“These panties are awfully wet,” he said between kisses. “I reckon I ought to do something about that.”
He slipped his fingers beneath my panties and teased my clit, making me shiver and moan. His touch was soft, leaving me desperate for more.
Without warning, he pushed his fingers deep inside me. My back arched, and I groaned. I bucked my hips against his hand, seeking more—more friction, more pressure. He pumped his fingers in and out a few times while he nibbled on my bottom lip.
“I want a taste of you,” he said, drawing his fingers out. He brought them to his mouth and sucked my wetness off, closing his eyes and groaning. “God, you taste good. I need more.”
With rough hands, he yanked my panties off and pushed my skirt up. Positioning himself between my open legs, he licked up each side of my slit.
“Jesus, Jameson,” I said, my voice halting. The feel of his tongue on my sensitive skin was electric.
“Relax, darlin’,” he said. “I’m just getting started.”
His tongue moved with slow strokes and the sensation was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and sighed his name. He lapped against my clit, sending jolts of pleasure rushing through my core. God, he was good at this. His wet tongue slid and swirled until I was panting, hardly able to catch my breath.
The tension between my legs built, a deep surge of heat and pressure. Jameson sucked on my clit, and I moaned, running my fingers through his thick hair. He licked and sucked and stroked until I was ready to burst.
He slid two fingers inside me, and I cried out in ecstasy, my body shuddering. He growled into my pussy as he worked my clit relentlessly with his mouth. His fingers curled, and I thought I might die. I gasped, clutching at the sheets, the intense sensation crashing over me. He had me at the peak of climax, on the brink of coming apart.
But he wasn’t finished with me. He held me in that place, where the pleasure is at its height and the intensity is overpowering. I writhed and whimpered, digging my heels into the mattress. My pussy was hot and throbbing around his fingers, my body desperate for release.
His tongue strokes became rhythmic—warm, wet pressure against my clit—and I came undone. Wave after wave rolled through me as I came, the sensation taking over. I grabbed the sheets and gasped for breath, losing myself in the hot rush of my orgasm.
Jameson gently kissed between my legs and the insides of my thighs while I lay panting on the bed.
“I don’t know what you just did to me.”
He kissed me again, just above my opening, the soft pressure of his lips soothing in the aftermath of such an intense orgasm.
“I just like makin’ you feel good,” he said, then kissed me again.
He moved higher up the bed and we finally stripped off our clothes. Although I was sated, I needed to feel his skin against mine. He wrapped his arms around me and held me close. I relaxed against him, reveling in the warmth of his body, the feel of his rough jaw against my cheek.
“I love you,” I whispered.
He drew back to look me in the eyes and touched my face. “I love you, too.”
Our mouths came together, soft and sweet. His lips caressed mine, our tongues sliding together. I felt like I could have spent a lifetime kissing Jameson and it would never be enough.
His cock hardened, and he pressed it against me. I felt good—my pussy warm and wet from his tongue—but I wanted more. I wanted him inside me—filling me. Stretching me open and connecting my body to his.
He seemed to have the same idea. He pushed me onto my back again and settled between my legs. My need grew as he kissed me deeply and pressed his cock against me without going inside. I rocked my hips against him, rubbing my clit along his hard length. He groaned into my mouth, then sucked on my lower lip.
“I need you inside me,” I said, the urgency for him growing.
I ran my hands down his back and pressed against his ass, hoping to nudge his cock inside me. He grinned and kissed me again, like he was enjoying this game.
“You want this?”
I took his lower lip between my teeth and tugged gently. “Yes.”
He groaned again but instead of thrusting inside, he moved off me. Grabbing my hips, he flipped me over and pulled my ass into the air. I propped myself up on my forearms and looked back at him over my shoulder.
He grabbed my ass and slid his thumbs up and down my slit a few times. “God, you’re fucking sexy. I love the way you look on your knees for me.”
Taking his cock in one hand, he rubbed the tip against my opening. Jerked his hand up and down his thick length a few times. I rocked my hips back, seeking more.
“I want you inside me,” I said. “Please.”
“Baby, I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t see straight.” He positioned himself at my entrance, grabbed my hips in a tight grip, and thrust inside.
I cried out as his thickness filled me and arched my back to take him in deeper. He held my hips and plunged in and out, drawing my ass into his groin with every stroke. I loved it when he unleashed on me like this. When he showed me this side of himself—primal and raw. Strong and commanding. To the outside world, Jameson Bodine seemed like a quiet and sensitive soul, but in the bedroom, he was fierce. And I loved every second of it.
He pounded into me with hard thrusts, his grip on my hips tight. Hot tension built again, deep in my core, as waves of pleasure rolled through me. I lost myself in the feel of him fucking me, forgetting everything. The studio, the gossip, the uncertainty of my life. It all melted away.
I looked back at him again, watching his abs flex. The tattoo across his left pec and shoulder glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and his brow furrowed. He grunted low in his throat with each thrust.
Our eyes met, and he stopped, his cock buried deep inside me. His chest rose and fell and his grip on my hips was tight. Slowly, he blinked and licked his lips.
He pulled out and turned me onto my back again. Crawled up between my legs and slid his cock inside. Touching my face with gentle hands, he kissed me slowly while his hips began their rhythmic motion.
“I love you,” he whispered into my mouth, kissing me again. Deep, wet kisses, like he wanted to devour me.
I held him and kissed him back, moving with his slow thrusts. “I love you, too.”
Like a dance timed perfectly to music, our bodies moved in sync. My nipples dragged across his skin as he thrust his cock in and out of my pussy. He kissed down my neck and licked the hollow at the base of my throat. Grazed my skin with his teeth. I held on tight, rolled my hips, and drew him in as deep as he could go.
He moved faster—harder—and I could tell he was close. His cock pulsed inside me, and I whimpered with the need to come again. Sensation pooled between my legs, like every nerve ending led there. Then he shifted, a subtle movement of his hips, and took me to a whole new level of ecstasy. My eyes rolled back, the pressure so intense I could scarcely breathe.
“Fuck, Leah Mae,” he said, low in my ear. “Baby, I’m gonna come.”
“Come in me. Oh god, Jameson, come in me now.”
His body stiffened, his cock pulsed, and the first waves of his orgasm sent me over the edge.
My climax swept through me, sparks and tingles and hot swells of lust. I closed my eyes, held Jameson tight, and let it overtake me. Reveled in the release—in the feel of him emptying himself into me. In the heat of his skin, his body joined with mine.
When the last tremors faded, we lay together, arms and legs tangled. We were hot, sweaty, and exhausted. And utterly satisfied.
30
Jameson
This was, hands down, the strangest thing I’d ever done in my life. I was dressed in an expensive suit, about to walk my girl through a jungle of reporters at a studio party in L.A. It was a far cry from anything this kid from West Virginia had ever experienced before.
Leah Mae looked stunning. Her long gold dress shimmered when she moved, and her heels made her almost as tall as me. Bright red lips begged me t
o kiss them and with her hair up, the smooth skin of her neck taunted me. I wanted to lick her all over.
I hoped I was a good counterpart. My suit was nice—fit well. She’d told me a dozen or more times how good I looked. It wasn’t the most comfortable getup, but I appreciated it for what it was. Felt like I fit in—on the outside, at least.
As soon as we arrived at the hotel, a man in a slick suit appeared out of nowhere and snatched Leah Mae from her perch on my arm, pulling her aside. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I was ready to beat this guy’s ass. I was back at her side in an instant, but she didn’t seem upset. In fact, she was leaning in close so she could listen.
“Okay, sugar, here’s what you’re doing tonight,” he said. “Be sweet as apple pie. Lean on those country roots a little bit. We want you likable, but not too friendly. Don’t answer direct questions about Brock. Keep them guessing. Imply whatever you want with your nonverbal cues, but don’t deny or admit to anything.”
She nodded.
“We have Brock and Maisie arriving shortly,” he continued. “They’re putting up a united front. Smile at Brock, but feel free to glare at Maisie when he’s not looking.”
Leah Mae just nodded again. I glanced at her. Was this for real?
The guy seemed to notice me for the first time. “As for you, just… don’t talk. Be the strong silent type.”
“Pardon me?” I asked.
He cringed. “Yeah, no talking.”
“Just who in the hell are you?”
“This is Rich Baumgartner,” Leah Mae said. “He’s one of the producers.”
“You’ve done beautifully, sugar,” Rich said. “We couldn’t have asked for anything better. Perfection, babe. Keep it up.”
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared back into the crowd.
“Was that guy serious?” I asked.
“That’s just how he is,” Leah Mae said. “He doesn’t mean anything.”
“He told me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t let him get to you.” She tucked her hand in the crook of my arm and squeezed. “Besides, you don’t want to talk to the press anyway.”
Before I could reply, she nudged us toward the waiting sea of reporters. From the corner of my eye, I could see her smile. It looked as fake as Misty Lynn Prosser’s boobs. Made my back tense, and I reached up to stretch my shirt collar a bit. I’d known I’d feel like a fish out of water, but it wasn’t just the unfamiliarity making me uncomfortable. This whole place reeked of insincerity, and I didn’t like seeing Leah Mae playing into it so easily.
We started down the long walkway toward a photo backdrop with the studio logo. As soon as the first set of eyes hit Leah Mae, reporters swarmed like bees around a hive.
The first one to reach us, a woman with platinum blond hair and more makeup than I’d ever seen on one person, held up a small microphone.
“Leah, you look beautiful tonight,” she said.
“Thank you,” Leah Mae said, her red lips parting in a false smile.
“You’ve been quiet since Roughing It wrapped,” the reporter said. “Is it true you went into hiding when you found out the show was exposing your affair with Brock Winston?”
“After filming, I decided to take some time off,” she said. “I’ve been visiting family.”
“Have you seen Brock since the show ended?” she asked. “Did you attempt to continue your relationship?”
“Like I said, I’ve been visiting family. Filming the show was a great experience. I enjoyed meeting the entire cast and we all had a great time, even though it was a challenge.”
We moved on and another reporter stepped forward. Leah Mae kept her hand tucked in my arm and tilted her chin. Too late, I realized people were taking our picture. I tried not to fidget.
“Leah, you’ve been subjected to a significant backlash since the infamous back room episode aired,” the next reporter said. She had more makeup than the first. “Do you feel the vitriol was deserved?”
“There have been a lot of comments and opinions shared about the show,” she said. “I’m just glad people have been enjoying it. Mostly, I try to project the positivity that I’d like to see in the world.”
“Is this Jameson Bodine?” the reporter asked, turning her gaze on me. “How did you meet Leah?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Leah Mae cut in.
“We’re old friends,” she said.
“Jameson, what do you think about the accusations against your father?” the reporter asked. “Do you believe he murdered Callie Kendall?”
“Well, I—”
“The Bodine family has mourned the loss of Callie Kendall for the last twelve years,” Leah Mae said, cutting me off again. “Just like the rest of Bootleg Springs.”
And before I could say another word, we were moving on down the line again.
The rest was much of the same. Questions about Brock and Maisie. About her connection to Bootleg Springs. About me, or my father. In every case, Leah Mae gave the same non-answers. Her voice was hollow, and her words sounded practiced, like she was reading from a script. She smiled, turned her chin, posed for pictures.
I stayed quiet, merely tipping my head to the reporters. Felt a bit like an accessory and didn’t much like it. But I figured she was just trying to get us through as quick as she could.
A stir went through the crowd, and heads turned toward the entrance. I recognized the couple who’d come in. Brock Winston and Maisie Miller.
Brock was shorter than they made him look on TV. Dark blond hair. A cocky half-smile. He was dressed like he didn’t give a shit that this was a formal event. Sunglasses, a leather jacket, and black jeans.
His wife, Maisie, looked like a porcelain doll. Shiny dark hair, smooth skin, and blue eyes that almost seemed too big for her face. Her bright red dress didn’t leave much to the imagination.
They walked in, all smiles, and were soon surrounded by reporters, much like we were. It was hard to tell what Brock was looking at, with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but I had a feeling he was glancing over at us in between answering questions. Maisie seemed to be pretending we didn’t exist.
By the time we got to the photo backdrop, my back was stiff, and my palms hurt from clenching my fists. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
Leah Mae gave my arm a squeeze. “You’re doing great.”
We stood for a minute, and I had no idea which way to look. It seemed as if there were a hundred cameras. I concentrated on Leah Mae, like I was just a pedestal for her to stand on so she could look her best. Despite my brief brush with notoriety, she was the one people were here to see.
There were a few more people to talk to once the photos were done. I wasn’t sure who they were—reporters or people from the studio, or perhaps a bit of both. Leah Mae kept right on smiling and talking like she’d been told by the producer. Didn’t say much of substance or answer hard questions. And she certainly didn’t deny that she’d had an affair with Brock.
Which led me to wondering… why not?
“The worst is over,” she said as we walked down a short hallway. “There won’t be any press for the rest of the night.”
There were already dozens of people in the ballroom where the private party was being held. Tables were set with white linens and fancy dishes. The lights were low, and music hummed in the background—just loud enough to intrude on conversation, but not loud enough that we’d need to yell over it. I recognized several other cast members from Roughing It. A few stood together, talking near the bar. Rudy Barron, the basketball player, stood talking to another man, with a woman who looked to be his wife—or at least his date—at his side. Everyone was dressed in suits and formal dresses, and most had drinks in their hands.
A drink sounded like just the thing—a nice glass of whiskey to take the edge off—but someone stopped Leah Mae to chat almost as soon as we got into the room.
My mind wandered from her conversation. No one wanted to talk t
o me, anyway. More people came in. A few I recognized, but most I didn’t. I reckoned they were more people who worked for the studio.
I adjusted my jacket. The air in the room felt thick, making it a bit hard to breathe. People wandered past, some greeting Leah Mae—calling her Leah, of course. Something about that grated at me, but she never corrected anyone. Of course, to these people, that’s who she was, and she seemed to be determined to keep playing their game.
We worked our way deeper into the room, and I started to wonder how long this was going to last. I had no idea what was supposed to happen at a studio party. Would we just shift around the room, making small talk with different people? How long did she need to stay in order to feel like she’d done what she had to do? I wanted to ask her, but a couple of the other cast members were chatting her up about the show.
I glanced toward the entrance just in time to see Brock and Maisie walk in. She held onto his arm like she was afraid of letting go. He finally pulled those damn sunglasses off his face. Dark as it was in here, he probably couldn’t see enough to walk with them on. He tucked them in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and led his wife into the room.
For the first time since they’d arrived, Brock acknowledged Leah Mae. He held up a hand and nodded to her. She smiled back, giving him a little wave. Maisie didn’t exactly glare, but she didn’t look all too friendly, either.
The people Leah Mae had been talking to—she’d introduced me, but I’d already forgotten their names—finally moved on and I pulled her closer to the edge of the room. I didn’t know about her, but even though no one was talking to me, I needed a break.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “You hanging in there?”
“I reckon.” I adjusted my jacket again and tugged at my tie. “It’s a bit warm in here.”
“You must be hot in that suit. I’m sorry, I know this has been miserable. We don’t have to stay much longer. I just want to make sure I talk to Thomas Spencer, the show’s other producer.”
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