by Clara Leigh
So, I stay in my trailer, because it’s the only safe option. I can’t believe how wrong this has all turned out. Dare Wilde was supposed to be my escape hatch, not Chinchilla’s means of holding me to even closer account.
I need to find an emotional outlet.
Mum put us through years of dance training, yoga too, to improve our flexibility. I try a few poses, but there’s no clearing my head of Dare Wilde, and I fail to find any sort of inner peace. Maybe that’s because there’s only one true way of satisfying what I’m feeling, and that involves doing things that are out of the question. Of course if I think logically about it, I’m insane to even want to get involved with Wilde. The man’s a self-confessed player. All that’s going to result is a fleeting moment of bliss. Assuming he lives up to his reputation as a stud. He’s not looking for anything long term. In fact, I’d lay money on his interest being entirely down to my unavailability.
Cynical – yup!
But really, when he can have anyone he wants, why would he choose me?
That said, I didn’t imagine the snake in his pants earlier, so he’s not faking everything.
I grab the bottle of whisky I’ve had standing on my beside table since day one of the shoot, unscrew the lid and take a deep sniff. I bought it as a gift for him. I don’t really know why. As an apology, I suppose, because if I stick to Chinchilla rules, I’m going to seem really ungracious. After all, he only did what I’d asked of him when he kissed me.
It’s funny how things change. When I first sought Dare out, I didn’t give his feelings a single thought. He was simply a means to an end, a way to escape a glided prison. Now I’m clinging onto an apology, feeling sickened by the fact I can’t deliver it, and I’m still locked inside the same bloody prison. The difference is that there’s a handy stack of dynamite within reach, if only I were suicidal enough to light the fuse.
When my phone vibrates, I snatch it up assuming it’s going to be Flo.
“Hello Flicka,” says a man. I half recognise the voice, but for a moment I can’t place it. It’s not Dare.
“Who is this?”
“Aw, really? You can’t place me at all?”
My brows furrow as I try to make a connection.
“If I mention a towel, does it help?”
“Lorne…Lorne Everett?”
“You do remember me.”
He’s Wilde’s BFF come personal minder, I’m hardly likely to forget him completely, especially as I could hold him responsible for getting me into this mess. “What do you want?”
“Me? I don’t want anything. I just…well, I know how it can be on a film set, shut away from the world, with nothing to do of an evening except stare at the curtains.”
“So you randomly called to keep me company, is that it?”
The only possible way he has my number is from Dare.
“Not exactly. I called to offer you an alternate form of entertainment.”
“I can’t talk to him. I can’t meet him.”
“Whoever he is, I’m not acting on his behalf or suggesting you do either.”
Yeah, right!
“What then?”
“Do you enjoy stargazing, Flicka?”
My brows wrinkle. I’m confused. I rest my head against the wall. “You mean like spotting constellations?”
“It’s the perfect night for it. Clear skies, barely any light pollution. Go to your lounge and switch off all the lights. I guarantee it’ll be worth it.”
“Lorne?”
He hangs up so there’s no opportunity to question him further. I’m already in my tiny sitting area, so there’s no need to move. I turn off the light and open one set of curtains and then the other, not really sure what it is I’m supposed to be looking for. I briefly cast my gaze to the heavens uncertain that’s really where Lorne was directing my attention. There’s nothing happening up there, no messages in the clouds, and there’s no sign of Dare. I close the curtains again. However, my harrumph of disappointment transforms into a squeak halfway out of my mouth. There’s another window in here. I’d forgotten about it as I’ve been using the pole above it as an additional clothes rail. The cupboard in the bedroom isn’t nearly sufficient, and I hate living out of a trunk. I push aside the hangers of clothing and duck my head under the curtain rather than draw it.
I’ve not missed this window because there’s no view out of it. Three or four metres of sparse grass, weeds, and cracked concrete are bordered by an eight-foot wall. There’s nothing else overlooking the area, and no way of accessing it besides squeezing between my trailer and the strange windowless yurt thing next to it. Unless, I suppose, you climbed over the wall from the opposite side.
Tonight, there’s something else out there to look at besides the dandelions, brambles, and bindweed.
Dare’s leaning against the wall. My heart jolts the moment I see him. I back away, afraid that he’s going to come right up to the window and force an interaction. Of course, that’s not what this is about. If he wanted to talk, I’ve no doubt that he’d knock on the trailer door. The fact he hasn’t means he’s accepted that isn’t an option. He’s even added in a layer of distance by getting Lorne to call instead of messaging me directly.
The question is, what does he want?
I swallow a breath and head back to my vantage point. He’s still in the same position, and I realise that while he’s not making eye contact, he’s very much aware of my arrival for that’s when he starts his performance exactly as if a clapperboard had just been snapped.
His head turns from left to right. There’s no one around. Who would be, considering the lateness of the hour and how remote the location? He doesn’t look in my direction. In fact, he bows his head so that his face is shadowed.
I’m holding my breath as he runs his hand down the centre of his torso, over his bare abs and the buckle of his belt to a spot a little to the left of his fly. I don’t need it spelling out what it is he’s stroking through the fabric. Instead, I’m agog wondering how far he’s going to take this. He won’t actually get anything out, surely.
I’m truly naïve to believe such a thing. If this were another man, then perhaps a slight tease would be as far as it went. The stroke is a way of saying, “Look how horny I am for you.” But this is Dare Wilde. A man who’s known for flouting social conventions, living it large, and generally charming everyone despite his often lewd antics. There’s not going to be any half measures. He’s going to take this to its obvious conclusion, while putting on the show of the century for me.
Off comes the jacket, leaving his inked torso exposed to the night air. I’ve been imagining the designs, now I can see them all. They’re intricate. For the most part they cover his arms, but there are pictures on the sides of his abs too, only with his right hand working where it is, they’re not so easy to make out.
Isn’t he afraid of being caught? I’m convinced someone is going to sneak up behind me and clamp a hand on my shoulder any minute, even though I know the door to my trailer is locked and bolted.
The bulge in his jeans becomes increasingly pronounced. I can hardly breathe as I watch him. He slips the pin from his belt, opens the button and zip of his fly.
Bright, white underwear has never seemed so sexy. I now love it, because it shows everything. I can see the precise shape of him. That wouldn’t be possible from this distance if he’d opted for a darker colour.
He’s not yet fully hard. His cock is still tilted to one side.
“Show me,” I mouth. Oh God, please. I want to see. I want to know how he likes to be touched and where. I want visuals that I can take to bed with me tonight and incorporate into my personal fantasies. “Show me everything, Dare.”
Exactly as if he’s heard my plea, he pulls his clingy shorts down with one hand and cradles his newly exposed cock with the other.
Oh man, is he beautiful. I want to be out there on my knees kissing the length of him. I want him filling my mouth and then filling other parts too. It’s not to
be. Not tonight, and not any other time soon. Still, I have this… I’ll take what I can get, even if thinking about it logically, it’s kind of seedy. It’d be bad enough if I’d stumbled across him indulging in some surreptitious self-loving, but there’s nothing inadvertent about this. He knows I’m here. He’s invited me to watch and I’m doing so of my own free will. That makes me complicit in his scheme.
A wicked grin stretches broad across my face. I see my ghostly reflection in the windowpane. My eyes are bright with excitement, my cheeks lifted by the smile, and beyond this transparent facsimile of myself is Dare, hand on cock, loving himself.
I pray there aren’t any journalists in the vicinity, not that I think he’d care even if there were. Dare Wilde is a dirty show-off, thank every loving God.
He’s perfect.
I can’t get enough of the sight of him.
Every damned bit of him is sculpted in exactly the right way. The muscles in his abs clench as his wrist works. A tick fires in the side of his jaw, and every now and then his tongue pokes out and flicks across his lips, wetting them.
Do all men look this good when they’re tugging it? I can’t believe it’s so.
He turns his head to one side, tucks it against his bicep. His free hand clasps the back of his head. I want to take pictures of him in that pose, all exposed and horny, but I daren’t. If anyone found them on my phone the repercussions would be as bad as if we’d actually fucked.
For a while—I’m not going to lie—I’m all about the hand action. Seriously, I’m transfixed. Then I start noticing other things, the buttery colour of his skin, the scratch of hair around his loins, and the way he pinches his fingers together before popping them into his mouth to wet them. He slicks that lovely moisture all over his shaft and his mouth opens around what I know is a groan. Too bad I can’t hear it.
Maybe if… The window only opens an inch, but it’s enough to allow for the transference of sound. The next groan he makes is the most beautiful refrain I’ve ever heard. My hands clutch the curtain fabric. Wild and reckless thoughts enter my head. I dismiss most. There’s no way I’m venturing outside, but that doesn’t mean I can’t satisfy my horniness in other ways.
I do so surreptitiously. That is, my hand goes straight into my panties.
Dare and I become locked into a groove together, both stroking an itch that’ll only really be scratched when we’re finally together.
He may as well be fucking me now. I’m hot and horny enough, awash with crazy emotions I can’t control. He can’t see what I’m doing. The window is at waist height, so he doesn’t know that my hand has found its way inside my knickers and I’m rubbing myself in synch with his movements. I stare at him, mouth agape, trapped in a weird sort of feedback loop. I’m rubbing so fast now it’s bordering on being too much, too quickly, but I’m wet, so fucking incredibly wet. He smiles, and I swear he knows I’m almost there.
I, on the other hand, only realise he’s getting close when he stops adding the occasional lick of spit to his fingers. I guess there’s enough lubricant leaking from the tip of his cock to make things glide smoothly. If I was a fraction closer, maybe I’d be able to see it, but there’s no venturing closer. This is only possible because there’s a glass pane between us, and no evidence left behind to suggest an association.
Damn—my poor, lower lip gets torn ragged—there’s no putting into words how desperately I want to fly through the window and rub myself up against his hard, hot body. How much I want to ravish his lips and suck on his thick, ever so pretty, cock. I’m juddery with the thought of doing so. I want to be his fuck slave, his dirty girl, his—What was it he called me?—his cherry bomb.
It’s a shock when he explodes.
Not literally. Obviously. But it’s like watching an explosion.
I’ve never seen a man ejaculate before, not a real live man who’s standing only feet away. It’s a revelation how the moment of release wracks his body, causes his jaw to harden and his lips to curl back into something halfway between a grimace and a grin. Every muscle in his body is drawn tight, then relaxes. He’s the most perfect being that ever existed in that moment, a god I’d be only too happy to worship. The fact there’s come all over his abs, really clinches his elevation to supreme ruler of my heart and libido.
I come every bit as hard as he did. So hard, that I knock my brow against the window. Bang. The instant headache doesn’t change a thing. I’m still crying out, still pressing down frantically, still snarling and desperate for more.
Jace needs to be persuaded to add a full-on sex scene between Dare and I in this film. If the cameras are rolling, it’s all legit. I’ve often wondered how close things get when certain actors are filming. Are they ever tempted to just go for it for real? Would anyone know the difference?
Dare’s hand stays fast around the neck of is cock, like he’s not ready to accept it’s all over yet.
Our gazes meet. Heat flares across my cheeks, my nipples instantly tighten and my mouth goes dry.
What the hell comes next? It’s not as if I can pretend I can’t see him or he me. However, he only holds me trapped for a second, then he looks wryly down at his soiled abs, before sticking his tongue out and then shooting me another of his thousand megawatt smiles.
Too much sexy has addled my brain. I’m not sure what the tongue waggling is about. Oh! Or maybe I do get it.
I shake my head. This party is over. There’s no way on earth I’m venturing outside to lick him clean.
Instead I withdraw from the window and sit on my hands for several minutes, better that than allowing my feet to do something they shouldn’t in collaboration with the fingers that would have the trailer door unbolted in milliseconds.
I’m staying right here and pretending nothing unusual just occurred. Yes, I’m ignoring the fact my panties are a sodden testament to the truth.
After a couple of minutes, I check the window again. My stomach does a weird flip and drops into my toes when it becomes apparent that he’s gone. I honestly believed he’d push harder and fight dirtier. Actually, scratch the latter part, he’s has the dirty part covered, or rather, uncovered. And it’s better that it’s like this. I’m not interested in him being a domineering alpha arsehole, taking what he wants no matter the consequences, at least part of the attraction here is that he gets the fact there are things at stake. Life can’t be purely about two people working up to getting jiggy-jiggy with one another.
My phone vibrates itself off the bedside table. I snatch it up quickly, in case it’s Dare.
Lorne: Any interesting stars out?
Flicka: Yeah, I did see one bright one.
Lorne: Such a shame they’re so far out of reach. Wouldn’t it be good if you could hold one?
Flicka: Suspect it’d be a touch warm.
Lorne: Frightened you’d get singed?
Flicka: Absolutely.
Lorne: I’ll send you some fireproof mitts in time for next time.
Next time. I’m not sure that’s such a good plan, but I say nothing. It seems it doesn’t matter what I think the sensible option is. I’m going to do the exact opposite.
-15-
Dare Wilde
Time moves differently on set to how it does in the real world. Some days drag on forever; while others run into one another they’re in such a hurry to be done. Ten days pass in the blink of an eye. Ten days during which to the casual observer, I’m a complete saint. I heed Jace’s advice, and keep things strictly business between me and Flicka. Leastways, that’s all anyone sees. We don’t touch, we only speak to one another in the context of the script,and we don’t visit one another’s trailers. The last part is a bit of a kicker, especially once we move location from Batterby Point to Mortham Abbey and stargazing is no longer an option for an evening’s entertainment.
Not getting laid when it suits me makes me antsy, and the bottle of Scotland’s oak-aged finest I found on my doorstep the morning after I gave my first solo performance is down to the last
dribble. I find myself increasingly testy and ill-tempered.
Something needs to give.
There has to be a way.
Which is not to say we haven’t stolen the odd few minutes together here and there.
“Still struggling with that cold?” Galen asks, as I collect yet another box of man-sized tissues from my on-set assistant, who may or may not be called Dave.
“It’s probably hay fever.”
It actually isn’t, but the entirety of the production team doesn’t need to know that I’m frantically tugging it for hours on end on a night just to keep my desire for Flicka Caine at a manageable level. Anyway, I’ve seen the way she watches me out of the corners of her eyes when she thinks no one is paying attention. I know I’m not the only one aching for some horizontal mamboing.
The first morning at the Abbey passes quickly enough, but the afternoon turns into a serious drag. An issue with camera two is compounded by problems with my goon squad repeatedly fluffing their lines to the point of swearing and giggling. Forty odd takes to get them through half a page of dialogue for a scene that will probably end up on the cutting room floor. Afterwards, Beauford and I have another showdown over some dohickey, then Jace gives everybody thirty. We’re all pretty frazzled, so everyone heads straight off to grab a drink. I take mine outside.
Although the Abbey is generally open to the public during the day, Jace has managed to secure some kind of order to temporarily close the public footpath that runs straight through our new trailer park in the western paddock. I kind of wish someone had told the livestock about the ruling too. There’s sheep and rabbit shit everywhere you move.
I find Flicka sitting on an abandoned bench in the kitchen garden, phone in hand. A quick scope around tells me she’s alone. That ought to be my cue to move on, but my appetite for this nonsense has dwindled. I crunch a path straight across the gravel towards her.
“Dammit you scared them.” She flaps a hand at me as I grow close.
“Them?”
“The bunnies. They were by the hedgerow over there. See.” She turns her phone towards me and shows me the blurred recording of multiple brown, fluffy bundles savaging the lavender and mint.