), but it works. It makes her eyes look brighter, bluer, a pop of ice in a sea of storm clouds. Her skin looks smoother, too, more even, and a bit paler than usual though not in a bad way. Just different, her tan swiped off some. There's a highlight catching the light on her cheekbone when she tilts her head, something subtle but noticeable.
Paige almost laughs as her eyes rove over her appearance in the mirror. "Y'all got me lookin' like a whole different person."
Hayley grins. "A hot different person."
Paige shakes her head, but she's smiling now, lips tilting up, gumminess poking through a bit. "Nah, this is actually kinda crazy."
She turns her head to side to side, taking the hair in now. The extensions feel a little weird. She's only had them in a couple times before: her draft night last year and then New York Fashion Week in 2024. It's just something to get used to, with it being so much longer, brushing her shoulders and back differently. The blonde is brighter, too, catching the light in a way that's almost flashy, contrasting with her skin tone a little less.
It's not her usual at all, not even close. But...
"I fuck with it. Seriously, did your big one," she admits, not surprised, but, like, a little surprised.
"Good," Hayley drawls, clearly pleased. "Because you didn't really have a choice."
Paige snorts, hanging the mirror back. "Yeah, figured that."
Just then, there's a knock at the door, and before she can even guess who it might be, Dmitry, who did her makeup, opens the door wide, gesturing in. Stuart—one of Coach's creative directors who Paige has been working with over the last few months, a sweet man, really—steps forward carefully, as though he's carrying something fragile (which, to be fair, he kind of is). The garment bag in his hands is zipped all the way up, white and pristine, holding the most important thing for Paige tonight.
"Ready?" he asks, smiling at her, lifting the bag a little.
Paige straightens slightly in her chair, suddenly more awake. "Yeah."
Thankfully, they give her some space to change (they wanted to help her with that, too, but Paige has gone through this enough. It is not that hard to put on pants and a vest on her own), the room clearing out just enough to make it feel less suffocating and chaotic for a second, no eyes boring into her at every single moment, no hands touching her. There's a silence—a rarity of today—resting in the room as she stands up, stretching slightly, rolling her neck.
Her body still feels heavy and tired, that underlying ache beneath her knee still flaring a bit from last night. But, there's something that rests beside all of that now, too. A low buzz, a mix of anticipation and excitement. The latter because she's never been to an event this big and it's certainly going to be an incredibly cool experience. The former because she only knows a handful people going—Angel, A'ja, Stuart, Steph, kind of you but also not really at all, maybe a few influencers here and there—and as much of an extrovert as she is, the prospect is daunting and enough to light a flare in some of her nerves.
She unzips the bag slowly, taking in the suit. It looks the same as the last time she saw it, a few weeks ago for the final fitting. She actually likes it a lot, is glad they didn't put her in something completely horrendous like she knows some brands will probably do tonight.
She steps into the pants first, pulling them up, adjusting the fit. They're tailored perfectly, as they should be. The vest goes next and she buttons it carefully.
When she lets the team know that she's dressed, they immediately come filtering back in. Hands are everywhere again, prodding every which way. They put the blazer on her, adjust the collar, smooth the fabric, fix tiny little things she wouldn't even notice. Then, they start with the jewelry—just some rings and earrings, pieces on her ears and fingers.
Paige stands there, letting them do their things, her eyes staying on the mirror as they go.
It's black, the whole suit, but not plain. There are splashes of paint that streak across it to fit the theme, a bit chaotic but in a way that completely works. Miniscule rhinestones catch the light when she shifts, small flashes that make her shimmer. The pants are bell bottoms, which, truthfully, she normally doesn't fuck with, but tonight she can make an exception. There's a 5 embroidered on her wrist, too, something to make it feel like it really is meant for her.
She likes it. She looks good.
Paige can't help but grin a little. "Y'all did great. I look like... I'on even know."
"A rockstar," Hayley offers, running her fingers through Paige's hair a couple times, probably making sure the extensions are all good or something.
The blonde huffs, but she doesn't disagree. "Yeah. Some seventies shit."
They finish up with Paige and for a moment, she thinks she may just have some peace and time to sit before she needs to leave. Clearly, she was very wrong. As soon as they're done, they inform her it's photoshoot time. As if she won't be getting a million photos on the red carpet. Nevertheless, she complies, gracious, knowing it's for Coach and she wouldn't be here without them. She lets them have their fun, lets however many different people tell her where to put her hands like she's an action figure somebody carefully removed from expensive packaging.
She can do serious. Basketball teaches you that pretty early, what with cameras in your face after losses, press conferences where everybody wants you to explain why things went wrong as if you personally caused the collapse of society, walking into away arenas full of people who hate you. Not to mention all the media day theatrics where the photographers tell you to look tough, stoning your expression for the cameras. Learning how to make your face unreadable does have its uses.
So, she settles into it. She clenches her jaw, just slightly, letting it sharpen like a blade. Her eyes go heavy and her face turns into stone.
The photographer immediately perks up. "Yesss. There it is."
They move her into the hallway next, to get more angles and different poses. Paige easily goes along with it, leaning against the wall, looking over her shoulders, hands in her pockets. One shot has her sitting on the floor in the hallway while some poor young boy—probably a hotel guest—awkwardly waits twenty feet away trying to get to the elevator.
"Sorry," Paige mouths to him, giving a gracious smile.
He looks terrified to even make eye contact and she almost loses it.
Eventually, after what feels like a million photos, someone finally announces they're done for now. Paige grins at the words, and it rests on her face as they head downstairs, before she's once again reminded she can't smile outside either. According to Hayley, tonight's entire vibe is: mysterious lesbian rockstar who maybe smokes cigarettes in alleyways and breaks hearts recreationally. Which is funny because Paige can't sing for shit—she tells people she can, but she knows the truth when it comes down to it—and she thinks cigarettes are disgusting. Sure, give her a vape—that's fine. But cigs are a hard no for her.
Still, when she and Stuart step out of The Carlyle, she flips the switch again automatically.
The cameras outside are intense, even more so than she remembers any being at either of the WNBA Drafts she's attended or even the ESPYS. She supposes she gets why—this is the real deal. And this isn't even the red carpet yet. God, she's bound to get a headache tonight.
They shout her name, energized. She just keeps her expression schooled, her shoulders relaxed, trying to pretend as if this happens to her everyday. She turns when they ask her to, pauses when they tell her to, letting them get all their shots. It's part of; she knows that. This entire night is essentially just organized overstimulation.
Eventually, though, Paige is ushered toward the car, sleek and black and shiny beneath the city lights. Stuart slides in beside her once the door shuts, and for the first time in the last twenty minutes, it's actually quiet.
Well. Mostly quiet. They're in New York, after all. There's always going to be a hum of sound, honking somewhere in the distance, sirens faint and constant. It's the city that never sleeps.
Paige exhales slowly, leaning back into the leather seat. Almost instantly, she becomes aware of her heartbeat again. It's pounding. And not in a cute nervous way, either. It's got a pace of genuine physical anxiety. Her chest actually aches slightly from how fast her heart's running, which seems a little dramatic wondering the fact that she quite literally plays professional basketball in sold-out arenas for a living.
But this is just different. Sports famous and celebrity famous are completely different universes. She's done her best each time she's been integrated into them, like that time a few weeks ago when she was fucking papped at LAX. But being able to be cordial and somewhat normal doesn't mean she's not a bit starstruck at the entire prospect of the night ahead, the people she imagines seeing. There are levels to fame and, tonight, she feels very aware of where hers sits.
"Are you excited?" Stuart asks beside her.
Paige glances over. He seems calm and unfazed, maybe a bit excited himself, which makes sense because he's probably done this several times.
She shrugs a little, aiming for nonchalant. "Yeah," she replies. Then, after a beat, wiith a tiny grin, she adds, "I wanna see what Beyonce's wearin'."
Stuart laughs loudly at the statement, shaking his head. "Don't we all?" he offers.
Weirdly enough, those words actually help, making the whole thing feel a little less intimidating for a second. Because underneath all the fashion and the cameras and whatever else, everybody's still just curious about Beyonce. Figures.
The drive itself is short. Painfully short, honestly. Paige barely has enough time to mentally prepare before the car starts slowing and the view comes into place.
The Met, bright and massive and completely swarmed in its glory.
"Ah, shit," Paige mutters under her breath.
Stuart hears her and laughs again.
When the door opens, noise hits immediately. There's flashes and shouting and so many people. Paige steps out of the car carefully, one hand adjusting the front of her blazer on instinct, and everything suddenly feels ten times brighter than before.
There are cameras everywhere. Actual walls of them.
It's disorienting for a long second. Paige could compare it to stepping out of an arena tunnel except everybody's holding big professional cameras with blinding flashes instead of just phones. Nevertheless, she keeps her face composed. She goes for what they told her to: fierce, serious, cool. Or, at least hopefully cool.
The thing she learns pretty quickly is that there's a lot of waiting involved with the Met Gala. Way more than she expected. Because, after the initial chaos, attendees basically end up standing around in lines for a long time waiting for their turn on the carpet. It feels a little normalizing, oddly enough. Like, sure, there's a woman wearing a dress that certainly costs more than Paige's first car standing ten feet away, but she's still stuck waiting in line like everyone else.
Paige passes the time by people-watching. Really, how could she not?
The outfits alone are insane. Some are beautiful, some are confusing, others are just genuinely concerning.
She spots Tyla—who she's actually met before, a couple years ago at fashion week, nice girl—looking impossibly tiny and gorgeous in something teal and shimmery, a dress with the torso bejeweled silver. Then, there's who Paige thinks is Charli XCX in a long black gown, looking as cool as she probably feels. There's also Amanda Seyfried, Gigi Hadid, a lot of really fucking famous people.
And then Paige spots Angel. Or at least who she thinks is Angel from a distance. She's tall and confident and in something bright pink.
Paige smiles faintly to herself, glad that there's at least one person here she can actually go bother without feeling somewhat weird about it.
By the time it's finally her turn on the carpet, Paige feels more settled, more locked in. The nerves are still there, but now they're buried beneath the adrenaline. Besides, she had a long time waiting to prepare.
The staircase stretches up in front of her, and, once more, cameras begin exploding, sending fireworks of flashes her way.
She listens somewhat, moving her angles slowly, looking at different lenses, unsmiling through all of it. She commits to the bit, staying stone-faced, expression as cold as the stormy eye makeup she's got on. Judging by the photographers screaming louder every time she barely shifts positions, apparently it's working.
She knows she looks good, too, which helps. It's just factual, not even really cocky. The suit looks best under bright lights, the rhinestones catching every flash. The dark makeup makes her eyes stand out even more. She looks older tonight, sharper, and she thinks like somebody who belongs here.
Eventually, though, it's over, too. She climbs the staircase, takes the final few photos, and then she's suddenly inside.
True to her word, she finds Angel pretty quickly afterward. The taller girl looks incredible, truthfully. The pink dress is huge and dramatic and soft-looking at the same time, layers of fabric spilling around her. It works ridiculously well against her skin.
Angel spots Paige as she's approaching and grins widely. "P!"
Paige laughs as she's pulled into a hug. It's nice to see her; she hasn't since Team USA over a month ago.
"You look good as hell," Angel gushes, pursing her lips and nodding in approval as she holds Paige at arm's length to look at her properly.
"Says you," the blonde replies, touching briefly at the fabric of her dress.
They fall into easy conversation fast after that, talking about flights and schedules and how annoying it is that both of them have to be back in their own cities tomorrow morning to make it in time for practice tomorrow afternoon. The Met couldn't be early April, instead?
"I got a seven AM flight," Angel complains, shaking her head in disgust. "Why do they do this to us?"
Paige groans immediately at the thought of her own flight tomorrow. "Mine's at eight. It's sick."
"Athletes deserve their sleep, I'on get it."
Paige is mid-laugh when something behind Angel catches her attention. Her eyes automatically flick behind her shoulder, curious and drawn.
Paige's brain stalls, neurons firing in a million different directions.
There you are. Just behind Angel's shoulder, across the room. And Jesus fucking Christ—like, seriously? Is the universe out to get Paige tonight or something? She tunes out what Angel is saying almost immediately, her brain fully rerouting itself, because you look...
Fuck, it's actually irritating how good you look. It's as if somebody sat down in a lab and genetically engineered a face and a dress and a body specifically designed to ruin Paige's ability to function like a normal person. You're talking to someone she doesn't recognize, smiling wide, laughing at something they said, and Paige's gut warms at the sight.
It's a pretty smile, one that she knew before she ever even technically knew you. She remembers first seeing it back when she was seventeen and bored and watching a movie. That was before championships and the league and all of this. Back when you were just this insanely pretty actress Paige developed a stupid celebrity crush on without meaning to.
And now you're here, again, real, again, standing just twenty feet away.
Your hair falls in soft curls over your shoulders, shiny beneath the bright lights. The dress is long and flowy and almost watercolor-looking, pastel blues and greens and purples melting together like wet paint. Sparkles catch every movement you make, tiny flashes like light hitting water. It's off-the-shoulder too, exposing your collarbones and the smooth line of your neck, and Paige suddenly becomes hyperaware that she has functioning eyes.
Which is incredibly unfortunate because she cannot stop staring.
Technically, this is only the second time she's ever seen you in person. The first time ended with her in your bed and between your legs, which—
Like, yeah, hard to top that introduction, honestly.
Her stomach flips a little at the memory. It wasn't even just the sex, exactly. Though, obviously, the sex was great. You were great and perfect and pliant and she knows she'll never forget the feeling of your pussy sliding against hers. But there was also everything else, too. The subway ride. Your life. The lazy morning after where both of you had barely slept enough to qualify as rested.
Nothing ever happened after that, obviously. You'd mentioned something briefly that night about filming in Dallas, but that never turned into anything. You didn't have her number and she didn't have yours. She briefly thought about dming you on Instagram—to say what, she doesn't know—but one look at your account told her that you certainly didn't run it. It was mere promo stuff, photoshoots, movie trailers, pictures from premieres, that sort of thing. You were even one of those celebrities that followed zero people. All of that being said, it told Paige enough. If she tried from there, she doubts she ever would have heard back.
So, she didn't dwell on it much. Life moved incredibly fast within the past year; Paige feels like she's lived a million lives since she met you. She got drafted and went to Dallas, had that treacherous first season in the W. Won Rookie of the Year. Went to Turks and Caicos. Learned Dallas better, really lived there. Then lived in Miami for a few months for Unrivaled, where she built deeper relationships and improved on her game and herself. Played for USA basketball at the senior level. All within the span of twelve months. A lot happened.
All that being said, though, it's not like she never thought about that night or you. In fact, one night in Dallas, when she was alone and bored in her apartment and had nothing to do, she watched a movie. A new and a big one that all of her friends had sworn was good, one that you happened to be in as one of the three main characters. You did great in it, what Paige would call 10/10 acting. You also looked great in it, what Paige would call a 10/10 girl. (Not to mention the fact that there was a sex scene in it that included you. Paige would be lying if she said she may or may not have replayed it, watched it over, remembering what it was like to fuck you for real and how you sounded similar but not quite like that. A little more desperate, a little more shaky with her. She feels mildly creepy whenever she thinks about how did she that, though, so she pretends it never happened.)
But now you're standing there looking like that. And, Jesus Christ, there's only so much self-control a person can realistically be expected to have.
Paige isn't so sure she's going to have enough tonight.
YOU'RE FEELING GOOD now. Finally.
Loose in your own body again, warm all over in that perfect way where the champagne and vodka and exhaustion and adrenaline have all melted together into something pleasant rather than overwhelming. The hard part of the night is over. The carpet, the screaming, the pretending you're deeply invested in conversations with people you barely know and probably won't speak to again until this exact event next year. Or maybe the Golden Globes. Or Fashion Week. Or the Oscars. Something of the sort.
Overall, all of that—and the Met—has never really been your thing.
You appreciate it, obviously. You appreciate fashion and art and spectacle and all the effort that goes into it. You understand why people love it. Hell, sometimes you even love it. But there's always a moment on that carpet where the cameras are flashing so violently in your face that you genuinely feel like a zoo animal being documented for scientific purposes. Everyone yelling your name at once, shouting every which way. You'd once left the carpet with a migraine so bad you sat in the back of the care with your eyes closed all the way back to the hotel.
Still, it's part of the job. And your job is good. Better than good. Your job is ridiculous and glamorous and fulfilling and absurdly overpaid. You get to play pretend for a living and wear couture and travel the world and kiss pretty people on camera while somebody hands you millions of dollars afterward.
There are far worse fates.
So, you do the events. You smile and pose and make conversation with celebrities that all know each other through this bizarre web of fame where everybody's dated somebody or worked with somebody or vacationed with somebody in Ibiza once.
And, honestly, tonight wasn't even bad. The dinner especially could've gone so much worse.
You still have mild trauma from last year, trapped between two painfully serious actors who spent forty-five straight minutes discussing practical effects in indie war films while you nodded along like you had literally anything to contribute. At one point, you'd escaped to the bathroom and stayed there long enough that your publicist texted asking if you were alive. You still don't know what the planners were thinking when they assigned your seat next to those men.
This year was far easier. You've been seated between Anne Hathaway and Alysa Liu, with Kylie Jenner across from you. A win on all ends.
Anne is lovely, genuinely. You already know her well enough from filming The Odyssey together last year, a Christopher Nolan film that comes out this summer. She has this ease to her that makes conversations feel natural, even in rooms where everyone's constantly trying too hard. At one point, she learned over and whispered commentary about someone's absurd headpiece across the room that nearly made you choke on your drink.
Alysa was unexpected in the best way, too. She's cute and funny, way funnier than you anticipated. You'd ended up asking her about the Olympics and she'd gushed about it with this animated excitement that made you laugh multiple times throughout dinner. There was something so refreshing about her. No weird Hollywood performance to her personality yet. She still felt real.
And Kylie was Kylie. You've known her long enough know, gotten closer within the past couple of years. Her and Timmy have gotten super serious and he's been one of your best friends for a long time now.
All in all, the dinner had actually been fun. And Sabrina Carpenter's performance during it definitely added to that.
Now is the real good part, though: the afterparty.
Or, more specifically, one of the afterparties. Because of course there are multiple. There are always multiple. But this one's younger and louder and less painfully formal—thank God. The second you walked in, the whole atmosphere of the night changed from curated elegance to rich twenty-somethings trying to get drunk in designer clothes, which is significantly more your speed. The room glows with expensive lighting and far too much money. Champagne towers line near the walls, music pulses through the floor beneath your heels, everything sparkles a little under the lights—jewelry, sequins, glasses, eyes.
You feel good tonight. Hot.
Obviously, you've changed out of the Versace gown you wore to the actual event. Now, the dress you've got on is a short, one-shoulder cocktail piece made entirely of silver sequins and beads that catch the light wonderfully. The bodice is fitted and structured, sculpting your waist before flaring slightly with fine metallic fringe that shimmers whenever you move. The asymmetrical strap curves over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, and the overall effect is sleek, modern, and glamorous. You like it a lot.
You don't like the stilettos as much, but you can handle it. Years in this industry have conditioned you into functioning through foot pain like a soldier.
Your hair's still in curls from earlier, soft around your shoulders, makeup slightly more lived-in now after hours of sitting on your face beneath cameras and lights. There's a pleasant buzz in your bloodstream, enough alcohol to smooth out the sharper edges of your thoughts without fully dulling them.
And currently, you've also got a very attractive man standing beside you at the bar, which certainly doesn't hurt.
Joe Burrow is tall. Tall and broad and muscular without seeming obnoxiously aware of it. Blonde, too, annoyingly enough. Clean jawline, nice smile, nice voice. Very nice forearms, if you're being honest. And he's funny, something you didn't exactly expect. Athletes are kind of a gamble socially. Some of them are charming. Some of them have the conversational abilities of drywall. But Joe's easy to talk to, smooth.
You can tell he's into you. He's not exactly being subtle about it. His body's been angled toward yours for the last twenty minutes, one of his large hands occasionally brushing your waist or lower back when he leans in to say something over the music.
It's enough to consider going home with him, back to The Carlyle, turning the idea around in your brain. You're single. He's hot. You're tipsy. And you haven't gotten fucked properly in a bit, so that would be great, too.
Right now, he's saying something about one of the absurd celebrity interactions he had earlier, deadpan enough that your jaw literally drops. You laugh, leaning toward him instinctively as you do so. "No, she did not."
"She literally did," he enthuses, grinning. "Swear to God."
You're still smiling up at him, amused by his little anecdote, when you feel a body step up beside you at the bar.
"Can I get a Dirty Shirley, please?"
The voice hits first, dragging along an axon terminal until it flares off a nerve signal in your brain. It's low and familiar, rough just around the edges, tainted with a slight Midwestern accent.
Your stomach flips before you even fully turn your head, because you already know.
Paige Bueckers leans casually against the bar to your left as though she hasn't quite literally just short-circuited your brain a little, having left your nerves fried. It's unfortunate that she looks even better up close tonight.
You'd seen her on the carpet earlier and may or may not have already had a small moment over it then. She'd looked sharp out there, cool in a different way from most of the celebrities tonight. She looked less manufactured, much more natural, as if she was dressing up because it was fun, not because she needed everyone in the room to worship her for it—though a lot probably did anyway.
But now you can actually look at her, and it makes your stomach flutter and fumble slightly. Her blonde is brighter than you remember, longer, too, sleek down her back in a way that immediately makes you suspect extensions. It suits her, though. Really suits her. And her makeup—you don't think you've ever seen Paige in makeup like this before. The dark eyeliner sharpens her face beautifully, makes those blue eyes look even lighter somehow. Icy and magnetic and probably a little dangerous. Not to mention the fact that she changed after the carpet, too. Her suit's gone, replaced now with black dress pants and a white button-down that shimmers subtly whenever any ounce of light hits it. Sparkles woven into the fabric, maybe. Whatever it is, it works.
She looks expensive now. Expensive and relaxed. A little tipsy, too, if you had to guess.
And, immediately, unfortunately, your brain betrays you by dragging you straight back to last April. To your apartment. To Paige sprawled between your thighs with those stupid blue eyes looking up at you while her finger pumped and her mouth sucked and—
Okay, you've got to calm down.
Heat rushes across your face almost instantly at the subject of your thoughts and you pray it just looks like alcohol. Which, to be fair, probably helps. Everybody's flushed in here.
Paige lifts her drink once the bartender hands it over, then turns fully toward you. Her eyes land on your face and her pink lips tilt upwards in a slight smirk. It's deeply irritating considering Joe Burrow's hand is literally resting against your lower back right now.
"Hey," Paige greets, nonchalant. She nods at you first, then at Joe. "How're you?"
Her eyes are already roving over you before you even get to answer. It's the least subtle thing maybe ever, though you don't think she's trying to be. The blue travels a path down your dress, to the expanse of your thighs and legs, then back up again, lingering just long enough to make your stomach tighten pleasantly. You suddenly remember that Paige Bueckers is quite confident. The one night you spent with her let you know that it's a natural trait. Still, you don't think it's enough to be quite this bold stone cold sober. The alcohol must be helping.
"I'm good," you reply, lips tilting upwards slightly. "And you?"
Her grin widens just a little around the straw of her drink. "Great."
Joe glances between the two of you curiously before asking, "You two know each other?"
You look up at him. "Yeah, we met last year."
Beside you, Paige hums in agreement before taking another sip of her Shirley. There's something almost smug in the way she just stands there, shoulder brushing lightly against yours at the crowded bar, like she knows at the very least she's already piqued your interest. Or reminded you of the last time you saw each other.
You glance between them, curious yourself. They're both two young and famous athletes. You wonder. "Do you two know each other?" you repeat Joe's question.
"We sat next to each other at dinner," Paige supplies, looking at Joe for the slightest second before turning her attention fully back to you.
"Ah," you respond softly.
Interesting. Very interesting, actually.
You finish off the last sip of your vodka soda, ice clinking quietly against the glass, and try to maintain at least some level of decorum by staring ahead toward the alcohol lining the bar walls instead of directly at either of them. It would probably work better if you couldn't physically feel both of their attention on you. Joe's hand still rests against your back, and Paige's eyes keep drifting over your body shamelessly every couple of seconds.
If you're honest? You kinda like it.
Sure, if you were sober, you'd probably be awkward about this. Overthinking every little thing, wondering if you looked stupid or obvious or messy.
But drunk-you is significantly more fun. And there's really nothing not fun about standing between two tall, hot, blonde professional athletes who both very clearly want you right now.
However, you can quickly tell that Joe wants to get you alone again. His hand begins rubbing slow circles on its spot against your lower back, warm and steady and big through the thin silver fabric of your dress. He leans down toward your ear again, close enough that you not only catch the clean scent of his cologne underneath the alcohol and party air, but also that his lip grazes your ear.
His words are immediately cut off and overshadowed by the loud report of, "Your drink's all gone."
You blink, turning your head to look at Paige automatically. Her gaze is locked on your empty glass, painted with a deeply unconcerned expression, no care in the world that she's just interrupted another person mid-sentence. Then, her eyes flick back up to yours.
"Vodka soda, right?" she asks, expectant.
You stare at her for half a second, a tad bit perplexed. "... Yeah."
You don't even know how she remembers that. Maybe you ordered it last year around her, though you feel like that whole night was tainted more so by champagne. Maybe she noticed earlier tonight. Maybe Paige Bueckers just happens to possess the frighteningly attractive ability to remember tiny details about people she wants. You don't really know.
Before either you or Joe can actually respond, Paige is already flagging down the bartender. "A vodka soda for this girl right here, please," she says easily, nodding at you, her fingers grazing your arm for just a second. They're calloused, but you find that you sort of enjoy the feeling of roughness against your own smooth skin.
There's something just so natural about the whole thing. That's something uniquely Paige. Even when she's being bold, it still feels easy and intuitive somehow, like confidence comes to her the same way breathing does, like social anxiety plays no role whatsoever. With her, you truly don't think it does.
Joe straightens beside you slightly, clearly trying to recalibrate the situation, and you can practically feel the silent competition settling into the space around the three of you. And even though there's a bit more pink blushing the apples of your cheeks now, you honestly think it's kind of hot.
However, the universe seems to make the choice for you because, suddenly, some guy you don't recognize appears out of nowhere and throws an arm around Joe's shoulders.
"Joey B!" he exclaims loudly over the music, slurring just a bit. He's clearly drunk, thou you can't blame him. "There's someone you've gotta meet."
Irritation flares across Joe's face. "Right now?"
"Yes, right now, bro. C'mon."
The guy is already pulling him backward before Joe can protest much more. He glances at you over his shoulder then, expression caught somewhere between apologetic and reluctant, clearly not wanting to leave you standing here.
You give him a small amused smile anyway. "Go."
"I'll find you again," he says almost instantly.
Paige snorts softly beside you into her drink and you fight the urge to laugh outright. You know damn well that you won't be seeing him again tonight, so you watch for just a second longer as he disappears back into the crowd, swallowed up by flashing lights and beautiful rich people and music vibrating through the room.
You have no reason to be disappointed at that, because the moment he's gone, Paige is already shifting closer without hesitation, filling the empty space he left behind as if she's just been waiting to do it. At the same time, your fresh drink arrives. She grabs it before the bartender can even fully set it down and hands it directly to you, fingers brushing yours briefly in the process.
"He wanted you bad," she teases, grinning. Her smile is as endearing as it was last year; her gums show with it.
You roll your eyes at the words, though you can't stop your own smile from forming. "That's a little hypocritical," you reply, because you can read Paige's body language and it doesn't exactly take a genius to tell she wants the exact same thing.
Paige just shrugs one shoulder, completely unashamed. It makes you stare at her a little longer, because she's a bit different. Not entirely, she's still unmistakably Paige. She's still got that easy athlete swagger to her, that calm confidence, that way of boring her eyes into yours with intense eye contact that sends sparks straight to your cunt, skipping any butterflies in the stomach. But last year, there'd been a bit more restraint to her at first. It wasn't exactly what you would call shyness, just what she's got now in a more reserved role. She'd been charming immediately, of course, but there was still this underlying awareness that she was newer to that world than you were, less established. She'd carried herself like someone trying not to take up too much space at first, especially while you two were still at The Tonight Show afterparty.
That hesitation is completely gone tonight. Now, she just stares at you openly, boldly, blue eyes borderline on what you would describe as craving. All as if she walked over here fully intending to pull your attention away from Joe Burrow and absolutely succeeded.
And, honestly, it's working embarrassingly well.
You lift the straw of your vodka soda to your lips slowly, eyes locked with hers as you take a sip. It's deliberate; you know exactly what you're doing. Paige absolutely notices, her gaze instantly dropping to your mouth, focused there with startling intensity as you sip at your drink. You watch her throat moves when she swallows.
You've spent more than enough years being flirted with to know how to flirt back effectively.
You lower the glass again carefully, opting to change the subject. "I liked your suit tonight. What was it?"
"Coach," Paige responds easily, her fingers—that you have a few fond memories with—absentmindedly tracing over the condensation of her Shirley glass. "I been workin' with them for a bit now."
Then, her eyes slide over you again, slow, probably cataloguing details if you had to guess. She adds, voice a bit rougher, returning the favor now, "Your dress was fuckin' insane. Who did that?"
You shrug, playing for nonchalant, though you also loved the dress that you wore tonight. "Versace."
Paige lifts her brows, grinning. "Fancy."
You laugh softly, then watch as her gaze drops lower now, toward the short silver dress you're in now. Unlike the dramatic watercolor gown from earlier, this one's tiny, strappy. Tight enough that it feels almost painted onto you. Once it was fully zipped up earlier, you'd briefly been worried you wouldn't be able to breathe properly the rest of the night (you adjusted quick).
Paige reaches out, her fingers ghosting along your waist. The touch is light at first, barely there, fingertips brushing over the fabric experimentally before she pinches a tiny bit of the material between her fingers, rubbing it thoughtfully. "This Versace, too?"
"Courtesy of Donatella herself."
Paige lets a low hum out of the back of her throat. She doesn't move her hand away, instead opting to step even closer. She's near enough now that you're greeted by the immense warmth radiating off her body, smell the faint mix of alcohol and expensive cologne and something clean underneath it all. It's slightly familiar. You've only had it once, but it's a nice scent—you remember it.
She murmurs, "Shit. I gotta thank her someday then." Her hand then slides flatter against your waist, long fingers stretching across the expanse of it. You may or may not lean into it a bit, fingers lightly brushing her forearm where it rests against the bar. "You look really fuckin' good, ma."
Your stomach dips at that, dropping a hill into your gut. It's annoying because you're usually fully capable of being normal around attractive people. But Paige just has this way of speaking to you that feels warm and cocky at the same time, as if she already knows the effect she's having, and you find it so disturbingly hot that you're nearly embarrassed.
"Yeah?" you ask lightly anyway, refusing to let yourself look too affected.
Paige rolls her eyes immediately, still grinning. "Don't even play. You know you do."
She's not wrong, of course. You're attractive—that's not exactly groundbreaking information. You've spent the better part of the last decade having cameras shoved in your face and strangers writing think pieces about your cheekbones and your eyes and your lips and your hair and your tits online. You know what you look like.
Still, hearing Paige say it makes you slightly warmer. That heat only heightens when her hand curls slightly, slipping around to move more toward your back, pulling you in just a bit closer.
You let her, taking another sip of your drink.
"Did I cockblock you and Burrow?" she asks, and the utter smugness lacing her voice is unbelievable, enough for you to let out an amused scoff.
"I mean..." you trail off intentionally, grinning around your straw as you shrug one shoulder. Because, technically, yes, she did. If she hadn't walked over here, there's a very real chance you'd still be standing with Joe right now, a very real change that you would have gone home with him later too, would have fucked him.
Paige's smirk only widens at the idea. "My bad," she apologizes, though she sounds exactly zero percent sorry.
Then, while simultaneously dipping her hand lower for a brief second, fingers grazing over the curve of your ass before returning innocently to your lower back, and staring directly at your mouth, she adds, "I can help you fix that, though, if you need it."
You smirk at her over the rim of your glass. "And how would you do that?"
You figure it out, quickly. Because, unsurprisingly, about five minutes later, you're making out with Paige Bueckers in an empty hallway. It might have been less than five minutes, actually. You don't fully remember how you even got down here. One second, you were at the bar trading smug little comments back and forth, and the next, Paige was taking your hand and guiding you through the crowd.
And, now, your back is pressed against the cool wall near the exit staircase, the distant bass from upstairs vibrating faintly through the building while Paige kisses you like she's been thinking about doing it all night—which, to be fair, maybe she has.
Her hands grip your hips hand enough to keep you pinned in place, fingers digging into the thin fabric of your dress while your own hands tangle into the front of her shimmering button-down. And—God—she's still such a good kisser. That was one of the things that stuck out to you majorly when you'd hooked up with her last April. Because some people are attractive until they kiss you—and then, despite being grown fucking adults, just don't seem to know what to do, either kissing too slow or immediately shoving their tongue down your throat.
Paige isn't any of that. Her mouth is warm and confident against yours, kissing you like she already knows exactly what you like, as if she remembers.
You like the softness of her bottom lip, the fullness of it when you catch it gently between your teeth. You like how dominant she gets once she settles into the kiss properly, one hand tightening on your waist while she angles her head deeper and pushes her tongue into your mouth, sliding it slowly from the underside of yours. You like how she presses closer, chest against yours now, one thigh sliding between yours just enough to make your stomach twist pleasantly.
The alcohol tainting your blood makes everything warmer, softer. Her hands feel heavier because of it. Her mouth feels hotter. Your head tips back slightly against the wall as she kisses along your lower lip again, slower this time, tongue sliding.
Paige pulls back barely an inch, just enough to murmur, breath warm against your mouth, "That lip gloss strawberry or watermelon?" She leans in again, tongue ghosting lightly along the seam of your lips to get another taste.
"Raspberry, actually," you mumble, a mix of it and a bit of cherry from her dirty Shirley coating your tastebuds.
You aren't keen on being apart any longer, though, so you slide your fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her back in. She goes easily, and the kiss resumes—far less slow this time—mouths meeting, wide open and slick. Her jaw works against yours, tongues tangling, hers broad and wide enough to make you hum.
It keeps going like that for a bit, against the wall. Eventually, you think Paige's phone starts ringing. You don't bother acknowledging it and you don't think she is going to either, because she's only kissing you faster now. In fact, you barely even register the sound beyond some distant annoyance because Paige's hands are now firmly gripping your ass through the dress, the tips of her long fingers brushing against the bareness of the back of your thighs. Your leg is half draped across her own thigh, and she's flooded your senses completely, having consumed your attention and kept it wholly for herself.
Paige keeps ignoring the buzzing, too busy kissing you hard enough that your head bumps lightly against the wall behind you. One of your hands slides from the back of her neck to the front of her shirt, gripping.
Suddenly, though, she pauses. She doesn't fully pull away, mumbling against your mouth, "Oh, the car."
At the words, you laugh breathlessly despite yourself. You'd nearly forgotten that she called a car at all in the first place, though the prospect of getting out of here, of getting Paige somewhere private for real, is enough to make your skin boil and your cunt leak. You're ready to go.
Paige lets out a quiet groan before fumbling awkwardly for her phone. Her forehead drops briefly against yours while she digs around in her pocket one-handed, clearly irritated by the interruption.
It takes her an embarrassingly long amount of time to answer it because she keeps getting distracted kissing you again between attempts.
Finally, she gets the phone up to her ear. She's slightly out of breath when she says, "Hey."
Then, "Yeah, we're comin' down now."
The call ends just like that, short and sweet. The two of you just stand there for a moment afterward, breathing and recovering. The hallway suddenly feels strangely quiet now that you're not actively making out, the sounds of heavy breathing and slick mouths no longer illuminating the area. Automatically, you reach up to wipe at your lips with the back of your hand, pretty sure there's spit smeared around your lip combo at this point. Your curls are definitely messed up too, loosened and tangled from Paige's hands and being pressed up against the wall. You tuck a few strands behind your ears anyway, trying to regain at least a tiny bit of dignity before facing another human being.
Paige doesn't look much better herself. Her lips are visibly swollen and the same shade as her cheeks, bright pink, while her eyeliner is now slightly smudged beneath those sharp blue eyes. The sleek blonde hair is from earlier is mussed and tangled, a bit frizzy, too.
Honestly, it's maybe the best she's looked all night. There's something deeply satisfying about seeing someone so composed and polished suddenly look thoroughly kissed and unruly.
Paige notices you staring, lips lifting. "What?"
You smile despite yourself, smoothing down the front of your dress and pulling down the back of it. Paige, meanwhile, bends to grab your purse from the floor where you apparently dropped it at some point during the last ten minutes of poor decision-making. She doesn't hand it back to you, instead holds it for herself and then just nods toward the exit. "C'mon."
The walk outside is surprisingly normal considering the fact that about two minutes ago, Paige had your leg halfway wrapped around her thigh and her tongue pushed deep into your mouth in the middle of a hallway. Now, though, you just walk side by side without touching, careful. There's an unspoken understanding between both of you the second you near the exit doors—public again, cameras possible, people possible. And despite the alcohol buzzing pleasantly through your veins, neither of you is stupid enough to risk being overly touchy outside a celebrity-packed afterparty on the night of the Met.
You're incredibly relieved when the back exit turns out blissfully empty. There are no paparazzi or screaming, flashing photographers. No blurry TMZ video waiting to make a headline of your life tomorrow morning. Instead, there's just cool New York air and a sleek black car waiting at the curb. Thank God.
You both climb in quickly, and—probably unsurprisingly—the second the door shuts behind Paige, the atmosphere changes completely. Much closer quarters, private enough, dangerous again.
You roll your eyes at Paige's unwillingness to wait even a second, because she's immediately leaning toward the front seat and asking, not even trying to be a hint subtle, "You mind puttin' the partition up?"
The driver doesn't react at all, doesn't even bother to respond. He just—without a word—presses a button, and you watch as the partition slides up smoothly. You assume this poor man has definitely driven drunk and horny celebrities around before.
You don't even get to be sympathetic toward him for long, though, because as soon as the divider clicks and seals, Paige is moving again, and fast. One large hand grips your jaw firmly, tilting your face toward hers while she kisses you hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs. Immediately, surprised, you let out a soft sound against her mouth, sinking back into the leather seats as she half climbs on top of you.
The first coherent thought you have once her weight settles against you properly is that she's so fucking solid. Of course, she was athletic last year, too, obviously, but now there's noticeably more muscle beneath your hands. She's got stronger shoulders, thicker arms, firmer thighs pressing between yours as she crowds you deeper into the seat. She's got real, professional athlete muscle now and you can fucking feel it everywhere—it's beyond attractive, unfortunately. Your hands slide over her sides beneath the loose button-down, feeling the heat of her skin before gliding across the hard lines of her abs, all while she continues kissing you deeper.
You know well enough that you don't have to worry about anyone outside the car seeing anything, given that the windows are tainted probably an illegal amount. They blur the city lights outside into soft streaks of color, but inside, the car feels warm, heating up. You're beginning to sweat.
Paige's hand stays firm on your jaw, now angling your head to the side, her mouth dragging away from yours slowly, a chain of spit splitting between you. Then, she's kissing down your neck, slow at first, just her wet, soft lips across skin. It doesn't take her long to grow rougher, though, tongue and teeth poking out, grazing enough for your breath to catch slightly, stuttering in your throat.
"Paige—" you mumble, even if you have no idea what else you want to say.
She just hums against your throat, the vibration of it making you shiver. Then, her mouth moves once more, upward this time. Her lips brush near your ear while one of her hands slides possessively along your waist, bunching a bit of the sequined fabric of your dress there, making it ride up slightly.
"Gonna make you feel so good when we get back to the hotel," she murmurs, the words going straight through you. "You're so pretty, fuckin' deserve that shit."
Your stomach twists hard, your heart stuttering beneath your ribs, and your cunt pulsing, all a reaction to the words and the thoughts that come with them. If you're honest, that's exactly the kind of thing you need to fucking hear right now. You need to be fucked bad—you can feel your thong already soaking—and the anticipation of it is getting to you. Not to mention that praise always hits you embarrassingly hard, especially from somebody whose voice sounds like that, all low and rough and against your skin.
A shaky breath leaves you before you can stop it, and, unfortunately, Paige definitely notices. You shift beneath her unconsciously, thighs parting a bit wider as she returns to mouthing at your neck, and, without even truly thinking about it, body moving on instinct, you grind upward slightly against her.
Paige's teeth catch your earlobe. You think you feel her grinning into it.
"You want some right now, hm?" she asks, tone of teasing, squeezing your waist as she does so. "Quickie?"
Your face burns at the words, and, despite the heat rushing through your body, you scoff, "Shut up." Unfortunately, it comes out more like a whine, especially because you absolutely do want that. You don't even care about the driver so close, who can't see but can probably hear.
Paige just laughs softly against your skin, warm and smug and unsurprisingly pleased with herself. You grab her face before she can tease you again, pulling her back into another searing kiss. She responds immediately, her tongue prodding its way in while one hand slides lower along your thigh—and then up under your dress.
Your breath catches sharply into her mouth. She doesn't hesitate in the slightest, palm gliding between your legs over your panties as if she already knows exactly what she's going to find there.
The low sound she makes when she feels how wet you are sends heat straight through your stomach and all the way back down to your pussy, probably pushing out another flood of slick.
"Fuck," she mutters quietly.
Then, her middle and ring fingers find the exact spot where your clit swells beneath the lace. She rubs once, a slow, firm circle, and, on cue, your hips jerk. The wetness already seeping through the thin material of the thong makes the lace cling to her fingertips, dragging against the bundle of nerves with every pass.
Your head falls back against the seat with a shaky exhale. "Paige..."
"Yeah?" she murmurs, watching your face, her breath warm against your cheek. She begins to speed up a bit, circling harder, the fabric now bunched and twisted against her knuckles as she presses deeper. The rough seam of your panties rubs against your clit as she works you, the friction almost too much for where you are and what you need—silk and lace and her fingertips pressing down over your the most sensitive part of your pussy. A wet sound starts, the slick slide of her finger against the soaked material, and your thighs tremble open wider. "Tell me."
You don't even know what to say, nearly frustrated by how quickly she's affected you, how you're already somewhat melted beneath her and you're not even at the hotel yet. Half of it is probably due to the alcohol, which makes everything feel heavier, hotter. Every brush of her fingers shoots straight through your body without any buffer at all. The other half of it is because it's just Paige. She's ridiculously good at what she does.
She then curls her other hand around the back of your neck, pulling your face back to hers. Her mouth crashes in, messy and open, teeth catching your bottom lip. She bites down just enough to make you gasp, and in that moment, she hooks her thumb under the waistband of your panties and yanks them to the side.
Her bare fingers land directly on your clit, hot and slick, without any barrier now. The contact makes you jolt, a sharp whimper swallowed instantly by her mouth. She rubs fast, rough circles, fingertips pressing hard on your bud, mashing it in slick, tight motions. Her fingers have already grown wet, making every movement slipper and loud, the sound of her rubbing at you filling the car. (You hope the driver has some music on up front.)
She kisses you harder still, quenching your breathing more, her fingers not letting up. She's rubbing with increasing urgency, her whole hand moving now, palm pressing down, digits slipping against your wet folds as she focuses every stroke directly on your clit. Your hands clutch at her shoulders helplessly, nails digging in.
Vaguely, you're aware of just how insane this situation is. Some poor driver is taking you through Manhattan while Paige Bueckers has you half falling apart in the backseat—and she doesn't even have to slip her fingers inside you to get you there.
The pressure builds embarrassingly fast, a hot, sharp coil in your belly, your hips grinding up into her hand. What's worse is that Paige clearly notices.
"Already close?" she teases against your lips, though she sounds like she needs it almost as much as you do.
You just glare at her weakly, already planning on getting her back as soon as you're in the hotel. "You're so—annoying."
Paige just laughs quietly, but her fingers never stop. If anything, they just get more precise, more deliberate, messy and fast against your pussy, reading to tear the orgasm right out of you. Your thighs tense around her hand as you try to stay quiet, forehead pressing briefly against one of her broad shoulders while she works you through wave after wave of pleasure.
"Fuck," you whisper breathlessly, your lungs having trouble swallowing air in your chest. You're sweating now, too. You can feel it beginning to bead along your throat and collarbones, on your inner thighs as well.
"I know, baby. Trust, I fuckin' know."
That pet name absolutely doesn't help. Neither does the way Paige kisses the corner of your mouth afterward, murmuring soft praise between breaths while your cunt keeps tightening harder and harder beneath her touch.
When you finally cum, it hits fast, the pressure of her palm against your pussy enough to get you there. You're panting hard, but you kiss her anyways in an attempt to stay quiet. She responds in kind, chasing your mouth, kissing you back sloppy, her fingers still rubbing you in those fast, messy circles, no rhythm at all, just relentless pressure. Your entire body tenses, thighs clamping around her hand, hips bucking.
Paige lets you, one strong arm wrapping tighter around your waist while the other keeps sliding through your slickness, pressing against your clit as it pulses, drawing out every wave until you're shuddering and oversensitive. "There you go," she guides, voice wrecked as if she just came herself. "Good girl."
Your heart stumbles in your chest, face flushed, eyes closing for a moment. You feel Paige pull her hand away, feel her adjust your panties at your hips. They lace is wet and sticky against your pussy now and you cringe a little at the feeling, ready to be rid of them. Paige is pulling your dress back down, too, and as she does so, you open your eyes back up, taking in the fact that the car has begun to slow.
Paige presses one final kiss against your mouth before glancing out the window. "We're here."
PAIGE FEELS A BIT drunker than she actually is. She’s not sloppy or stumbling or dizzy or anything like that. She’s just warm, loose-limbed and buzzing and a little stupid in the head in the way that happens when alcohol mixes with adrenaline and attraction and the overwhelming satisfaction making a very pretty—and famous—girl cum in the backseat of a car on the way back from the Met Gala.
Honestly, half of what she’s feeling probably isn’t even alcohol.
Paige glances down at her hand for a second, still slick with you beneath the dim lighting of the car, and her brain immediately short-circuits all over again, pulsing inside her skull. Her jaw tightens as she watches her fingers shimmer slightly. Slowly, she wipes her hand against the leather seat beside her, casual about it externally even though internally she’s already thinking about getting her hand back against your cunt as soon as physically possible.
You’re sitting beside her fixing yourself up just a little, flushed and glowing and so fucking pretty that Paige nearly gets frustrated. Seriously, it’s a bit unfair. There are plenty of celebrities Paige has thought were abnormally attractive before seeing them in person, but usually real life evens things out a little. Usually, there’s at least some difference between the heavily curated on-screen—whether it be movies or modeling shoots—version of somebody and the actual human being standing in front of you.
Not you, of course. Somehow, you look even better in real life than you do on the big screen. That shouldn’t even be possible, considering Paige has seen one of your movies four times over just because she got distracted staring at your face.
And right now, you look especially insane. The silver dress rides high on your smooth thighs where it shifted during everything that just happened, curls messy around your shoulders now, lips swollen and shiny from kissing. Your makeup’s slightly smudged beneath your eyes, making you look softer and just a tad fucked out.
And fuck. The way you looked just a few moments ago, all breathless and pliant and squirming against Paige’s hand? The blonde’s own pussy pulses at the image. You were so responsive to her, a little easier to read than the last time. Every small sound and movement told her exactly what felt good—which was basically everything. And the thing that’s really got Paige fucked up is that you clearly liked her taking control. Even if you pushed back slightly, called her annoying, rolled your eyes between whimpers—she knows. You enjoyed the praise, enjoyed it when she got a little cocky.
And that’s dangerous information to hand to someone like Paige Bueckers.
Because now all she wants to do is do it again. Properly this time. She wants to get you upstairs and peel that little dress off completely and shove her fingers up your cunt while her mouth is on your clit and hear those sounds again without having to stay quiet for the driver’s sake.
At the thought, Paige drags her gaze away from you to glance through the tinted window toward The Carlyle’s entrance. The sight that greets her immediately makes her groan internally, a sigh escaping her.
There are at least a dozen paparazzi crowded outside the hotel barriers, cameras huge and obnoxious. They’re waiting and eager, ready to snapshot their favorite celebrities returning from one of the most infamous nights out of the year. Ready for drunken gossip, scandal, all of it.
Paige’s buzz dulls slightly around the edges, enough to leave room for some anxiety to creep in. She’s not used to paparazzi, not like this. She’ll have fans come up to her and ask for photos, but she’s only been unexpectedly swarmed by the media, like, twice in her life. Sports media is different, expected, reporters asking about games and stats and injuries not really bothering her much anymore. But paparazzi is a whole other thing, slimier, greedier. They don’t want quotes or basketball insigiht—they want messy photos and weird speculation and blurry shots of people leaving clubs at two in the morning.
And Paige especially does not need headlines about leaving the Met Gala with you. It’s not like she’s ashamed or anything; she’d be quite proud to say she got to kiss you, got to fuck you, got to be with you in any capacity. But not to the public, knowing just how much this kind of thing can spiral. One blurry photo turns into ten articles and a hundred TikToks and suddenly, strangers online are deciding the details of your life for you.
She’s still thinking over it when you lean slightly over her shoulder to look out the window, too.
Paige watches your expression carefully, eyes roving over your face. There’s no panic or even really any annoyance, either. There’s just recognition, experience to back it up. It’s obvious that you’ve been dealing with this kind of thing far longer than she has.
You adjust your dress one last time, carefully, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs before scooting over Paige’s lap toward the door. Paige’s hand lands automatically on your hip to help move you over, enjoying the feeling of your waist beneath her palm.
You glance back at her over your shoulder, hand brushing hers on the leather seat for just a moment. “I’ll go first,” you tell her. You pause for a moment, then add pointedly, raising your eyebrows slightly, “We’re just friends, yeah?”
Paige understands the implication that you’re trying to get across. No touching, space between you walking, nothing overly obvious. Just two girls from overlapping industries that became friends and decided to leave the same afterparty together and head back to the same hotel like a thousand other celebrities will be doing tonight.
She lets you take the lead without argument because you clearly know this world better than she does. You’ve done this before, probably hundreds of times over. Paige hasn’t. It only makes sense.
When the car door opens, it’s instant chaos. Flashes explode immediately outside, white hot bursts reflecting against the tinted windows, cameras clicking violently the second you step out onto the curb. Your posture changes so subtly Paige almost misses it. Your shoulders settle, expression smoothing into something calm and unreadable, not giving them implications of anything.
People begin to shout your name, among other things. Questions and comments, desperate attempts to get your attention.
You don’t react much at all, just start walking smoothly toward the entrance, not bothering to acknowledge them or respond.
A second later, Paige follows behind. She shuts the car door, and immediately begins to blink quickly because the cameras are so fucking bright out here. Her head dips, the flashes hitting her eyes hard enough to almost make them water. It’s like being trapped inside lighting strikes. She does the same thing you do, not answering their questions, unresponsive to her own name. She just walks, hyperaware of everything: the distance between you two, the photographers trying to get angles, the sound of shutters snapping nonstop.
It’s only a few feet—just a couple strides with her long legs—to the entrance but it feels far longer under all that attention.
Finally, though, you’re both inside, the hotel doors closing and the noise dulling into something muffled and distant.
Paige exhales slowly, watching them continue to flash through the windows like greedy piranhas hunting their prey. She shakes her head, turning away, still blinking spots out of her vision. “How do you deal with that all the time, bro?” she asks you, a little baffled at the idea of all that being normal.
You shrug lightly, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You get used to it eventually.”
Paige honestly hopes she never does.
This lobby is quiet this late at night, mostly empty except for a few staff members and scattered guests lingering around expensive furniture. Silently, doing your best to be inconspicuous, the two of you walk toward the elevators side by side. You’re close but not obviously close, the tension between you humming anyway.
Paige can still taste you in the back of her throat. Can still feel the shape of your body under hers. Can still imagine your pussy leaking onto her fingers.
And, judging by the way you keep glancing at her mouth every few seconds, she’s pretty sure she’s thinking something along the same lines.
You press the elevator button and the wait feels excruciatingly long, every second stretching, the anticipation making Paige restless in her own skin. It makes things even worse when she catches herself staring at the curve of your legs beneath that tiny dress again and immediately has to look away before she does something stupid in the middle of the hotel lobby.
The elevator doors slide open and Paige genuinely feels relief hit her entire body. You both step inside casually enough, like two people who definitely did not just hook up in the backseat of a car outside the hotel. You press the button for your floor while Paige stands beside you trying not to appear too eager.
The doors begin closing, painfully slow. Paige is irritated—clearly, whoever designed elevators never had urgent situations in mind. She watches the gap narrow inch by inch, heart thudding harder the closer the doors get to shutting completely. The second they click, it’s over.
Whatever tiny bit of restraint either of you had left immediately disappears. You move toward each other at the exact same time like magnets snapping together. Your mouths collide hard enough that Paige stumbles slightly into you, one hand instantly gripping your waist while the other slides down to find purchase on your ass. You gasp softly into her mouth and Paige immediately deepens the kiss, opening her lips against yours, tongue sliding hot and familiar while her body crowds you backwards.
God, she needed this. And she missed this, too, honestly. Even if technically she only had you for one night before this, her body remembers you embarrassingly well. She knows the shape of your waist beneath her hands, the taste of vodka and lip gloss on your mouth, the way you curve into her more and more, molding the two of you together.
Paige backs you against the elevator wall without even thinking about, kissing you harder once you’re pinned there properly.
She stops when you pull away abruptly. You look to your left and mutter, “Oh, fuck,” while a breathless laugh escapes through your lips.
Paige blinks, dazed for half a second before following your gaze downward. When she sees, a groan pulls itself out of her throat. Apparently, when she pushed you up against the wall, your back hit the elevator buttons—several of them. The lit-up numbers stare back at her mockingly, three different floors before your own.
You’re trying not to laugh now, one hand covering your mouth while Paige drops her forehead briefly against your shoulder in defeat. She needed this ride to be quick—this is a dire situation and she absolutely needs you somewhere behind a locked door as soon as possible.
Sighing dramatically, Paige lifts her head again and decides, “Doesn’t matter.”
What’s more important is that right now you’re standing there looking flushed and breathless from kissing her, your hands automatically sliding back around her neck the second she leans in again.
Paige kisses you hard enough to shut the both of you up. One hand stays firmly on your ass while the other cups your jaw, tilting your face exactly how she wants it so she can lick deeper into your mouth. You breathe against her lips, arms looping fully around her neck now, nails scraping lightly against the short hairs there.
The elevator slows and both of you separate instantly, fast enough it’s honestly impressive. Paige clears her throat and tries to look like a normal, mentally sane person while you smooth your hair down beside her. The doors slide open and no one’s there, thank fucking God.
The second they’re shut again, Paige’s hands are on you again. You laugh against her mouth as she kisses you, saying, “You’re so eager.”
You don’t deny that, which earns a smug grin from Paige right before she leans in once more, lips moving slower this time but somehow even hotter, the slick slide of mouths electrifying. Paige can feel herself getting progressively more worked up every second this continues. Her entire body feels as if it’s overheating, restless, too aware of you. Not to mention the fresh pool of slick coating her boxers.
When the elevator stops again, it’s the same thing. You both jump apart slightly, and—again—there’s no one there.
Then again, another stop.
At one point, Paige actually starts laughing against you between kisses because the timing is getting so ridiculous. You just grin back, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
Honest to God, the whole thing is kind of fun. Paige feels like she’s a teenager again, sneaking around. The thrill of getting caught just wounds her up tighter, every interruption twisting that knot in her gut. Every time she has to stop touching you and quickly step back only makes her want to grab you harder the second the doors shut again.
By the end, she’s kissing you almost aggressively, one thigh pushing between yours while your hands clutch at the front of her shirt hard enough to wrinkle it even further. Her lips are probably wrecked by now, and your lipstick is smeared.
The elevator dings one last time, and—finally—it’s your floor.
Paige pulls back enough to look at the glowing number above the doors and actually exhales in relief. You laugh, still breathless, fixing the strap of your dress while the doors open once more. You walk out into the hallway with a purpose, quick without actually rushing, and Paige follows close behind, tethered to you.
The hallway itself is empty, muted and dim, thick carpet swallowing the sound of footsteps. Paige’s head continues to buzz pleasantly from the alcohol and from you and from the fact that she’s about to get you all to herself for real now.
It’s kind of insane for her to actually think about, when her mind pauses just for a moment to go over the information.
A year ago, she’d been fresh off a natty and about to get drafted, overwhelmed and exhausted and standing in your apartment trying not to embarrass herself in front of the celebrity crush she was somehow about to fuck. Now, she’s following you through The Carlyle after the Met Gala with lipstick smeared across her mouth and your taste still on her tongue.
Life is so, so weird sometimes. But Paige thanks God for it every day anyways.
Eventually, you stop outside one of the doors, digging through your purse for the keycard while Paige hovers behind you trying not to stare too obviously at the way your dress hugs your body from behind. The little green light flashes, and then the door clicks open. Something about hearing that lock release makes Paige’s stomach twist hard again. Real privacy, finally.
You step inside first and Paige follows immediately after, pushing the door shut behind her slowly while taking in the room. It’s large, absurdly luxurious just like everything else in this damn hotel. Soft lighting glows warmly across polished marble countertops and cream-colored furniture, giant windows stretching across one side of the room with dark Manhattan glittering outside.
Honestly, though, she barely registers any of it for longer than two seconds. Instead, her brain is wired on you, focused on you standing there before her. And, for the first time all night, nobody’s watching either of you. You’re not in a hallway, or a car, or an elevator. There’s no threats of strangers or drivers or cameras. It’s just you and her and the thick, charged silence stretching between you.
Oddly enough, considering her behavior up until this point, Paige doesn’t pounce immediately. Instead, she slows.
You set your purse down carefully on the marble counter near the entrance, never breaking eye contact with her while you do it, and Paige feels her heartbeat begin to pick up once more, growing erratic.
The eye contact is killing her. You’ve always looked at her so directly, like you’re fully paying attention every single second, locked in. It makes her feel simultaneously cocky and nervous, which is honestly an irritating combination.
Then, you kick your heels off one by one. The sound echoes softly through the room before you start walking backward slowly, grinning just a little. Paige watches you go like she’s in a trance, watches you move closer to the bed with this relaxed confidence that makes her mouth go dry, hungry.
Automatically, she steps farther into the room. Then, she decides to follow your lead. The shoes come off first before she reaches for the buttons of her shirt, undoing them quickly while walking toward you. Most of the work’s already been done from the elevator anyway, thanks to your impatient hands. The shimmering white fabric slides off her broad shoulders easily and Paige lets it drop somewhere onto the floor without bothering to look.
Now, she’s just in the black dress pants and sports bra underneath, the cool air of the hotel room brushing across her skin while your eyes drag slowly across her torso, lingering on her abs. The glitter in your gaze sends heat straight through Paige’s chest, all the way down to her cunt. You’re looking at her like you want to eat her alive, and, trust, the feeling is incredibly mutual.
Finally, she’s close enough again. She reaches out, gripping your jaw and kissing you hard. There’s not teasing anymore and it’s certainly not slow. She’s been waiting to do this properly since she first saw you by the red carpet tonight and every moment since has felt like torturous buildup.
You groan against her mouth, a sound that nearly ruins her on the spot, hands grabbing at her waist while she backs you toward the bed. She barely even realizes what she’s doing until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall onto it with a quiet laugh breaking through the kiss. The blonde follows down instantly, crawling over you without hesitation, knees sinking into the soft mattress on either side of your thighs while she kisses you deeper and deeper, trying to make up for all the time spent having to stop tonight.
Her hands are everywhere: your waist, your thigh, sliding up beneath your hair to tilt your head back exactly how she wants it. Honestly, Paige feels a little drunk on power right now, on how responsive you are beneath her, every breath and sigh and movement going straight to her head.
Suddenly, Paige is being flipped over.
She lets out an involuntary noise of surprise as her back hits the comforter instead, the movement quick enough that she’s barely even processed it before you’re above her. Your hands pin her forearms lightly against the sheets and Paige just stares up at you for a second, slightly stunned.
This is new. Paige is used to being the one in control most of the time. She’s the oldest sibling. She runs point on the court. She’s been the captain of basically every team she’s ever been a part of.
And, with girls, she’s usually the one pinning someone else down, the one hovering and looking smug.
Still, that doesn’t mean she’s complaining right now. Because she absolutely is not. You look like a fucking angel above her, hair falling around your face, cheeks flushed prettily pink, the one silver strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder. Genuinely, Paige thinks you might be the most attractive person she’s ever seen in her life. The realization hits her suddenly that if you asked her to do basically anything right now, she probably would.
You lean down and kiss her again before she can think too hard about that. Paige melts back into it, making a quiet, satisfied sound into your mouth while her jaw works against yours.
God, you kiss good, too, different from her. You’re softer in some ways, while simultaneously somehow more teasing. But still confident enough to make Paige feel slightly insane every time you pull her lower lip between your teeth.
You don’t keep her arms pinned for long. Soon, your hands are moving to her sports bra instead, fingers hooking beneath the fabric before tugging it upward. On instant, Paige lifts her arms automatically to help you pull it off. Your eyes flit down to her now bare chest, hovering for a split second, before returning to her face. Then, you toss the bra somewhere behind you carelessly.
Paige grabs your back then, strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you flush against her body. The sequins and sparkles of your dress scrape slightly rough against her bare chest but she doesn’t even have it in herself to care or hardly notice, focused instead on you, you, you.
Eventually, you pull away from her mouth just enough to trail kisses along the side of her jaw instead, then lower. Paige’s head tips back against the pillows automatically the second your lips make contact with her neck. You drag the tip of your tongue across her sweet spot before sucking the skin into your mouth.
“Mm, yeah,” Paige murmurs quietly. You hum against her skin in response, clearly pleased with the reaction.
One of Paige’s hands tangles into your hair, long fingers spreading along the back your skull as she holds you there. Her other hand slides slowly across the exposed skin of your upper back, above your dress. It’s warm and soft, perfect to run her fingers along.
Every few seconds, your mouth gets a little rougher against her neck, teeth grazing lightly before soothing over the sport with your tongue again. Paige exhales shakily through her nose at the technique, muttering under her breath, “Fuck.”
You laugh a little, a sound that flutters Paige’s stomach slightly, before shifting lower once more. You hover along her collarbones for a few moments, getting closer to her tits but not quite there yet.
Somehow, someway, after all that kissing, your lipstick is still intact enough to leave faint pink marks behind every time you kiss her skin. Paige notices and her pussy pulses because it’s fucking hot. Something about seeing the evidence of you all over her body makes heat spread through her body. Pink lip-shaped marks scattered across her skin—possessive, almost. Pretty.
Slowly, you begin to kiss along the side of one of her small breasts, your curls brushing over Paige’s stomach while she watches you through half-lidded eyes. Then, your mouth wraps around one of her nipples. You circle your tongue around it before sucking, cheeks hollowing out, your eyes glancing up at her while doing so. It’s unfairly attractive.
Paige lets out a low sound, her head tipping back slightly harder against the mattress while her fingers tighten faintly in your hair. She nods once, slow. “Yeah, feels good,” she lets you know lowly.
You release the bud with a small, wet pop before your mouth travels over to her other nipple, lavishing that one instead. At the same time, Paige’s own hands begin to grow impatient. Her fingers move down to the zipper of your dress, toying with the top of it briefly before beginning to pull it downward. She does so slowly, the sound filling the quiet room. As it opens up, Paige’s hands slide lower, too, palms smoothing down your spine inch by inch while more skin gets exposed beneath her touch. The dress loosens more and more until finally the zipper’s all the way down.
Settling her palms against your bare lower back, Paige mumbles, “Sit up for a sec.”
Honestly, she doesn’t particularly want your mouth leaving her chest. But she also desperately needs to see and feel you properly.
You push yourself upright without argument, sitting back on her thighs slightly while Paige slides the one delicate strap off your shoulder. The dress falls beautifully, the glittering fabric slipping down your body until you pull it the rest of the way off yourself, tossing it carelessly somewhere onto the floor.
Paige stares because she can’t help herself. You’re only wearing a tiny white thong underneath, one with a small rose right on the front rather than a bow. Her eyes drag up from there to your perky tits, eyes roving over them as if she’s seeing them for the first time—which, okay, it’s only her second time. Give her a break. Her gaze wanders along your stomach and hips and waist and the side of your ass that she can see.
“Like what you see?” you tease, grinning. A dimple pops through your cheek.
Paige scoffs, still looking at you. “Be serious.”
But Paige barely even gets time to truly appreciate the view because you’re already leaning back down again, prioritizing her instead. Your mouth presses lower now, against rigid plane of her stomach, making Paige’s breathing deepen automatically. It doesn’t help that she’s already worked up enough to feel oversensitive everywhere. You take your time, too, which is both a blessing and a curse. Each kiss is careful, lazy almost, as if you’re memorizing the landscape of her abs with your lips, and Paige finds herself holding her breath when you pause just above the waistband of her pants.
Embarrassingly enough, she can feel her own pulse thrumming under her skin right there, right where your mouth is hovering, deep in her gut. It’s almost ridiculous how badly Paige wants you to just move already. But you don’t. Instead, you look up through your lashes, that stupid, gorgeous grin spreading across your face like you know exactly what you’re doing to her, and your fingers start toying with the button of her dress pants. The metal clinks softly against your nails, and Paige has to physically stop herself from grabbing your wrist and forcing the issue.
“You want them off?” you ask casually, as if you’re asking her if she wants another drink or something equally mundane.
Paige gives you a look and lets out this breathy little laugh that’s tinted with more exasperation than actual amusement. “Obviously,” she replies, voice coming out rough. “Quit teasin’.”
But you just grin wider, that glimmer in your eyes telling her that you’re enjoying this way too much. Then, you shrug one shoulder and finally undo the damn button. The sound of the zipper coming down is loud in the otherwise quiet room, and Paige watches your every move like she’s hypnotized. She lifts her hips, helping you slide the pants down her legs. Her boxers get caught with the fabric, falling right with them.
So, now Paige is fully naked beneath you, spread out against expensive white hotel sheets while you sit between her legs, staring at her bare cunt like it’s something worth admiring. It’s not as if Paige has ever lacked confidence—she knows damn well she’s incredibly attractive, has enough girls telling her that night and day—but this is you. Movie-star-gorgeous you, celebrity-crush you. Even if you’ve seen her once before, you still take the time to look at her as if you can’t get enough. It’s slightly surreal.
You don’t give her time to dwell on it, though, because your mouth is already on her thigh, pressing kisses into the firm muscle there. Paige’s breath hitches when you get closer to where she actually wants you, but you bypass her pussy entirely, kissing along the bone of her hip instead. She lets out a frustrated groan, one that makes you chuckle against her skin. You’re certainly taking your sweet time, knowing full well she’s not going anywhere and that you’ve both got all night. (Paige doesn’t even bother to think about her flight in a few hours.)
Your lipstick is still smearing along her skin slightly—it’s all over her chest and stomach by now, the pink residue that’ll certainly stain the sheets later—but it’s starting to dim a bit, all the kissing having wiped your lips nearly raw.
Then, you look up at her, and the blonde’s heart hammers so hard against her ribs that she’s almost positive you can hear it. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and you lick your lips like you’re hungry. Paige reaches down, her hand moving almost on its own, and she smooths her thumb along your bottom lip, wiping away the last traces of lipstick. The pad of her thumb comes away stained, and she can feel how soft your lips are, how warm.
“Lipstick on my bare pussy probably ain’t the move,” she jokes, the words coming out playful, even though her voice is thick with want.
You laugh, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against her skin, and the next thing she knows, your mouth is on her. And Paige thinks—no, she knows—that she’s about to fucking fall apart like a goddamn china doll.
The last time you two saw each other, you didn’t go down on her. You scissored and then Paige went down on you. So, Paige hasn’t had this particular experience—but she’s really fucking glad she’s about to get it.
The first touch of your tongue is tentative, almost experimental, like you’re testing the waters, and Paige inhales sharply through her teeth. You’re warm, so warm, and the sensation is so sudden and intense that her hips buck involuntarily, chasing the contact. It’s exactly what she’s needed after being wet for God knows how long. You smile against her and then do it again, a long, slow drag from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit.
Paige’s hand flies down to tangle in your hair once more, breathing out, “Fuck.”
You’re good at this. Like, really good. Paige isn’t completely sure if it’s your skill or the fact that she’s been needing this for hours now, but every move you make seems specifically designed to wreck her. Your tongue circles her clit in slow, figure-eight patterns, applying just the right amount of pressure, and when you suck gently on it, her back arches. She can hear the sounds she’s making—a couple groans here and there, mostly breathy little noises that she’d be embarrassed about if she had any brain function left—but all she can focus on is the wet heat of your mouth and the way your fingers are digging into the flesh and muscle of her thighs, spreading her open for you.
“That’s good?” you mumble against her, the words muffled but still audible. The vibration of your voice sends a shiver through her entire body.
“Yeah,” Paige manages, her voice strangled. “Yeah, keep—fuck—keep doin’ that. Like, right there.”
You listen, which is good, because if you stopped right now, Paige might actually combust. Your tongue moves faster, more insistent, and she can feel herself getting wetter, can see the slickness coating your lips and chin as you work her over. It’s messy and obscene and so fucking good, and Paige can’t stop the way her hips start rolling against your mouth, chasing the pleasure, riding your face like she’s been starving for this.
And maybe she has been. Maybe she’s been starving for the way you moan against her, the sound vibrating through her sensitive pussy, for the way you look up at her with those pretty eyes even as you’re buried between her thighs. She wants to tell you how good you’re making her feel, wants to praise you, but the words get lost somewhere between her brain and mouth, coming out as nothing more than broken moans and half-formed curses.
“You’re so—” she cuts herself off with a gasp when you flick your tongue just right, and her grip on your hair tightens, pulling you closer. “So fuckin’ good at that, baby.”
The endearment slips out before she can stop it, but you don’t seem to mind—if anything, you hum against her, the sound sending sparks up her spine. You begin to double down on your efforts, your tongue delving deeper, tasting her, sucking sloppily. Paige can feel the pressure building, coiling low in her belly, and she knows she’s close, knows she’s teetering on that edge.
She wants to give you something, wants to tell you how incredible you look like this, naked except for that flimsy white long that’s probably soaked through by now, with her arousal all over your face. She wants to say something witty or charming or anything, like she usually does, but she’s so fucking gone for you that the only thing that comes out is a desperate, breathless, “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”
You don’t. Instead, you thrust your tongue up into her once before pulling it out and laying it flat, shaking your head against her pussy. And then you suck her clit fully into your mouth, teeth scraping along it.
A shockwave flits through Paige’s already-overloaded system. “I’mma cum,” she gasps, raw. “God, I’mma fucking cum on that pretty face.”
She watches you nod, just once, your eyes never leaving hers, and that’s all the permission she needs.
It hits her like a wave, building from that tight knot and exploding outward, radiating through her thighs and her stomach and her chest until she’s pretty sure she’s seeing stars. Her hips buck against your mouth, riding it out, breathing loudly. You stay there, working her through it, your tongue slowing down but not stopping, gentling her through the aftershocks until she’s trembling, until she’s completely and utterly spent.
She slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut as she tries to remember how to breathe. Her whole body feels like it’s made of static and warmth, every nerve ending alight and satisfied, and she’s pretty sure she’s smiling—this goofy, fucked-out smile—because she can feel the apples of her cheeks aching from it. She feels you press a couple along her folds, just soft and sweet, before you start crawling up her body, your mouth trailing back along her stomach and up between her tits and finally to her face.
She opens her eyes when she feels you hovering close, and the sight of you nearly knocks the air out of her again. You’re beautiful—which, you always are—but right now, with your lips swollen and slick, your chin a little wet, your eyes satisfied and soft, you look like something straight out of a movie—but fucking better.
Paige’s hand comes up to cup your jaw, her thumb stroking along your cheekbone. “C’mere.”
You lean closer without hesitation. When she drags her tongue lightly along your chin, tasting the tang of herself on your skin, you let out this tiny hum that goes straight to her gut. She cleans you up carefully, savoring the way you shiver under her touch, and then she’s on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tasting your tongue, the mix of her arousal and your lip gloss and something that’s just inherently you. You hum again, into her mouth, a low and satisfied sound and Paige feels her heart clench sweetly in her chest.
She wants to give you everything.
She wants to give you the world, wants to spend hours making you feel as good as you just made her feel, wants to learn every single sound you can make and every single spot that makes you gasp and every single way your body moves when you’re lost in pleasure. Her legs might be a little sore and her chest is still pounding slightly, but she doesn’t care, because you’re looking at her like she’s something special right now.
So, she rolls you over carefully, gently, until she’s in a more familiar position on top. She hovers above you, her arms—stronger and bigger than the last time she saw you—caging you in, your bodies pressing together from chest to hip. You look up at her with those gorgeous eyes, your tangled curls fanned out against the pillow, your lips parted and glossy, and Paige has to take a second just to look at you.
She dips her head down, capturing your mouth again, and the two of you just make out for a while, slow and languid and unhurried, gathering energy back. It’s just the slide of lips and tongues and teeth along with the occasional soft laugh when one of you pulls back to breathe and ends up getting pulled right back in. Paige’s hand drifts down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the soft skin of your stomach. She can feel you shiver under her touch, can feel the way you arch into her like you want more.
Trust, she’s about to give a whole lot more.
Her fingertips skim over the waistband of that tiny white thong, and she pauses, her mouth still on yours, her breath mingling with yours. She ghosts her hand over the fabric, just barely making contact. You tense beneath her, your hips twitching up slightly, seeking pressure. The lace is soft under her fingers, a little damp, and the thought of that, of you getting wet while you got her off, sends a pulse of heat right back to Paige’s own core.
“Now who’s teasing?” you say, shifting beneath Paige’s too-light touch.
She grins against your lips this time. “Me.”
You roll your eyes and then Paige’s fingers ghost along the thin fabric of your thong one more time, her knuckles brushing against the curve of your hip as she feels the heat radiating off your skin. It’s like you’re already burning for her, and God, that does something to her chest, makes her pulse kick up a notch. She decides what she wants then, how she wants you. She leans in, pressing a peck to your lips.
“Turn onto your stomach,” she tells you against your mouth.
She watches your eyes flicker with something between curiosity and submission before you shift beneath her, rolling over onto your belly with a fluidity that makes Paige think of silk sliding off a bed. She stays still for a moment, just looking at you—the way your cheek presses into the pillow, how your shoulders relax as you settle, the long line of your spine curving down to the swell of your hips. She leans down to press a kiss against your cheek that’s facing up, her lips brushing skin softly. You nuzzle into it like a cat seeking warmth, and she lets herself stay there for a second longer, breathing in the scent of your perfume and the faint hint of sweat from the night.
When she pulls away, her gaze shifts down, tracing the dip of your lower back, the tiny scrap of white fabric between your ass—so impractical and yet fucking sexy, enough that Paige feels her mouth go dry. She crawls down your body, her knees sinking into the mattress as she smooths both hands along your back, feeling the muscles shift under your skin. Then, she squeezes your ass firmly, fingers digging into the flesh just enough to make you let out a soft exhale. She presses a kiss to one of your cheeks there, her lips parting against the skin before pulling back.
She says it, simple and direct, because she knows you’ll listen, “Ass up, yeah?”
You do it, lifting your hips off the bed, arching your back until you’re on your knees, your chest still pressed against the sheets. Paige settles behind you, thighs bracketing yours, her breath hot against the exposed skin of your inner thighs. She hooks her thumb under the string of your thong and pulls it to the side, watching the fabric stretch and snap back against your skin.
Finally leaning in, she drags her tongue along your cunt in one long, flat stroke, from the bottom all the way up to your clit, tasting you. It’s the same sweet and tangy flavor she remembers from last year, like a memory she’s been saving in the back of her mouth, and she hums low in her throat, satisfied.
You let out a slow, shaky breath, and Paige can see your shoulders rise and fall, can see your fingers curl into the sheets. She pulls away for a second, her mouth glistening, before she spits on her middle and ring fingers, letting the saliva drip down her knuckles. She rubs the tips of the digits against your clit for a moment before moving down and slowly pushing both fingers inside you, stretching you open. She leans over your back so her bare chest presses against your shoulder blades, and she feels you clench and pulse around her. She’s careful and waits a moment, giving you a second to adjust, to breathe, to let the sensation settle.
You whimper, a soft sound that makes Paige’s stomach flip, and she sees the flush creeping along your cheek, spreading down your neck. She presses a kiss there, right behind your ear, murmuring against your skin, “Relax. Lemme feel you.”
And you do—you relax, your body going soft around her fingers. She starts pumping them inside you in a slow, steady rhythm before she begins to speed up, going faster and harder, the sound of it wet and obscene. She can feel you growing slicker, can feel it coating her hand, and she presses her thumb against your perineum, grinding down as she fucks you with her fingers, her wrist working in that practiced way she’s perfected.
“Fuck, I wish I had my strap here,” Paige says roughly without even really thinking, because she was thinking about that in particular. She just knows you would be perfect with it; she wishes she could see it. She watches as your hips buck back against her hand as she shifts her angle, hitting that gummy spot inside you that makes your breath catch. “I’d fuck you with it so good, ma. Make you take it deep, make you feel it in your throat, in your gut—know you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d love that shit, feelin’ me stretch you open.”
You moan now, a guttural sound that vibrates through your chest, and Paige feels a grin tug at her lips as she fucks you faster, harder, her fingers curling inside you in a come hither motion, dragging along your walls until you’re trembling, until your legs are shaking and you’re pressing your face into the pillow to muffle your sounds.
“You’re so warm, feel so good,” Paige murmurs, nose pressing against the back of your neck, breathing in your scent.
“Paige,” you strangle out, sounding wrecked. She just hums, feeling your walls starting to flutter around her, that telltale squeeze that means you’re close. Suddenly, she realizes that she wants to see your face—needs to see your face when you cum.
So, she pulls her fingers out with a wet sound, ignoring your whimper of protest. She grabs your hip, flipping you onto your back. You land with a soft noise, your hair splayed every which way across the pillow, your chest heaving and shiny, a sheen of sweat glistening between your pretty tits. Paige sees that look in your eyes—dazed, needy, full of want—and she lets herself take a second just to look at you, all spread out and desperate for her, before she hooks her fingers into the sides of your thong and pulls it down your legs, tossing it somewhere onto the floor with the rest of the clothes.
Now, you’re completely bare, and Paige gets a good view of your pussy. It shines with slick, pink and flushed, and your thighs are parted, your hips tilted up as if asking for more. She can’t help but lean down, spitting directly onto your clit. The saliva pools on your skin, and then she uses the flat of her hand to rub it in, spreading your wetness around in a motion that makes you gasp. She watches your face, sees your eyes close, sees your lips part, and she thrusts her fingers back inside you—two of them, then three, pushing into you with a wet, slick sound.
“Tha’s it,” she encourages lowly, her eyes locked onto your scrunched expression as she finger fucks you. “Cum on my fingers, you got it, squeeze me dry. C’mon, baby—look at me. Wanna see your face when you do.”
Paige is sweating too now, her wrist aching slightly as she finds that rhythm again, fast and deep, her thumb pressing against your clit in tight circles. The sound of her fingers moving inside you is obscene, a wet, sloppy echo that drives her nearly insane. She watches your mouth fall open, watches your brows draw together, watches your chest arch off the bed as you gasp. She knows it’s building, knows you’re right there, so she leans down and sucks your clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking against the hood while her fingers curl inside you, and then she feels you break.
Your orgasm hits so hard your body tries to arch off the bed, jerking and trembling around her hand, and Paige keeps her mouth on you, her fingers moving, drawing every last pulse of pleasure out of you until your thighs clamp around her head and you let out a long, breathless cry that flutters out into a quiet moan. She slows her fingers, gentles them, until you’re twitching with overstimulation, and then she pulls out slowly, digits slick and shiny in the dim light. She brings them to her mouth, licking them clean as she watches you try to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven movements.
Afterward, Paige crawls up over you and stays draped there for a long while, as if she’s forgotten how to exist any other way. Her whole body feels loose and overheated, pleasantly heavy with exhaustion, and she can feel your heartbeat beneath where her cheek is pressed against your chest, slowing now compared to what it was earlier. The room is almost unbearably warm at this point, thick with heat that can only come from two people spending hours tangled under blankets and in each other. Paige barely even cares, though, because you’re soft underneath her and your fingers are lazily combing through her hair—still extra long with extensions—nails scratching lightly there every couple seconds in a way that makes her feel almost sedated.
Paige leans up and kisses you softer now than she has all night, little lingering kisses against your mouth and jaw and cheek. She knows she got kind of rough earlier, got carried away in the way she always tends to when she’s really into someone. And she is really into you, which is becoming increasingly impossible for her to just ignore.
You hum quietly every time she kisses you, arms wrapping lazily around her neck while she settled more of her weight over your body, skin against skin. Your legs are tangled together beneath white sheets that are honestly probably ruined now.
Eventually, though, you let out a groan, pulling away and pushing weakly at her shoulder. “Oh, my God,” you complain, voice scratchy and tired. “It’s so fucking hot in here. I’m sweating.”
Paige immediately makes a low noise of protest and just presses another lazy kiss against your mouth anyway, because, honestly, if she could physically crawl into your skin right now, she probably would. “It’s not even that bad,” she lies, despite the fact that there’s sweat cooling along her spine and her hair is damp against the back of her neck. She thinks she desperately needs either a fan or a cold shower or maybe both.
You just stare at her for a second as if she’s genuinely insane before you laugh under your breath, your hands settling against her bare, broad shoulders. “You’re just clingy,” you tell her, amused.
Instantly, Paige feels her face flush in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with temperature, cheeks tinting pink. “No, I’m not,” she denies automatically, even though she’s currently laying almost her full weight on top of you like a giant blonde furnace.
“Paige,” you say, just grinning, amused, “you’re literally attached to me right now.”
She opens her mouth to defend herself again before realizing there’s no actual argument she can make here, so instead she just shrugs a little against you and mutters, “I just like you,” into your skin.
The second the words leave her mouth, she almost wants to bury her face in a pillow and die a little bit, because Jesus Christ. She’s twenty-four years old, not sixteen, and yet somehow admitting that she likes a girl still makes her feel stupidly nervous, especially when the girl in question is you. You, who she truthfully hardly even knows beyond afterparties with alcohol and two nights of good sex. You, who she’s seen in countless movies and interviews and red carpets. You, who somehow looks even prettier now than you did stepping into the Met earlier tonight in that beautiful watercolor dress. There’s a split second where she thinks maybe she said too much, maybe it sounds just idiotic because this is only the second time the two of you have hooked up, but then your expression changes, softening in this way that makes something ache pleasantly in her chest.
“I like you, too, superstar,” you murmur, your thumb brushing absentmindedly along her shoulder.
Paige genuinely has to fight not to smile too hard at that stupid nickname. It’s ridiculous, honestly. If there’s a superstar between the two of you, it’s very obviously you. You’re the one starring in billion-dollar movies and attending the Met Gala every year and sitting next to Anne Hathaway at dinner like it’s normal. Paige just plays basketball. Okay, she plays basketball very well, but still.
For a little while after that, neither of you says much. You just kiss slowly, lazily, your mouths barely parting before coming together again, and Paige settles more comfortably against you despite your earlier complaints about the heat because she genuinely cannot stop touching you. Her hand smooths up and down your side absentmindedly beneath the sheets while the city glows outside the massive windows beside the bed, New York slowly shifting from black to that deep bluish-gray that means morning is creeping closer.
At some point, you mumble, “What time is it?” against her lips, and Paige immediately groans because she forgot time existed entirely, which probably means the answer is going to ruin her night.
She reaches blindly toward the nightstand for her phone before remembering she left it in her pants, which are currently somewhere in the pile of discarded clothes scattered across your hotel floor. Muttering “fuck” under her breath, she forces herself out of bed, immediately feeling the cooler air against her overheated skin as she digs through the mess until she finds her phone in the pocket of her dress pants.
The second the screen lights up, Paige nearly recoils. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me,” she mutters.
“What?” you ask sleepily from the bed, propped up slightly on your elbows now while watching her with messy curls and swollen lips and absolutely no business looking that good at four-thirty in the morning.
Paige glances back at you with genuine despair. “It’s already four-thirty.”
“Yeah,” Paige says, rubbing a hand down her face dramatically, “and my flight’s at eight.”
Which means she has to leave for the airport ridiculously soon, which means this night is already ending, which honestly is just unfair considering it feels like she only just got you back, and she won’t even be able to sleep at all. The reality of everything starts crashing down on her all at once after that—the flight back to Dallas, preseason, practice, media obligations, real life waiting outside this room—and suddenly she feels this deep reluctance settle in her chest at the idea of getting dressed and walking out of here. Because the truth is, she doesn’t just want the sex from you anymore, even if the sex is obviously incredible. She likes talking to you, likes the way you tease her, likes the way you look at her when she says something stupid and the way you touch her like you already know her better than you probably should.
You must notice something change in her expression because your face softens slightly as you ask, quieter this time, “You really have to go that soon?”
Paige sighs hard through her nose before walking back toward the bed. “Yeah,” she admits. “Kinda have to be at the airport in like… an hour and a half.”
“That’s disgusting,” you tell her immediately, making her laugh despite herself.
“Right? Evil scheduling, bro.”
You smile a little at that, and for a second Paige just stands there staring at you sitting in the middle of the bed wrapped up in white sheets, your makeup smudged, your curls messy, looking softer and more real than she’s maybe ever seen you. Then, before she can overthink it, she climbs back onto the mattress and reaches for her phone again. “Okay,” she says, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. “Lemme get your number this time, forreal.”
That makes you smile instantly, this warm sleepy smile that reaches all the way into your eyes. “Yeah?” you ask.
“Yeah,” Paige replies. “I feel like it’d be pretty dumb of me not to.”
You hold your hand out for the phone and she gives it to you without hesitation, watching while you type your contact in. Paige notices stupid details while you do it, like the chipped silver polish still left on your nails from the gala, the way your bottom lip tucks slightly between your teeth when you’re concentrating. When you hand the phone back, your name sits there in her contacts, and she catches herself smiling down at the screen before locking it again.
“You better actually text me,” you tell her.
Paige scoffs softly, climbing back into bed beside you. “You sayin’ that like I wouldn’t.”
“Well,” you say, shifting closer immediately when she opens her arm for you, “you did disappear for a year.”
Paige snorts, “You said you would be in Dallas all summer. You weren’t in Dallas.”
The two of you end up laying there together for almost another hour anyway, despite the fact that Paige absolutely should be leaving, because every time she thinks about getting up and putting clothes back on and stepping out into the real world again, you curl closer against her and she loses all motivation entirely. By the time the sky outside finally starts turning pale blue, Paige is half awake with your head tucked beneath her chin, one of your legs tangled with hers beneath the sheets while your fingers trace lazy patterns against her stomach. And maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, or the lingering softness of the night, or the fact that she hasn’t slept hardly at all within the last forty-eight hours and her emotions feel weirdly close to the surface, but Paige thinks, very suddenly and very clearly, that she really hopes this isn’t the last time she wakes up next to you.
