by Emily Bishop
Roxanne presses her lips together and pulls in a deep breath, expelled in a cathartic sigh. “I was thinking about our episode tonight–how I can’t believe we came from that fake world into this–and thinking about the fake date made me remember what Candace said.”
“You’re going to have to narrow it down. Candace says a lot of things.”
“That I need to be careful with television appearances,” Roxanne answers, sounding weak, almost beaten. “That Jared might see me and come find me again.”
I nod and come up from between her legs. I want to make her forget all about Jared. This is our moment. Not his.
I hover over Roxanne, peering dotingly down at her beautiful face.
“Roxanne,” I say. “As long as I am with you, you’re safe. I’ll never let him hurt you again. I’d sooner kill him. Anyway, if he does try to track you down, he’s just going to end up in Edessa, Greece, isn’t he?”
“It’s easy for you to say,” she replies, her gaze flicking toward the wall. “You can say whatever you want. I go back to America tomorrow. I live in Los Angeles, Blake. He can find out the name of the studio from the show. He could just…he could just park outside the gates until he sees me leaving.” The last sentence is so tiny and delicate, I almost can’t hear it. She sounds like a little girl all of a sudden. “He told me that he would kill me if I ever left him. He said that he couldn’t bear to live without me. Especially seeing me on a date with another man…” Her voice gets even smaller. “He would kill me.”
“He can’t,” I assure her firmly, leaning down and pressing kisses across her face and down her neck. I must love her, because hearing her voice get so little and scared rips my heart like teeth. “Because you’re not just Roxanne anymore, a makeup girl in Los Angeles. You’re mine. And I’ll protect you.”
“Am I yours?”
I say the words as I think them, with zero filter in between. “I want you to come back to Newbury with me when this is all over,” I blurt. “I want you here.”
“You’re fucking with me.” Roxanne’s voice turns husky and strong again, brought forth by what appears to be amusement.
“I’m not,” I tell her, crawling my way back down her body. I relish her sensitive nipples, her dramatic curves, and reach her tender little nub again. This was supposed to be forbidden, but here I am with the fruit at my fingertips. “I want you here. Tell me you’ll come.”
There are two beats of silence, and then a soft, “I’ll come.”
My mouth descends, wet and strong, on her pussy. She’s going to come all right. My hands bind around her thick thighs and I eat her harder. Faster. Her nerves zing back to life after their brief rest period, snowballing quickly back to where they used to be.
“Tell me you’ll come,” I breathe against her clit. I love hearing the words.
“I’ll come,” she promises breathlessly, nodding with her eyes closed. “I’ll…I’ll…oh…” Her fingers dig deep against my scalp, and I don’t give a shit. I can’t even feel my mouth anymore, and I keep working her. All I feel is this delicious little clit against my tongue. “I’ll come,” she cries, grinding against my face. “Oh, god, I’ll come!”
Her head arches back against the pillow, and her mouth yawns open as her nectar pours over my chin. I hold her down and tongue her hard regardless of how loud she screams, until finally, she kicks me square in the shoulder.
“Ah,” I say, relinquishing her pussy.
“I’m good,” she pants. “I’m good.”
“Good.”
There’s no sense of time here, and even though we’ve been working toward her orgasm for a while, the energy on this mattress is still scintillating. I start angling to slide back into her, but Roxanne plants a hand on mine and forces herself into a sitting position.
“Easy.” I laugh at how bonelessly she clambers upright. The poor girl is like a marionette with broken strings. I did that to her. It warms my heart to see her muscles converted to jelly over me. “What is it?”
“You go down on me like a deep-sea diver every time you get the chance,” Roxanne breathes. “Let me get you back.”
My heart leaves my dick and comes up to my throat. Those full lips—almost a fetish for me at this point—are going sliding down my pole. I think of her throat, stroking me, bringing me to the edge, and my head tingles. This is going to be intense.
Her tongue trails up my shaft, preparing me for her mouth. “Mm,” she murmurs as she goes. “I taste good.”
“Fuck yes, you do,” I rumble down to her.
She takes my entire head in her mouth at once and the world goes black and warm and sweet, as if I’ve died and this mouth is my glowing tunnel. I let my hands go to her hair and pump into her. I know some girls don’t like that, especially with well-endowed men, but I can’t help myself. I have to go deeper and faster.
But she doesn’t stop me. Her throat opens up and she takes me like such a good fucking girl. She sucks me off like she loves my dick, even though it’s a little too big for this kind of thing. God, I love her. I feel her pussy bump against my leg as she lunges up and down on my cock, the stretched crotch of her romper providing no coverage anymore. I reel as I realize that she’s wet. Right now, blowing me. She’s dripping on my leg, she’s so turned on. I seethe and watch her work, mesmerized.
Roxanne’s hand pumps behind her mouth, along my shaft, and my steely thighs clamp down. Her other hand scoops beneath my balls, rubbing them and rolling them. But then her fingers find my perineum and grind against it lovingly. My eyes go blind for a second, and an incredible rush of wet heat spirals up my prick, culminating at the head. My dick feels like it’s vibrating. I can see again. I’ve never had sex with vision distortions, but I’ve had three so far tonight.
“No!” I bark down to her, shocked to realize that I’m teetering on the brink of blowing a massive load into her mouth. “I need your pussy.”
I need to feel her deep, churning around me, so hot and ready. So right. I need to feel that pussy again.
I tug on her hair and free my tingling staff from her mouth. Oh, god, it still feels like I could come any second. I sweep my fingers over her snatch to test her wetness, then moan. It’s otherworldly. I tear off her ruined romper and pitch it to the floor.
Grasping my cock, I play him over her hole, which still puckers around my head every time I pass it.
“Are you ready?” I ask thickly.
“Jesus,” Roxanne murmurs in response, eyes rolling in the back of her head. “Do it already.”
I don’t need any more than that. I sink into her completely, from tip to hilt, in one slow, glorious plunge. Fireworks spread under my skin, and I can barely move for fear of coming everywhere. Her breath gasps and jerks and flutters out in crazy sighs, and I close my eyes and breathe. Deep. In. Out.
As I concentrate on breathing, leaving behind this animalistic, frenzied fuck—which, in spite of that, has lasted over an hour—my need to orgasm recedes enough that I can thrust into her without toppling over the brink. I position my arms properly, breathe, and thrust. I open my eyes and gaze down at Roxanne, who peers back up at me, noticing the sudden change of pace.
“Slowing down,” she notes, breathless and sweaty.
“Making it last,” I say, inhaling deeply, exhaling deeply.
“You don’t have to do that,” Roxanne whispers up to me. “I want to feel you come, Blake.” Her voice is low and drugged, like she’s not even herself anymore. “I want it.”
I ignore how fucking sexy she is and breathe. “You don’t like this?” Breathe.
“No,” she says. “I want you to—”
Without a word, I grip her hips, tilt them, spread her thighs as far apart as they will go, and lift her into the air. I pound mercilessly into her, maintaining my breathing, keeping my eyes unfocused and on the wall. If I look at her, I swear to God, I’m going to come even if nothing’s touching me. I’m that ready to blow. But I stare at the wall and detach from the intense pleasur
e in my body, just…fucking…railing Roxanne. She yodels beneath me, and I assume she’s all right. I can’t look at her.
“You don’t like this?” I ask her again.
“Uhhh,” Roxanne replies.
I slide from her pussy, and she whimpers as I leave her clutching walls. I tilt her hips further until her right hip is flush against the mattress and her left hip is in the air, then split her thighs again and lay down on my side, perpendicular to her. I grasp her left leg and hold it in the air. I gyrate my hips with the speed and looseness of a dancer, filling her again and again. She shrills and clamps and gushes all over my prick again. I just keep breathing and pumping. Breathing and pumping.
“From behind now,” I pant down to her, and she twists onto her hands and knees in a graceful flow. I grasp her hips, breathe, look at the wall, and guide myself into her again. She’s utterly full at this angle; my prick barely fits. My tip hits her sensitive center, but she loves it. I know because she presses against me. She doesn’t recoil.
My palms slide over her generous ass.
Breathe. Breathe.
It’s so round and smooth, like a peach. My cock trembles inside her.
Breathe.
My hands treasure her ass, and I spread her cheeks a little.
I pump in and out of her.
Breathe. Breathe.
I look down instead of looking at the wall. I skate one finger over her tight little asshole.
Breathe.
She whimpers responsively, and I see that psychedelic pinwheel again for a second. I force my eyes up to the wall. Breathe. Breathe. Don’t feel it too closely.
I test her ass with one finger, up to the knuckle, and my composure breaks. I let out a little cry myself. It’s so impossibly tight, but she doesn’t say no. She still comes back to meet me with her pussy, just as hard as she did before.
Breathe. Breathe. Oh, god. Breathe.
“You like this,” I breathe down to her, moving my finger and my prick at the same time. I’ve heard that, after an erogenous zone gets worked over hard enough, it all becomes the same. You can’t even tell the difference anymore, it all feels so good. “Don’t you?”
“Mm,” Roxanne murmurs, and I move my finger deeper, amazed at how hard it makes me, even though this is just a fucking finger in an ass. I have to close my eyes. It’s getting too sweet. Just breathe! “I wish there was another you in front of me,” Roxanne says. “So I could suck your dick right now…”
“Ohhh,” I moan, shocked as orgasm pours out of my cock. “Oh, oh, oh, oh.” I grasp her shoulders and pump into her as deeply as I can. Finally.
I collapse onto the mattress, dragging Roxanne’s limp body with mine. The entire room reeks of sex, and so do we. Gray light pours in through the windows. It’s dawn. Fuck.
“I’ve got to go,” Roxanne grumbles.
“Stay,” I whisper. I wrap my arms around her, but they fall together as she slithers off the bed and onto the floor. She creeps to her romper and shimmies back into it, even if the poor thing is ruined. The top sags around her breasts and the crotch sags. You can tell someone was ravaged tonight.
“I can’t,” Roxanne whispers back. “If Candace catches me… you know.” Her key winks in the pale dawn light as she turns, disappearing through the door.
Chapter 8
Roxanne
“Time for me to fucking fire you,” Candace snaps…
I slip back into the trailer before anyone else is awake. It’s only been about five hours since we returned from Greece, so they sleep deeply as I steal a shower and change into something less—ruined. I crawl into my bunk, muscles already sore, and groan with satisfaction as my head melts into the pillow. I’m only awake long enough to yearn for Blake’s body. But more than that. I yearn for his fingers through my hair. His eyes with laughter in them.
Then everything goes black and I sleep like the dead.
***
I’m climbing a tower in a dream when a hard female voice pierces through: “Wake up.” I scowl and swat at something swatting at me, only eventually realizing that Candace is lightly hitting me to wake me up.
“What the fuck, Candace?” I grumble, pulling myself up into a sitting position in the bunk. My eyelids struggle to stay apart. “What is it?” Candace is a yellowish blur in front of me. She slowly sharpens, and I see that she’s still wearing her pajamas, too. She’s holding a tablet. “What time is it?”
“Time for me to fucking fire you,” Candace snaps.
That gets my attention. My eyes are sharp now. That was better than smelling salts. “What?!”
Candace shoves the tablet into my hands, and I glare down at it, confused. It’s open on a webpage. An article. Soap Sizzle. I repeat the name sarcastically, and Candace snarls, “It’s a pretty popular celebrity news blog, Roxy.”
I glance down at the headline.
ANYONE ELSE CATCH THE EASTER EGG IN EPISODE #3 OF MY BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR?
My brow furrows as I examine the fuzzy image under the title.
It just looks like trees. Garden.
“Read it,” Candace commands.
My eyes skim. I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know it’s somehow all my fault. During the second transitional sequence during Episode #3, ‘Blake Rides,’ you will notice a montage of images from the property. One of these shots showcases a gorgeous cluster of pine trees behind a butterfly pavilion.
I swallow.
Let’s put it in HD and look closer.
The next shot is closer. They’re going to drag it out. How did this happen?
In the next shot, everything looks the same, but bigger. Then they show the same picture again, with a red pen outline on some shadows on the ground.
Watch.
It comes closer and they sharpen. Now I can see that it’s two people. A man and someone smaller… probably a woman. I can only see the blur of hips and legs, though. The man is up, hovering over the legs. It might not be Blake. It might not be Blake.
The photo sharpens and enlarges once more.
It is almost certainly Blake. A fuzzy Sir Blake Berringer, but our billionaire bachelor nonetheless. What Soap Sizzle doesn’t know is that those naked legs belong to me.
He looks a lot like our British bad boy, trotting on Lightning, doesn’t he? BUT WHO IS HE WITH?
I swallow and pass Candace her tablet. “Um,” I say. “Does anyone know who that is?”
“Oh, don’t be cute,” Candace snaps, swatting at me. “This is humiliating! The whole point of the show is the unattainability… and here he is, getting blowjobs on the set!”
“Technically,” I whisper, “he was the giver.”
“How many times am I going to stand idly by and let you completely disrespect the set rules?” Candace yells. People standing outside the van look at its windows with curiosity.
“Let me ask you a question,” I reply blithely, my voice mellow and low compared to hers. “How are ratings?”
“They’re saving your job,” she snarls. “Because I want to fire the shit out of you right now.” She pauses, glowering at me, and continues, “Get your shit all packed up, anyway. We’re getting out of here in thirty.” She points a finger at me. “The pap are going to be thick. Stay the fuck away from that boy, or I’m going to fire you and sue you for breach of contract and the resulting company losses. Blake Berringer must appear to be unattainable, Roxanne.”
Keep my hands off of Blake. Keep my eyes off of Blake. And vice versa.
I have a flashback to last night. I have a flashback to three hours ago.
Hands off.
Sounds easy enough.
“All right,” I grumble, slowly climbing from my bunk. Two hours of sex. Three hours of sleep. Perfect. Let’s fly to America.
***
The wave of paparazzi is constant, from the chateau to the hangar to the mansion in Los Angeles. I don’t go directly to the mansion, because we’re not filming anything today. I go home.
It might seem
like I wouldn’t want to be away from Blake, because he’s dreamy, but I’m aching with relief when I finally turn my key in that lock and come trudging through those doors.
Home is a shabby, chic Hollywood loft apartment. Rent is astronomical, so we’re breaking the terms of our lease. It’s a two-bedroom, one bath. We have four upstanding women living in it. The four members of The Cabbage Splat Dolls: Iggy, green-haired and freckled, plays the drums, works at the zoo as a tour guide, and goes to UCLA. Pepper, with a pug-like upturned nose and straight auburn hair, plays bass, and is a pre-school teacher. Very straightedge. And Sam-o, pale with eerily white platinum hair, plays the accordion and sings back-up, got fired right before I left for England with the crew. She managed a shoe store in the mall, and took the nightly deposit to a party in her purse—which got stolen.
When I arrive home, we have a little jam session and make tacos. Even my roommates, who are not pop-culture divas by any means, are gushing about the scandalous ‘Easter egg’ in episode 3 and who owns the legs in that photo. I don’t say anything. I just smile and shrug.
No one texts me, which is fine.
I don’t think about Blake obsessively before I fall asleep in my old bed. I don’t have a silent orgasm against my hand, remembering how mercilessly he fucked me the other night.
I tingle with excitement, thinking about the possibility of sneaking off somewhere in the LA location, maybe even disabling some equipment for a few hours.
My phone vibrates in the morning, and I jolt excitedly, thinking that Blake is texting me now. Maybe the phones haven’t all been confiscated yet. Maybe we can have breakfast…
CANDACE: can u come in?
I roll my eyes, text back that I can, and go get dressed. I slip on frumpy, faded jeans that hang on my hips, a white tank top, and aviator shades. I don’t bother with makeup, and I head to the set, where Candace spends entirely too much time.