WE’D BEEN FILMING IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE for only two weeks when rumors of a real-life romance between Mikhail and me spread through the British tabloids like mold on warm mayonnaise. All completely—semi—false, of course. But try arguing that when there are pictures of Britain’s “most eligible bachelor” spreading sunscreen all over your American ass. “Friends can spread sunscreen on each other on their day off at the beach,” I told my publicist.

She laughed. “Is that your official statement?”

I’d been warned about working with both Mikhail Sommerville and Derek Jackson, the director. The unlikely progeny of a beautiful, dark-haired Russian actress and a British physicist, Mikhail had an international reputation as a heartbreaker. He had a literature degree from Oxford and would occasionally moonlight as a playwright for the Royal Theatre in London. I’d never worked with anyone like him before, actors generally being rather blank in all the ways that matter. My agent told me he had ridiculously high standards and a knack for making actresses cry.

The first time we actually met was in a tiny Parisian café near the Musée d’Orsay. Derek led me over to Mikhail—who was sipping a noisette and reading a French newspaper, dressed all in black, dark brown hair raked back off his face—and made the introductions.

“Lydia Castle, I’d like you to meet the infamous Mikhail Sommerville, your costar.”

“Infamous, eh?” Mikhail stood up, looking a little embarrassed, and held out his hand. At least six foot two, he towered over me.

His cheeks dimpled slightly as he smiled. I squeezed his hand. He held on to it a second longer than necessary, lowering his chin and staring into my eyes—as though we were in on the same joke. I have to admit, I swooned a little.

I’d seen enough pictures of him to know that he was gorgeous, but I hadn’t expected the effect he would have on me. Unlike most of the pretty Hollywood boys, Mikhail was reported to have something rarer than good looks—character. He actually looked as if he was thinking, lots, about everything. I could see that he was sizing me up.

Perhaps it was just my insecurities, but I thought he appeared unconvinced that I was the right woman to play a moody, passionate medieval writer named Sandrine Farot—feisty enough to dare to write when few women could read, with a sexual appetite to match the perverted king’s. I’d been dying for a role like this ever since I knew I wanted to act.

The three of us sat down. The midmorning sun streaked through the floor-to-ceiling café windows. Derek slapped Mikhail on the shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t greet Lydia the way you did Juliette Binoche.”

Mikhail burst out laughing. His broad, easy smile was mesmerizing. I glanced from one to the other for an explanation. Mikhail sighed, still looking rather pleased with himself.

“When we were filming Sun into Midnight, and I met Juliette for the first time, rather than shaking her hand, like I just did yours, I laid a wet one on her.”

“What?” I exclaimed, looking at Derek for confirmation; he nodded and shook his head in amusement and exasperation. “Why would you do that?”

Mikhail shrugged nonchalantly. “It was an intense film. I needed to make sure we had the right kind of chemistry to pull it off.”

“So what did she do?” I had to know.

“What do you think?” He exchanged a look with Derek. “She slapped me.”

“And do we have the right kind of chemistry?” I heard myself asking.

“I don’t know, let me see,” he said, darting a hand behind my head and pressing his mouth against mine. Fair enough, I’d asked for it—and was glad I had. His lips felt soft and solid at the same time. My mouth was slightly open, as was his. I felt the tip of his tongue just barely touching my bottom lip. I got shivers on top of my goose bumps.

When he finally let go—just as abruptly—and sat back in his seat, sipping his noisette as though nothing had happened, I felt drunk. I had no doubt that we had the right kind of chemistry for a Derek Jackson film. I couldn’t wait to start.

We didn’t see each other again until a month later, when filming began. At the time, Mikhail was in the throes of a vicious divorce with wife number two, a French songbird named Maxine. His cell phone was constantly ringing off the hook and it was understood that he might be scarce around the set.

This time, we bumped into each other over the lavish breakfast buffet at the Cassis Hotel, located in the heart of the fortressed French town of Carcassonne, where most of the main crew was staying for the duration of filming.

“I recommend the banana pancakes,” he said with a grin, slapping his cell phone shut. He was dressed more casually that day, in a white T-shirt and frazzled jeans. There was a hint of a British accent, but his Rs and Ss were hardened by having Russian as a second language—a real European mutt. He also looked a lot younger that morning than he had at the café, more like his thirty-five years. His light brown eyes, almost the color of desert sand, danced mischievously as he continued to stare at me.

“If we’re going to be having sex in front of twelve people in a month, we should probably have breakfast together,” he said. “What do you think?”

My stomach dropped to my shoes like a broken elevator. “Why is Derek waiting that long to do the scene?” I asked, delicately selecting fruit for my plate as though I wasn’t sweating like a teenager.

The scene we were both referring to was an intense, emotionally fraught collision between our two characters. The sex was supposed to be the “shred each other to pieces” kind. From watching Derek’s previous three films, I knew he was capable of making it happen. My knees had quivered just reading the scene. I’d been desperately trying to shed my tame, good-girl image since my breakaway role in a generic romantic comedy; if a Derek Jackson film didn’t do it, then nothing would!

“He always does this,” Mikhail answered. “He wants the tension to build. The scene won’t work unless we’re actually dying to fuck each other for real.” He said this so nonchalantly you’d think we were talking about the history of steam engine design. Meanwhile, every time he made any kind of reference to us having sex, my clit would pulse against my silk underwear. If he was trying “to build tension,” it was working beautifully. I already wanted him.

Over the next week Mikhail “let himself go” at Derek’s instance. His character was supposed to slowly descend into madness. His facial hair, carefully monitored by the makeup crew, was beginning to cast just the right five o’clock shadow. It made him look more handsome than ever.

“Tomorrow I get to touch your breasts,” he whispered into my ear a week and a half into filming—again, over the breakfast buffet. I almost dropped my pain au chocolat into my coffee. He’d walked a few paces ahead of me by this point. He stopped at the fruit platter and turned around to gauge my reaction, his mouth twitching into a playful smile.

I’d argued a long time with my agent about whether to do the nude scenes. Once you do them, there’s no turning back. We squeezed an extra million dollars out of the deal. I’d already known at that point that Mikhail would be my costar and thought nothing of it—one giant, masculine mitt on your breast was bound to be the same as another. Wow, was I ever wrong! I was a wreck just thinking about it; Mikhail had a knack for making me feel like a nervous twit, even though he was only six years older.

The next morning, I thought I was going to throw up. This was by far the sexiest scene I’d ever done—and it was just the beginning. This had to go well; Derek was taking a huge chance on me.

I skipped breakfast. I didn’t want anyone to know how nervous I was, and I knew Mikhail would see right through me. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was a twittering, insipid American who squirmed at the mention of “boob.”

Wardrobe fussed with my bodice for nearly an hour, opening and closing the front to make sure Mikhail wouldn’t have problems. I tried to concentrate on something else, but every time Lisa from wardrobe grabbed the front laces with her hand to check if the tension was right, I pictured Mikhail doing the same. How on earth had I agreed to this? I debated calling my agent up and saying I hadn’t been in my right mind when I’d signed the contract.

I looked at myself in the mirror one last time before making the five-minute trek to the set. My long, light brown hair was arranged in a messy updo, tendrils hanging haphazardly around my face. There was a distinct blush on my cheeks, and my lips looked abnormally moist. Normally, the makeup and costuming put me into character, made me forget myself; I became my character. But all I could think about was Mikhail, and not Marcel and Sandrine.

All the narrow streets were made of cobblestones; I walked onto the set in running shoes, with my billowy, multilayered gown bunched and balanced in my arms.

The set had been constructed in the actual castle, completely transformed to look as authentic as possible. The scene was to take place at the entrance to a tight, spiral staircase. Every eye turned in my direction as I bent down to replace my shoes. When I stood up again my gaze instantly found Mikhail’s.

He was standing near the entrance to the staircase, wearing a long, tailored black overcoat, trim black pants with high boots, and a loose white shirt. He grinned. I readjusted the massive pile of fabric in my arms and walked over to him as confidently as I could.

“Wardrobe fixed the bodice issue?” Derek asked.

“Uh, yup,” I mumbled.

“Listen,” Derek continued, taking me aside. Mikhail’s gaze followed us. I couldn’t break our eye contact. “Mikhail and I were talking yesterday. I think we need to alter the scene a little.”

“Oh?” Out of the corner of my eye I could still see Mikhail watching us, his face still and observant.

“I know it’s not in your contract, and I know I’m asking a lot here, but I think it’ll work a lot better if Marcel actually kisses Sandrine’s breast.” He waited for the bomb to drop.

My mouth hung open. I felt cornered. I respected Derek’s genius. I trusted his opinion; no fewer than four actresses had earned an Academy Award nomination through one of his films. But kiss my breast?

I looked at Mikhail. His expression was impossible to read. He walked over to us.

“Lydia?” Derek appeared concerned.

“Yup,” I said, as Mikhail reached us and put his hand on the small of my back. The gesture was both protective and controlling at the same time. It had the perfect effect. I suddenly felt safe. If it had been anyone else—no way in hell!

“So will you try it?” Derek asked.

I looked at Mikhail again. He smiled and raised his left eyebrow ever so slightly. My eyes rested on his mouth. I imagined those full, wide lips on my actual, real, sensitive breast—not a prop, my breast.

“Oh, God,” I whimpered. “Fine.”

“That’s our girl!” Derek slapped me on the shoulder. “Now remember, it’s not binding. We don’t have to use the scene. We’ll shoot it both ways and see what works.”

“Okay.” I was down to monosyllables.

The three of us walked back to the staircase.

“Places everyone,” Derek yelled. Everyone scrambled, leaving Mikhail and me on the set.

“So remember,” Derek instructed, taking his place beside the cameraman. “You’ve just been forced to sit through an interminable dinner with the king. Marcel is furious with you, Sandrine, for entertaining the king’s advances. You can’t risk being caught with him or the gig is up. Ready?”

Derek waited a moment while I tried to concentrate myself into character. “Ready,” I said.

“Okay, quiet everyone. And…rolling!”

“What in bloody hell was that?” Mikhail growled, grabbing me by the upper arm as I took my first step up the staircase.

“Get your paws off me! No man has, nor ever will, own me!” I squirmed away and went to take another step.

“This is not about ownership, and you know it!” He had me pinned against the wall, his mouth inches from mine. I could feel myself flitting in and out of character: brazen Sandrine one moment, breathless Lydia the next. I thought I detected Mikhail doing the same. We should have ended the scene and started again, but neither of us called it.

He went to kiss me. I dodged and turned my head to the side, as planned. He grabbed my bodice by the front laces with one hand and made me stare into his eyes. His knuckles pressed against my sternum, making the bodice constrict my breathing even more. I clutched at his hand.

“Don’t you dare,” I snarled. “If he catches us, it is done.”

“So be it, then,” Mikhail said, twisting the fistful of delicate silk so that the fabric gave.

I had expected my breasts to pop right out of the bodice. They didn’t. The stiffness of the garment made it stay in place, my nipples still covered. Mikhail looked surprised, as well. We stared at each other, both of us clearly out of character. Then he slipped one hand into the bodice and cupped my breast, pressing me even farther against the cold wall with his thighs. I continued to stare at him. My heart was pounding. His eyes felt like knives. I was on the verge of calling for Derek to cut. I knew it was Mikhail touching me, and not Marcel. I knew this was us playing the scene.

He ran his thumb gently, slowly over my nipple. I felt it spring to life under his touch. He angled the tip of his thumb so his nail grazed the erect nub, back and forth. We both knew that no one else could see this—this was not for the eventual viewer’s pleasure. It was for mine. I leaned my head back and moaned, just as the script demanded. I was absolved of responsibility for my reaction.

Suddenly popping back into character, Mikhail squeezed my breast harder, tugging the bodice with his free hand. It slipped completely off, pinned between my hips and the wall.

“I don’t care if you bed the fucking emperor himself,” he said against my lips. “It will never change anything between us.”

I still had a flimsy white batik shirt on, ripped down the middle, exposing my cleavage. Mikhail let go of my breast momentarily, seizing me by the shoulders. In one swift motion he pulled the shirt down around my waist, pinning my arms against my sides with the sleeves. I was completely topless to the waist. The wall against my back was freezing. I tried not to flinch. This felt so overwhelming, the last thing I wanted to do was start the scene all over again. I forced myself to stay with it.

“Stop this, Marcel.” I tried to squirm away again, my voice hinting at the emotional torture of wanting something so badly you’re ready to go to hell for it, but stopping yourself nonetheless.

We stumbled on the stairs. I turned around and tried to stand again, kicking at him as he easily pressed my breasts against the hard, cold stone steps. His weight nearly crushed me. Again I was on the verge of calling for Derek to cut, but didn’t.

Mikhail wrapped his arms around my waist and turned me around so that I was facing him. The scene was supposed to be messy and turbulent. I began flailing my arms madly, managing to slap him, harder than I’d wanted, on the face. He grabbed my arms and pinned them to my sides, his torso now firmly wedged between my thighs. The voluminous gown twisted and bunched to the point where I could hardly move at all. We were both heaving and panting. This was quite the workout.

We stared at each other. The focus of my entire world had become condensed to Mikhail’s eyes. I couldn’t look away. It felt like drowning.

His mouth suddenly twitched, ever so slightly, into a mischievous half smile. I doubt the camera would have caught that look. But I knew what it meant. We were out of character again, playing ourselves. Then his mouth closed on my nipple.

The stone steps had been cold. The contrast with his warm mouth was shocking. He sucked and flicked his tongue against my erect nipple. He wasn’t supposed to. And no one could see what his tongue was up to. Even without looking at him, I knew he was trying to hide his smile. A spiral of warmth spread from my nipple to my cunt. The costume was completely authentic, which meant loose pantaloons. I knew I was seeping all over them.

I arched beneath him. Weaving my hands in his hair, I pressed his head against me. He slipped one palm under my back and forced me to arch even more. I writhed as he took my breast farther into his mouth. I let out a low groan. I was dying for him to close his teeth on my nipple.

I wanted more—camera crew, bright lighting and ridiculous costume be damned—but then Derek suddenly broke the spell.

“Okay, cut! That was awesome, you two,” he said, walking over to us. Noise broke out again on the set as people started moving about.

Mikhail looked at me for a split second, during which I clearly saw how overwhelmed he was, as well. He looked a little stunned, actually. I took satisfaction in this.

I sat up on the step and covered my bare breasts with the thin shirt, holding it closed. At eye level with his crotch, I suddenly noticed what the mounds of fabric had obscured— Mikhail was completely aroused.

We made eye contact for another second. The amused, surprised look on my face said it all. He smiled and tried to adjust himself as discreetly as possible. I couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. His smile spread into a wide grin, as he scratched his eyebrow in embarrassment and turned away. I found the gesture endearing and charming; the man was human, after all.

“So we’ll break and get your costume fixed up and try that again,” Derek said, looking at me. “Except this time, really don’t be afraid of one another, just—” he curled his fingers into taut claws “—just lay into each other.”

“Only if you’re trying to kill me,” Mikhail mumbled under his breath.

“What?” Derek asked, his attention momentarily diverted by the cameraman on the stairs.

“Nothing. Sounds great,” Mikhail said, holding out his hand out to help me up. I grabbed it gratefully.

“You sure you can handle it?” I teased as we walked away, looking pointedly at his crotch.

“Bring it on, you saucy wench,” he replied with a smirk.

 

The next day was a free one for some of us. Mikhail found me at breakfast.

“A bunch of us are taking the Jeep and driving down to Collioure for the day. Are you coming?”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s a gorgeous little town on the Mediterranean. You can sunbathe topless,” he proposed, a huge smile on his face.

My breasts had been in his mouth a total of seven times the day before—to the point of being slightly sore, Derek having demanded more and more fervor with every take.

“Haven’t you had enough?”

“Not. Even. Close,” Mikhail said against my ear. I noticed some of the crew eyeing us, but couldn’t care less if tongues started wagging. I felt my cunt engorge with desire. Two and a half more weeks of this and we will be ready to fuck each other for real, I thought.

“When do we leave?”

Two hours later, we parked the Jeep in a drained canal near the beach and gathered up our stuff. There were five of us in total: Mikhail, myself, two of the cameramen and Lisa. It was a perfect June day, hot but not unbearable.

We found a spot just under the two-foot-high retaining wall. The charming, cobblestoned, terra-cotta-roofed town came right up to the small beach. Restaurants and cafés lined the sidewalk just behind us.

Mikhail was the first to strip down to his black Speedos.

“Oh my God,” Lisa exclaimed, “I can’t believe you own a pair of those! That is way too much information.” She pretended to avert her eyes from the very prominent package displayed for all who cared to look.

“When in Rome.” He shrugged casually, undeterred. “Do you even see anyone dressed in those horrendously baggy American-style shorts? No,” he answered for her. “Nor will you.”

I have to admit, as much as Americans make fun of the Speedo, Mikhail looked amazing. It was the first time I’d seen this much of his body; his costumes on set usually covered every inch of flesh except his face. He had a perfect swimmer’s body: tall, lean and balanced in muscle tone. Not huge, but broad and substantial nonetheless. I immediately took off my summer dress and jumped up.

I saw him quickly scan my body in turn. This was the most he’d seen of me, as well. I was curious what would happen if he got a hard-on in that insignificant piece of stretchy fabric. No better way to find out, I thought, as I followed him into the water.

“Are you a good swimmer?” he asked as we waded into the sea.

“If we’re planning on swimming to Croatia, then no.”

“Just to that beach over there.” He pointed to his right, not more than half a kilometer away.

The shoreline was rugged and dramatic. A huge medieval fortress rose straight out of the sea halfway to the other beach, framed by a serpentine walkway along the water’s edge; giant rock outcroppings occasionally popped out of the waves. Looking toward the other beach I knew we’d be out of eyesight of the others within five minutes of swimming.

“Lead the way.” I stood and waited with my hands on my hips. Mikhail dived in. I instantly followed.

We took it slowly, luxuriating in the feel of the cool water. When we rounded a three-meter-high rock, Mikhail grabbed me and pulled me up against it; we were at last out of view. He held on to the rough surface, his hands high above my head, while I wrapped my arms around his neck and just floated. I could already feel myself getting wet.

We stared at each other wordlessly. We both knew why we had separated from the group. This was the first time we were completely alone. He smoothed his wet, dark hair off his face and pinched droplets out of his eyes with one hand. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his mouth. I expected him to kiss me any second. Instead, he wrapped one hand around my torso and pulled the knot on my string bikini free; it floated up to the surface between us. He let go of the rock and dived under.

The shock of his hot mouth on my nipple sent seismic shivers through my body. He sucked and tugged on my nipple more roughly than he had on the set. Without him hanging on to the rock for support, we both slipped under the water.

With a limited air supply, we clutched at one another frantically until I had to resurface. He popped out, gasping for breath and laughing at the same time. We held eye contact and grew dreamy and intense again, our laughter dying down, our eyes clouding with desire.

He was hanging on to the rock behind us again with one arm. He slipped the other into the water. In the next second, I felt his hand cup my crotch. His eyes said it all. He looked ready to eat me alive.

I felt his fingers wrestle with the elastic on my bikini bottoms as he tried to push the tight fabric aside. Every accidental nudge of my clit with his fingers and knuckles made me jerk slightly, all my nerve endings ready to fire.

Finally, his hand cleared the fabric. He looked deep into my eyes as he plunged his fingers inside me, deep, and just held them there for a second. My instinct was to close my eyes and throw my head back. I kept staring into his eyes, though. I could feel the walls of my cunt close and contract tightly around his fingers as he began moving them—gently at first, then more insistently. The realization that Mikhail Sommerville was fingering me struck me at some point. I felt giddy.

Instinct took over. I put my hand under the water and placed it over his, forcing him to finger me even harder. He must have had at least three fingers inside me, creating a delicious pressure against the delicate walls of my cunt. I grabbed his wrist and forced him in deeper. Screw this finger thing, I thought at this point, I want his cock inside me!

“Want to continue this on solid ground?” he asked in a breathy voice, as though reading my mind.

“Oh, God, yeah.”

He let go of the rock and swam out a few feet, treading water. My top had floated away by this point. I adjusted my bottoms and swam out to fetch it.

We were both desperate to reach land—and exhausted when we finally did. Heaving to get more air, I almost tripped over my own feet while wading out of the sea. Mikhail quickly grabbed my upper arm to steady me. The contact felt like a jolt of electricity.

Still panting, we fell onto the sand. Oblivious to the scattering of beachgoers, some with small children, we writhed like two coiled snakes until Mikhail was between my thighs. When we finally kissed, it was explosive. We tore into each other like there was no tomorrow. Our tongues thrust violently into one another’s mouths, pushing the limits until I thought I would go insane. I pressed my cunt against his erection, adjusting my position until his cock ground against my clit with every movement, sending ripples of pleasure throughout my entire body. I was ready to strip and fuck right there on the beach, I wanted him that bad.

“Not here.” Mikhail suddenly stopped and rolled off me. “We’re like sitting ducks for the paparazzi,” he panted, recovering himself.

I didn’t care if there were pictures of us on the cover of every tabloid. It would, no doubt, be great for my career. But I knew with Mikhail’s messy divorce it would be a disaster for him. He never talked about his situation, not wanting to bring it on the set, but I could tell that Maxine’s lawyers were putting him through the wringer.

“Let’s go then,” I said, smiling over at him. He grinned back, standing without a word.

The walk back to the others took us the long way, up and down the narrow, hilly streets. We tried to take the most secluded alleyways we could, bouncing from wall to wall as we devoured one another greedily like two stumbling drunks. Mikhail had to keep adjusting his erect cock so that it wouldn’t pop right out of the top of his Speedo. At one point, I caught a glimpse of the head of his cock straining to get out. Not even thinking, I slid my index finger inside and gently circled its silky soft ridge. I was aching to take him in my mouth, fast and deep; I wanted to see his face in the throes of total, ecstatic surrender. It was understood that the second we were alone we were going to fuck each other into a senseless stupor.

As we rounded a corner, we found ourselves in a totally deserted, narrow alley. We looked at each other and smiled knowingly. This time I pinned him against the wall. As his back made contact with the bricks, I grabbed his hard-on through the fabric and squeezed. Mikhail sucked in his breath and groaned. I felt high, knowing I could elicit this kind of reaction from him. I was thrilled to note that it was quite the handful.

At the risk of getting caught by some unsuspecting tourist, I was about to whip his cock out and take it in my mouth, when Mikhail suddenly pushed me away from him so force fully I hit the other brick wall.

“What ha—” I started to say, just as the flash of a camera went off, momentarily blinding me.

“Shit!” Mikhail swore as the man darted away.

He leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What part of that do you think he got?”

“We’ll find out in three to four days, when the new tabloids come out,” Mikhail said. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “Her lawyers will have a heyday.”

 

Sure enough, four days later, there were pictures of us all over OK! Magazine, Hello!, the National Enquirer and In Touch. They didn’t get either the beach scene—not sure how they missed that one!—or his erect, Speedo-clad cock in my iron grip: we were at least a couple of feet apart, looking like deer in the headlights of an SUV. But they snapped tons of us walking—so close we could be Siamese twins—through Collioure, big grins on our faces. And they got Mikhail spreading sunscreen on me when we returned to the group.

“Fuck!” Mikhail swore, slapping a copy of Hello on the table as he joined me for lunch. We’d been lying low and avoiding each other ever since Collioure; everyone was now watching us so intensely, I felt naked all day long. “This can’t happen again,” he said, looking stressed and miserable. “Maxine’s already taking me to the cleaners. I risk losing everything.”

He was leaning back in his chair, his jaw tense and twitching, his left hand on the table. At the risk of feeding the rumors further, I placed my palm gently on top of it. He looked at me and smiled grimly, sneaking his thumb up to rub my hand. I knew he was just as frustrated as I was; it made staying away from him more bearable just knowing that.

“Well,” I said, quietly enough so that only he could hear, “at least we still get a go at each other on the set.”

Predictably, with the next love scene that we shot, there was no need for Derek to urge us to “let the sexual fury come out,” as he often termed it. After four days of nothing more than discreet glances and flirtatious subtext to all our conversations, Mikhail and I laid into each other so fiercely we both had bruises for days.

In this scene, Sandrine is the new queen. The king has just left to see to an important matter abroad. Oblivious to their history, the king makes Marcel Sandrine’s personal guardian. Sandrine has been told that if she doesn’t stop writing, queen or not, she’ll be tried for witchcraft. Marcel has to convince her—or risk losing the only woman he’s ever loved.

When I walked onto the set, I was shaking, knowing that in a matter of minutes I’d get to feel Mikhail’s mouth on mine again.

Two wardrobe personnel were fixing something on his coat when I stepped through the door. Immobile, he turned his head slightly in my direction and made eye contact, his mouth curling into a wicked smile. For the previous four days, all I could think about was the feel of his fingers inside me. For the moment, his tongue would do.

The set was Sandrine’s study. A massive wooden desk dominated the room, framed by floor-to-ceiling gilded bookcases all around.

“You okay?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, fine,” I answered, forcing my eyes away from Mikhail. “Why?”

“You look…” he hesitated “…a little disturbed.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Great.”

He didn’t appear convinced, but let it go. Wardrobe finished with Mikhail, who tugged on the sleeves of his coat and walked over to us. I had to let out a long, slow breath to steady myself, he looked so incredible. The costume was the typical long black overcoat, simple black trousers and a white shirt. His hair was raked casually off his face. He looked polished, yet reckless, sporting the same five o’clock shadow that was eventually to morph into a beard as his character went insane. I noticed that his walk changed when he was in costume; he looked more imposing, his stride longer, his body seeming to take up more space.

“I don’t want to give you as much direction this time,” Derek said to us. “I want to see what you instinctively do with this.”

I nodded, trying to seem attentive. Mikhail stood right beside me. I felt as if I were being irradiated with his energy.

In flats, I barely cleared his chin. I couldn’t resist tilting my head up and stealing a glance as Derek continued talking. Mikhail smiled, clearly aware that I was checking him out, but didn’t look directly at me. My knees were already weak, and we hadn’t even started.

“And how rough did you want this?” I heard him ask in his deep, melodic voice, snapping me out of my reverie. My stomach did a somersault. Rough! Rough! I wanted to scream. I’d been ready to claw the walls of my hotel room apart ever since Collioure.

“I don’t want you decking one another or anything,” Derek said. The three of us grinned. “But the scene is meant to be quite intense. Just go with it and we’ll see how it turns out.”

Derek cleared the space and made us take our positions. I tried not to look at Mikhail for fear of completely losing character.

“Rolling!”

Mikhail began pacing about the room, his head downcast, his movements cagey and full of suppressed energy. I leaned against the desk, facing him, my arms crossed tightly across my chest.

“You have to stop, Sandrine!” He walked over to me and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me slightly.

“Fuck you!” I spat in his face, flinging his arms away from me and moving toward the window. “You above anyone else should know what the quill means to me! I will die if these thoughts—” I balled my hand into a fist and imitated small, successive punches to the head “—remain walled inside my brain, festering.”

“Do you love your quill more than this?” He walked over to where I stood by the darkened window, grabbed my hand and forced me to seize his cock, staring into my eyes. I was stunned. This wasn’t part of the scene. He was supposed to have said “more than me.” But Derek didn’t say cut, so I went with it.

I bared my teeth and squeezed so hard I thought he’d faint. He didn’t. In fact, his pupils—and his cock—both dilated with desire.

“What have I known of this?” I said, bringing my face as close to his as possible given the height difference, my hand still gripping his cock for dear life. I never wanted to let go. We were daring one another with our eyes to go further. We were so close I could feel his warm breath, coming in ragged bursts now, against my mouth. Three more inches and we’d be kissing—no, inhaling—one another.

“You bitch!” He pried my hand off. Lifting me clear of the ground, he easily covered the two meters to the desk, and laid me flat on it with a violent thud. “I was yours ten years ago! Look what you have done to me!”

This, also, wasn’t in the script; we were taking some huge interpretive liberties here. I was surprised, but thrilled, and alive to the very tips of my toes. If a boyfriend ever tried this in private, charges would be laid. The set acted as a kind of buffer; I got all the thrill and none of the complicated reality.

I thrashed, bucked and kicked, holding nothing back. I wanted him to push the limits; I wanted to feel what it was like to be totally physically overpowered. I could sense my body silently daring him, urging him on. Every time he exerted more force in trying to handle me, I felt my cunt seep its juice all over my costume.

The contents of the desk went crashing to the floor as we struggled. Mikhail had my wrists in his hands as I flailed. I began to feel their circulation constrict, but I also knew he was holding back, afraid to inadvertently hurt me. I, on the other hand, was putting every fiber of muscle to work, and still couldn’t manage to get off the desk. Mind you, the ridiculously heavy gown wasn’t helping; I’d somehow whipped it into a straitjacket of a satin mess around my waist and legs.

Then, before I knew what was happening, Mikhail plunged one hand underneath all the mounds of satin, past the flowing pantaloons, past my engorged pussy lips, and straight inside.

“And what have I known of this?” he growled, not dropping a beat. “You have sold your cunt to the highest bidder and your soul to the devil.” He withdrew his fingers an inch and pushed them back inside with such intensity I could hardly breathe.

I gasped and froze, staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief. He was actually daring to finger me right on the set!

Shocked, I checked my peripheral vision to gauge everyone’s reaction. No one had budged. I realized that with all the bunched fabric—Mikhail’s arm was elbow deep in satin—and the way he had positioned himself between my thighs, no one could tell that he was actually inside me. I stared at him for a second, tacitly giving him the go-ahead, before I instinctively lay down and arched my back, my head against the desk.

He clearly knew what he was doing inside a woman’s cunt; even under the pressure to remember his next line, Mikhail still curled his fingers upwards to hit my G-spot. Bright, clinical lights in my face or not, it felt incredible! Probably even more so because I was trying not to react too strongly and give the game away. Even if I’d wanted to, though, there wasn’t much I could do without exposing us.

Torn between physical arousal and the terror of being found out, I alternated between low, guttural moans of pleasure and ineffectual attempts to free myself—exactly what the script called for.

Unfortunately, my mind had also gone blank with the first thrust. I didn’t even know where we were in the scene, never mind recalling my line. The corner of Mikhail’s mouth twitched up just a fraction into a smile. I could tell he was loving my utter and total uselessness.

“If you would rather die at the stake than give up your senseless rantings,” he continued, bent over me on the desk, “then I might as well take what you have been withholding from me.” He shoved his fingers in even deeper as he said the word take, upping the ante by rubbing my clit with his thumb. I didn’t stand a chance. I could feel my brain slipping away. Every flick of his thumb sent electric jolts through my body. I was trying not to twitch too visibly. How could they all not know?

“I…I…Marcel, please,” I begged, trying to shove him away, one hand pressed against his chest. I had to do something, fast! I knew Derek was going to yell “cut!” any second.

“So much to say on the page, all your passion reserved for a decrepit old king and your pen, while I have been dying a little for you each day,” Mikhail said, not letting up one bit. How was he managing to do this?

His thumb continued to stroke and circle my clit. I could feel the sweet beginning of an orgasm deep in the pit of my stomach. I was aghast at the possibility of cumming in front of a dozen colleagues. The look in Mikhail’s eyes told me how much fun he was having toying with me like this.

I squirmed more violently. Managing to plant one foot against his chest, I tensed my leg and gave him a powerful shove. Mikhail stumbled back, withdrawing his fingers from me so swiftly I gasped at the sensation against the delicate, wet walls of my cunt.

Spinning around, I grabbed a quill off the desk and bran dished it like a knife, ready to strike.

“You want to kill me?” Mikhail growled, recovering. “Then do it!” He ripped his white shirt open partly down the front, grabbed my hand brandishing the sharp quill and made me bring it up against his chest. The sharp tip seemed to imbed itself slightly in his skin. My eyes flew up to his as a tiny spot of blood appeared beneath the black ink.

He took this instant to grab the quill out of my hand and throw it violently against the window.

“This is the only reality that matters,” he said, shoving the two fingers that had been inside my cunt into my mouth.

I had just enough time to taste my own musky saltiness and note the look of total triumph in Mikhail’s eyes, before he withdrew his fingers again, licked them himself like he would a melting Popsicle, and kissed me so hard I saw black spots dancing in front of my eyes.

“Okay! Cut!” Derek yelled.

Mikhail shoved his tongue quickly, desperately, into my mouth one final time, as though he hadn’t heard Derek, before he went cool-as-a-cucumber blank.

The set was deathly silent. No one moved.

“Wow,” Derek said quietly, rubbing his face with both of his hands, “I was starting to fear for your safety there.”

People started moving about and the background noise steadily increased as we got ready for another take and camera angle.

I could feel my face burning up as I touched my cheek. I didn’t dare look at Mikhail. Derek walked over to us, grabbed us both by the arms and dragged us over to the window, where we wouldn’t be overheard.

“Okay, now tell me the truth.” He stared intensely at Mikhail, then at me, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You actually did it, didn’t you?”

My eyes went wide and instantly flew to Mikhail’s. He met my look and smiled like a devilish child who just got away with a cookie. Putting his hands into his pockets, he angled his chin down and looked back at Derek unapologetically. I was mortified.

“No, no, it’s fine.” Derek put his hand on my shoulder and quickly reassured me, seeing the stricken look on my face. “Great, actually.” He grinned at Mikhail, who raised and lowered his eyebrows rapidly, like a casual shrug of the shoulders, and glanced out the window, his smile deepening. “Good to know,” Derek added finally, more to himself, before walking away. I should have guessed right at that moment what he was cooking up.

 

Three days before we were due to shoot our last love scene, Derek took Mikhail and me out for dinner to a small, unpretentious bistro in Perpignan.

Mikhail had just come back from a three-day trip to Paris, looking totally burned out. Apparently, Maxine’s lawyers were threatening to take away his childhood London home. I’d noticed myself getting completely neurotic in his absence, lying awake at two o’clock in the morning, imagining him with someone else. After all, what did I really know about his life outside the set? He was intensely private to begin with, and we were still trying to avoid fueling the gossip train, by keeping our distance.

To my intense relief, his face broke into a huge grin the moment we saw each other again at lunch that same day.

“Lydia,” he’d stated in greeting, his tone playful and seductive.

“Mikhail,” I answered, staring up at him from under my lashes, trying not to give away how flustered I felt. The banality of our greeting belied, yet enhanced, the intense emotional dynamic between us.

“Hope you’ve been keeping busy in my absence,” he said, grabbing a couple of croissants from a basket.

“You can say that.” I’d masturbated myself to sleep the night before, imagining what it would be like to have him tie me to the bed and go down on me.

Sitting beside him in the bistro, his thigh touching mine, I found flashes of my fantasy come back to me. I saw his head descend slowly between my thighs, his hands curled around my legs to keep them spread apart. He looked at me for a second, his eyes hungry. I felt his hot breath against my pussy. His tongue slithered between my pussy lips and gently pushed a fraction of an inch inside the opening. I felt my clit throb and respond, aching for—

“I did have a reason for taking you both out tonight—” Derek broke into my fantasy “—other than to enjoy wonderful food together.”

Mikhail and I exchanged a glance; he looked intrigued, I felt perplexed. A part of me was still terrified Derek would tell me I sucked, and that they needed to find someone else to play my part. I couldn’t shake feeling like an impostor.

“There’s no way to really sidle up to this question, so I’ll just go ahead and ask.” He paused for a moment, taking a sip of his wine, choosing his words carefully. “I was very impressed with the last love scene you both did. The passion was so palpable I’m sure you pitched more than a couple of tents—sorry to be crass.” He took another sip of wine. “So, in short, I’d like you to consider actually making love in the final scene.”

There it was. Hollywood’s dirty little secret: on rare occasions, even really famous actors fuck for real on the set. When the rumors start to fly, like they did when The Lover came out, everyone always vehemently denies it.

My heart sped up. There was nothing on earth I wanted more than to have Mikhail’s cock inside me. But on a movie set? Even with the set cleared, there would still be at least six people watching, the lights would be garish, Derek would be shouting orders. Sex was also a bit like dancing; you entered a trance and your true personality came out. Did I really want a group of strangers watching? Could I even let go enough to do my powerful attraction for Mikhail justice? If I was a lousy fuck under these circumstances, would he lose interest? Each question exploded into a million others; my head was reeling.

Then I looked at Mikhail and they all disappeared.

He leaned back in his chair, the arm closest to me draped across the back. Not surprisingly, he was the picture of equanimity. He spread his legs slightly and stared at me wordlessly. His eyes said it all—the ball was in my court.

“Of course I don’t need to say this,” Derek interjected, “but the set will be closed. I’ll see what I can do about the lighting. We’ll shoot everything else first and then I’ll just let you two do it—I promise to keep my mouth shut for the whole take. And…” he looked at Mikhail conspiratorially “…naturally, given, um, physiological logistics, there will only be one take. If it doesn’t work then we’ll just let it go.”

The reference to Mikhail possibly cumming inside me turned my knees to Jell-O. I imagined what his face might look like, how his cock would pulse inside me, how his thighs would instinctively contract, making him thrust deeper.

“I’m going to let you two talk it over for a minute while I go to the washroom.” Derek stood up and left.

Even before Derek’s back was fully turned, my eyes were already seeking Mikhail’s.

“Have you ever done this before?” I asked tentatively.

He shifted his position. Resting his forearms on the table, he looked at me from under dark, enviably thick lashes. The way he gazed at me was always intense, a little intimidating, but even more so now.

One corner of his mouth jerked up slightly. “Have sex? Yes.” His grin widened.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He took a sip of his wine. “What is your hesitation?”

“Why are you not hesitating? He’s basically asking us to do porn. If your wife’s lawyers get a whiff of this you can kiss your London home goodbye.”

“No one will ever see me sliding inside you,” he said in a low, seductive tone. I gasped, not expecting him to be so blunt. “It’s more about the emotion than the money shot. I trust Derek,” he continued. “He has a lot of integrity, and the others on the set blab at the risk of never working in the industry again.”

Derek was taking his time. I looked away and gulped down the rest of my wine. “Convince me,” I finally said, putting my glass down and looking squarely at Mikhail again, challenging him with my eyes.

His mouth slid into a sultry smile as he leaned in. “I can make you feel so good you’ll forget your own name. Life’s about adventure, right? Every time you see this movie you’ll remember how amazing and alive you felt making love to me. How much will that be worth when you’re ninety years old?”

 

Over the next two days, Derek, Mikhail and I rehearsed the scene on a closed set in between filming. Sandrine has been condemned to burn at the stake for witchcraft and treason. She’s being held prisoner in her own bedroom. Marcel bursts in suddenly, barricading the door behind him as others clamor outside to stop him. Sandrine is in a thin nightdress, her hair loose and wild; clearly she’s on the brink of insanity. Practically every inch of space is covered in loose sheets of paper; she’s been writing furiously for two days. When she sees him, she breaks down, flying into his arms.

The day of filming, as I ate my breakfast, I noticed how differently the crew looked at me, speaking in hushed whispers and sidelong glances. I knew that they knew. I was relieved and grateful when Mikhail finally showed up. He grabbed his croissant and coffee and sat down beside me as though it was any other day. He really was a superb actor; this was why they paid him the big bucks. I couldn’t pull off the same kind of unruffled, almost bored, composure to save my life.

He unfurled a newspaper, leaned back and sipped his espresso. I spread jam on my croissant, strengthened by his calm.

“Looks like Sarkozy’s approval rating has dropped,” he said, glancing up at me.

When our eyes met, I knew he didn’t give a shit about French politics. The look in his eyes was impossible to define, but it made my insides feel warm and light. It was as though he was already reaching deep inside me. I felt him infuse every pore of my body. With every flicker of emotion in his eyes, I was spreading my legs wider, taking him in deeper; physical consummation was just a formality at this point.

“Ready?” he said matter-of-factly, after half an hour of ordinary breakfast conversation.

I could feel my body begin to shake imperceptibly from nerves, excitement, and being so turned on I wanted to scream. “Ready,” I said just as casually, standing up to follow him out as though we were headed on a grocery errand, and not on our way to fuck in front of strangers.

We walked down to makeup and wardrobe together. The tension was so thick you could spread it on a cracker. Right before we parted, Mikhail put his hand on the small of my back.

“Lydia.”

“Yeah?” I turned toward him, about to ascend the steps to the trailer.

“Relax and trust me,” he whispered into my ear. I felt the flutter of arousal in the pit of my stomach and felt my pussy get ready for him. I didn’t see him again until we were on the set.

 

“And, rolling!”

We’d already shot every other angle and done about twenty PG-13 takes of the scene—underwear that’s made of clear material in the back, and a flesh-toned patch covers the front—when Derek clears the set.

My extremities tingle. I can feel the adrenaline surge like an injection. I pace madly around the room, grabbing random pages off the floor, quickly scan them, then throw them away, my character clearly losing her marbles. A commotion happens just outside the heavy wooden door—people shout, the door rattles, Mikhail bursts in. I stand up, frozen in place, my eyes wide. Without looking at me, he bolts the door and drags the heavy desk in front of it. When he turns toward me, his breathing is labored, his body tense, and he seems to fill the room completely with his energy. He’s grown a modest beard at this point. His hair is longer and almost as disheveled as mine. He stares at me with such intensity, I momentarily imagine he’s going to eat me whole.

We stand cemented to the floor for five of the longest seconds of my life as the camera slowly moves on its tracks. We’d decided to try one uninterrupted take. I can see Derek and the other five remaining crew members out of the corner of my eye; I attempt to wipe them out of my awareness, concentrating on Mikhail as though he’s the only one in the room.

Wordlessly, we cover the four meters separating us, colliding at the midpoint in an explosive kiss. My legs feel as if they’re filled with helium; I don’t know how I’m managing to move at all. I entwine my fingers in his hair. Mikhail encircles my waist in a viselike grip. He feels solid as a brick wall as he holds me. His mouth is warm as I hungrily push my tongue inside and circle and thrust; he does the same. Our lips become moist and slippery from our mixed saliva. We keep going back in for more, greedily lapping at one another. I can’t help making incoherent moaning noises against his mouth. I sense rather than witness his lips curling up slightly into a smile. He knows I’m lost, giving myself over to him, to us. Finally! every inch of my body wants to scream. A month of driving each other nuts comes to a head at last.

He pulls away, still holding on to my chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look into his eyes. I can practically hear him inside my brain, telling me in his deep, sensuous voice to lose myself, to ignore the fact that we’re being watched, to let my body feel good. Nerve endings aren’t familiar with the concept of “acting,” after all.

Taking his hand away from my face, but still forcing me to keep eye contact, he undoes the laces on the front of my nightdress. I’m completely naked underneath, having removed the studio underwear during the break—and I know Mikhail is, as well.

The neckline is loose to begin with; when he pulls on either side of the front opening, the nightgown slips off in a delicate fluttering of fabric that pools at my feet. I stand naked in front of him. I can feel myself getting so wet I’m sure I’m dripping down my legs. My nipples harden just from the way he looks at them. His eyes rake quickly over every inch of exposed skin. I don’t even need to note the evidence to know he’s hard as a rock; I can see it in his eyes.

He flings his overcoat off and tears at the buttons on his shirt. I attempt to help, my fingers fumbling. He’s shirtless in seconds, and smooth as marble, other than a treasure trail that invitingly disappears into his pants. Instinctively, my mouth descends on the satiny skin of his chest. I bite down when I reach one nipple. He inhales sharply. All I want to do is go down on my knees and pull his cock out and take it in my mouth as deep as I can. But, unfortunately, that would be porn; I try not to even think about it as I undo the string on his pants.

I know that any direct frontal of Mikhail’s erect dick will be cut. I don’t even try to angle my body in front of the camera to block the view. I pull his pants down and let my eyes drink him in. The sight of his engorged cock almost sends me over the edge. He stands there, shameless—confident, in fact. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the crew getting agitated. I thought it would paralyze me to be watched like this. I’m stunned to observe the exact opposite—it adds to my arousal. I love that the cameramen can see how hard I’ve made Mikhail. I love knowing that they’re all also staring at his bare cock, waiting to see what we’ll do.

“Take me in your mouth,” he groans softly, almost incoherently, against my lips. We’re suddenly standing buck naked against each other, his cock sandwiched between our torsos.

Stunned, I inhale quickly and sharply against his open mouth. “What?” I heard him the first time—I just can’t believe he said it.

“Do it,” he murmurs, still kissing me.

“But—”

“Now.”

Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m even considering this! I stare up into his eyes. I suddenly grasp how kinky and wicked Mikhail really is—he’s going to push this as far as he possibly can. I momentarily straddle the line between the safe and familiar, and the dangerous, dark place Mikhail is asking me to enter. I draw a sharp breath and drop on my knees. I can hear a couple of gasps of shock from behind me, but no one moves a muscle.

I take hold of his hard cock in my hand, squeezing down on the shaft, watching the head fill even more with blood. The skin’s impossibly soft, like velvet. I open my mouth and slide down on him like a slippery glove, taking him in as far as he’ll go. I savor the feel of the head moving past my lips toward the back of my throat. I withdraw all the way to the tip, lick long and hard all around the head, and take him in deep again. I hear someone choke with stunned disbelief; I grin against Mikhail’s cock for a split second. I repeat the motion a couple more times, each time more abandoned, licking his cock like a pro, before I pull away completely. I deliberately let a thin string of saliva and precum linger between us as I stand up.

Mikhail grins, clearly exhilarated, his eyes swimming with lust. I don’t get a chance to do anything else, for in the next instant he grabs me by the ass and lifts me up against his body, making me wrap my legs around his waist. His cock is now between his pubic bone and my pussy. With every step he takes toward the bed I feel his dick press against my clit, wedged between my pussy lips.

“Fair’s fair,” he says against my mouth as he lays me down backward on the giant, four-poster bed.

Before I grasp what he’s talking about, his head is between my legs. I imagine the crew’s a little confused about what we’ve discussed with Derek, and what we’re getting away with—and I know Derek won’t interrupt us. The ambiguity lets us do anything. I don’t fight Mikhail. He flattens his tongue against the length of my pussy, almost cupping it whole. I jolt against the bed, bending my head back, when his tongue digs into my clit. His mouth feels so hot it’s like I’m being scalded—or maybe it’s my cunt that’s burning up. His facial hair pricks my delicate skin; I relish the contrast with his soft, wet mouth.

Mikhail circles and twists his tongue against my cunt in long, lavish strokes. I let out a low, guttural moan, my arms above my head now, hands raking and clutching at the bedcover. It feels so intense, I start to writhe and twist. Mikhail grabs my legs and spreads them wide, increasing the pressure of his tongue—now I know why they call it “eating out.” He slips his tongue right inside and I think I’m going to go insane from the pleasure. He twists his tongue around against the inner walls of my pussy. I instinctively try to squeeze my thighs on his head like a vise, but he won’t let me; digging his fingers into my thighs, he forcefully keeps them open.

Just when I think I can’t bear any more, he stands up, grabs my waist with both his hands and turns me around. In the next instant, I feel his body flatten me against the bed. I’m bent over the edge, my toes touching the ground. He coils one hand around my hair at the nape of my neck and pulls slightly. Inserting one leg between mine, he spreads them farther. I’m breathless. I know he’s about to slide his cock inside. I feel the head wait between my pussy lips for an instant.

Even as I concentrate on Mikhail, a part of me imagines what it must be like to be one of the crew, watching us fuck; it’s almost as if I’m being fucked by seven people. The thought arouses me so much I try to buck against Mikhail to force him inside. He contracts and pushes in so quickly that I gasp. He fills me so completely, I can’t tell where he ends and I begin—until he starts to move inside me. I’ve wanted this from the moment I laid eyes on him in the café. I voluntarily squeeze the inner walls of my cunt around his cock, increasing the delicious pressure and friction.

I keep squeezing my cunt around him as he slides in and out. I’m so ridiculously wet by this point, there’s no resistance. Each thrust gets harder and harder. I’m dying to turn around and have him suck on my nipples, touch my clit as I ride him, grab me by the waist and pull me down on him. I’ve totally lost my rational brain at this point, and all I can think of is other ways Mikhail can bite, tug, spank and tease my flesh. And I love that they’re watching every single stroke. I slide one knee up on the bed. I want them to see his cock going inside my pussy. I’ve never felt so scandalous, and I want to milk it for all it’s worth. I want to shock them, make them all hard or wet. I want them to see my pussy dripping its juice all over his cock as he pulls out.

I want more. I reach behind me, grab his hand and make him squeeze my breast. It satisfies me for about two seconds, then I want even more. I grab his hand again and make him reach around my waist to my clit. I can almost feel him smile. With his index finger, he circles my clit while still fucking me from behind. The sensation of his cock deep inside, my burning clit and the knowledge that six people are watching us sends me right over the edge. My hand flies on top of his again, and I make him press so hard on my clit I’m sure I’m going to have bruises. I can’t help screaming as I feel the spasms of orgasm rock me, blood pulsing back into the rest of my body again.

“My turn,” he whispers against my ear, even I twitch with the last of the contractions.

He pulls out and turns me around to face him. I’m spent and languid, letting him do whatever he wants. I meet his smoldering eyes again. He slides a hand under my waist, lifting my ass slightly off the bed, and plunges his cock inside. I’m so wet after cumming that he can thrust as hard as he wants without hurting me. I start moving rhythmically against his thrusts, forcing him in even deeper.

He grins languorously for a second. He looks so sexy, I want to consume him. I start to moan loudly with every thrust. I want them to know how amazing it feels to have his cock inside me. “Oh, God! Fuck me!” I scream, my spine arched and my head thrown back against the bed. He complies. I know he’s close to orgasm. I want to feel him explode inside me. And I know just what will throw him over the edge. I grab his left hand, the one the camera can’t quite see, force him to look into my eyes, and guide his hand around toward my ass. I can tell that he instinctively understands what I want, what I know he wants. His grin widens lazily as he slides a finger inside my ass. It feels raunchy and wrong and wonderful all at the same time. He barely manages to move his finger in and out of my ass three times before he screams incoherently and cums deep inside me. He stifles his moan halfway through by sticking his tongue inside my mouth again. I kiss him back hungrily while his orgasm fades.

As I regain my ability to think, I already know that he was right—I can’t wait to have the world watch me fuck him.