Chapter 4 — The Direct Line #2
“I know you did.” He reached out, his fingertips brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. The touch was electric. “That’s why you’re here.”
His hand cupped my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I didn’t. His kiss was nothing like the hotel, nothing like the staged, audience-aware beginning.
It was soft, searching, deep. A kiss for its own sake.
A shiver went through me, starting at my lips and radiating outward.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. “I want you,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Not for a scene. Not for him. For me. Do you understand the difference?”
“Yes.” The word was a sigh.
“Tell me you want this too. For you.”
I opened my eyes. His were dark, intent, holding mine. There was no fourth wall here, no audience. Just him, and me, and the precipice. “I want this,” I said, the certainty of it solidifying in my chest. “For me.”
He kissed me again, harder this time, a spark catching tinder.
His hands came up to frame my face, then slid down my neck, over my shoulders.
He broke the kiss to trail his mouth along my jaw, down the column of my throat.
I tipped my head back, a moan escaping me.
It was a sound of pure, unobserved feeling.
He stood, pulling me up with him. Without a word, he led me across the open space, past the camera on its tripod—a relic of another life, another purpose—towards a doorway that led to a bedroom.
It was simpler than the rest of the loft, a large platform bed with rumpled gray sheets, a single lamp on a nightstand.
Inside, he closed the door. The world shrank to this room.
He turned to me, his gaze heating my skin. “Take off your clothes,” he said. Not an order. An invitation.
My fingers, which had felt so clumsy in the pantry, were steady now. I pulled the sweater over my head, unclasped my bra, let them fall. I pushed my jeans and panties down my hips, stepped out of them. I stood before him, naked, in the lamplight. No lingerie. No costume. Just me.
He looked his fill, his eyes traveling over my body with a reverence that stole my breath. “Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, the words sounding ripped from him.
Then he was on me, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that was all hunger.
His hands were everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my spine, cupping my ass, pulling me tight against him.
I could feel him, hard and insistent through his sweatpants.
I yanked at his shirt, needing to feel his skin.
He pulled it off, and then I was running my hands over the solid planes of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen. He was real, warm, and he wanted me.
He walked me backward until my knees hit the bed. I fell onto the soft mattress, and he followed me down, covering my body with his. His weight was a delicious anchor. He kissed me deeply, his tongue tangling with mine, as his hand slid down my stomach, through my curls, and found my pussy.
I gasped into his mouth. His fingers were knowing, parting my folds, finding me already wet and ready for him. “Fuck, Talia,” he groaned against my lips. “You’re so wet. Is this for me?”
“Yes,” I panted. “Only for you.”
He stroked me, his fingers circling my clit with a pressure that made my hips buck. It wasn’t the clever, showy technique of the hotel. It was direct, focused, aimed solely at my pleasure. I cried out, the sound loud in the quiet room, unconcerned with who might hear.
He shifted, kissing down my body—my breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, my stomach, his tongue dipping into my navel—until he was between my thighs. He didn’t ask, didn’t stage a look for an absent camera. He just lowered his mouth to me.
The first stroke of his tongue was a lightning bolt.
I cried out, my hands fisting in the sheets.
He licked me with a slow, thorough purpose, his hands holding my hips down as I writhed.
He focused on my clit, sucking it gently, then lashing it with the tip of his tongue.
The pleasure was overwhelming, a cresting wave with no shore in sight. It was too much. It was everything.
“Leo… I’m… I’m going to…” I couldn’t even form the sentence.
He hummed against me, the vibration pushing me higher.
He slid two fingers inside me, curling them, finding a spot that made me see stars.
The combination was devastating. The orgasm ripped through me, a silent, screaming convulsion that arched my back off the bed.
He didn’t let up, gentling his touch but not stopping, drawing the spasms out until I was a shuddering, boneless heap.
He crawled back up my body, kissing my stomach, my breasts, my throat, my lips. I could taste myself on his mouth, a musky, intimate flavor. His sweatpants were gone now, and I felt the hot, heavy length of his cock against my thigh.
He reached for the nightstand, fumbled for a condom. I took it from him, my hands trembling only slightly. I tore the packet and rolled it onto him, my touch firm, claiming. He watched me, his jaw tight, his breath coming in short pants.
When I was done, he didn’t ask if I was ready. He knew I was. He positioned himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine. There was no “look at him,” no instruction. He just looked at me, and I looked back.
He pushed inside.
It was different. Without the audience, without the performance, the sensation was raw, undiluted.
He filled me completely, a perfect, stretching fit.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was less about frenzy and more about connection.
Each thrust was a question, and each clenching of my muscles around him was the answer.
He lowered his head, his mouth near my ear. “You feel incredible,” he rasped. “Just like this. Just you.”
I clung to him, my nails digging into the muscles of his back. The pleasure was building again, a deeper, slower burn this time, coiling tight in my belly with every stroke. I could feel the tension in his body, the controlled restraint as he moved.
“Look at me,” I whispered, echoing his words from the hotel, but now it was my request.
He lifted his head. Our eyes met. In his gaze, I saw nothing but heat, and focus, and a naked wanting that was for me alone.
It undid me. My second orgasm broke over me, a rolling, endless wave that clenched around him, milking his own release from him.
He shouted my name, a raw, guttural sound, as he thrust deep and stilled, pulsing inside me.
He collapsed onto me, his weight a welcome burden, his face buried in the crook of my neck. Our sweat-slicked skin slid together. The only sounds were our ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city through the windows.
He rolled to the side, taking me with him, keeping us joined. He brushed the damp hair from my forehead. He didn’t speak. He just looked at me, his eyes soft, his thumb tracing my eyebrow.
And in that quiet, in the aftermath of something that belonged only to us, the reality of what I’d done came crashing down.
Not with guilt, but with a chilling clarity.
Ben was at home, on our couch, eating Thai food, believing I was with a friend.
He was waiting for me to come home and tell him about wedding plans.
He was waiting for a version of me that had just been irrevocably altered in a stranger’s bed.
Leo’s phone, charging on the nightstand, lit up with a notification. The screen cast a pale blue glow on the ceiling. I watched it, my mind beginning its cold, practical march. I would have to leave soon. I would have to go home. I would have to look my husband in the eye.
Leo shifted, his softening cock slipping out of me. He got up, disposed of the condom, and came back to bed, pulling the sheets over us. He gathered me against his chest, my back to his front. His arm was a heavy, comforting weight across my waist.
“Stay a little longer,” he murmured into my hair.
It wasn’t a question. It was a wish.
And as I lay there in the dark, listening to his heartbeat slow, feeling the warmth of his body seep into mine, I knew I would. I would stay until the last possible minute. Because here, in this bed, I was just a woman who had been wanted. Not a performer. Not a wife fulfilling a kink.
The front-row seat was empty. And for the first time, I didn’t feel the chill of the vacancy. I felt the expansive, terrifying freedom of the stage being mine alone.
His phone buzzed again, a louder vibration against the wood. This time, it was a call. The screen lit up, illuminating his hand as he reached for it. He didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen, his body going still behind me.
“Who is it?” I whispered, though a part of me already knew.
He let out a long, slow breath. His thumb hovered over the screen. “It’s Ben,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of all its earlier warmth.
The phone stopped ringing. The screen went dark, plunging the room back into near-darkness, lit only by the distant city glow through the blinds.
Leo didn’t move. His arm was still around me, but it had tensed.
“He’s calling you,” I said, stating the obvious, my voice sounding small.
“Yeah.” Leo shifted, pulling his arm back to sit up against the headboard. He ran a hand over his face. “He texted earlier. I didn’t answer.”
A cold spike drove through my gut. “What did he say?”
Leo picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and held it out to me. I took it, my fingers numb.
The message was from Ben, sent an hour ago.
Hey. Checking in. Talia said she was out with Megan. Just wanted to make sure you were cool after the other night. No pressure. Let me know if you’re up for another session sometime.