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I kiss him as he unhooks my bra. I let it fall away and then kick it off to the side with my toe. Joseph turns his attention to my breasts, trailing his tongue along each one and watching as my nipple pebbles.
I’m still self-conscious about the extra flesh that hangs along my mid-section and the silver C-section scar above my bikini line, but Joseph makes me feel beautiful. He buries his face in my chest as I reach down, feeling his cock stiffens in his jeans. I unzip his fly and reach into his pants, teasing his cock expertly as it hardens. I climb off Joseph’s lap as he kicks his jeans into a pile. To my surprise, he scoops me up into his arms. We make out feverishly. Joseph presses me against the wall as I wrap my legs around his waist. I cry out when he plunges into me. My mouth is open and hot against his shoulder as strangled cries of pleasure escape my throat. My back moves up against the wall as he thrusts inside of me. I grip his shoulder and rake my nails down his back as my muscles tighten around him.
When we come, in a symphony of pleasure and sweat, Joseph helps me back onto my feet. I collapse against his chest.
“We should have a documentary crew here more often,” I mumble into his pecs as he kisses my forehead.
Joseph laughs, “Just think of what it’ll be like at the premiere when we have access to champagne and a hotel room.”
The next morning, I woke up early to feed the babies and help Iphigenia set breakfast for the documentary crew.
“The cinnamon rolls are almost done,” she calls from the kitchen, “Can you take them out of the oven in five minutes?”
“Sure thing. I just put some coffee on. Do we have orange juice?” I ask as I open the refrigerator.
No one is as delighted by the film crew as Iphigenia. She keeps asking them what Hollywood is like and if they’ve ever met famous people. Jen explains that documentary filmmakers and Hollywood starlets don’t run in the same circles.
“There should be some behind the eggs,” Iphigenia says.
She’s correct. I grab the carton and set it out on the dining room table. We’ve fixed a buffet-style assortment of fruit, juice, and pastries for the crew. I open up a package of paper plates from the kitchen and grab a serving spoon for the bowl of fresh fruit.
Jen comes downstairs first, and her eyes widen when she takes in the spread.
“You guys didn’t have to do this!” she exclaims.
“You’re our guests! What kind of hosts would we be if we didn’t feed you?” Iphigenia retorts with a pot of coffee in hand.
“Now, Jen, are you a coffee drinker?”
“I’d love some,” Jen says. I hand her a mug, and Iphigenia pours her a cup.
“Seriously, the two of you are the best.”
“Oh, we know. Jen, the coffee will be in the kitchen if you want any more,” Iphigenia calls over her shoulder as the oven dings.
Spencer and Sydney troop downstairs next.
“Hey guys, there’s fruit and pastries here if you’re hungry,” I say cheerily.
“Rad!” Spencer exclaims. He walks over to the dining room table and grabs a paper plate, loading it with fruit.
Sydney remains frozen in her spot. Her skin is pale, and I can see dark circles forming under her eyes. Her hair, which was so neat yesterday, is mussed. Her bangs are squished to one side. She clutches the Washington State hoodie she’s wearing closer to her body and studies a minuscule hole in her black leggings.
“Sydney, are you okay?” I ask. She jumps when I say her name.
“Um, yeah. I’m fine, I guess,” she says quickly.
I walk over to her and place my hand on her shoulder. She jumps at my touch.
“You don’t seem fine. Do you need anything?”
Sydney sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.
“It’s nothing, I just couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Do you usually have trouble sleeping?”
“No, it’s just I kept having these really weird dreams about a woman in white.” Sydney yawns and shrugs as Joseph and I lock eyes. My palms start to sweat. It couldn’t be, could it? Suddenly, the lightbulb in the chandelier pops, and the small shards of glass dusting the floor wrench me from my panicked spiral.
“I’ll get a broom,” I say quickly.
Jen is studying the empty socket where the lightbulb once resided. “How strange.”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
A familiar feeling settles onto the back of my neck, the nagging paranoia that someone is watching me.
THE END
