Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
MYLO
I can’t stop shaking after my evening suppressant dose.
The nausea comes in waves, even after I crank the AC as cold as it will go and leave the second-floor balcony slider open to the winter night’s chill.
It’s the last night.
One more day of shooting.
I just need to hang on a little longer.
That endless blue ocean boils.
Reality and dreams melt together as I float on the edge of consciousness, limbs tangled in syrupy, sticky water.
I can’t stay at the surface, can’t keep the hotel room in focus, can’t get out.
My phone makes a strange, distorted noise, and I paw at it, staring at the blurry words. Fuck, this is pointless. But I can hold the button that activates the voice prompt.
“Call… Christine.”
The water rises around me again. I surface when I hear her voice—
“Mylo? Is that you?”
“Tee…”
“I’ll be right there. Hang in there.”
I float in a sea of heat and rushing sounds until a growl rises from the deep. Wait, not a growl—a motorcycle.
There’s a knock at the slider, then a hissing sound, and suddenly she’s over me.
Azure eyes and platinum hair as bright as heaven over leather dark as sin.
She crashes around me like a wave, and I can breathe again.
Her claws slice through everything binding me, and her skin against mine is pure relief. When her heat engulfs my length, my back arches in a wordless scream. She’s so tight, so hot.
Her mouth claims mine, tongue sliding down my throat, claws tangling in my hair. I reach up and find her leather gone, soft skin and the swell of her breasts open to my palms.
As her hips rock, my cock throbs overhard, locked in her grip. I tumble into a gasping climax that offers no relief. If anything, it only makes the aching worse. My hips press upwards in time with Christine’s grinding, milking out another peak, but something’s missing.
I cling to her, scratching, clawing, desperate.
Her low growls and moans rattle against my ear, sending hot shocks through me.
My ass clenches around nothing, aching at the emptiness.
That’s it, that’s where I need her: her tongue, her fingers, anything, everything…
I finally crest a climax that shakes me to my core.
Christine’s palm slides into my mouth, muffling the scream I can’t control.
I bite down hard—hard enough to draw blood, to taste that coppery tang, to crave it, to know that I should be tasting her blood as she tastes mine, fangs sinking into the base of my neck…
“Tee…” My hands slide around her shoulders, pulling her down toward my neck. She pushes away with the hand in my mouth, keeping me pinned. But then she wavers, dipping lower, hot breath on my skin.
“Mylo…”
My name drips from her lips, sliding down my spine, sending me shuddering.
I pull harder, until her fangs hover just above my neck, our cheeks brushing. A labored, shaking breath washes over me, like a wind from a forest fresh with rain.
Then the aftershocks slow, and the heat drains out of me in a chill rush.
I realize what I’m doing, and I drop Christine’s neck and push her away—but she’s immovable, still breathing heavily.
“Christine, stop it!” I push again, and this time she yields, rolling to the foot of the bed.
I scramble upright, pulling the sheet over myself.
Christine quickly puts her clothes back on, then runs a hand through sweat-damp hair, not looking at me. “I should go.” She stands.
I lunge after her, grabbing her arm. “Wait—” It doesn’t make sense, but I can only blame the hormones still raging through my body.
Christine whirls and looks down at me. I swear she’s even taller than usual, her eyes eerily large with slitted pupils sweeping wide. Her long, pointed ears swivel toward me, then twitch to a sound outside, and her chest rises and falls with every heavy breath.
I’m frozen, prey in a predator’s gaze.
She grabs my wrist so hard it feels like my bones will shatter, but as she pulls my hand off her arm, that grip gentles to something tender.
I can even believe there’s regret in her voice as she says, “Mylo. I have to go.”
And then she’s gone, out the slider and over the railing.
I hold a sheet to myself, yanking it off the bed as I follow her. I stop short at the railing, catching myself against the metal as she rolls into a smooth landing ten feet below. She looks up at me and sweeps her hair into her helmet. Then she straddles her bike and takes off down the street.
Though I have the sheet in front of me, I realize I’m still otherwise naked, and I jolt back into my room.
As I slowly get my body to cooperate so I can get dressed for the day, I realize I… miss Christine.
And that scares the shit out of me.
Just one more day.
One more day, and then I’m on a plane, away from Christine, getting my shit back together.
One more day, and then I’m free.
The last day on set is always bittersweet. It’s a time to think back on the shoot, to reminisce about memories made, to trade hometowns and industry contracts and promise you’ll work together again whether that has any chance of happening or not.
At least, it usually is. As I wait for the day to start, I shift uncomfortably, trying and failing to find an angle that doesn’t pinch my half-hard cock against my briefs. All I can really think about is how horny I am.
God, do people live this way?
This morning’s… session plus my suppressant dose holds until lunchtime—but only barely. I ended up trapped outside between two vans, costume pulled down off my torso in a desperate attempt to cool off, still sweating buckets despite the chill air.
As I tremble there, leaning heavily against a van door, a spike of anxiety lances through me.
What if she doesn’t find me? What if she doesn’t want me?
As if on cue, Christine appears, leaving me no time to process those thoughts as her arms cage me to the side of the van and her hand sinks under my waistband.
She waits until the last possible second before she drops to her knees and catches the first spurt of my cum on her tongue.
I shake and fall against the van in front of me, barely able to hold myself upright. Whispered obscenities pour from my lips as Christine takes me into her throat, draining me.
When I finally sigh with relief, she tugs my costume roughly back into place, then plants a wet kiss on my cheek.
I throw an annoyed glare after her, and she tosses a smirk over her shoulder as she heads into the studio.
Cool metal meets my cheek as I lean against the van. Fuck, I need to get a handle on these hormones.
After a couple more hours of filming, I duck into Christine’s dressing room on instinct. I’m lucky she’s the only one there, and that she wastes no time pushing me back onto the bathroom counter and taking me deep down her throat.
Just as I finally relax, still dizzy with the afterglow, Christine closes me in the bathroom and greets Lisa, her makeup artist. As my senses return, I slip back into my costume and hide behind the shower curtain, just in case.
Once the chatter beyond the door quiets, I count out a full minute, then slip out through the empty room. That warm buzz doesn’t quite clear, and it leaves me sweating all afternoon.
With my brain foggy, it’s impossible for me to overthink the day’s foot falls and rolls, and the warmth keeps me limber, so at least there’s that.
There’s something new, though. A… restlessness. It feels like I’m in the wrong place, even though that doesn’t make any sense. I need to go somewhere, but I don’t know where. I have a strange urge to go to Christine’s dressing room, gather all her clothes together, and roll in the pile.
As Christine and Haley hit a break between takes, I follow Christine’s PA to the actress’s side while the rigging team adjusts the cameras.
Christine takes a swig from the water bottle her PA just handed her, then glances at me, brow raised.
“Got a note for me?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.”
She waves at her PA. “Give us a sec.”
The PA nods and steps to the side.
I lean closer to Christine. “I need you to…” My cheeks warm with embarrassment, but I’m out of other options. “I need you to tell me to stay put. To wait until filming’s done.”
“Oh, really?” Her curious, coy smile shows off her pointed teeth, and her canines seem even longer than usual.
I tuck my arms to my ribs and shuffle my feet. Turning away, I mutter, “This was stupid.”
Christine’s voice falls over my shoulder, right next to my ear, and freezes me in my tracks.
“Now, Mylo, be a good boy. Go sit down and wait for Mommy.”
I can feel the words in my body, like an auditory weighted blanket, soothing that restlessness. I turn and look up at her, eyes wide.
All I can see is her face; the entire rest of the world becomes a blur.
Her eyes crinkle in a soft smile, and she tips her head at the monitors. “Go on. I’ll come get you soon. Relax.”
Christine’s words guide me back to my chair, and I plop down, feeling suddenly at peace.
Oh no. This is working too well.
It’s a high I don’t trust, the kind of addiction that could all too easily ruin my life.
Whatever it takes to finish filming.
The rest of the afternoon flies by. And then as the clapboard snaps, I realize they’re ten takes into the last shot of the film: ironically, the first time Electra and Melinoe see each other, set in the Vengeance League headquarters when Melinoe steals the plot device that sets off the narrative’s events.
“Cut!” Lana calls. She reviews the footage. “Let’s go again, but… more surprise, less shock.”
Christine nods, as if that makes any sense. They reset and run the scene again.
Electra turns on the light to see Melinoe perched in the window, about to make her escape.
This shot is a close-up on Electra’s face, but the camera hardly does justice to the minutiae of her expressions.
They don’t show the subtle way her fingers gesture or her legs tense with readiness, even outside of the shot.
When I look at the monitor, those electric blue eyes seem to cut straight through me.
Electra takes a step forward, then freezes—knowing as soon as she gets an inch closer, Melinoe is gone.
“I know I’ll hardly be getting any answers out of you,” Electra says, “so let me give you a warning. If you leave with that, then no matter where you go, no matter how far, on this planet or to the edge of the universe, I will find you. You can’t escape me.”
Melinoe just smirks, and even though the camera isn’t facing her, Haley gives Christine a compelling performance to act off of.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Melinoe whispers, and she drops out of the window—really just dropping onto a cushy mat, since it’s not part of the shot.
But what I haven’t noticed in the previous takes, what I hadn’t thought about in the script, is Electra’s face as Melinoe slips away.
Christine’s face—set with determination but letting slip a subtle internal breaking. Relief veneered over deeper sorrow.
My heart cracks in my chest, and I’d run to her if not for her earlier command.
It’s fake, I remind myself. Fake, it’s all fake. Movie magic and hormones. She’s fine. Everything’s fine.
And sure enough, when Lana calls cut, Christine’s easy smile slides back into place. It gives me the same feeling it did when I first saw it: a tightening of my hackles, a warning to be wary that things are not as they appear.
The smile’s fake. So does that mean the sorrow is real? They can’t both be fake, can they?
My head spins, trying desperately to sort through what everything means.
The takes drag on as Lana gives cryptic note after note, and Christine obliges. As everyone resets without complaint, the set comes to an unspoken understanding: none of us want this to end.
Finally, Lana’s vocabulary is exhausted.
“I don’t think it’s possible to do better than what we got today, so…”
The whole cast and crew hold their collective breath.
Lana finds her megaphone and calls, “That’s a wrap on Electra Two.”
Claps, cheers, and hugs ripple through the crew. Everyone stands and starts milling around, seizing this chance to breathe and celebrate before it’s time to break everything down.
Everyone except me.
I stay rooted in my seat, invisible sandbags piled on me, unable (or, more frightening, unwilling) to disobey Christine’s command.
I can only be so upset about it; she told me to relax, after all. My unease is distant, quiet, but there. I’ll be stuck here, forgotten as Christine becomes the center of attention, swept along to the wrap party while I—
“Hey, Mai Tai. Good job.”
My eyes snap up.
Christine stands over me, hand extended. I take it and let her pull me to my feet.
“You okay?” she asks.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. “Yeah, I just…”
“Have some fun before the wrap party, okay?”
“Right.” My breath deepens as her new suggestion takes priority.
“I’ll see you there, won’t I?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Alright. Stay out of trouble ‘till then.” Christine’s hand brushes my shoulder, seeming to clear away the cobwebs, leaving a crackle of heat behind.
But I know exactly what stay out of trouble means: don’t be a horny mess.
And her words seem to actually work, letting me settle into my skin again.
Haley finds me shortly after, wrapping me in a warm hug that I return.
“Oh god, I can’t believe it’s over…” She leans back, tears welling in her eyes.
“It’s not over until the wrap party’s over,” I counter.
She levels a finger at me. “That is… genius-level coping. You’re so right. And oh, we have to get ready! You’re not gonna flake on our matching outfit plans, are you?”
I offer her a genuine smile for the first time in days. “I would never flake on outfit plans with you, Haley.”