29. Millie
MILLIE
The hotel room door clicks shut behind us and the sound echoes in the silence that follows. Duncan's still holding my hand, has been since we left the car, and I haven't let go because his palm is warm against mine and grounding me to something real when everything else feels surreal.
I kick off the Louboutins someone lent me for tonight. They're beautiful and uncomfortable, and leaving them by the door feels like shedding the first layer of performance. The dress comes next. Three thousand dollars of borrowed Valentino that took two people to get me into six hours ago.
"Here, let me—" Duncan's already moving behind me, his fingers finding the hidden zipper at my spine.
He slides it down slowly, the rasp of metal teeth loud in the quiet room.
The dress loosens and I shimmy out of it carefully because even though it's borrowed I can't afford to damage it.
Step out of the puddle of fabric and Duncan picks it up, drapes it over the chair near the window with more care than I would've managed.
I'm standing in the middle of the hotel room in just my underwear and the shapewear that's been cutting into my ribs all night. The exhaustion hits me all at once, so intense my knees almost buckle.
Duncan's jacket comes off next, tossed somewhere I don't track. Then his bow tie, which he loosens with one hand while watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Not pity, thank God. Something softer than that. Understanding maybe, or recognition of what this night cost me.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I cross the space between us on legs that feel unsteady. He guides me to sit on the edge of the bed, then kneels in front of me and starts working the clasps on the shapewear with steady fingers. It peels away and I can finally breathe properly, deep gulps of air that make my head spin slightly.
"Better?" His hands rest on my thighs, warm through the thin fabric of my underwear.
"Getting there."
He stands and moves behind me again, his hands settling on my shoulders. His thumbs press into the muscles at the base of my neck and I make an embarrassing sound that's half groan and half sigh. He works the knot there with pressure, fingers digging into tension I've been carrying for weeks.
"You're wound so tight," he murmurs against my ear. "When's the last time you actually relaxed?"
I try to remember and come up blank. "Define relaxed."
"Not performing. Not thinking three steps ahead. Just existing." His thumbs move lower, working the space between my shoulder blades where I always carry stress. "That kind of relaxed."
"Before the nominations were announced. Maybe."
His hands pause. "Millie, that was weeks ago."
"Has it been? Time got weird somewhere around the SAG Awards." I let my head drop forward, giving him better access to my neck. "This feels amazing, by the way. You're very good at this."
"I took a massage therapy course in college."
I twist to look at him over my shoulder. "You did not."
"I absolutely did. Spring semester sophomore year. Thought it would be an easy credit." His mouth quirks. "Turned out to be harder than organic chemistry but I passed, and now I have a moderately useful skill I never get to use."
"Well you can use it right now. Don't stop."
His laugh is low, closer to a rumble I feel through his chest where it presses against my back. His hands return to my shoulders, working methodically down my spine. Each vertebra gets individual attention, pressure applied and released in a rhythm that makes my entire body soften incrementally.
I close my eyes and focus on the sensation.
His hands moving lower, reaching the small of my back where my muscles have been screaming all night from holding myself upright in heels.
His thumbs dig into the dimples above my hips and I make another sound that's definitely closer to a moan than I intended.
"Feel good?" His voice has dropped lower, taken on a roughness I recognize.
"Mm."
His hands slide around to my stomach, palms flat against bare skin. Then up, cupping my breasts through the lace of my bra. I arch back into him on instinct, my head falling against his shoulder.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says against my neck.
I don't want him to stop. I want him to keep touching me, want to feel something other than the crushing weight of disappointment and relief and exhaustion that's been pressing down on me all night. Want to be present in my body without performing or maintaining appearances.
"Don't stop."
His mouth finds the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, lips warm and then teeth scraping lightly.
I shiver and press back harder against him, feel him already half-hard through his dress pants.
One of his hands stays on my breast, thumb circling my nipple through lace.
The other slides down my stomach, fingers slipping under the waistband of my underwear.
"Lie back," he murmurs.
I shift backward onto the bed properly, propping myself up on my elbows to watch him. He moves to kneel between my legs again, hands hooking into my underwear to pull it down and off. Tosses it somewhere over his shoulder without looking.
Then his mouth is on my inner thigh, lips trailing upward in a path that makes my breath catch. He takes his time, kissing and occasionally biting gently, working his way higher while his hands grip my hips to keep me still.
When he reaches the apex of my thighs he pauses, looking up at me with eyes that have gone dark. "Tell me what you need."
What I need is to not think. To feel something uncomplicated and good after a night where everything felt heavy and loaded with expectations I couldn't meet.
"I need you," I manage. "Just you."
His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile before he dips his head and puts his mouth on me.
The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp, my hips lifting off the bed before his hands press me back down.
He works me with slow deliberateness, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on my clit that has me panting within minutes.
One of his hands releases my hip to push two fingers inside me, curling to find the spot that makes me see stars.
"Duncan—" His name comes out broken, desperate.
He hums against me, the vibration sending fresh waves of pleasure through my core. His fingers move faster, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and I can feel the orgasm building low in my belly. Tightening, coiling, about to snap.
"Let go," he murmurs against my skin. "I've got you."
And I do. The orgasm crashes through me hard enough that my back arches completely off the bed, thighs clamping around his head while I shake through it.
He doesn't stop, just works me through every aftershock until I'm boneless and gasping and pulling at his hair to make him stop because it's too much.
He pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Better?"
"Getting there."
I sit up and reach for his belt, fumbling slightly with the buckle because my hands are still shaking. He helps, pushing my hands away gently to undo it himself along with his pants. Everything comes off efficiently—pants, boxers, socks—until he's as naked as I am.
I push him backward onto the bed and climb over him, straddling his hips. His cock is hard between us, pressed against my stomach, and when I shift slightly the head of it drags through the wetness between my legs. He groans, hands coming up to grip my waist.
"Condom—"
"Pill," I interrupt. "And we've both been tested. Unless you want it?"
"No. I want to feel you."
I reach between us and position him at my entrance, then sink down slowly. The stretch is perfect, filling me completely in a way that makes us both groan. I pause when he's fully seated, adjusting to the feeling, and his hands tighten on my waist hard enough to leave marks.
"Fuck, Millie?—"
I start moving. Slow at first, rolling my hips in circles that make him curse under his breath. Then faster, finding a rhythm that hits exactly where I need it. His hands guide me, pulling me down harder with each thrust, and I brace my hands on his chest for leverage.
This is what I needed. This connection, this reminder that my body is capable of feeling good things when I stop asking it to perform.
Duncan's looking up at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, his jaw tight with the effort of not coming too soon, and I feel powerful in a way I haven't all night.
I lean forward and kiss him, messy and desperate, while my hips keep moving. He angles his own hips up to meet me and the new angle makes me gasp into his mouth. One of his hands slides between us, thumb finding my clit, and that's all it takes.
The second orgasm hits harder than the first, rippling through me in waves that make my thighs shake.
I feel him come a moment later, his hips stuttering up into me while he groans my name against my neck.
We stay locked together through the aftershocks, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air.
Finally I collapse forward onto his chest, too wrung out to hold myself up anymore. His arms come around me immediately, one hand stroking up and down my spine in soothing patterns.
"I love you," I murmur against his collarbone.
"I love you too."
We lie there for a long time, neither of us moving because moving feels like too much effort.
Outside the hotel window, Los Angeles sparkles with indifferent lights.
Tomorrow there will be think pieces about who deserved to win and speculation about my career trajectory and probably more jokes about the contract scandal.
But right now, wrapped around the man I love in a room where nobody can see us or judge us or expect anything from us, I feel more settled than I have in months.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"For not leaving when it would've been easier." I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "For seeing me."
His arms tighten around me. "Always."
Eventually we get up long enough to clean up and actually get under the covers.
Duncan pulls me against him, my back to his chest, and we fit together in the way we've learned over months of nights like this.
His breathing evens out within minutes and I follow soon after, falling into sleep that's deeper and more peaceful than anything I've felt since the nominations were announced.
When I wake up tomorrow, I'll still be Millie Harris who got nominated for an Oscar and lost. But I'll also be Millie Harris who has Duncan Ellington's arms around her and knows, finally, that she's enough exactly as she is.
That might not fix everything. But it's a start.