RPG's Explosion @nsfwrpg - Tumblr Blog

Over and Over

Jenna Ortega x m!reader

word count: 16k

commissioned fic

The script rests in your lap. Several pages are creased at the corners, evidence of how many times you've flipped back to the same three lines. Around you, the bedroom set hums with a half-awake energy. Crew members wander between light stands and camera rigs, some checking cables, others returning with fresh cups of coffee. The overhead lights are dimmed to mimic the soft warmth of early morning.

You murmur the dialogue to yourself, rolling the words around your mouth to feel their rhythm. You're trying to figure out where the emotion lives, where the line is supposed to land.

“Hey.”

You look up. Jenna stands a few feet away, wrapped in a white robe, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders. One hand is tucked casually into the robe’s pocket as she nods toward the far end of the set, away from the monitors and the small cluster of crew.

“Got a minute?”

Jenna Ortega asking if you have a minute... Still hard to wrap your head around everything going on in your life right now. And yeah, for her, you’ve got all the time in the world.

You close the script and follow her past a rack of wardrobe bags to a quieter corner near the props table. She leans her hip against it and crosses her arms, looking at you.

"So I've been going over the scene," she starts, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth for a second. "And I don't know. Some of the dialogue feels off. Like it doesn't match who these people are."

You nod slowly, because you've had the same itch. "The argument?"

"Yeah." She shifts her weight. "They just spent the night together for the first time. That's huge for both of them. And then she's supposed to ask him where they stand and he's supposed to get defensive and they go back and forth and it turns into this whole thing? It feels... loud. These two aren't loud people."

She's right. You've felt it every time you've read through the scene. The dialogue pushes too hard, forces the tension instead of letting it breathe. You lean against the wall beside the table and cross your arms, mirroring her without thinking about it.

"What are you thinking instead?"

Jenna straightens up, and you can see the gears turning. "Okay, so. She asks the question. The big one. And your character… he doesn't argue. He just... hesitates. She sees it. She reads everything she needs to in that pause. And instead of fighting about it, she just gets quiet. Gets up. Starts picking up her clothes off the floor." She mimes it with one hand. "No yelling, no dramatic exit. Just disappointment."

You picture it: the silence filling the room, the rustle of fabric, the way the camera could hold on your character's face as he watches her pull away. It's better. It's significantly better.

"That's a really good call," you tell her. This is one of those moments where you remember exactly who you're working with. She's been doing this since she was a kid, but it's not just experience, she gets people. Gets how they move through pain.

Her face lights up. "Yeah? You think so?"

"I think it's going to hit way harder than what's on the page."

She reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezing it once. "Don't say anything to the team. Let's just do it. I want to see their faces."

You squeeze back. "Deal."

"Places in five, everyone!" The AD's call cuts through the ambient noise and Jenna drops your hand, already moving back toward the set with that energy she gets right before a take; contained, electric, every part of her brain clicking into gear.

You follow, heart thumping a little faster than you'd like to admit. Not nerves, exactly. More like awareness. Of the scene, of the bed sitting under those warm lights, of what the next twenty minutes are going to require from both of you.

The robes come off at the edge of the set. You shrug yours onto a chair and you're down to your boxer briefs. Jenna unties hers and lets it slide off her shoulders, and she's in a simple black bra and matching underwear. She folds the robe neatly, hands it to a PA, and pads barefoot to the bed without a trace of self-consciousness. You climb in on the other side.

"Okay, let's get you two closer," the director says from behind the monitor. "This is the morning after. I want to feel the intimacy. Jenna, curl into him. Yeah, like that."

She shifts across the mattress and presses herself against your side, her head finding the space between your shoulder and your chest. Her palm flattens over your sternum. Under the blankets, which the crew pulls up to cover you both from the stomach down, her bare legs tangle loosely with yours.

"What if he's playing with my hair?" Jenna says, not lifting her head. "Like absent-minded.”

"Love it. Do that," the director tells you.

You bring your hand up and thread your fingers into her hair, slow, gentle, letting the dark strands slip through and fall. Her scalp is warm beneath your fingertips. She makes a small sound of approval and settles deeper against you.

"Rolling."

"Speed."

"And... action."

The room goes still. You keep stroking her hair, staring up at the ceiling the way your character would, caught somewhere between contentment and dread. Jenna shifts against you, her thumb tracing a slow circle on your chest. She lets the silence stretch. Then: "I keep thinking about what happens when we leave this room."

You don't answer right away. Your fingers pause in her hair, just for a beat, then continue. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." She lifts her head enough to look at you, her chin resting on your chest, those dark eyes searching your face. "Last night wasn't nothing. At least it wasn't nothing to me."

"It wasn't nothing to me either."

"Then what was it?"

"Tess..."

"Don't do that. Don't say my name like you're about to let me down easy."

"I'm not trying to let you down."

"Then talk to me. Just talk to me like a normal person for five seconds." She pushes up onto her elbow, and the blanket slips a little, and she's looking at you with this raw, open expression that makes your character want to run and stay in equal measure.

You exhale through your nose. Your hand drops from her hair to the pillow beside your head. "What's happening with me right now… the stuff I'm dealing with… it's not safe. Not for anyone close to me. And you being here, being this close, it makes you a target. I can't do that to you."

"That's not your decision to make."

"Yeah, it is. Because I'm the one who'd have to live with it if something happened to you."

She holds your gaze. The silence stretches between you, and this is the moment - the improvisation. You watch something shift behind her eyes. Acceptance laced with hurt. She doesn't argue. She doesn't push. She just looks at you for a long, quiet second. Then she nods, and that's when you feel it.

Under the blankets, hidden from every camera angle and every pair of eyes in the room, Jenna's hand slides down from your chest. Dragging across your stomach, fingernails trailing lightly over your skin, slipping past the waistband of your boxers.

Her fingers wrap around your cock.

Your entire body locks up. Every muscle, every nerve, every rational thought frozen. She's holding you, her grip soft but certain, her thumb brushing along the underside of your shaft, and she hasn't broken character. Not even a flicker. Her expression is still that quiet devastation, still that resigned hurt, and she's stroking you, a long slow pull from base to tip that sends heat flooding through your entire lower body.

"So that's it?" she asks, and her tone is steady, wounded, perfectly calibrated. "You're just going to push me away and pretend this didn't mean anything?"

You have to speak. There's a camera three feet from your face and a boom mic above your head and the director is watching on the monitor and you have to speak.

"It meant everything." Your throat is tight. You're not sure how much of that is acting. Her hand squeezes gently around your shaft and slides back down, agonizingly slow, her palm warm and dry against your skin. You're hardening in her grip, blood rushing south so fast it makes your head swim. "That's exactly why I can't do this."

"Can't or won't?" She looks down at her own hand on your chest, the one that's visible, the one that's part of the scene, and then back up at you. Underneath the covers, her other hand keeps its rhythm, steady and unhurried, her fingers tightening just enough on each upstroke to make your pulse stutter.

"Does it matter?" You manage to keep your expression composed. Barely. Your hand grips the sheet beside your hip. She runs her thumb across the tip of your cock and you feel yourself twitch against her palm, fully hard now, and the effort it takes to keep your breathing even is monumental.

"It matters to me," she says softly. Her ring finger traces a line along the ridge of your head, back and forth, feather-light and devastating. "It matters a lot, actually."

"Tess. Please."

She searches your face for another long beat. Her fingers tighten around your shaft, a slow squeeze that travels upward, and she doesn't look away from you. Not for a second. The cameras are rolling. The crew is silent. And Jenna Ortega is holding your cock under the sheets as if this is completely routine.

"Do you love me?"

Her eyes are glassy, and you're not sure anymore where Jenna ends and Tess begins, because the look on her face is so raw, so open, that it pins you in place. Your character hesitates. You hesitate. Her thumb traces a circle just below the head of your cock, and you feel the words snag in your throat.

"You know I do."

"Then say it."

"I love you, Tess. You know that. You've always known that."

"So you love me, but you can't be with me."

"Not right now. Not with everything that's going on. It would put you at risk and I can't stomach that."

"And what about what I can stomach? What about what I want?" She pushes up onto her elbow, and there's a tremor in her chin that reads perfectly on camera. "You don't get to make that choice for both of us."

"I already made it."

You keep your gaze on the ceiling because if you look at her you're going to break, and your character can't break. Not here. Her hand releases your cock, and the sudden absence of her touch is almost worse than the contact itself. Your skin feels cold where she was. She sits up slowly. The blanket pools at her waist. She doesn't say anything else. She doesn't need to. Every single thing she's feeling is written across her face in a language more articulate than any script could manage.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed. Bends down. Picks up the jeans from the floor, the t-shirt draped over the back of the chair. She dresses with her back to you, pulling the shirt over her head, stepping into the jeans, and the quietness of it, the economy of her movements, is amazing.

She pauses at the door. Doesn't turn around. Her shoulders rise and fall with one long breath. Then she walks out, and the door clicks shut behind her.

"Cut."

The silence holds for another beat. Then the director exhales audibly from behind the monitor.

"What the hell was that?"

You brace yourself. Your pulse is hammering for about four different reasons, and you're lying very still under the blankets, acutely aware that your cock is still rigid against your stomach.

"That wasn't the script," the director continues, stepping around the monitor. He's not angry. He's got that look, the one he gets when something clicks into place. "That was better than the script. The exit, the silence, the way she just... left. Jesus. That was beautiful. Both of you."

A few crew members murmur in agreement. Someone claps twice.

"Alright, let's check the playback. Great work, everyone. Reset for scene fourteen."

The crew starts moving. Lights shift. Equipment gets repositioned. The director turns to you, still in bed.

"You coming?"

"I'm going to, uh." You adjust the pillow behind your head. "I'll be a minute. Just want to sit with the scene for a second."

He buys it, nods, moves on. Across the set, past a cluster of PAs reviewing their tablets, Jenna is pulling her robe back on. She catches your eye. Her gaze drops to the blankets bunched at your waist, then back to your face, and the smirk that curls across her mouth is pure, undiluted mischief. She knows exactly why you're not getting up.

She turns away, still smirking, and disappears around the corner. You lie there for another three minutes, thinking about absolutely anything else until your body cooperates.

This isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you signed on to co-star in a movie with Jenna.

Six months ago, you were performing in a ninety-seat theater, sweating under rented lights, splitting a dressing room with three other actors and a broken radiator. You were good. But good doesn't always mean visible, and visibility is the currency that matters in this industry. A casting director saw your tape. Then a callback. Then a chemistry read. Then a phone call from your agent that made you sit down on the edge of your bed and stare at the wall for ten minutes straight.

You're in a feature film. A real one, with a real budget and a real director and a theatrical release date. And your co-star is Jenna Ortega, Hollywood actress, who just wrapped her fingers around your cock on a film set and stroked you while delivering a monologue that will probably end up in the trailer.

She's talented in a way that makes you want to work harder. She has this instinct for what a scene needs, a precision that looks effortless. You've watched her between takes, the way she recalibrates, the way she listens to direction and then filters it through her own understanding of the character. She's the real deal.

The problem is, she's also decided that you're her new favorite toy.

It started subtle. A lingering glance during blocking. A hand on your arm. Comments delivered with a tilt of her head and a warmth in her tone that made your neck hot. You thought she was just being friendly. That this was how she worked, building chemistry, establishing rapport. Actors do that.

But actors don't usually jerk you off during a take.

So that's where you are now, pacing outside her trailer three hours later, running your tongue along the inside of your teeth, trying to figure out how to have this conversation without sounding like an idiot.

You knock.

"It's open."

You step inside. The trailer is small but nice, warm lighting, a couch along one wall, a vanity cluttered with makeup and half-empty water bottles. Jenna is sitting cross-legged on the couch in an oversized hoodie and shorts, a cigarette between her fingers, a thin curl of smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

"Hey,'' she says casually.

You close the door behind you. "What was that?"

"What was what?" She brings the cigarette to her lips, takes a slow drag, and watches you through the haze.

"During the scene, Jenna. Your hand. On me. In front of the entire crew."

She tilts her head. "Did it bother you?"

"That's not the point. You did that while we were rolling. If anyone had seen, if the blanket had shifted, if someone checked the angle on playback..."

"But they didn't."

"That's not the point either."

"Okay, so what's the point?" She taps ash into a ceramic tray on the armrest and looks at you with curiosity, like she really wants to know, like this is all a perfectly reasonable conversation.

"The point is you can't just do that. We're at work. There are cameras, there are people, this is a professional set."

"You liked it."

"Jenna."

"You did. Don't stand there and act like you didn't. You were hard in about ten seconds, and by the end you were leaking." She takes another drag, letting the smoke fill her cheeks before releasing it in a slow, thin stream directly into your face. You don't step back. She stubs the cigarette out, grinding it into the tray with a twist of her wrist. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"That's just a physical response. It doesn't mean anything."

"That's such bullshit, dude." She uncrosses her legs and leans forward. "I've seen the way you look at me. Between takes. During rehearsals. When you think I'm not paying attention. You're so fun to mess with because you try so hard to pretend you're not into it."

You're standing two feet from her and the smoke still lingers between you, warm and bitter. "Is that what this is? You're just messing with me? Is that all I am, entertainment?"

"What's wrong with you? Obviously not." She stands up from the couch in one fluid motion, closing the distance between you before you can recalibrate. The top of her head barely reaches your chin. But she grabs the front of your shirt with both fists and pulls you down until your faces are inches apart. "I want so much more than that."

"I don't know if I believe you.”

“Then let me prove it.”

She kisses you. You definitely weren't expecting that.

Her mouth is warm and tastes like cigarettes, and for a second you don't move. Your brain is still catching up, still processing the shift from confrontation to contact, and then something clicks into place and your hands come up to hold her face. Your palms cup her jaw, thumbs resting on her cheekbones, and you kiss her back. She makes a soft sound against your lips, pleased, encouraging, and you walk her backward toward the small bed at the back of the trailer. Her knees hit the edge and she sits, then lies back, pulling you down with her by the shirt. You brace yourself above her, one hand on the mattress beside her head, and she looks up at you with those dark eyes and grins.

"Took you long enough."

"We're in the middle of a movie, Jenna. This could blow up in both our faces."

"Nobody has to find out. This stays between us." She runs her fingers along the back of your neck, nails scratching lightly through your hair. "Our thing. That's it."

She pulls you down again and kisses you, slower and deeper. Her lips part and her tongue slides against yours, and then she sucks on it gently, drawing it into her mouth with a wet pull that makes your stomach clench. You feel her smile around it.

"Do you like me?" she asks against your mouth, her breath warm on your lips.

"I don't know."

She kisses you again, quick and biting. "Liar. That's fine. I like you. I like you a lot, actually. And I know you like me too, you're just too scared to say it out loud." Her thumb traces your jawline. "I think it's cute, honestly. The whole shy thing. Very endearing."

"Fuck you. I'm not shy."

"Sure you're not."

You kiss her again, harder now, and she responds immediately, her body arching up into yours, her legs parting so you settle between them. Your hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, fingers tracing the strip of bare skin between her hoodie and her shorts. She's warm everywhere, and small beneath you in a way that makes you hyperaware of every point of contact. Her hands slip under your shirt, palms flat against your stomach, traveling up over your ribs. You pull back to look at her. Her lips are swollen and slick, a thin line of saliva connecting your mouths for a split second before it breaks. Her cheeks are flushed. She's breathing faster.

Three sharp knocks on the trailer door.

You both freeze.

"Jenna? It's Laura."

Her agent. Jenna's eyes go wide and she pushes at your chest. You roll off her instantly, standing up and stepping back, grabbing your phone from your pocket, unlocking it, pretending to scroll. Jenna sits up, swipes the back of her hand across her chin where a faint sheen of spit glistens, smooths her hair down with both palms, and pulls the hoodie straight.

"Yeah, come in!"

The door opens and Laura steps inside, tablet in hand, reading glasses pushed up onto her forehead. She glances at you, then at Jenna, and doesn't seem to register anything unusual. "Hey, sorry, didn't know you had company. I need to go over the press schedule for next week, they moved the junket up two days."

"Oh, great." Jenna's tone is perfectly, terrifyingly normal. "Yeah, let's go through it."

You hold up your phone, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "I'll get out of your hair. We can pick up that conversation later."

Jenna looks at you. There's nothing in her expression that Laura would catch, nothing overt, nothing suspicious. But you see it. That flicker in her eyes. That knowing heat.

"Yeah," she says. "We'll definitely finish that conversation."

You nod at Laura on your way out, step down from the trailer, and pull the door shut behind you. The afternoon air hits your face and you stand there for a second with your hand still on the railing, your pulse hammering in your ears and the taste of cigarette smoke still coating your tongue.

—

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand around eleven. You're sitting up in bed with the script open on your lap, highlighter in hand, trying to focus on tomorrow's scenes. The screen lights up with her name.

can i come over?

You stare at it for a second. Then the next one arrives.

i want to finish our conversation

You type back quickly: It's late. We filmed all day. You should rest

i want to talk about the script too. i have ideas for scene 22

You seriously doubt that. You set the phone down and go back to the script, but it buzzes again almost immediately.

pleaseeee. i'll be quick i promise

Then another.

unless you don't want me to be quick ;)

She's relentless. You know if you say no she'll just keep texting, and to be honest, part of you doesn't actually want to say no.

Fine. I'll be waiting

omw :)

Three minutes later there's a knock. You open the door and she slips past you before you've even stepped aside, already toeing off her sneakers and leaving them by the entrance. She's wearing grey sweatpants that sit low on her hips and a cropped white tank top, no bra, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Casual, simple, and somehow the most distracting thing you've seen all day.

She walks further into the room, looking around with open curiosity. Takes in the desk covered in script pages, the open suitcase in the corner, the half-eaten room service plate.

"So this is where you hide."

"I don't hide."

"You kind of hide." She turns back to you with a small smile. "It's a nice room. Bigger than mine, actually."

"What do you want, Jenna?"

"Relax." She crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed, bouncing once to test the mattress. "Come sit." You stay standing, arms crossed. She pats the space beside her. "You've been really tense lately. Like, noticeably. On set, off set, everywhere. It's not good for you."

"This is my first real role,” you say. “First time any of this has been real. I don't want to mess it up." You lean against the desk across from her. "Maybe that doesn't mean much to you, but it means everything to me."

"I take every single role seriously. Every one. I'm not screwing around here, and I wouldn't work with someone I didn't think was good enough to be here. That's why I want to help you. You're talented. You just need to trust yourself more."

"Right. Because you jerking me off in the middle of a take is a real confidence booster."

She laughs, her head tipping back. "Okay. Fair. That was... yeah. That was a lot."

"You think?"

"It was just a joke. I got caught up in the moment." She catches your expression and holds up both hands. "I won't do it again. Not if you don't want me to. I promise."

"Thank you."

"But." She drops her hands to her lap. "I still want you. By the way, you don't have a girlfriend, right?"

"No."

"Good."

She stands up from the bed, closes the distance between you, and before you can react she's grabbing the front of your shirt and pulling you toward the mattress. You stumble forward and she maneuvers you around until you're sitting on the edge, then she climbs onto your lap, her knees on either side of your hips, settling her weight against you.

"I like being close to you," she says, her arms draping over your shoulders. "You're calm. Grounded. You think before you talk, which is rare in this industry. Everybody's always performing. You're not like that."

"Jenna..."

"Tell me what you want. If you don't want this, say the word and I'll go back to my room and we'll pretend tonight didn't happen. No awkwardness. No weirdness on set. I can do that." She meets your gaze and holds it. "But if you do want this, then stop fighting it."

You sit with it for a second. Her weight on your thighs. The warmth of her through the thin fabric of her sweatpants. The way she smells, clean and a little sweet. It's not easy to feign indifference in this situation. "Yeah," you say. "I want this."

Her lips curve. "Yeah?"

"But you have to stop messing with me like that. The teasing, the games, the stunts on set. If we're doing this, we're doing it like adults."

You punctuate the point by reaching around and pinching her ass, a firm squeeze right at the curve where it meets her thigh. She lets out a sharp yelp and slaps your chest, but she's laughing, her whole body shaking with it. "Okay, okay! I promise. No more stunts."

"I'm serious."

"I know, I know. I promise." She's still giggling, her forehead pressed against yours. "You're so serious all the time. It's adorable."

She starts to shift in your lap, a slow roll of her hips that grinds her ass against you. It's subtle at first, almost incidental, but then she does it again, more pronounced, and you feel the pressure build exactly where she intends it to. Your hands find her hips and slide down to cup her ass through the sweatpants, squeezing gently, pulling her tighter against you.

"It's kind of strange," you say between breaths. "Someone like you being interested in someone like me."

She pulls back enough to look at you. "Someone like me?"

"You know what I mean."

She studies your face for a beat, then leans in and presses her lips to yours, soft and brief. "Yeah. I know what you mean." Another kiss. "And I think you're selling yourself short."

Your mouth finds hers again, and between kisses you murmur against her lips: "What you did today was wrong. Getting me worked up like that and then just leaving. Walking away like nothing happened while I'm lying there trying to will my dick to go down."

She giggles into the kiss, her teeth catching your bottom lip. "I know. I'm terrible."

"I'm serious. That was cruel."

"I bet you locked yourself in the bathroom after and jerked off until you came." The silence you give her is enough of an answer. Her grin turns wicked. "I knew it! I knew it!" She kisses the corner of your mouth. "That's exactly why I came tonight. To finish what I started."

She pushes you back until you're lying flat, your head sinking into the pillows. She pulls your shirt up and off, tossing it to the floor, then runs her palms down your chest and stomach, nails dragging lightly over your skin. You reach up and pull her tank top over her head. Her breasts are small and round, freckles scattered across her sternum, her nipples already stiff in the cool air of the hotel room. She doesn't flinch, doesn't cover herself. Just lets you look.

She moves down your body, her fingers working the button of your jeans, then the zipper. She tugs them down your legs and drops them off the side of the bed. Your boxers follow, and your cock springs free, already hard, stiff against your stomach.

"See?" She wraps her hand around you and gives a slow, testing stroke. "Your body is so honest even when your mouth isn't."

She spits on your cock, a thick glob that lands on the head and slides down the shaft. Her fist follows it, spreading it around, slicking her grip until every stroke is wet and smooth. She works you slowly, base to tip, her thumb rubbing circles over the head on each upstroke.

Then she pauses, holding you loosely, and glances down at her own hand. "Do you like my nails?"

It catches you off guard. You look at her fingers wrapped around your shaft. Her nails are painted a deep burgundy, short and neat, catching the low lamplight. "Yeah. They look good on you."

She smiles, pleased. "Then you're going to like this."

She shifts on the bed, repositioning herself so she's sitting facing you with her legs extended. She lifts her feet and places them on either side of your cock. Her toes curl around the shaft, pressing you between her arches, and she looks at you through her lashes.

"Have you ever gotten a footjob before?"

"No."

“Well, tonight’s your first.”

Her skin is soft, a little cool at first as she presses her soles against either side of your shaft, and the sensation is unlike anything you've prepared for. It's not a hand. It's not a mouth. It's something stranger, the smooth pads of her feet, the subtle flex of her arches, the way her toes curl inward to hold you in place.

She starts to move, sliding her feet in opposite directions, one up while the other goes down. The friction is light, almost teasing, and you're not sure what to do with it at first. Your body doesn't quite know how to categorize the feeling. It's soft and clumsy and oddly intimate, her ankles flexing with concentration, her toes adjusting their grip each time your cock shifts between them.

"Weird, right?" she says, watching your face.

"Little bit."

"Give it a minute." She adjusts her angle, squeezing tighter, and on the next stroke something clicks. The pressure hits right beneath the head, firm and slick from where she spat on you earlier, and your hips lift off the mattress before you can stop them. She grins. "There it is."

She finds a rhythm after that, steady and slow, her feet working your cock with more precision than you expected. Her soles are warm now, heated by friction and the blood pumping through you, and the sensation builds in layers. The soft skin of her arch pressing flat against your shaft. Her toes curling around the head, squeezing once, releasing. The ball of her foot rubbing along the underside in a slow glide that makes your stomach tighten.

You let your head fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling for a second, processing.

"Hey." You lift your head again. "We can't stay up too late doing this. Call time's at six."

She stops moving. Stares at you. Her expression is completely flat. "That might be the most unsexy thing anyone has ever said to me. In my entire life."

"I'm trying to be responsible here."

"And I'm trying to give you a footjob. Do you think this is easy?" She resumes her strokes, her brow furrowed with mock concentration. "This takes real skill. Coordination. Core strength. My calves are going to be sore tomorrow."

"You want me to write you a thank-you note?"

"I want you to shut up about the call time and enjoy this."

Fair enough. You shut up. She keeps working, alternating between long, full strokes and shorter ones focused on the head, her toes pinching gently around the ridge. Your cock throbs between her feet, flushed and stiff, and you feel the first slick bead of precum leak from the tip. It catches the light as it slides down onto her toes, and she notices it immediately.

"Oh, you're getting wet for me."

"Don't make it weird."

"It's already weird. My feet are on your dick." She presses her big toe against the slit and smears the precum around in a slow circle. "Are you actually enjoying this? Like for real?"

"Yeah." Your throat is dry. "For real."

"I can tell." Her eyes flick from your cock to your face and back. "You do this thing when something feels good. Your jaw goes tight right here." She lifts one foot off your cock long enough to gesture at her own jaw, then puts it right back. "And your breathing changes. Gets slower. Like you're trying to control it."

"Glad I'm easy to read."

"Only when you're turned on. Rest of the time you're a locked box." She twists her feet in opposite directions, a corkscrew motion that pulls a grunt out of you before you can catch it. "See? There it is. That's the face."

She keeps going, her feet sliding up and down in that steady rhythm, her soles slick with spit and precum now. Your cock pulses between her arches, thick and rigid, the head flushed dark, and every stroke sends another wave of heat pooling low in your belly. She varies the pressure, sometimes squeezing until you can feel the individual curves of each toe against your shaft, sometimes barely touching, just the whisper of skin on skin.

Minutes pass. Your fingers dig into the sheets. Your breathing is ragged despite your best efforts, and she's watching all of it, cataloguing every reaction like she's studying for a role.

Then she stops.

She lifts her feet away from your cock and it bobs against your stomach, wet and achingly hard, pulsing with each heartbeat. You look at her, half-dazed, and she's already sitting up, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her sweatpants.

"Okay. Enough foreplay." She shimmies the pants down her legs and kicks them off the edge of the bed. She's wearing simple black underwear, the fabric thin enough that you can see the outline of her through it. She doesn't take them off. She just pushes up onto her knees and swings one leg over your hips, straddling you.

"Wait. Hold on." You put a hand on her thigh. "Condom."

She pauses, looking down at you. "Do you have one?"

You think about it. Your suitcase, your toiletry bag, the nightstand drawer. Nothing. "No."

"Then I guess we're going raw."

"Jenna."

"What? I'm on birth control. Are you clean?"

"Yeah."

"Then we're fine." She reaches between her legs and pulls the fabric of her underwear to one side, holding it there with two fingers. With her other hand she grips the base of your cock, angling it upward. "Stop overthinking."

She lowers herself. The first contact is just pressure, the head of your cock nudging against her entrance, her body resisting for a fraction of a second before it gives. She's wet, slick heat enveloping the tip as she sinks the first inch. Her thighs tremble on either side of your hips. She holds there, adjusting, her eyes half-shut, her lips parted.

Then she drops lower, slow, controlled, taking more of you in. Her body opens around you, tight and hot and impossibly smooth, every inch a new wave of sensation that climbs your spine like a current. She doesn't rush it. She takes her time, letting gravity do the work, her hips rocking in tiny adjustments as she works you deeper. When she finally bottoms out, her ass flush against your thighs, your cock buried to the hilt, she lets out a long, shuddering sigh. Her hand releases the fabric of her panties and it presses against the side of your shaft where your bodies meet. Her palms flatten on your chest. Her nails dig in just slightly.

She sits there, full of you, and starts to move.

It's barely anything at first. A slow tilt of her hips, forward and back, the smallest grind that shifts you inside her just enough to feel. Her palms stay flat on your chest, fingers spread, and she rolls into it like she's finding the angle that works. Her body is tight around you, slick and warm, and every little adjustment sends a pulse of heat straight through your core.

You watch her. You can't help it. She's stunning like this, perched above you in nothing but that black bra and the underwear pulled to the side, her stomach flexing with each roll, the faint outline of her ribs moving beneath her skin. Freckles trail across her face and chest. Her ponytail has loosened, dark strands falling around her face, sticking to the corner of her mouth. She's small on top of you, compact and precise, and every movement she makes feels intentional, like she knows exactly what she's doing to you and she's savoring it.

Your hands come up to rest on her waist. Your thumbs settle into the grooves of her hip bones and you guide her, not controlling the pace, just matching it, feeling the rhythm she's building. She responds by pressing down harder on the next stroke, grinding her clit against your pelvis, and a quiet breath escapes through her nose.

"God, you feel good," she murmurs, her eyes half-shut. "Like, really fucking good."

"Yeah?"

"Your dick is perfect. I'm not even being nice, it's just..." She trails off and rolls her hips again, deeper this time, taking you all the way to the base. "Fuck. It fills me up just right."

She picks up the pace. The slow grind sharpens into something more urgent, her hips lifting higher, dropping faster, each stroke pulling you nearly all the way out before swallowing you back in. The wet sound of it fills the room, her thighs flex on either side of your hips as she rides. Her breath comes shorter. Her nails dig into your chest, ten little crescents of pressure.

You grip her waist tighter and she leans down, collapsing the distance between you until her mouth finds yours. The kiss is messy from the start, all heat and open mouths and the salt of sweat on her upper lip. You slide one hand up her spine and cup the back of her neck, holding her there, and she moans against your tongue.

You start to thrust from below. Your hips snap upward to meet hers on the downstroke and the impact pushes a gasp out of her that breaks the kiss for a second. She recovers, presses her forehead against yours, and you do it again. And again. Each thrust drives you deep, the angle different from below, hitting something inside her that makes her whole body shudder. You hold her waist with both hands and set the pace yourself now, pulling her down onto you as you push up, and the bed frame knocks against the wall in a faint, steady beat.

"Oh fuck," she breathes against your mouth. "Just like that. Don't stop doing that."

You kiss her hard and she matches it, teeth and tongue and the taste of her flooding your senses. Then she pulls back, just an inch, and her eyes lock onto yours. "Open your mouth." You hesitate for half a second. Her gaze doesn't waver. "Open, babe."

You part your lips. She braces herself with one hand on your jaw, tilting your head back slightly, and she purses her lips above yours. A thin strand of spit stretches from her bottom lip and falls, warm and wet, landing on your tongue. It pools there, intimate and filthy, the taste of her saliva mixing with your own. She watches it happen with this focused, fascinated expression, her hips still grinding on your cock, and then she leans in and seals her mouth over yours.

Her tongue pushes past your lips and slides against yours, slick and searching, licking into the mess she just made. The kiss is wet, sloppy, her spit and yours mixing together as she sucks on your tongue, pulls it into her mouth, then pushes her own back in. You swallow and she feels it, moans at it, her hips stuttering for a second before she picks the rhythm back up. You keep thrusting. She keeps kissing you. The two of you exist in this sealed circuit of heat and friction, her moans swallowed between your mouths, vibrating against your teeth. She pulls back to breathe and a string of saliva connects your lips, catches the light, and breaks. Her eyes are glassy. Her cheeks are flushed a deep pink beneath the freckles.

"My god, you're so fucking nasty," she pants, and it sounds like the highest compliment she's ever given anyone.

"You literally just spit in my mouth."

"And you swallowed it like a good boy."

You thrust up hard and her response dies in her throat, replaced by a sharp, strangled sound. Her back arches and her hands scramble for purchase on your chest. You do it again, and again, each stroke deep and firm, angled upward, and you feel her tighten around you.

"Fuck. Fuck, I'm getting close." Her fingers clutch at your shoulders. "Don't you dare change what you're doing."

You don't. You keep the same pace, the same angle, your hands locked on her waist, pulling her down to meet each thrust. She's clenching around your cock in rhythmic pulses now, her body tightening like a coil, and her breathing fragments into short, ragged bursts.

"Make me cum." She grabs your face with both hands and looks straight at you. "I need you to make me cum right now."

You plant your feet flat on the mattress for leverage and drive up into her, faster, harder, each thrust punching the air out of her lungs. Her grip on your face tightens, her fingers pressing into your cheeks, and her mouth falls open but nothing comes out. She's right on the edge, you can feel it, her pussy clenching and releasing around your shaft, her whole body trembling, suspended.

"Come on," you tell her. "Let go."

Her thighs clamp against your hips hard and her back bows, chin tilting toward the ceiling, every muscle in her body locking at once. She cums on your cock in long, shuddering contractions, her pussy squeezing you in tight, rhythmic spasms that you feel from root to tip. Her nails rake down your chest, leaving hot lines in their wake. Her stomach flexes and releases, flexes and releases. A broken, stuttering moan finally tears loose from her throat, high and raw, and her hips grind down against you in involuntary circles as she rides through it.

It lasts a long time. Longer than you expect. You hold still inside her and let her body do what it needs to do, her walls fluttering around your cock in diminishing waves, her breathing gradually slowing from frantic to deep. She collapses forward onto your chest, boneless, her face buried in your neck. You feel her heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

For a while the only sound is her breathing and yours, and the distant hum of the hotel air conditioning. She lifts her head. Her hair is a wreck, stuck to her forehead and cheeks. Her lipstick, whatever was left of it, is smeared across her chin. She looks completely undone. And she's smiling.

"Holy shit." She laughs, breathless. "You were so much better than I expected."

"Appreciate the low expectations."

"Shut up. That's not what I meant." She pushes up on her palms, still straddling you, still full of you. "That was incredible. I think I actually blacked out for a second."

"Good. Because I'm not done."

“Oh, really?” She grins. “You gonna take charge now?

You don't give her time to recalculate. Your hands grip her waist and you lift her, turning her over in one smooth motion. Her back hits the mattress and she lets out a surprised laugh, her hair fanning across the pillow. You settle between her legs, your cock slipping out for a moment, slick and glistening, before you line yourself up again. You hook your hand under her left knee and lift it, draping her leg over your shoulder. Her calf rests against the side of your neck, her foot beside your ear.

You push forward, sliding back into her in one long, slow stroke. She's swollen and sensitive from the orgasm, her pussy gripping you tighter than before, and the sound she makes when you bottom out is something between a whimper and a sigh, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her fingers twisting into the sheets on either side of her head.

You pull back slow, feeling every inch of her around you, then push forward in one long, steady stroke that buries you to the hilt. Her leg tenses on your shoulder, her calf flexing against your neck, and she grabs a fistful of the sheets beside her head.

"Finally," she breathes, looking up at you with glassy eyes and a grin that's half-satisfaction, half-challenge. "I was starting to think I'd have to do all the work tonight."

"You talk a lot for someone who just came so hard she forgot her own name."

"Rude." She bites her lower lip as you pull back again, slow enough that she feels every ridge. "True. But rude."

You set the pace yourself now. Long, unhurried thrusts that fill her completely, each one ending with your hips pressed flush against her, her body taking you in like she was made for it. The angle with her leg up opens her, lets you reach deeper, and every time you bottom out her breath hitches and her stomach tightens. You watch her face, the way her expression shifts with each stroke, pleasure flickering across her features.

On the next thrust, you turn your head toward her leg on your shoulder. Her foot rests right beside your face, the burgundy polish catching the lamplight. You press your lips against her arch, and she twitches.

Then you open your mouth and take her toes in. Two of them, sliding past your lips, your tongue curling against the pads, tasting salt and skin. She lets out a startled laugh, her free foot kicking against the mattress.

"Oh my god." She's giggling, squirming, but she doesn't pull away. "Are you seriously... I didn't know you were into feet."

You release her toes just enough to speak, your lips still brushing against them. "I'm not, usually."

"Could've fooled me."

"Yours are different." You drag your tongue along the underside of her big toe, slow, and watch her stomach clench. "You've got sexy feet. That's not something I thought I'd ever say out loud."

"You're full of surprises tonight." She flexes her toes against your lips, playful, testing. "It tickles, though. Just so you know. Like, a lot."

You take them back into your mouth and suck gently, your tongue pressing flat against the pads while you keep fucking her in that same measured rhythm. Her laughter fades into something softer, breathier, and her hips start to rock in time with your thrusts. You can feel the shift in her, the way her body is responding to the combination of sensations, your cock stretching her open and your mouth warm and wet on her foot.

Her skin glistens. A thin sheen of sweat covers her from collarbone to navel, catching the low light, making her look like she's been dipped in something. It collects in the hollow of her throat, in the dip between her breasts, along the crease where her thigh meets her hip. Strands of dark hair cling to her temples and cheeks. She's flushed everywhere, the freckles on her face standing out against the pink of her skin, and every time you thrust forward, a tremor runs through her that you can see in the fine muscles of her stomach.

You let her foot slip from your mouth, kiss her ankle once, then lower her leg from your shoulder. You shift your position, pulling back, standing straighter between her spread thighs. She reads the change before you say anything and wraps both legs around your waist, crossing her ankles behind you, pulling you in.

"Harder." You give it to her. Your hands grip her hips and you pick up the pace, each thrust sharper, faster, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room in a steady rhythm. The bed creaks beneath you. Her tits bounce with every impact, her hands fly to your forearms, nails sinking in.

"Oh god. Oh fuck, that's so good." Her head tips back into the pillow, exposing the long line of her throat. "Right there. Keep hitting that spot."

You adjust your angle slightly and drive into her, and her whole body jolts. Her legs tighten around your waist like a vice and she cums again, sudden and sharp, her pussy clamping down on your cock in quick, fluttering spasms. It's briefer this time, less of a wave and more of a jolt, her body seizing for a few seconds before releasing, but you don't stop. You fuck her straight through it, your hips never breaking rhythm, and she gasps, oversensitive, her nails leaving red tracks down your forearms.

"Shit, wait, I just... oh fuck, you're not stopping."

"No."

"Oh my god." Her legs loosen and tighten around you in helpless pulses. "You're trying to break me."

"Thought you wanted me to take action."

She laughs, ragged and breathless, and it melts into a moan as you thrust deep and hold there for a second before pulling back. Her hand reaches up and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you down toward her, and you fold over her, your chest against hers, her legs still locked around you. She kisses you, wet and desperate, her tongue pushing into your mouth, and you feel her breath stutter every time your hips snap forward.

She pulls back from the kiss just enough to speak, her lips moving against yours. "I want you to cum inside me." Your rhythm falters for half a second. She feels it and tightens her legs. "Don't pull out. I want to feel it." Her fingers thread into your hair and grip. "Breed me."

The word sends a spike of heat through your entire body. You thrust harder and she moans into your mouth, loud enough that you'd worry about the walls if you could think straight. "I mean it." She's panting between kisses, her breath hot on your face. "I want every single drop inside me. Fill me up."

"Jenna."

"Do it. Cum in this pussy." She clenches around you on purpose, a tight squeeze that makes your vision blur. "It's yours tonight. All of it."

You bury your face in her neck and fuck her faster, the headboard tapping the wall now, her body sliding up the mattress with each thrust until she braces one hand against the frame above her head. She turns her mouth to your ear.

"I've been thinking about this since the first week of filming. You inside me. Filling me up. Coming so deep I can feel it in my stomach." Her nails scratch across your scalp. "Give it to me. I need it."

Your entire body is coiling. The pressure builds at the base of your spine, heavy and relentless, and each thrust pulls you closer. Her pussy is soaked, the sound of it filthy and wet, and she keeps clenching around you in tight, rhythmic squeezes that push you toward the edge.

"I'm close," you tell her, your lips pressed against her collarbone.

"Good. Don't you dare pull out." She grabs your face and forces you to look at her. "I want it all. Cum inside me. Breed this little pussy."

You thrust once more, deep, as deep as you can go, and the dam breaks. The orgasm tears through you from the base of your cock outward, a pulsing, full-body release that locks your muscles and blanks your mind. You cum inside her in thick, heavy ropes, each spasm pumping more into her, and she feels it. You know she feels it because her eyes widen and her mouth falls open and she lets out this low, satisfied groan that vibrates against your chest.

"Yes. Oh my god, yes. I can feel it." She pulls you tighter against her, her legs locked, heels digging into your lower back. "There's so much. Keep going."

Your hips twitch through the aftershocks, each one pushing another pulse of cum into her. She's milking you, squeezing around your cock in slow, purposeful contractions, drawing everything out. You shudder against her, forehead pressed to her collarbone, and she runs her nails gently up and down your spine.

"That's it," she murmurs. "Every last drop."

You stay inside her as the intensity fades, your breathing rough and uneven, your heart slamming against your ribs. She keeps her legs around you, keeps holding you, and for a minute neither of you says anything. She tilts your chin up with one finger and kisses you. Slow and tender, her lips soft against yours. When she pulls back, she's smiling.

"Can I sleep here tonight? I don't feel like going back to my room."

You lower yourself onto your side, slipping out of her gently, and she winces at the loss, pressing her thighs together. A thin trail of cum leaks from her onto the sheets. You settle onto the pillow beside her and she immediately tucks herself against you, her head on your chest, her leg thrown over yours.

"Yeah. Just for tonight."

She nods against your chest. Her fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach.

"Do you regret it?"

"No." You wrap your arm around her shoulder and pull her closer. "I'm glad you came over. Even if you used the script as a fake excuse."

"It wasn't entirely fake. I do have notes on scene twenty-two."

"Sure you do."

You lie there in the quiet for a few minutes, her breathing warm and steady against your skin, and you can feel the stickiness between her thighs where she's pressed against your leg. Your cum is still leaking out of her, the sheet beneath her hip is already damp.

"Hey, you're not going to clean up?"

"Mm." She doesn't open her eyes. "Yeah. Five more minutes."

"You should do it now."

"Five more minutes. Then I'll get up."

She doesn't get up. Her breathing deepens within thirty seconds, her body going slack against yours, her fingers curling loosely against your ribs. A soft, barely audible exhale escapes through her parted lips on each breath and you realize she's out. Asleep on your chest in a hotel room with your cum drying on the inside of her thigh and tomorrow's call time six hours away.

You stare at the ceiling, one hand in her hair, listening to the quiet hum of the hotel around you and eventually you close your eyes too.

—

She said one night. You said one night. That lasted about forty-eight hours before she showed up at your door again with wet hair and a bag of takeout, and you didn't even pretend to be surprised. By the end of the first week, her phone charger lived on your nightstand. By the second, her shampoo had migrated into your shower. Your hotel room smells like her now, a permanent blend of floral perfume and Marlboro Lights that hits you every time you walk through the door.

The thing that catches you off guard isn't the sex, though the sex is exceptional and getting better every single time. It's how easy the rest of it is. On set, she's your co-star, focused and professional, trading notes between takes and pushing you to dig deeper into every scene. Off set, she's your friend, sprawled across your bed stealing fries off your plate and arguing about whether the third act needs restructuring. She's funny and sharp and occasionally insufferable, and you genuinely like being around her.

And then the sun goes down and she locks your door and becomes someone else entirely. Or maybe not someone else. Maybe just more of herself.

Yesterday you filmed the reconciliation. Emotional, heavy, the kind of scene that leaves you drained afterward. Today is different. Today you're filming the sex scene that follows it, the physical reunion after the characters find their way back to each other, and the energy on set has shifted accordingly.

The intimate scene coordinator is a woman named Rachel, mid-forties, calm and methodical, she walks you and Jenna through the choreography in a private rehearsal space adjacent to the set, mapping out every movement, every camera angle, every point of physical contact.

"So the sequence is: he enters, she pulls him to the bed, kissing. They undress. Then we move to the oral portion." Rachel checks her clipboard. "This was the addition you suggested, correct?"

"Yeah." You nod, keeping your expression neutral. "I think it adds an important layer to the reconciliation. It's an act of giving, not taking. His character is showing her that this time is different."

The director agreed immediately when you pitched it. So did Jenna, though the look she gave you across the table during that conversation suggested she knew your motivations weren't entirely artistic.

Rachel continues. "For the oral simulation, you'll be under the covers. Jenna, the camera will be on you from the waist up. Your reactions are carrying the scene. We'll do wide and close coverage."

"Got it," Jenna says, all business.

"Physical barriers stay in place. Modesty garments on at all times. Any discomfort, you call cut immediately. Both of you."

You both nod. Rachel seems satisfied and excuses herself to coordinate with the camera department.

Jenna catches your arm as you head toward the set. She leans in close, her mouth near your ear. "You pitched an oral scene. For artistic reasons."

"It serves the story."

"Uh huh." She pats your chest twice and walks ahead of you, ponytail swinging.

The set is the same bedroom from before, dressed differently now, warmer lighting, rumpled sheets, the aftermath of an emotional scene bleeding into a physical one. You run through the first portion of the sequence, the entering, the kissing, the undressing, and it goes smoothly. Three takes, minimal adjustments. Rachel gives notes on hand placement. The director talks about pacing.

Then it's time for the oral scene.

Jenna lies back on the bed in her bra and underwear, a simple nude set that blends with her skin tone. You position yourself between her legs and the crew pulls the covers up and over you, tenting the fabric so it looks natural on camera. Under here it's dark and warm, the cotton muffling the sounds of the set above you. You can see the outline of her body, the flat plane of her stomach, the fabric of her underwear inches from your face.

"Quiet on set!"

"Rolling."

"Speed."

"Action."

Above the covers, Jenna shifts. You hear her exhale, settling into character. Your hands are on her thighs, exactly where Rachel positioned them, and you're supposed to mime, to press your face against the fabric and let Jenna's performance sell the illusion.

Instead, you slide two fingers under the edge of her underwear and pull it to the side.

You feel her thigh tense under your palm. You lean in and drag your tongue along the length of her slit, slow, flat, root to tip, tasting the salt and warmth of her.

Her reaction is instant. Her hips jolt, just slightly, and above the covers you hear her gasp, a real one, raw and unfiltered. You smile against her and do it again, this time circling her clit with the tip of your tongue before dragging back down. She's already getting wet, her body responding before her brain can catch up, and the taste of her deepens on your tongue.

She recovers fast. She's a professional, after all. Whatever shock she felt gets channeled directly into performance, and when she speaks, it's in character but not entirely.

"Oh god. Right there. Just like that, don't stop."

The director doesn't call cut. This is exactly what the scene needs. Her reactions are pitch-perfect, raw and unscripted and completely convincing, because they're real. Every sound coming out of her mouth is genuine, filtered through just enough craft to keep it cinematic.

You work her clit in slow circles, alternating pressure, light and teasing, then firm, then featherlight again. Her thighs tremble on either side of your head. Under the covers, away from every camera and every pair of eyes, you grip her hip with one hand and hold her steady while your tongue traces patterns against her.

"That feels so good." Her breathing is audible, even through the fabric above you. "Please don't stop. Oh my god, please."

She's getting wetter. Significantly wetter. You can feel it against your chin, slick and warm, coating your lips every time you press closer. There's something about the context, the cameras rolling, the crew watching, the boom mic picking up every breathy syllable she utters, that's doing something to her. The exhibitionism of it. The knowledge that she's being eaten out in front of twenty people and not a single one of them knows it.

You flatten your tongue and drag it through her folds, bottom to top, then seal your lips around her clit and suck gently. Her hand comes down on top of the covers and grabs what she can find, bunching the fabric in her fist. Through the cotton you feel her knuckles pressing against the top of your head.

"Oh fuck. Just like that. You feel so good, baby, don't stop."

Her hips are rocking now, subtle movements that read as performance from outside but feel urgent against your mouth. She's grinding against your tongue, chasing the friction, and you let her, matching her rhythm, giving her exactly what she's asking for. Your hands slide under her thighs and grip them, spreading her open a fraction wider, and you push your tongue inside her, curling it, tasting her deep.

"Oh my god." Louder now. Her stomach is heaving above you, quick shallow breaths that make the covers rise and fall. "Oh my god, that's... fuck. Fuck, that's so good."

The crew is dead silent. You can picture them behind the monitors, watching Jenna's face contort with pleasure, thinking she deserves an award for this performance. And she does. Just not for the reasons they think.

You pull back to her clit and work it in rapid, focused strokes, the tip of your tongue flicking back and forth across the swollen bud. Her thighs clamp against your ears and her hips buck up off the mattress, and you hear her moan, long and broken and completely uncontrolled, the kind of sound that can't be manufactured.

She cums against your mouth with a full-body shudder, her pussy pulsing under your lips, wet and hot and clenching around nothing. You feel the contractions against your tongue as you keep licking her through it, gentler now, easing her down, and she's whimpering above the covers, both hands fisting the sheets, her thighs shaking uncontrollably on either side of your head.

"Cut!"

The word barely registers through the fabric muffling your ears. You slow down, pull back, wipe your mouth and chin on the inside of your arm. Your face is slick. You take a breath and rearrange her underwear carefully, smoothing it back into place, then lie still for a second, composing yourself.

"That was incredible." The director's excitement is obvious even from under the covers. "Jenna, that was absolutely phenomenal. The raw emotion, the vulnerability. We don't need another take. That was perfect."

You hear scattered applause from the crew. Jenna laughs above you, and even muffled, you can hear the shakiness in it, the aftershock of what just happened still trembling through her.

You wait another few seconds, willing your erection to cooperate. It doesn't. You slide out from under the covers on the opposite side of the bed from the crew, grab your robe off the chair in one motion, and pull it on before anyone gets a clear look. You tie it loosely and walk around to Jenna's side of the set, where she's sitting up, pulling a robe over her own shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed pink. Her eyes are slightly glazed.

"Great scene," you tell her, completely casual. "Really committed performance."

She looks at you. Her jaw tightens, and for a second you think she might say something incriminating, but she catches herself. "Thanks. You too. Very, uh. Very convincing under there."

"Tried my best."

"Yeah." She clears her throat. "I could tell."

You walk away before your expression gives anything up, grabbing a water bottle from the craft services table and taking a long drink. Across the set, you catch her watching you. She mouths something at you, two syllables, and even from this distance you can read them clearly: You're dead.

You grin and take another sip of water.

Hours later, long after wrap, your phone lights up on the nightstand.

you're a fucking psychopath. you know that right?

You started it

i started it?? i gave you a little handjob under a blanket. you ATE ME OUT on camera. in front of the entire crew. i came on your face while the boom guy was three feet away

And you loved every second of it

A long pause. The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.

...that's not the point

So you did love it

i'm going to get you back so hard you won't be able to walk straight

Looking forward to it

you should be scared

Goodnight, Jenna

this isn't over. not even close

You set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, smiling in the dark. You wouldn't expect anything less from her.

—

You barely have coffee in your system when a PA finds you outside the breakfast tent and tells you there's a press commitment. Nobody mentioned it last night. Nobody cleared it with your schedule. But apparently Variety locked in a joint interview for the film's leads, and the producers want it done before today's call time.

They walk you to a conference room on the hotel's second floor that's been hastily converted into an interview setup. Two chairs angled toward each other, a third for the reporter, a camera on a tripod, soft lighting that someone clearly spent fifteen minutes arguing about. Jenna is already seated, legs crossed, hair freshly done, dressed like she didn't just roll out of your bed two hours ago. She gives you a polite smile as you sit down next to her. Professional. Friendly. Not a trace of the woman who came on your tongue yesterday afternoon.

The reporter is a woman in her thirties named Claire, warm and sharp in equal measure, with a recorder on her knee and a notepad she never actually looks at.

"So let's start with the characters. Without spoiling too much, what can you tell us about the dynamic between them?"

Jenna jumps in first. "They're complicated in the best way. There's this incredible tension between wanting to protect each other and wanting to be honest. My character is the one who pushes for honesty, even when it's terrifying. His character thinks he's protecting her by keeping distance, but really he's just scared."

Claire turns to you. "And your take?"

"She nailed it. My character operates under this idea that love means sacrifice, that keeping someone safe means keeping them away from you. He learns the hard way that's not how it works. Jenna's character is the one who breaks that open."

"This is your first major film role. How has that experience been?"

You lean back slightly. "Honestly? It's surreal. I come from theater. Small stages, fifty people in the audience if you're lucky, changing costumes behind a curtain that's barely a curtain. Walking onto a set this size, with this crew, this cast, this script... it rewires your brain a little. Everything is bigger. The scope of what's possible is just completely different."

"And working with Jenna specifically? She's obviously well established in the industry."

"It's been incredible. I'm not going to sit here and pretend I wasn't nervous on day one, because I absolutely was. But she made it easy. She's generous as an actor. She gives you everything in a scene and expects you to match it, which forces you to be better. I've learned more in the past few weeks than I did in years of training."

Jenna tilts her head toward you with a grin. "He's being modest. He showed up on day one and held his own. That doesn't happen often, especially with someone new to this scale of production. We became friends pretty quickly, actually. He's a great colleague, very easy to work with, and I think the chemistry reads on screen because it's genuine."

"Any teases about what audiences can expect?"

You glance at Jenna. She glances back. There's a micro-second of shared amusement that nobody else in the room would catch.

"People are going to love this movie," Jenna says simply. "The script is something special. The performances are something special. I'm really proud of what we're making."

"What she said." You nod. "I think this one's going to surprise people."

Claire asks a few more follow-up questions to conclude the interview, then thanks you both, the camera stops rolling, and you shake hands and head your separate ways. In the hallway outside the conference room, Jenna falls into step beside you.

"Very easy to work with," you repeat, deadpan.

"You are. When your tongue isn't between my legs during a take." She peels off toward hair and makeup without looking back.

The filming day is lighter than usual. Two dialogue scenes, both interior, both relatively contained. You finish your coverage quickly and spend the downtime reviewing tomorrow's pages. But every time you look up from the script, Jenna is somewhere in your peripheral vision. Leaning against a lighting rig, sitting on the arm of a director's chair, standing by the monitors with a coffee cup. And she's watching you. Not constantly, not obviously, but enough. These brief, loaded glances that land on you and linger a beat too long before she looks away.

She's planning something.

The director calls wrap three hours ahead of schedule, and a few of the guys from the cast suggest hitting the hotel gym. You spend an hour there, running through a basic circuit, nothing intense, enough to burn off some of the restless energy that's been building all day. You keep your phone in your pocket and it stays quiet. No texts from her. That's almost more unsettling than the glances.

You skip the gym showers. You've never liked them, the fluorescent lighting, the communal tiles, the forced small talk while everyone's wet. You'd rather walk back to your room and use your own bathroom.

You swipe your keycard and push the door open, already pulling your earbuds out, and stop.

Jenna is lying on your bed. Completely naked. On her stomach, chin propped in one hand, ankles crossed in the air behind her, like she's been waiting for a while and got comfortable doing it. Her body is small and golden under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, the curve of her spine dipping into the swell of her ass. A cigarette burns between the fingers of her free hand, ash tipping into the tray balanced on your pillow.

"Hey."

You close the door behind you. "How did you get in here?"

"Maria. The housekeeper on this floor? Lovely woman. I told her I left my charger in my boyfriend's room and gave her a really convincing pout. She opened it with the master key." She takes a drag, exhaling a lazy plume toward the ceiling. "I also tipped her forty bucks, so she's not going to mention it."

Your eyes travel down the bed. There's a dark stain on the fitted sheet between her hips and knees, a wet patch roughly the size of your palm, the fabric still damp and slightly darker than the rest. On the nightstand, next to the ceramic ashtray and her phone, sits a small pink vibrator, glossy and recently used.

"You took too long at the gym," she says, following your gaze without an ounce of shame. "I got bored. So I got started."

"You came on my bed."

"Twice, actually." She rolls onto her side, completely unselfconscious, her body on display from collarbone to toes. "The second one was really good. I was thinking about yesterday."

"Of course you were."

"Come here."

You set your gym bag on the floor. "I just worked out. I'm disgusting. Let me shower first."

"No." She stubs the cigarette out in the tray and pushes it aside, her gaze tracking down your body, your damp tank top clinging to your chest, the sweat still visible on your arms and neck. "I want you like this."

Something in the way she says it makes your skin prickle. You pull your phone from your shorts pocket and set it on the desk by the window. Your tank top comes off over your head and drops to the carpet. You toe off your sneakers one at a time, kicking them toward the wall. She's watching every movement, her eyes dark, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

You climb onto the bed and she's on you immediately, her hands grabbing your shoulders, pulling you down, her mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes like ash and smoke and something sweet like soda. You sink into it, one hand braced on the mattress beside her head, and she kisses you like she's been thinking about this for hours, which she clearly has.

Her lips trail from your mouth down to your jaw, to your neck. You feel her tongue drag a hot, wet line along the tendon where sweat has collected, and she licks it off you. Slowly. Savoring it.

"You're actually depraved," you mutter.

She pulls back, licking her lips. "You'd do the same thing to me and you know it."

Her skin is warm and slightly tacky, a thin layer of sweat from her solo session still clinging to her. You lean in and run your tongue across her cheekbone, tasting salt and the faint residue of whatever moisturizer she uses, and she laughs, bright and surprised.

"See? Depraved recognizes depraved."

"Shut up."

You kiss her again, deeper, her tongue sliding against yours, and she wraps her arms around your neck and pulls until you're fully on top of her. You break the kiss long enough to roll off the bed and strip the rest of the way, shoving your shorts and boxer briefs down in one motion. She props herself up on her elbows and watches with open appreciation, her eyes lingering on your cock, already half-hard and thickening fast.

"Come here." You reach for her, one hand extended.

She takes it, and you don't let her climb off the bed gracefully. You grip her wrist and pull, catching her under the thighs with your other arm as she slides off the edge, and you lift her. Clean off the mattress, straight into the air. Her legs wrap around your waist on instinct, her arms locking around your neck, and she lets out a sharp gasp that melts into a laugh.

"Oh my god." She tightens her grip with her thighs, her wet center pressed against your stomach. "Show off."

You hold her there, her weight nothing in your arms, her naked body wrapped around you, and she looks down at you with flushed cheeks and that grin that started all of this.

You adjust your grip, both hands cupping the curve of her ass, your fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and her weight settles naturally against you. She reaches between your bodies. Her fingers find your cock, stiff and pressed against the inside of her thigh, and she angles it upward, lining the head against her entrance. She's still soaked from the vibrator, from the two orgasms she gave herself on your sheets, and when the tip nudges against her slit the slickness is immediate.

"Go slow," she whispers, and then grins. "Just kidding."

You pull her down onto you.

Her body sinks, gravity and your grip doing the work, and your cock slides into her in one long, unbroken stroke. Her back arches away from you, her head tipping back, and her nails bite into the muscles of your shoulders as she takes all of you. She's impossibly tight from this angle, her pussy stretched around your shaft, the walls gripping you with a pressure that makes your teeth clench.

"Oh fuck." Her legs tighten around your waist. "Oh, that's deep. That's really deep."

You don't give her time to adjust. You lift her, arms flexing, pulling her up until just the tip remains inside, and then you bring her back down. Hard. The impact forces a sharp breath out of her and her whole body jolts in your arms, her breasts pressing against your chest. You do it again. And again. Finding a rhythm that's part pull, part drop, her weight doing half the work as you bounce her on your cock.

She's so small. That's what keeps hitting you. Your hands span nearly the entire width of her hips. When you lift her, her feet leave your back entirely, dangling in the air for a split second before her legs clamp back around you. She feels like nothing in your arms, compact and light, and you can move her exactly where you want her with minimal effort. Up, down, tilting her hips forward to change the angle, pulling her flush against your pelvis and grinding her there.

"You're throwing me around like I weigh nothing." She's panting against your neck, her breath hot and uneven. "This is extremely hot, just so you know."

"You're basically pocket-sized."

"Rude." She bites your earlobe. "Don't stop."

You shift your stance wider, planting your feet for stability, and pick up the pace. Each thrust is a full stroke, pulling her up until the head catches against her entrance, then slamming her back down. Her pussy clenches around you with every downstroke, that involuntary squeeze that tells you the angle is hitting her exactly right.

She lifts her head from your shoulder and looks at you, her face flushed, her eyes glazed, hair falling across her forehead in damp strands. "Harder."

You give it to her harder. Your fingers dig into the meat of her ass, spreading her slightly, and you drive up into her with more force, using your hips and your arms in tandem. She cries out, a punched-out sound that bounces off the hotel walls, and her arms wrap tighter around your neck.

"Use me." She pants it into the space between your mouths. "Come on. I can take it."

You readjust your grip, one arm hooked under her thigh, the other banded across the small of her back, and you start fucking her like she asked. Like she's weightless. Like she exists solely for this purpose, a tight, warm, perfect thing to slide in and out of. You lift her and drop her in fast, punishing strokes. Her body jolts with each one, her tits bouncing against your chest, her mouth falling open. She can't do anything from this position. She can't set the pace, can't control the depth, can't brace herself. All she can do is hold on and take what you give her, and the realization of that lights something up behind her eyes.

"Yes. Fuck, yes, just like that,” she moans. "You're so fucking strong. Don't put me down."

"Wasn't planning on it."

You carry her two steps to the left and press her back against the wall, using the surface for leverage. The new angle pins her between your body and the cool plaster. With the wall supporting part of her weight, you can thrust even harder, your hips snapping up into her in rapid, deep strokes that make the framed print beside her head rattle against its hook.

Her head falls back against the wall and she stares at the ceiling, mouth open, chest heaving. "Oh god. Oh my god, you're going to make me cum again."

"Already?"

"Shut up. It's your fault." She squeezes her eyes shut and her whole body tenses in your arms, her thighs clamping, her stomach going rigid. "Please, don't fucking stop."

You keep the same pace, the same depth, driving into her with a consistency that you feel in your shoulders and forearms. She's so wet that each stroke is frictionless, your cock gliding in and out of her with ease, and the slickness has spread down the insides of her thighs, coating your skin where her legs grip you.

Her breathing fractures. Short, sharp inhales that don't fully form before the next thrust forces the air out of her. Her nails rake across your back, dragging red lines from your shoulder blades to the middle of your spine, and her legs start to shake around your waist. You feel her pussy tightening, that telltale flutter that starts in pulses and builds to a sustained clench, and you know she's right there.

"Look at me," you tell her.

She drops her chin and meets your gaze, and her eyes are barely focused, dark and wet and somewhere far beyond rational thought. You thrust up into her once more, burying yourself to the hilt, grinding the base of your cock against her clit, and she shatters.

The orgasm rips through her in waves. Her pussy clamps down on your cock so hard it almost hurts, rhythmic contractions that squeeze and release in rapid succession. Her mouth opens in a silent scream that finds its sound a second later, a ragged, broken moan that she muffles by sinking her teeth into your shoulder. Her body convulses in your arms, shaking, trembling, her heels drumming against your lower back as she rides it out.

You hold her through it. Stay buried inside her. Feel every pulse and shudder as it moves through her body like current through a wire. She clings to you, shaking, her forehead pressed against your neck, her breath coming in wet, shuddering gasps against your skin.

When the tremors finally ease, you carry her to the bed and lower her gently onto the mattress. She lands on her back, boneless, her arms splayed above her head, her chest rising and falling in deep, recovering breaths. Her thighs are glistening. Her cheeks are flushed so deeply the freckles have almost disappeared into the color.

"That." She swallows, licking her lips. "That was fucking fantastic. Where have you been hiding that?"

"Had some motivation."

"No kidding." She laughs, still breathless, and pushes a hand through her sweat-damp hair. "My legs are actually numb. I can't feel my legs."

"Take your time."

She lies there for a moment, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling with this blissed-out half-smile. Then something shifts in her expression. That familiar spark. She rolls over on the mattress, tucking her knees under her until she's on all fours. She arches her back, dropping her chest toward the sheets, and her ass lifts into the air, round and tight and perfectly presented.

She looks at you over her shoulder, one cheek pressed against the pillow, her dark hair fanned out beneath her. Her eyes are hooded and heavy, still glowing from the orgasm, and the smile she gives you is equal parts invitation and dare.

"Whatever you want, babe. I mean it. Anything.”

You take a moment before you touch her. She's on all fours in front of you, her back arched, her knees spread just wide enough that you can see everything. The lamplight catches the slickness between her thighs, her pussy swollen and flushed from the orgasm, still glistening. You settle behind her on your knees and place both hands on her ass, palming the round curve of each cheek, feeling the firm muscle underneath the softness. She's so small that your hands cover her almost entirely, your thumbs meeting in the middle, pressing into the dimples at the base of her spine.

You spread her slightly, just enough, and bring your right hand lower. Your middle and index fingers trace down through the wetness coating her inner thighs, gathering it, sliding upward through her folds until they find her entrance. You push both fingers inside her, slow, and her body accepts them easily, her pussy still loose and slick from being fucked. She sighs into the pillow, a low, satisfied sound, and her hips press back against your hand.

You curl your fingers inside her, hooking them forward, dragging along the front wall, and settle into a steady rhythm. In and out, slow and deep, your knuckles pressing against her entrance on each stroke. She's soaked. You can feel it running down your palm, pooling in the creases of your fingers.

Then you lean forward and press your tongue flat against her asshole.

Her entire body locks up. Every muscle, all at once, and she sucks in a sharp breath that she holds for a full two seconds before releasing it in a shuddering exhale. "Oh my god." Her fingers claw at the sheets in front of her. "Oh my god, okay."

You keep your fingers moving inside her pussy and drag your tongue in a slow circle around the tight ring of muscle. She tastes clean, warm, the faint salt of sweat and nothing else, and you feel her clench under your tongue before gradually, incrementally, relaxing. You flatten your tongue and lick a broad, slow stripe from just above where your fingers are buried all the way up, and she drops her forehead to the mattress and groans.

"That's... I wasn't expecting that."

You don't respond. You let your mouth do the talking. The tip of your tongue traces the rim, circling once, twice, then pressing gently against the center. Not pushing inside, just pressure, steady and warm, while your fingers maintain their rhythm below. The dual sensation hits her from both ends and you feel it in the way her thighs start to tremble, the way her hips can't decide whether to push back against your tongue or grind down onto your fingers.

"Fuck." She turns her head to the side, cheek pressed flat against the pillow, and you can see her profile, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut. "That's so much. Both at the same time, it's so much."

You alternate between flat, broad licks and pointed, focused ones, varying the pressure, keeping her guessing. When you press the tip of your tongue firmly against the center and hold it there, she whimpers and her back dips lower, pushing her ass higher into your face. When you pull back and trace featherlight circles around the rim, she exhales through her teeth and her pussy clenches around your fingers.

You crook your fingers inside her, rubbing that spot on the front wall, and at the same time seal your lips around her asshole and suck gently. Her hips buck backward, grinding against your face, and a sound comes out of her that's somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

"Oh fuck. Oh, daddy, you're such a pervert."

Your fingers still for a fraction of a second. You pull your mouth back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing against her skin.

"Daddy is new."

She laughs, breathless and shaky, her face still buried in the pillow. "Felt right in the moment. Do you like it?"

"I could get used to it."

"Good." She pushes her ass back against you. "Then get back to work, daddy."

You press your tongue back against her and she melts, her spine curving, her shoulders dropping to the mattress. You eat her ass with the same patience and attention you gave her pussy on set yesterday, mapping every reaction, cataloguing what makes her gasp and what makes her go quiet, what makes her grind back and what makes her pull away just slightly before pushing into it harder. Your fingers pick up the pace inside her, curling on each instroke, the wet sound of it filling the space between her moans. She's dripping onto your palm, down your wrist, the slickness coating everything. You can feel her pulse around your fingers, rapid and strong, and every time your tongue presses against her asshole that pulse stutters and races.

"You're going to ruin me." She says it into the pillow, muffled but audible. "You know that? I'm never going to be normal after this."

"Were you normal before?"

"Fair point." She gasps as you push your tongue harder against her rim, her hands fisting the sheets above her head. "Oh god, right there. Right there, don't move."

You hold the position. Tongue flat against her asshole, steady pressure, while your fingers work her pussy in deep, curling strokes. She's rocking between the two sensations, her hips moving in a figure-eight, and you can feel the tension building in her body like a spring compressing. Her thighs are shaking so badly her knees keep sliding on the sheets.

"You eat ass like you've got something to prove." She's trying to be clever but her delivery is fractured, each phrase broken by a breath or a shudder. "Where was this energy during the interview this morning?"

"Saving it for you."

"Lucky me." The last word dissolves into a moan as you spread her cheeks wider and push the tip of your tongue past the ring of muscle, just the first fraction of penetration, and she drops flat onto her stomach with a sound that might be your name or might be profanity. You follow her down, keeping your mouth sealed against her, your fingers still buried inside her cunt, and you feel her whole body vibrating beneath you. You pull your tongue back to the rim and resume the circling, and she makes a frustrated sound, half-laugh half-groan, her hips grinding against the mattress.

"You're teasing me now. You're actually teasing me."

"Feels different from this side, doesn't it?"

"I hate you." She doesn't sound like she hates you. She sounds like she's losing her mind. "I genuinely hate you right now."

You respond by adding a third finger. You slide your ring finger alongside the other two and push all three inside her, stretching her wider, and simultaneously press your tongue flat and firm against her asshole. Her back bows off the mattress and she lets out a strangled cry, her hands flying back to grab at your hair, your face, anything she can reach.

"Oh fuck. Oh my god, daddy, that's too much. That's so much."

You don't let up. Three fingers pumping inside her, your tongue laving her ass in slow, thorough strokes, and she's writhing beneath you, caught between trying to escape the intensity and pushing back for more. The sheets are damp under her hips. Her skin gleams with sweat. Every sound she makes is rawer than the last.

"I need you inside me." She says it suddenly, desperately, her hand reaching back to grab your wrist. "Please. I can't take any more of this, I need your cock. Right now."

You give her one more long, slow lick, root to tip, your tongue dragging from her pussy all the way up over her asshole, and she shudders so hard her teeth chatter.

"Please, daddy." She looks back at you over her shoulder, and her face is wrecked. Flushed, sweaty, mascara slightly smudged, her lips bitten red and swollen. "Put it in me. I need it."

You pull your fingers out of her and she whimpers at the loss, her pussy clenching around nothing. You straighten up on your knees behind her, your cock aching, harder than you've ever been in your life, the head flushed dark and slick with precum. She arches her back and lifts her hips off the mattress, presenting herself, and the sight of her from behind, her pussy glistening, her ass still wet from your mouth, her thighs trembling with need, is enough to make your grip tighten on her hips until you leave marks of your fingers on her skin.

You run your hands over the curve of her ass, thumbs tracing the crease where it meets her thighs, and you let the question hang in the air: "Where do you want it?"

She pushes her hips back toward you, impatient. "You know where."

"I do." You grip her hip with one hand and drag the head of your cock through her folds, collecting the wetness there, nudging against her pussy but not entering. "But I want to hear you say it."

She groans into the pillow, half-frustration, half-arousal, and turns her head to look at you over her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed dark, her hair a tangled mess stuck to her neck and forehead. She holds your gaze and doesn't blink. "I want you to fuck my ass."

"Good girl."

Something ripples through her when you say it. A visible shudder that starts at her shoulders and rolls all the way down her spine. You press the head of your cock against her asshole, the tight ring of muscle still slick from your tongue, and hold there. She tenses beneath you, instinctive, and then forces herself to exhale, her body relaxing in stages.

"I've used a plug before," she says, her fingers gripping the pillow in front of her. "So it's not like... just go slow at first. I'll be fine." You push forward. The head meets resistance, firm and tight, her body fighting the intrusion for a second before it yields. The tip slides past the ring and her breath catches, sharp, and her back arches deeper. You stop. Give her a second. She's gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles have gone white. "Keep going. Don't stop."

You feed her another inch. Then another. She's impossibly tight around you, tighter than her pussy, a dense, squeezing pressure that wraps around your shaft from every direction. The heat is different here, deeper, and you can feel every fraction of movement magnified, every slight push registering across your entire body. You go slow, giving her time to adjust, watching the way her shoulders rise and fall with each controlled breath.

"Talk to me," you tell her. "How does it feel?"

"Full." She exhales through her teeth. "Really, really full. You're bigger than the plug."

"Should I stop?"

"If you stop, I'll kill you."

You push the rest of the way in. Your hips press flush against her ass and you bottom out, your entire length buried inside her, and you both go still. She lets out a long, shaking breath that turns into something close to a laugh at the end.

"Holy shit. Okay. That's... yeah. That's all of you."

"You good?"

"Give me ten seconds."

You give her ten seconds. You stay perfectly still, your hands resting on her hips, and you feel her body adjusting around you, the tightness easing by fractions, the muscle relaxing and gripping and relaxing again. She shifts her knees wider on the mattress and drops her chest lower, changing the angle, and you feel the pressure redistribute along your shaft.

"Okay." She nods against the pillow. "Move."

You pull back, slow, and the drag is incredible. Her ass grips you on the outstroke, a tight sleeve of friction that makes your jaw clench. You push back in, just as slow, and she releases a low, guttural sound into the pillow. You do it again. And again. Long, measured strokes, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding back to the hilt, giving her time to feel every inch of it.

"Oh, that's good." She's gripping the pillow with both hands now, her face turned to the side. "That's really good. Keep doing that."

You settle into the rhythm. Your hands tighten on her hips and you fuck her ass with those same deep, unhurried strokes, building a pace that lets the intensity compound instead of exploding all at once. The tightness is relentless. Every thrust feels like pushing into a fist that squeezes back, hot and slick from spit that you spread there with your tongue.

After a few minutes you reach forward and gather her hair in your fist. Not yanking, just collecting it, wrapping it once around your hand and pulling with steady tension until her head lifts off the pillow and her neck arches back. She moans at the pull, her back bowing into a deeper curve that changes the angle of penetration.

"Harder." She reaches back with one hand and grabs your thigh, her nails pressing in. "You can go harder."

You pick up the pace. The strokes shorten, quicken, your hips snapping forward with more force. Your grip on her hair tightens and you use it as leverage, pulling her back onto your cock as you thrust forward, and the combined force makes her cry out.

"Fuck. Yes, daddy, just like that. Pull my hair harder."

You pull harder. Her back arches until you can see the line of her jaw, the column of her throat, and she's pushing back to meet each thrust, her ass slapping against your pelvis. She's clenching tighter, her body responding to the escalation, and you can feel the pressure building at the base of your cock, heavy and insistent.

"You're taking it so well." Your breathing is ragged. "Look at you."

"I know, I was made for this." She's panting, grinning, her eyes half-shut. "Fuck me like you mean it."

You release her hair and grab both hips, pulling her back onto you with each thrust, setting a pace that's just below brutal. Fast, deep strokes that fill her completely, and she buries her face in the pillow and stops trying to form sentences. Her moans are continuous, muffled by the cotton, rising in pitch with each impact. Her hand slides beneath her body. You can see her arm moving, her fingers reaching between her legs, and she starts rubbing her clit while you fuck her ass. The combined stimulation hits her almost immediately. Her thighs start shaking, that familiar tremor, and her moans take on a desperate, frantic edge.

"I'm close." Her fingers work faster between her legs. "Oh god, I'm going to cum with your cock in my ass. That's so filthy."

"That's the general idea."

"Don't stop. Please, daddy, don't stop. I'm right there."

You maintain the pace, driving into her with steady, relentless force, and you feel the exact moment it hits her. Her entire body seizes. Her ass clamps down on your cock so hard your vision whites out for a second, and a long, ragged moan tears out of her, raw and uncontrolled, her face pressed into the mattress. Her hips buck and twist against you, her pussy and her ass contracting in overlapping waves, and her legs give out completely. She collapses flat onto the mattress and you follow her down, your cock still buried in her ass, her body pulsing and clenching around you in rhythmic spasms.

You're close. The tightness of her orgasm, the pressure squeezing your shaft in those involuntary contractions, pushes you right to the edge. You thrust into her twice more, three times, your full weight pressing her into the mattress, and the release builds from the base of your spine and erupts. You cum deep inside her ass. The first pulse is thick and heavy, a rush of heat flooding into her, and you groan against the back of her neck as the second follows, and the third. Your hips grind against her, pushing as deep as you can go, and each spasm pumps more into her. You can feel it, the slickness building inside her, the pressure of your own cum filling the tight space, and she lets out a soft, satisfied moan beneath you.

"Oh my god." Her face is turned to the side, eyes closed, lips parted. "I can feel it. There's so much."

You keep grinding, slow now, riding the last aftershocks, each diminishing pulse adding to what's already inside her. Your body shudders once, twice, and then the tension drains out of you instantly. You rest your forehead between her shoulder blades and breathe.

"Don't move yet," she whispers. "Stay."

You stay. Your cock softens slowly inside her, and you can feel the warmth of your own cum surrounding it, thick and liquid. After a minute you start to ease out, pulling back gently, and she winces, her hands gripping the sheets. You withdraw inch by inch until the head slips free, and you watch a thick line of cum follow it out, trailing from her asshole in a slow, viscous thread that breaks and drips onto the sheet between her thighs.

"Jesus." She reaches back and touches herself lightly, her fingers coming away slick and white. "You came so much in there. I can feel it running out of me."

"Good?"

"So good. It's so warm." She squeezes her thighs together and shivers. "I can feel it all the way inside." More cum leaks from her as she shifts, pooling on the already-ruined sheets, and she laughs softly at the mess. You lie down on your back beside her and she immediately rolls toward you, resting her head on your chest, one arm draped across your stomach. Her body is slick with sweat, warm and small against yours, and you can feel her heartbeat gradually slowing where her ribs press against your side.

"Stay here for a while." She nuzzles into your chest. "Don't get up yet."

"I desperately need a shower. I was covered in gym sweat before any of this happened."

"You can do it later. We'll shower together. It'll be fun. I'll wash your back and everything."

"You going to wash my back or are you going to start something in the shower?"

"Both, probably." She traces a lazy circle on your stomach with one finger. "Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

She shifts, tilting her chin up to rest on your chest, and looks at you. Her eyes are soft, stripped of the mischief and the bravado, with something that sits outside the boundaries of what you two have agreed this is.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." She holds your gaze for another beat, then drops her eyes and presses her lips against your chest, a slow, gentle kiss right over your sternum. "Hug me."

You hug her and don't say anything, because nothing you could say would be better than this.

—

The routine on the film set becomes your new life. You shoot six days a week, sometimes seven. You eat catered lunches in folding chairs and run lines in hallways and fall asleep with the script on your chest. And Jenna is there through all of it, constant as gravity, sitting cross-legged on your hotel bed at midnight picking apart tomorrow's scene, stealing bites of your food at craft services, pressing her cold feet against your calves under the sheets at three in the morning.

Neither of you names it. You tried once, half-asleep, mumbling something about what this actually is, and she put her finger over your lips and told you to shut up and go to sleep. So you did. And the not-naming becomes its own kind of agreement, a shape you both move around without ever drawing the outline. You decide, privately, to wait. Let filming end. Let the bubble pop. See what survives outside the controlled environment of hotel rooms and early call times and forced proximity. If it's real, it'll still be real in Los Angeles, in the daylight, without the excuse of a shared project holding it together. If it's not, then at least you'll know.

Filming wraps on a Tuesday. There's a small party, drinks and tearful hugs and exchanged phone numbers. Jenna finds you on the edge of it, leans into you for a second, and says she'll see you back home. She flies out the next morning. You fly out two days later.

Los Angeles absorbs you both. You go back to your apartment in Silver Lake, Jenna goes back to whatever world she inhabits, the one with publicists and stylists and a calendar managed by three different people. You text constantly. Memes at two in the morning. Long voice notes dissecting movies you've watched. Brief, loaded messages at night that don't always lead anywhere but always carry the same undercurrent. You meet up when you can, always discreet. Her car in your apartment's underground garage after dark. A corner booth at a restaurant in Pasadena where nobody looks twice. A weekend at a rental house in Ojai where she wore your t-shirt for two days straight and you didn't leave the bedroom until checkout.

But she's busy. Series commitments, press for another project, meetings that fill her days from seven to seven. You're busy too, auditions and callbacks and a recurring role on a limited series that keeps you occupied but doesn't consume you the way the film did. The gaps between seeing each other stretch from days to weeks. The texts stay warm but the physical distance does what physical distance always does.

Almost two years passes. The premiere arrives on a Friday night in October, and the magnitude of it doesn't fully register until you're standing in a hotel suite getting dressed and your hands won't stop shaking.

This is it. The film you poured everything into, the role that changed the trajectory of your life, about to be projected onto a screen in front of critics and industry people and an audience that's been watching the trailers for months. The trailers performed well, very well, enough to generate the kind of anticipation that makes studios start whispering about awards season. Which only makes the pressure worse.

You see her before she sees you. She's standing at the far end of the arrivals area, surrounded by a small entourage, her publicist adjusting something on her shoulder. And for a second you just stop and look.

Her dress is black, floor-length, with a neckline that plunges to just above her navel, held in place by what seems like sheer architectural will. The fabric clings to her frame and leaves the sides of her breasts exposed, the soft outer curves visible with every slight turn of her torso. Her skin has a luminous quality tonight, enhanced by whatever her makeup team has done, a fine shimmer across her collarbones and shoulders that catches the light in warm flashes.

Her face is the thing that holds you, though. They've highlighted the freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, made them a feature instead of hiding them, and there's a subtle glitter dusted across her eyelids and cheekbones that makes her look like she's been dipped in something celestial. Her hair is pulled back, sleek and low, exposing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck.

She spots you and her entire face changes. The professional composure cracks and the grin that breaks through is pure, unguarded, the one you haven't seen in months. She crosses the distance between you and wraps her arms around your neck, and you hold her, brief enough for public consumption but tight enough that she feels it.

"You look incredible," you tell her.

"You clean up all right yourself." She straightens your tie with both hands, an unnecessary adjustment that's really just an excuse to touch you. "Are you ready for this?"

"Absolutely not."

"Perfect. Me neither. Let's go."

The red carpet is an assault on every sense. The crowd noise is a wall, hundreds of people pressed against barriers, shouting names, holding phones above their heads. Camera flashes strobe from every direction, publicists guide you from mark to mark. You pose alone first, then Jenna joins you, and her hand finds the small of your back as the photographers call your names.

"Over here! Jenna! To the left! Both of you, center!"

You angle toward the cameras and smile and try to remember everything your media coach told you about posture and angles and where to put your hands. Jenna is effortless beside you, shifting between poses with practiced ease, her body language open and relaxed while yours feels mechanical. The interviews come next. A gauntlet of microphones and cameras and reporters asking variations of the same three questions. You settle into a rhythm, keeping your answers genuine and slightly self-deprecating.

"How does it feel, finally seeing this come to fruition?"

"Surreal, if I'm being honest. I still have to remind myself this is actually happening. The trailers blew up way beyond anything I expected, and knowing that people are actually excited to see this thing we made... it's hard to describe. I just hope the film lives up to what people are expecting."

"And working with Jenna?"

"Best experience of my career. She pushed me every single day. I'm a better actor because of her, no question."

Jenna handles her portion with the same ease she handles everything, charming and articulate and generous with her praise of the cast and crew. She mentions you by name twice, calls you a revelation, and you pretend the heat in your face is from the lights.

Between press stops, in a brief pocket of quiet near the theater entrance, she looks at you. Really looks.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

"Your hands are literally trembling." She takes your right hand in both of hers. "Hey. Look at me." You look at her. The noise of the crowd fades to a blur around the edges. "Once we sit down, it calms down. The lights go off, the movie starts, and it's just the film. That's all it is. And it's a great film." She squeezes your hand. "You're going to be fine. Better than fine."

"What if they hate it?"

"They won't."

"What if they hate me?"

"Impossible." She says it without hesitation, with a certainty that doesn't leave room for argument. "I've seen the cut. You're extraordinary in this. Trust me."

You nod. Squeeze her hand back. She doesn't let go until a PA ushers you both through the theater doors.

The auditorium is enormous, packed to capacity, the kind of venue that makes you feel the size of the moment in your chest. You're guided to your seats by an usher with a flashlight, down toward the front but off to the side, in a section that's slightly recessed from the main block. The seats are plush, the armrests wide, and when you settle in, the lighting is low enough that the faces around you blur into shadow.

Jenna sits beside you. Close. Her knee touches yours, and she doesn't move it. The theater hums with conversation, the low murmur of an audience settling in, and the overhead lights dim in stages.

"See?" she murmurs, leaning toward you. "Better already." The final lights go down. The screen brightens. And in the dark, her hand finds yours again.

The film plays in front of you but you're barely watching it. You've seen the cut twice already in post-production screenings, and the experience of watching yourself on a screen this size, in a room full of strangers, is so profoundly disorienting that your brain keeps sliding off the surface of it. Your performance is up there, enormous and permanent, and the audience is reacting. Laughing where you hoped they'd laugh. Going silent in the places that matter. During the reconciliation scene, the one Jenna improvised, you hear someone two rows back sniffle. Jenna's knee presses harder against yours in the dark.

The oral scene comes on. The one you pitched. On screen, Jenna's face fills the frame, eyes closed, lips parted, and the sounds she makes are raw and intimate and completely real in a way the audience will never fully understand. You feel her shift in her seat beside you. Her pinky hooks around yours on the armrest.

The film moves toward its final act. You know every beat from here, every cut, every line. Jenna leans toward you, her lips brushing your ear, her breath warm in the cold air-conditioned dark.

"Want to get out of here?" You glance at her. The screen light plays across her face in shifting blues and whites. "We know how it ends," she whispers. "And I have more important things I want to do right now."

You should stay. This is your premiere, your first premiere, and leaving before the credits roll is the kind of thing that gets noticed. But her hand is already closing around yours, warm and certain, and the pull of her is stronger than the pull of professionalism.

You nod.

She stands first, keeping low, and you follow. The row is nearly empty on your end, just two seats between you and the aisle, and you slip out in the dark while the score swells on screen. Nobody turns. Nobody notices. Jenna moves quickly in her heels, surprisingly agile, her hand pulling you through the heavy curtain that separates the auditorium from the lobby.

The lobby is deserted. Everyone is inside watching the film. Your footsteps echo on the polished floor as she leads you past the concession stand, past the restrooms, down a corridor that bends away from the main space.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere private." She finds it before you do. A single-occupancy bathroom at the end of the corridor with a yellow maintenance placard hanging from the handle. She tries the door. It opens. The bathroom is clean, small, fluorescent-lit, with a single stall, a sink, and a mirror that spans the wall. "This works." She pulls you inside, flips the lock, and turns to face you.

She kisses you before the lock finishes clicking. Her hands grab your lapels and she pulls you down to her, and even in heels she barely reaches your chin, rising onto her toes to close the last inch. Her mouth is urgent, hungry, tasting like the champagne from the pre-screening reception. You grab her waist and lift her slightly, taking the strain off her calves, and she makes a grateful sound against your lips.

"I missed you." She says it between kisses, her hands moving from your lapels to your neck to your jaw, touching you like she's confirming you're real. "I missed you so much. You have no idea."

"I missed you too." You press your forehead against hers. "Every day. I kept picking up the phone to call you and then talking myself out of it because I didn't want to be that guy."

"You should have been that guy. I wanted you to be that guy." She kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the space below your ear. "I was thinking about you constantly. About us. About what this is."

"I know what it is."

She pulls back enough to look at you. Her eyes are bright, the glitter on her lids catching the harsh bathroom light. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's real. It was always real. I was just too careful to say it."

Something moves through her expression that's too complex to name. She blinks, and for a second you think she might cry, but she swallows it down and the grin reasserts itself.

"We'll talk about it. Properly. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever. But right now..." Her hands drop to your belt. "We need to be quick."

She works the buckle with practiced fingers, pulling the leather free, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your pants and your boxer briefs and pushes them down together until they bunch at your thighs. Your cock springs free, already stiff, flushed and straining from the moment she locked the door.

Jenna lowers herself to a crouch. In that dress, in those heels, on the tile floor of a theater bathroom, she sinks down with a grace that shouldn't be possible. The black fabric pools around her knees. She's eye-level with your cock, and she wraps her fingers around the base and just holds you for a second, looking at it, her thumb tracing the vein that runs along the underside.

"God, I missed this too." She says it to your cock more than to you, her grip tightening, her thumb rubbing slow circles below the head. "I missed how hard you get for me. How thick you feel in my hand."

"It's been a while."

"Too long." She tilts your shaft toward her and presses her lips against the tip, soft, almost chaste, and then parts them and takes the head into her mouth.

The warmth hits you first. Wet, enveloping heat that wraps around the first two inches of your cock as her lips seal and her tongue presses flat against the underside. She holds there, sucking gently, her cheeks hollowing, and the sensation after months of absence is so acute that your hand shoots out and grabs the edge of the sink for support.

She pulls back, letting the head pop free with a wet sound, and looks up at you. Lipstick smeared. Eyes dark. "Sensitive tonight."

"It's been months, Jenna."

"I know. I'm going to take my time." She licks a long, slow stripe from the base of your shaft all the way to the tip, her tongue flat and wet, tracing the underside vein. When she reaches the head she circles it once, twice, the pointed tip of her tongue tracing the ridge, then dips into the slit and licks away the bead of precum that's gathered there. Your fingers tighten on the sink.

She takes you into her mouth again, her lips sliding down the shaft inch by inch. Her tongue works the underside as she goes, pressing and releasing in a rolling motion, and she doesn't stop until your cock hits the back of her throat. She holds there, her nose nearly touching your pelvis, and swallows around you. The constriction of her throat ripples along your length and your knees almost buckle.

She pulls back slowly, dragging her lips tight along the shaft, leaving a thick coat of saliva glistening on your skin. A strand of spit connects her lower lip to your cock as she pulls off, and she breaks it with her tongue, licking it away.

"You taste so good." She strokes you with her fist, slick and twisting, spreading the saliva from base to tip. "I used to think about this when I was on set for the other project. In between takes, just thinking about your cock in my mouth."

"That's a healthy work-life balance."

"Shut up." She grins and takes you back in, bobbing her head in a steady rhythm, her fist following her mouth, stroking what her lips don't cover. The sounds are obscene in the small bathroom, wet and rhythmic, echoing off the tile walls. She varies the pace, sometimes fast and shallow, just working the head with quick, focused sucks, sometimes slow and deep, letting you slide into her throat until her eyes water.

She pulls off and spits on your cock, a thick glob that lands on the head and slides down. Her hand catches it and works it along the entire length, twisting at the base, her thumb pressing into the frenulum on each upstroke. She leans in and sucks one of your balls into her mouth, rolling it gently with her tongue while her fist keeps stroking, and the dual sensation makes your hand leave the sink and grab a fistful of her hair instead.

"Careful with the hair." She releases you with a pop. "It took an hour and a half."

"You're on your knees in a bathroom sucking my dick during your own premiere. I think the hair is a secondary concern."

"Fair." She takes you back into her mouth, deeper than before, and this time she stays down, working her throat around your cock in slow, milking swallows. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, not from distress but from the sheer mechanics of it, and she holds there until her lungs demand air. She pulls off gasping, spit trailing from her lips to your shaft in long, wet strings, and she strokes you through the mess, her hand gliding effortlessly over the slick skin.

She works you like that for another few minutes, alternating between her mouth and her hand. Her lips are swollen and red, her chin wet with saliva, and your cock glistens under the fluorescent light, thoroughly, obscenely wet. She gives you one final, long suck, pulling off with agonizing slowness, her lips tight around the head until the very last second. Then she looks up at you from her crouch on the bathroom floor, this gorgeous woman in a designer gown with spit on her chin and your cock inches from her face, and tilts her head.

"Think you can fuck me without ruining this dress? It's a loaner.”

"It's a beautiful dress." You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, your thumb lingering on her jaw. "I'll be gentle with it."

"You better. It costs more than your car."

"Everything costs more than my car."

She laughs and you're already moving, your hands sliding down her sides, gathering the fabric of her dress and hiking it upward, bunching it at her waist. The material is heavier than it looks, layered and structured, but it cooperates, folding neatly above her hips. Underneath she's wearing a thin black thong, barely anything, the fabric dark against her skin. You hook two fingers under the side and pull it over, exposing her, and she inhales softly through her nose.

You grip her waist and lift her onto the edge of the sink. She lands lightly, her hands bracing on the porcelain rim behind her, and she looks down at the fixture with a skeptical expression. "You think this thing can hold me?"

"Jenna, any sink on earth can hold you. You weigh less than my gym bag."

She gives you a look, that sweet-annoyed face she makes when you say something that's simultaneously a compliment and an insult and she can't decide which one to react to. "You're lucky I'm attracted to you right now."

"I know."

You step between her legs and she opens them wider, her heels hooking behind your thighs. Your cock nudges against her, slick from her mouth, and you guide yourself to her entrance with one hand. She's wet already, the folds slick and warm when the head presses against them, and you push in slowly.

The first inch makes both of you exhale at the same time. She's tight, tighter than you remember, months of absence resetting the familiarity, and the heat of her wraps around you in a way that makes your vision swim. You slide deeper, inch by inch, watching her face as it shifts from anticipation to fullness to that particular expression she gets when you're all the way inside her, the one where her lips part and her eyelids flutter and she looks like she's forgotten how to breathe.

"Fuck." You bottom out and hold there, your hips flush against her. "I missed this."

"Yeah?" She wraps her arms around your neck and pulls you closer. "How much?"

"Enough to follow you into a bathroom at my own premiere."

"Our premiere." She clenches around you and your jaw locks. "Don't forget that."

You start to move. Slow at first, pulling back halfway and pressing in again, relearning the shape of her, the way her body grips and releases, the angle that makes her breath catch. The sink holds steady beneath her, bolted firmly to the wall, and she leans back against the mirror, her shoulder blades touching the glass. The position tilts her hips upward, and each thrust slides along her front wall in a way that makes her stomach tighten visibly.

Her legs wrap tighter around you and you pick up the pace, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the small bathroom, bouncing off tile and porcelain. Her dress is bunched at her waist in a ring of expensive black fabric, her thighs bare and spread, and the sight of her like this, done up for a premiere with her pussy stretched around your cock on a bathroom sink, is dirty in a way that makes your blood burn.

"Harder." She grabs the back of your neck. "We don't have all night."

Your hands grip the edge of the sink on either side of her hips and you drive into her with more force, each thrust pushing her back against the mirror. Her reflection moves behind her, fragmented, she pulls you into a kiss and it's wet from the start, messy, her mouth open and hungry, tongue sliding against yours. Spit smears between your lips as the angle shifts with each thrust, the kiss breaking and reforming, her teeth catching your bottom lip, your tongue pushing deep into her mouth.

You pull back from the kiss and look at her face. The glitter on her cheekbones catches the harsh light, tiny sparks of gold and champagne scattered across her skin, and before you think about it you lean in and drag your tongue across her cheek, slow and flat, tasting the mineral tang of makeup and the salt of her skin beneath it. The glitter transfers to your tongue, gritty and metallic.

"Hey." She pushes at your chest. "That took forty-five minutes to apply."

"Tastes expensive." You lick her other cheekbone, a long stripe from jaw to temple, and she squirms beneath you, laughing even as her pussy clenches around your cock.

"You're literally ruining my makeup right now. There are going to be photos after this."

"Tell them it's an artistic choice."

"I hate you." She's grinning, her face streaked where your tongue has been, the carefully blended glitter now smeared and patchy. She grabs your tie and pulls you back into a kiss that tells you exactly how much she doesn't hate you.

You thrust into her harder and her back arches, pressing her chest forward, and the neckline of the dress shifts. The fabric was barely containing her to begin with, and the motion is enough to push it past the tipping point. You help it along, hooking two fingers into the edge and tugging it down until her breasts spill free, small and round, her nipples stiff and dark.

You cup them both, one in each hand, squeezing, feeling the firm weight of them against your palms while you fuck her. Your thumbs roll across her nipples and she gasps into your mouth, her arms tightening around your neck. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger, just hard enough, and her hips jerk.

"That's good." She presses her chest into your hands. "Squeeze them harder."

You do, kneading her breasts with a firmness that borders on rough, your fingers sinking into the soft tissue while your cock drives into her in steady, deep strokes. She arches into every thrust, her heels digging into the backs of your thighs, and the mirror behind her fogs slightly where her skin contacts the glass.

Her breathing changes. You know the pattern by now, the way it fragments, the way the moans shorten and sharpen and climb in pitch. Her hands leave your neck and slam flat against the mirror behind her, bracing herself, and her chin tips toward the ceiling. "Right there. Fuck, don't change anything, right there."

You maintain the angle, the depth, the pace, your hands still on her breasts, and you watch her face as everything tightens. Her brow furrows, her mouth opens, her stomach clenches in rapid spasms. She's right at the edge, suspended, her entire body rigid and trembling.

She cums with a sharp, stuttering cry that she bites off by pressing her lips together, the sound vibrating in her throat. Her pussy clamps around you in hard, rhythmic contractions, squeezing your cock in waves that roll from her entrance to her depths. Her thighs shake violently against your hips, her heels drumming your legs. One hand flies to your shoulder and grips so hard you feel her nails through your jacket. Her hips grind against you in frantic, involuntary circles, riding the orgasm out, milking every last second of it.

You don't stop. She's still twitching, still clenching, aftershocks rippling through her, and you keep thrusting. The oversensitivity makes her gasp, makes her grab your wrist and squeeze, but she doesn't tell you to stop. She lets you keep going, her body slowly unclenching, and the slickness between you has increased, wetter now, her arousal coating your shaft and your thighs. You feel your own orgasm building. It starts low, that heavy pressure at the base of your spine, pooling and tightening with each stroke. Her pussy is still fluttering around you in diminishing contractions, and the sensation is too much after months of nothing. The pressure climbs fast.

"I'm gonna cum.” She reacts immediately. Her legs unlock from your waist and she pushes at your hips, sliding off the sink, her heels clicking on the tile as she drops to her knees in front of you. Her hand wraps around your cock, slick with her own wetness, and she strokes you twice before guiding the head into her mouth.

You cum the second her lips close around you. The orgasm tears through your body in a rush, your hips bucking forward, and the first thick rope of cum hits the back of her tongue. She holds still, her mouth open wide, letting you fill it, and you feel each pulse land, heavy and hot. Your hand finds the back of her head, fingers threaded through her ruined hair as you empty yourself onto her tongue.

When the last spasm fades, she pulls back. Opens her mouth wide and looks up at you. Her tongue is coated, a thick pool of white cum sitting in the center, catching the fluorescent light. She holds it there for a long second, letting you see it, letting you take in the image of this woman in a floor-length designer gown kneeling on a bathroom floor with your cum displayed on her tongue.

Then she closes her mouth and swallows. All of it. One smooth motion of her throat, and it's gone. She opens her mouth again to prove it, clean, and smiles. "Couldn't let you ruin the dress."

"My hero."

She stands, smoothing the fabric of her gown back down over her hips. You pull your pants up, buckle the belt, straighten the shirt. She tugs the neckline back into position, covering herself, and turns to the mirror. The damage assessment takes about three seconds.

"Oh, that's bad." She tilts her head, examining the smeared glitter, the streaked makeup, the swollen lips. Her hair has lost most of its structure, loose strands framing her face. "This is really bad."

"You look great."

"I look like I just had sex in a bathroom." She digs into the clutch she left on the counter and pulls out a compact, dabbing at the worst of the damage, blending what she can. Her fingers rake through her hair, pulling it back, finding something resembling its original shape. It's not perfect. It's not going to fool anyone who looks closely. But from a distance, in dim lighting, it might pass.

She turns to you and gives you a once-over, straightening your tie, smoothing the lapels of your jacket, wiping a faint smear of lipstick from your jaw with her thumb.

"Not bad at all," she says, stepping back to appraise her work. "For your first premiere."

You catch her hand before she pulls it away. Press your lips to her knuckles once. "I think I could get used to these kinds of events."

She grins, squeezes your fingers, and unlocks the bathroom door.

—

The after-party was chaos in the best possible way. Open bar, too many people talking at once, your director giving a speech that went fifteen minutes long and made three people cry. You shook hands with actors whose films you grew up watching. Jenna introduced you to people whose names you forgot the second they walked away because your brain was running at capacity and had been since the bathroom.

Now you're in your apartment in Silver Lake, in your bed that's too small for two people but has held two people every night she's been here, and Jenna's head is resting on your chest. She's still in the tank top and underwear she changed into when you got back. Her makeup is mostly gone, wiped off with one of your washcloths, though traces of glitter still cling to her hairline. She's had enough champagne that her cheeks are pink and her laugh comes easier than usual, which is saying something.

"The handjob scene." She's giggling into your chest, her body shaking with it. "When they showed the handjob scene, I almost lost it. I had to bite the inside of my cheek so hard."

"You were very composed from what I saw."

"I was dying. Dying. Because the whole time I'm watching it thinking, that is my actual hand on your actual penis, and the boom operator is right there, and the director is watching it on the monitor thinking about, like, emotional subtlety or whatever, and meanwhile I'm jerking you off under a blanket."

"The emotional subtlety of a handjob."

She slaps your chest lightly. "Stop. And then the oral scene. Oh my god, the oral scene. My face is like forty feet wide on that screen and I'm actually cumming. That's a real orgasm. On a movie screen. In a theater full of critics."

"Award-worthy performance."

"It wasn't a performance!" She dissolves into laughter again, pressing her face against your chest. You feel the warmth of her breath through the fabric of your shirt. "Nobody will ever know. That's the craziest part. It's just ours. This ridiculous, filthy secret that's going to be projected in theaters around the world, and every single person watching it will think it's acting."

"Best acting of your career."

"I wasn't acting!"

"I know. That's the joke."

She pinches your side and you flinch, catching her hand. She settles again, her cheek against your sternum, her fingers lacing through yours. The laughter fades gradually, you feel the shift before she says anything.

"Hey... Huh, can I tell you something?"

"Yeah."

She doesn't lift her head at first. She stays against your chest, and you feel her take a long breath.

"I really like you." She pauses. "That's not what I mean. I'm in love with you." She pushes up onto her elbow and looks at you, her face is open in a way you've rarely seen. "When this started, I thought it was going to be fun. That's it. You were cute and new and I liked messing with you. I figured it would run its course and we'd go our separate ways and I'd have a funny story about the time I jerked off my co-star during a take." She traces a line along your collarbone with her fingertip. "But then it didn't run its course. It just kept getting bigger. Every night in your hotel room, every morning waking up next to you, every scene we did together. I kept waiting for the feeling to level off and it never did."

She swallows. The shine in her eyes isn’t from the champagne.

"And then filming ended and I went home and you went home and I thought, okay, this is when it fades. This is when I realize it was just proximity and adrenaline and really good sex. But it didn't fade. It got worse. I'd be on set for another project and I'd check my phone between takes hoping you'd texted. I'd be in meetings thinking about you. I'd lie in bed at night in my apartment, which is too big and too quiet, and I'd miss the sound of you breathing next to me."

She holds your gaze. "I'm in love with you. Completely. And it scares the shit out of me because I didn't plan for it and I can't control it and those are two things I really don't do well with."

You look at her for a long moment. She's waiting, and you can see the vulnerability in it, the way she's braced for the possibility that you won't say it back.

"Come here."

She leans closer and you cup her face, your thumb resting on her cheekbone where the glitter used to be.

"I've been in love with you since the second month of filming. Maybe earlier. I just didn't trust it because everything was happening so fast and I kept telling myself I was confusing the situation for the feeling." You brush a strand of hair from her forehead. "But when we came back to LA and I was alone in this apartment and your smell was still on my shirt, I knew. And every time my phone lit up with your name, I knew. And tonight, watching you on that red carpet, I knew in a way that I can't talk myself out of anymore."

"So we're both idiots who were in love the whole time and too stubborn to say it."

"Basically."

She laughs, wet and shaky, and presses her forehead against yours. "Okay. Well. That's settled then. I'm your girlfriend now. That's not a question, by the way."

"I didn't hear a question."

"Good. Because it wasn't one."

She kisses you and it starts soft, her lips pressing against yours with a tenderness that matches the moment, and then it deepens. Her mouth opens and her tongue slides against yours and the softness gives way to heat. She kisses you harder, her hand gripping the front of your shirt, pulling you closer, and the kiss turns wet and messy, her spit mixing with yours, the taste of champagne still on her tongue.

She pulls back an inch. "Open your mouth."

You part your lips and she leans over you, her hair falling around your faces like a curtain. She purses her lips and lets a slow thread of spit drop from her mouth into yours, watching it fall, watching it land on your tongue. Then she seals her mouth over yours and kisses you through it, her tongue pushing deep, licking into the mess, sucking your tongue into her mouth with a wet, pulling pressure that makes your cock stir against her thigh.

She feels it. She shifts her hips, pressing her ass back against you, and starts a slow grind. The thin fabric of her underwear is the only thing between your cock and the curve of her ass, and she rolls against you in lazy, circular motions, building friction, building heat.

"One more round before we sleep?" she murmurs against your mouth, still grinding.

"I'm in."

She smiles into the kiss and sits up, straddling your hips. Her hands cross at the hem of her tank top and she pulls it over her head in one motion, tossing it off the side of the bed. Her breasts are bare, small and perfect, her nipples hardening in the cool air of the bedroom. She sits there for a second, letting you look at her.

She reaches between her legs, pulls the fabric of her underwear to the side, and wraps her other hand around your cock, which is fully hard now, straining upward. She positions the head at her entrance and holds your gaze as she lowers herself.

Inch by inch, her body takes you in. She's wet and warm and she sinks down with excruciating slowness, her lips parting, her eyes half-shutting, until her ass rests against your thighs and you're buried completely inside her. She places both palms on your chest and exhales.

She starts to move. Her hips trace slow circles, grinding you deep inside her, her body undulating in a fluid wave that starts at her pelvis and ripples up through her stomach and chest. She's beautiful on top of you, her skin warm in the low light of your bedroom lamp, her hair falling around her shoulders, those freckles trailing across her chest.

"You like seeing me like this, daddy?" She rolls her hips in a long, sinuous figure-eight, her pussy gripping your shaft with each rotation. "On top of you?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"I want to hear you say it."

"I love seeing you like this." Your hands settle on her thighs, thumbs tracing the crease where they meet her hips. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She bites her lower lip and picks up the pace slightly, her hips rising and falling in a slow rhythm, taking you nearly all the way out before sinking back down. The wet sound of it fills the quiet apartment. She twirls her hips on the downstroke, a corkscrew motion that hits you from every angle, and your fingers dig into her thighs.

"God, you're good at that."

"I know." She grins down at you, rolling her hips again, slower this time, savoring it. "I've been told I have talented hips."

"By who?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." She drops forward, her palms on either side of your head, and her breasts hang above your face. She grinds against you, deep and slow, her clit pressing against your pelvis on each forward roll, and a soft moan escapes through her parted lips. "Just lie there and let me take care of you, daddy. I've missed this so much.”

Her hips find a faster rhythm, rising higher, dropping harder, each stroke pulling you nearly all the way out before she sinks back down and takes you to the root. Her body rolls with a fluidity that mesmerizes you even now, even after all the times you've watched her move like this. Every muscle in her stomach flexes and releases. Her breasts bounce with each impact, catching the warm glow of the lamp.

"God, your cock is perfect." She drops her full weight on the downstroke and grinds, her pussy clenching around the base. "You have no idea. So thick. I feel it stretching me every time."

"Glad it meets your standards."

"Exceeds them." She lifts her hips and slams back down. "Seriously. It's big. Like, the perfect kind of big. The kind where it fills you up completely but doesn't hurt. I'm obsessed with it."

"I know." You slide your hands up her thighs and grip her hips. "I've been told I have a really nice dick, actually."

Her rhythm stutters for half a second. She looks down at you, one eyebrow raised. "By who?"

"You wouldn't like to know."

Her mouth falls open in mock outrage, and then the laugh erupts out of her. She slaps your chest hard enough to sting. "You bastard. That was my line."

"Felt right in the moment."

"Fair." She's grinning, shaking her head, still laughing as she resumes her rhythm. "Okay. Fair. I deserved that."

The laughter fades as the pace picks up. She plants her knees wider on the mattress and starts bouncing in earnest, her ass lifting off your thighs and dropping, lifting and dropping, each stroke fast and wet. "I love riding you, daddy. I love how deep you get from this angle." She drops forward and kisses you, sloppy and brief, then sits back up and keeps going. "I thought about this every single night we were apart. Getting on top of you and just using your cock until I can't feel my legs."

"Well, you're doing a pretty good job of that right now."

"Shut up and let me fuck you." She grabs your hands and puts them on her breasts, pressing your palms against them, and you squeeze while she rides. Her nipples are hard points against your skin, she arches into your grip, her back curving, her hips never stopping.

She's riding you harder now, the pace bordering on frantic. The headboard taps the wall behind you in a fast, uneven beat. Her thighs flex and burn with the effort, sweat glistening in the creases, and her pussy is soaked, every downstroke accompanied by a wet, squelching sound.

"I want you to cum inside me, daddy,” Jenna says, leaning over you until her face is inches from yours. "Cum with me. I want us to cum together."

"Keep going. Don't slow down."

"Wasn't planning on it." She rolls her hips on the downstroke, grinding her clit against your pelvis, and a shudder runs through her that you feel from the inside. "Oh fuck, I'm getting close. Are you close?"

"Getting there."

She straightens up, planting both hands on your stomach, and rides you with everything she has. Her hips slam into yours, fast and punishing, her body bouncing on your cock in a relentless rhythm that she maintains through sheer willpower. Her thighs are trembling, her breathing ragged, and she's clenching around you on every downstroke, tight, pulsing squeezes that push you closer to the edge with each one.

"Cum inside your girlfriend, daddy." She looks down at you with those dark, glassy eyes, her lips swollen and parted. "Fill me up. I want to feel every drop."

"I'm close."

"Me too. Oh god, me too. Cum with me. Please cum with me."

She drops down hard and grinds, circling her hips, her clit dragging against your pelvis, and you feel her tighten around you in a way that's different from the rhythmic squeezes. This is a sustained clench, her entire body locking, and you know she's right there on the edge.

You grab her hips and thrust up into her, hard, burying yourself as deep as you can go, and that's what breaks it for both of you. She cums first by half a second. Her pussy clamps down on your cock in a vice grip and her whole body goes rigid, her back arching, her nails cutting into the skin of your stomach. The contractions hit you in rapid, squeezing waves, and that pressure is what sends you over. Your orgasm erupts from the base of your spine and floods through you, your cock pulsing inside her, pumping thick ropes of cum deep into her pussy while her walls milk every drop.

She's trembling on top of you. Her thighs are shaking so badly her knees keep sliding on the sheets, and her stomach spasms in visible contractions. Her mouth is open in a silent expression of overwhelm, her eyes squeezed shut, and you can feel your cum mixing with her wetness inside her, hot and slick and abundant. She grinds down against you in helpless, involuntary circles, riding the aftershocks, her body pulsing and clenching and releasing in diminishing waves.

Your own body shudders beneath her, each pulse pushing another surge into her, until the intensity finally crests and begins its long, slow fade. Your hands go slack on her hips. Your head sinks into the pillow. The room is spinning gently at the edges. She collapses forward onto your chest, boneless, her face pressed into your neck. You can feel her heart slamming against your ribs, fast and wild, and her breath comes in hot, uneven bursts against your skin. She's still twitching around you, tiny involuntary clenches, and you're still inside her, softening slowly, surrounded by the warm mess of both of you.

For a while neither of you speaks. The only sounds are breathing and the distant tick of the kitchen clock and the faint wail of a siren somewhere blocks away.

"That was really good," she finally murmurs into your neck. Her body is completely limp against yours, heavy with spent energy. "Like, really, really good. We came at the same time."

"We did."

"Together. Like a couple."

"Almost like we are one."

"So romantic." She grins and drops her forehead back against your collarbone. "See? We're already in sync. Sexually compatible. Emotionally bonded. Simultaneous orgasms. This relationship is going to be disgusting."

You laugh and she bounces with it. You feel the warmth between your bodies, the slickness where you're still connected, and the faint trickle of cum leaking from her onto your thigh.

"You should probably clean up, babe."

"No."

"Jenna."

"Tomorrow. I'll deal with it tomorrow. I'm not moving."

"My mattress is going to be destroyed."

She pushes up onto her elbows and looks at you with an expression of theatrical disbelief. "We have been a couple for literally five minutes and you're already being grumpy about the mattress. Five minutes."

"It's a nice mattress. I just got it."

"It's a mattress from IKEA, and you've had it for two years. Don't lie to me." You laugh, properly, she's fighting the grin but losing. She pokes your chest with one finger. "If it'll shut you up, I'll clean everything tomorrow. Sheets, mattress, all of it. I'll scrub it myself. Happy?"

"Deal."

"You're so annoying." She lowers herself back down onto your chest, tucking her head under your chin, and pulls your arm around her like a blanket. "The most annoying boyfriend alive."

"You picked me."

"I know. Questionable judgment on my part." She presses her lips against your chest. "Now shut up and hold me. I'm sleeping here."

You tighten your arms around her, pulling the rumpled sheet over both of you with one hand. She nestles closer, legs tangled with yours. You reach over and switch off the lamp. With eyes closed, you kiss the top of her head, breathing in vanilla and cigarettes, holding your girlfriend close in the dark.

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