by Clara Leigh
Back in the real world my restraint is shot to pieces too. I don’t undo my fly, but it’s impossible not to give in to the urge to stroke, even if all I’m really doing is dancing my fingers over the shaft and circling the heel of my hand over the sensitive head.
“You want me to fuck you, Flicka? Are you sure, because there’s no going back? Once I’m inside you—”
“I want you inside me right now.”
This time, I don’t dither. I cast aside all that crap, and paint the scene exactly as she desires it. I press myself right where she claims she’s so desperate to feel me. Her breath freezes in her throat, then releases as a whiny as I inch inside. I rock our hips, helping her to get used to the feel and shape of me.
Too bad it’s all vivid talk and not actual flesh and blood colliding.
“More,” she insists. “I’m fine. It’s good. We’re good. Fuck me harder. Fuck me deeper, Dare. Do me like I know you want to.”
“Babe, you’ll not be able to walk.”
“I can handle whatever you give me.”
I roll us over, let her get on top. “You want it. Then take it.” I buck up into her, filling her all the way, but after that, I let her set the pace. She grinds against me. Holds me close and smothers me with ardent kisses. Her pace never waivers. The woman is a natural, and so sexy it’s a challenge to keep my damn cool so that this lasts.
“Come inside of me,” she urges. “I want to feel that. I want to know how much I turn you on.”
She does it for me. She’s no need to worry about that.
We shift positions again, so that I can rub right where she needs it, even if she doesn’t realise it herself. A few touches right there, at that angle is all it takes and she’s thrashing about and mewling deep in her throat. Her come face is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.
“Wow!” She swallows hard. “That was—”
“Flick, are you okay in there?”
“Shit!” There’s a crash and I guess she’s dropped the phone.
“Can I come in?”
“Just a minute.” She comes back on the line, voice pitched low. “Dare? Sorry, I need to go. We’ll talk soon.”
Shit indeed. My body’s still in the moment, while my head’s trying to make sense of the sudden cut off. It takes me several seconds to even realise that the jack-hammering across the room has stopped.
Lorne escorts his date to the door. Once she’s gone, he rests his back against the wood for a moment, while his gaze fixes on me. I stretch out an arm, palm towards him, silently warning him to keep his distance.
He waits, watches as sweat beads across my upper lip, but as is typical, the bastard doesn’t listen. He comes over, only stopping when he’s right before me. He doesn’t say a thing before he falls onto his knees. He doesn’t need to. It’s goddamned obvious what I need. I still have my phone clasped in a death grip against my ear, even though the call has ended.
I don’t stop him as he loosens my fly and drags my trousers down along with my boxer briefs. When his mouth wraps around my cock, my knees wobble and only then do I drop the phone and seek something else to cling onto. That something turns out to be the tousled strands of his hair.
I try not to make too much noise as I grind my hips against his face, but really there’s no sense in trying to hold anything back. It’s not as if this is anything new. Lorne and I go way back. We have a comprehensive no-strings arrangement. This is strictly about need. Also, short of a worm hole opening, and me diving through it to land in Flicka Caine’s bed, it’s the sweetest way to relieve the ache in my balls.
The fact Lorne’s blond makes it doubly easy to imagine it’s Flicka on her knees before me.
I’m plenty desperate to feel her mouth wrapped around me, which means it’s all over in minutes.
Lorne pulls away, and wipes the semen from his lips and chin. You’ve got to appreciate a man who’s prepared to swallow for a friend, and never demands a damned thing in return. “I see she’s properly got her hooks into you.”
“I dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Tread carefully, Dare. She’s Chinchilla property and they don’t play nice. If they think you’re fucking with their brand, there’ll be hell to pay.”
I don’t bother to explain that I’m more or less counting on it.
-10-
Felicity Caine
When I hang up the phone it takes a minute or two to ground myself and absorb the reality of what we’ve just done. There may not have been any physical contact involved, but I just had sex with Dare Wilde, and it was intense. It’s given me a lot to think about.
A lot to relive too.
I climb under the covers and try to wipe the manic grin from my face before Flo enters. Turns out, that’s not so easy, when I’m still high on the moment, and I’m crazy curious about whether this means we’re actually going to fuck for real the next time we meet.
Flo has on her yoga pants and is slurping a bottle of water. “You remember we’ve a morning stretch and shine session booked with Lindsay this morning?”
“I need to sleep.”
“Yeah, you’d better have a fantastic excuse lined up.”
“I haven’t had any yet.”
“Hm,” she imitates our trainer’s disapproving posture. “And why is that, Felicity? Were you out late partying? Do you think hobnobbing with superstars will get you what you want out of life? Consistency and sweat are what’s going to propel you forward, not exchanging saliva with notorious playboys.”
I flounder for a moment as I attempt to dream up a winning excuse. Flo’s impersonation is spot on. However, my head is still swimming with images of Dare, and every word he’s ever said to me is playing altogether on endless repeat. All I want is to sink onto my pillow and live in fantasyland for a while.
A dreamy smile eats up my face and Flo’s glower breaks. “I’m definitely getting T-shirts printed,” she announces. “But for the record, I still think you’re playing with fire.”
I know that, but right now I don’t care. Sure, it might turn out that Dare has late night sexy chats with all his leading ladies, but that doesn’t alter the fact that it was awesome fun, or that my heart is pitter-pattering so fast I’m feeling woozy.
“I know I need to be careful.”
“Like you’re walking on eggshells,” she advises.
I nod. “I was good. I didn’t invite him over.”
“Wise. I think there are reporters camped outside the building.”
I still don’t really know what hell storm the morning tabloids will bring.
I lay my head on my pillow and refuse to allow the ugliness of the world to sap the joy from me. Whatever the outcome when I wake, tonight, the kiss, and that phone call makes it all worth it.
“I’m sleeping,” I mumble. “You can tell Lindsay whatever the hell you like.”
Flo tucks the covers around my shoulders. “I’ll think of something.”
***
Flo rouses me around midday by waving a cup of builder’s tea under my nose. “Time to rise and look lively, you dirty stay abed.” For someone who was dying from the morbid sore throat yesterday evening, she’s far too cheerful. I groan, and attempt to pull a pillow over my head, but she claims it from me. “Warren called. He’s picking you up in an hour for a meeting with a J.J. Jones and a Chinchilla Corporation rep, name of Steve Dandy. I don’t think we’ve encountered him before.”
“Last night really happened?” I ask, squinting at her.
“Yup, the papers are full of it, and you’re the number one internet search.”
I groan, because that doesn’t sound good. Although, if the kiss happened for real, that means the rest of it probably happened for real too.
“My T-shirts idea is taking off too.”
“You didn’t honestly suggest it.”
“Anonymously. Wilde has anyone with even half a libido rooting for him; Tyler’s mostly attracting the Chinchilla crowd.”
I groa
n. “I don’t want to know. Nobody should be picking sides. I’m not dating either of them, just making a film with them.”
“Are you sure about that?”
When I glare at her, she bounces away grinning. “Get dressed. Warren didn’t sound in the best of moods, and you need him on our side. If you piss him off by making him hang around, he’s not going to go out to bat for us with any enthusiasm.”
I love the way she says we, when really this whole mess is about me screwing up, and Chinchilla thinking of ways to impose upon my freedoms. But I guess the downside of us being twins is that we’re forever tarred with the same brush no matter what we do.
The meeting is held over lunch at a country pub in an obscure bit of the English countryside. Warren’s at his obsequious best after giving me a full on bollocking on the way to the venue. Seems he’s over the part about me securing a payday, and now back to figuring out how to get a handle on taming my errant ways, before the newspapers find themselves a story that actually has some substance to it.
My only images of Jones are based on his appearance in Sunsetters. The years since his one and only acting role have changed him somewhat. He has a round face, thick glasses, and a mop of reddish-brown hair that falls anyhow it pleases. He looks exactly like an eccentric art-house film maker, which is accurate, if you ignore the massive budgets Hollywood throws in his direction. Steve Dandy is typical of the Chinchilla brand. Tailored to within an inch of his being and largely unsmiling and unsympathetic. We’ve never met before, but he knows everything there is to know about me, right down to my vital statistics—i.e. how much I’m worth to the company, and how much they expect to benefit from loaning me out to Jones. I have zero say in the contractual negotiations; in fact it fast becomes apparent they’ve already been hammered out. It seems this meeting is purely to bring me up to speed on what’s expected. More precisely, how I’m to behave in the presence of Mr. Wilde.
“However, there’s still considerable concern among the bosses over your relationship with Mr. Wilde. The statement we put out has been largely accepted, but we really need to insist that you desist from engaging in any further sort of intimacies with Mr. Wilde. He’s not an appropriate role-model for our audiences, and as one of our principle ambassadors, it’s vital that you maintain the company image. It’s only owing to your previously impeccable record that we’re willing to acknowledge that the events of last night were an unfortunate slip on your part, with no malice intended.”
“So, what exactly are you asking here? I can hardly avoid contact with him when we’re appearing in the same film.”
“Yes, we fully accept that contact is inevitable, a necessity even, in a work context. However, outside of filming, the Chinchilla group would prefer—” Translation: we insist. “—that you maintain your distance from Mr. Wilde and his associates.”
“Even putting aside the company image, it’s good advice, Felicity,” Warren adds in such a smarmy, cock-sucking way it makes me want to chuck my tuna salad at him. “Dare’s reputation in the industry and with the general public is hardly a salubrious one. He’s been incarcerated at least twice on drug and alcohol related incidents, and I’m sure you don’t want to be just another notch on his already heavily-marked bedposts.
“We must most strongly insist that you keep all social contact with Mr. Wilde to an absolute minimum. Best not to talk to him at all.”
“Other than in the context of the script?”
Dandy actually hesitates before delivering a reluctant, “Yes—if it’s directly related to the script and your performance, then clearly you need to be able to communicate.” Makes me wonder if this pen-pusher has a clue how filming works.
“You’re sure you don’t need to assign an intermediary to act as a buffer?”
“Um, well…”
Jason shakes his head. “I don’t need extraneous bodies on my set. Direct communication between actors, the director, and other professionals is essential. By all means make your decrees about what’s acceptable post-production, but barriers on set are a no-no.”
Thank God the director is no nonsense, or I swear Chinchilla would have us filming our scenes together in separate buildings using green screen techniques and then sewing it together in a computer lab somewhere.
“Yes, outside of the shoot. Obviously, we recognise there are some circumstances where you’ll be obliged to attend the same place at the same time, Miss. Caine, but if you could refrain from actual engagement with Mr. Wilde beyond the basics of social necessity at those events, that would help to avoid a repeat of the recent situation.”
“What are we talking about, a nod, handshake, air kisses?”
“Just treat him the same way you would anyone else you barely know.”
Except after several months of filming together, I expect to know him really rather well. That’s true of anyone you work with that closely and intently for a reasonable period of time.
“He’s much too old for you anyway,” Warren adds.
He’s five years older, at the most. I refrain from pointing that out. Dare, Lorne, Chase, and Jason were little more than kids when they made Sunsetters.
“I can’t state firmly enough that a relationship is to be avoided. If such a thing were to occur, there would be severe consequences, Ms. Caine.”
“Oh,” I say innocently, as if I can’t imagine what they might be. It’s shocking how intently I hate Steve Dandy after such a short acquaintance.
“I assume you value your connection to Chinchilla.”
“Obviously. Of course she…we do,” Warren says, while levelling a stare at me, that I interpret as zip it or else.
The or else is incredibly tempting.
“Then I trust we won’t have a follow up to this meeting because your client has slept with him.”
“My client has more self-respect than to demean herself with a Hollywood bad boy.”
Yeah. That’s right… except, the moment I’m ordered not to sleep with him is the moment I decide that I definitely, maybe should. After all, if the phone sex is anything to go by, the real thing should be worth all the soul-crushing vitriol it’ll generate. That and the high from sticking two fingers up at Steve Dandy and his ilk would be awesome. Ha, this is what I think of your stupid rules and the contract I didn’t sign but am forced to adhere to.
Bastards.
I’d totally do it too, if I didn’t think it’d end both mine and Flo's careers. If I escalate things with Wilde, Chinchilla will nuke our butts.
“Maybe you could spend more time with Mr. Beauford,” Steve Dandy, chief Chinchilla slime ball suggests. Except we all know it’s not a suggestion. It’s a direct bloody order dressed up as helpful idea. So, not only am I not allowed to date Dare Wilde, or even talk to him, I’m now being told I ought to get engaged to Tyler Beauford.
They can go suck eggs!
It’s hardly any wonder that I leave the restaurant seething. I come really close to calling Dare and suggesting we meet pronto so that he can give me a live demo of his fingering technique. It’s only the arrival of Kurt, come to deliver me safely home, that changes my mind.
Instead, I sit in the back of the vehicle and fire off a text to Flo.
Flicka: I’m banned from talking to him. Can you believe that? I can’t even choose who I open my mouth to.”
Flo: Does that rule BJs out?
Flicka: Haha! Be serious. I’ve just been told I can’t speak to him. What—am I still twelve?
Flo: You’ll have to fuck him in silence.
Flicka: You’re so bloody funny.
Flo: Guess that’ll rule out any more late night sex chat. You’ll have to escalate.
That may well be what I was thinking, but Flo’s supposed to be the voice of reason.
Flicka: Be serious.
Flo: I am. In any case, it’s not like they can stop him from talking to you. So, he could still whisper dirty nothings in your ear. You just can’t talk back.
Flicka: They were specific abo
ut essential communications only.
Flo: Having fantastic orgasms seems pretty essential to me. Think of your mental health and the self-esteem benefits. Also, let’s not forget that it’ll be hot.
Flicka: I don’t think they give a damn about my needs.
Flo: All the more reason to invite Dare to fuck you dirty, while dirty talking about fucking to you. If you’re worried about inadvertently saying something non-essential, then you could always get him to gag you first.
I’m not sure how to respond to that, other than by pointing out my sister’s imagination might be running away with her.
Flicka: Do you have a quota for Fs you have to meet today?
Flo: You know I only fuck by text.
Flicka: You realise that could be taken in more than one way.
Flo: And I present to you another option.
Flicka: I’m pretty sure text still comes under the heading of communication and is therefore banned.
Flo: :) And you give a fuck about Chinchilla rules since when? You want out. Wilde’s the dynamite you need to make it happen. Or is that no longer the plan?
I love my sister. She’s right of course.
Flicka: I thought you said mucking around with him was a stupid idea, guaranteed to screw us?
Flo: Hold on one second, just checking the smooch out again.
Flo: I’m a fatalist. Screwing is inevitable. #TeamWilde for the win. #FuckChinchilla.
If they saw our text messages, that’d be an instant end to our tenure at the studio. Suppose if I get totally desperate, I could leak them.
Flicka: For reals?
Flo: Chemistry like that, it’d be a crime to deny it.
Chemistry—there’s that word again, the one J.J. Jones is banking on. I want to believe it’s real. Last night certainly sizzled, but I’m not sure if that really means anything. Dare Wilde is a notorious player. For all I know he engages in fruity talk with a different girl every night.
Flo: Ways to #FuckChinchilla 1. In a bathtub. 2. In front of the mirrors in the make-up trailer. 3. On set with the cameras rolling.