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Hard. Ruthlessly.
And he did. He fucked me like he couldn’t stand it when his cock wasn’t buried inside me. He ate me out like he couldn’t survive if he couldn’t taste my pussy. He painted me with his come. He shoved his dick down my throat.
He commanded me with his filthy, sexy, talented mouth.
And, for the record, every woman should have at least one night with a man who is hell bent on making her come seven times in the span of eight hours. Or was it eight?
I’m just sayin.’
I’ve never experienced something so erotic.
Fucking an enigmatic, older stranger, who was more in tune with my body than my own husband ever was, is the best thing that ever happened to me.
I now know how it feels to truly feel desired.
Coveted.
Cherished.
So no. I wouldn’t trade that night for anything. JJ helped me discover what my body was capable of. He gave me pleasure unlike anything I ever knew was possible.
It was a fantasy come true. A night that could never have been planned. It was fate.
And then it was over.
The second he let it slip about not living here in Vancouver, I knew I had to bolt. I didn’t want the truth of our circumstance to creep in. I didn’t want to feel ashamed or regretful of what happened.
It nearly didn’t work.
When I left JJ that morning, I drove straight back to the hotel and crashed for nearly four hours. After a much needed shower, I got dressed in fresh clothes. then promptly freaked out so bad I nearly missed my call time.
Call it self-preservation, but I was scared to go back to the studio. Convinced everyone would be tittering and whispering about me being found naked in the elevator with the owner of the studio. I envisioned whispers from the crew about us fucking like crazed bunnies.
I mean it was true but…
Knowing the hottest night of my life would be reduced to petty comments and memes—cringeworthy. To say the least.
Except, when I went back, no one seemed to be remotely aware.
I’ve not heard a peep. Not then. Not now.
JJ somehow took care of things. Made it disappear. In the continuation of my fantasy, his parting gift was sparing me the embarrassment and humiliation of the gossip mill.
I’m startled from my thoughts when someone knocks on the door to my dressing room. I glance at the time. I still have an hour before I’m due on set. “Yes?” I call out.
“Clover? It’s me. Can I come in?” Ronni pokes her head in.
I wave her in. “Of course. I’m just going over my lines. It’s not every day you do a romantic scene with your boss’s husband.”
Ronni cast Connor McGloughlin, her giant Irish rockstar of a husband to play one of my love interests on the show. We’ve spent a few hours with the intimacy coordinator and are ready to shoot a scene that makes it look like we’re kissing, but it’s the magic of showbiz.
“He says he’s ready.” She plops down on the small sofa adjacent to my makeup station. “I think he’s going to be great.”
I laugh at the understatement. “Great? He’s going to have a new career. That accent. Sense of humor. Good looks. He’s the whole package.”
“You’re probably right.” She chews on the end of a pen and squints at me.
“What?” I turn to the mirror and check my face. Then my teeth. “Is something wrong?”
