For Melissa, who is more easily bought than a US politician.
Her hips sway, cloaked in red chiffon that swish-swish-swishes across her thighs, little couture kisses to her skin, and he takes a long, long drink. The champagne tickles his tongue and throat, though thirsts not quenched, lips still dry and cracked in the heat, and sweat drip-drip-drips down his collar--and he wonders at the taste, but it's hardly enough, but it's never enough in this party, a frothing kiln of wealthy bodies and cheap hellos, of bottle brunettes and establishment shills and her, with her baby-doll eyes and tongue-twixt-teeth smiles and a ring on a finger and too much wasted time.
And she knows, of course she knows, that she's got his attention completely, that she's the star of his show tonight, that he's behind the camera, and she takes directions ever so well. She's alone and he's alone, and their blood thrums with alcohol and the California heat and years of I can't and proposals and pregnancies and after all this time? and yes, oh always.
Eyes meet across the room.
His heart beats like the wild thing she is, and then her red lips curve, and his phone beep-beep-beeps in his hand.
Check your pockets.
He feels around in his jacket pocket as she watches, ever the innocent little thing he knows she's not. His damp palm brushes against cool metal; heat pools and trousers tighten. She quirks an eyebrow and gazes pointedly at his crotch before turning away and leaving the room.
He pulls the key out and laughs, throwing his head back with joy and desire and this woman he's loved for too long. Room 2069 awaits him.
She's at the lift when he catches up to her. "Congratulations on the win, Dave," she says, and he grins, since he knows the Emmy at his table is not the golden idol she's planning on worshipping tonight.
"The very same to you." And the lift opens, and they're in, and they're deliciously alone.
She presses a button. They rise.
He shuts the door. She takes off her black heels. The lights flash-flash-flash on.
"This is a one-time thing," she says, turning to him with something a little like heartache in her smile. "Just to work off the tension."
"Of course." He hates her a bit for that.
She leans closer, playing with his bowtie before ripping it off, dangling it in front of his face for a moment before giggling and running off to the bedroom. He's quicker, though, and she squeals when he wraps his arms around her, hauling her off of her flailing feet and chuckling against her neck. "That took me ages to get right, you little minx."
"Oh, you love it."
"Quite right."
He adjusts his arms and wrenches her into a bridal hold when she falters at their words. Long blond curls fall out of her updo. She slips her fingers into his hair and bites her lip. "David," she murmurs.
His smile drops. "I know."
"Okay. Good. I just... wanted to make sure."
She presses her lips to his neck. Nothing. It means nothing. And everything.
He used to watch her show when he was alone, when he'd wanted to get off thinking about her without thinking about her. It was damn good, damn sexy, and damn... well, damn him for not reaching an agreement with the producers.
But this, this soft new thing in this anonymous bed, is not what he'd always wanked to when Sophia was on location or Georgia went to the market. Slick fingers twisting inside of her, curling up into a tensing spot, and her mewling gasps in time with each suckle of her rosy little clit. Flushed skin tasting of soap and mint and honey, a hand weaving through his hair, heat--oh, the heat--and he's pulling away because she's close, and he wants to feel her come around him if this is it.
She shoves him indelicately away before fumbling with his zip, and then he's out and oh, that's her mouth, pressing wet kisses to his stomach as he rolls a condom on, a condom he slipped into his tux jacket that afternoon knowing--just knowing--
drenching heat sweat lips tongue rolling him suc-suc-suction so... oh brilliant
--and she lies back, pulling him by his cock as he climbs over her, and it's now or never so he runs a hand over her breast and she smiles up at him, a nod, and with one stroke he's in her and she's around him with her little sighs and tight warmth around him, and it's about all he can take so he stills.
"D-don't. Move," he growls into her collarbone. He shuts his eyes. He counts down from 100. He trembles.
Her hips shift--the slightest of movements, seemingly innocent but he knows her so very well--and it's just fucking, it's thrusting and moaning and babbling things they'll never mention, and she's pressing her fingers into his back, her gasps pitching higher and higher as he desperately slides his fingers down to her soaking folds and pinch at her nub and then--then she shatters, a thousand tiny suns splintering across her skin and his, and sweaty warm clenching drenching him it rains o'er him, push-pulling as he wraps his arms around her waist and watches, this lovely awakening--
--and then he's coming too, pulsing inside of her as he hears her begging him to join her, cursing him and praising him and loving him.
And when he returns to himself, he tightens his embrace and brushes his lips against her forehead. They're just two sweaty shining bodies in a sea of linen, and she looks up at him, the ghost of a smile on her lips and the promise of tears blooming in her golden eyes.
Because this is it. Because this is a pledge broken--she wore her ring while she fucked him; he has no ring to wear--and a sin. Because this is a little too real for the actors in the scene.
So he kisses her one last time before heading to the shower, scrubs his skin a little too hard to get the feel of her off him.
She's gone when he finishes.
He hates the fall.