12
Maria couldn’t wait to have a fake orgasm, mostly because then she’d be able to get back to her hotel suite and give herself
a real one. And also maybe cry a little.
For their final take of the day—of the episode, the season, the entire series—Ramón had asked Maria and Peter to simulate
sex again. Specifically, he wanted to shoot the end of their characters’ long-awaited lovemaking scene one final time, starting
at the point when Peter would fuck her—
No, not Peter. Cyprian.
Cyprian would fuck Cassia into coming one more time before climaxing himself, and they would clutch one another, panting. A few breathless moments
later, they’d make eye contact and slowly smile at each other with joy and relief and pleasure and love.
And then the roar of the undead would shake their little home, and they’d realize they were fucked, both literally and metaphorically.
They’d part ways for the final time.
The end.
Before this week, she’d never simulated an orgasm before, but that hadn’t been an issue.
It was simple enough to act out, especially for the tenth time.
Only she couldn’t seem to get a handle on either her body or her emotions, despite the cameras, the crew, and her determination to keep both her desolation and her horniness to herself.
So she lay beneath Peter, legs wide open and wrapped around his hips, almost entirely naked. She watched him labor mightily
above her, and the pillow between her thighs absorbed most—but not all; heaven help her, not all—of the power behind each
thrust. But it didn’t stop her belly from rubbing against his or prevent her stiff nipples from poking into his chest. It
didn’t do anything to protect her from the sweet savagery of his kiss, the possessive sweep of his tongue in her mouth as
they gasped and moaned against each other’s lips. It didn’t stop his fingers from biting into her thigh as he shoved it higher,
or his other hand from cupping her cheek with a tenderness that would break her heart if she wasn’t careful.
He was slick with sweat, and so was she. Real sweat, not just glycerin.
His heart thundered against hers, his pupils had blown wide, and stripes of hot color painted his cheekbones. As they’d positioned
for this take, as she’d spread her legs and welcomed him between them one final time, his nostrils had flared, and she was
pretty sure he could smell how hot he’d made her. How wet.
Thongs could only absorb so much. And between takes, although he turned away and donned his robe immediately, the consummate
professional as always, that cock sock couldn’t entirely hide his body’s response to what they were doing.
Not all her moans were fake. The tears in her eyes weren’t fake either.
She blinked hard, and his brows furrowed a millimeter. In an unscripted movement, he tore his mouth from hers, slid kisses
across her cheek to her ear, and murmured so quietly, it was more a vibration than an actual word. So quietly even the boom
mic couldn’t catch it.
He said her name.
Not Cassia. Maria.
It was comfort, and it was a question. He wanted to know if she was okay.
The answer was no.
But she extracted her nails from his shoulder, sank a fist into his hair, and dragged his mouth back to hers anyway, because
this was it. This was their last scene, and she wanted to kiss him as long as she possibly could, because it might never happen
again. Soon they might not see each other for weeks or months at a time. Years.
The rest of her life.
He kissed her back, but his lips against hers had turned gentle, too fucking gentle, and it was intolerable .
So she ended it. She panted and moaned and shuddered against him in feigned orgasm, and he followed her moments later.
They made eye contact. Her eyes were dry, because she was a fucking professional.
They smiled.
Nava made a weird squeaking attempt at a roar from just off camera—postproduction would fill in a much scarier sound—and Cassia
and Cyprian jerked apart, threw on some clothing, said a few final lines, and prepared to face their futures.
Their separate futures.
“Cut,” Ramón called, and they were done.
It was over.
Robes. Slippers. Thumps on the back and congratulations and cheering.
She grinned and laughed as she returned hugs, and it was the best acting of her life.
Finally, she managed to slip toward the door unnoticed... or so she thought.
A split second ago, she could have sworn Peter was standing across the room, chatting with Darrell, but somehow there he was.
Right in front of her, clasping her upper arm in one big, warm hand, his hold careful but inescapable.
Studying her face with sharp, intent brown eyes.
Bending down, his mouth brushing her earlobe once more.
“I’ll see you tonight, Maria,” he said quietly, then released her arm and stalked back across the room.
It didn’t sound like a casual comment. It sounded like a vow.
And suddenly, she didn’t feel like crying anymore.
She could still use an orgasm, though. Now more than ever.
“You’re flying out first thing in the morning, right?” Ramón sipped his wine. “Are you packed already?”
Her attention engaged elsewhere, Maria barely heard him.
Delia’s more-than-professional interest in Peter had been evident from their first meeting in the production trailer. But
because the other woman was, in fact, very attentive to power dynamics and issues of consent, she’d waited until the end of
filming to make her move.
They’d shot their final take early that afternoon. And now their intimacy coordinator was doing her best to coordinate intimacy
with Peter.
Since the moment he’d walked into the party, a cast-and-crew celebration of both their professional achievements and the family
they’d created together on this island, Delia had been fluttering around him. Touching his shoulder. Laying a hand on his
arm. Getting up on tiptoes to whisper into his—
Well, not his ear. She was too short for that. More like his collarbone.
“Maria?” Ramón prompted from somewhere nearby. “Are you ready for your flight tomorrow?”
Maria wasn’t a jealous woman. Not even the discovery of her ex’s other life in London, complete with a pregnant wife and a mortgage, had elicited that particular emotion. Grief, yes. Rage, most definitely. Hurt and bitterness, undoubtedly.
But not jealousy. Not ever, not once in her life. Until now.
It wasn’t a comfortable emotion, as it turned out. In fact, it caused the same sort of feeling in her stomach that eating
dulse for all those endless takes had, so long ago. But since she didn’t have a vomit bucket handy, she supposed she’d have
to swallow hard and endure.
And who could blame Delia for wanting Peter? Not Maria, certainly. She’d wanted him for over half a decade now. Having spent
the last week surrounded by his woodsy scent, encased in his strong arms, spread open by his broad hands and thick thighs,
and brought to the brink of madness by his talented mouth, she knew exactly why Delia was panting after him.
In fact, she should salute the woman for her excellent taste in men.
And good for him, really. It wasn’t as if she’d remained sexless since their one night in bed together either, although she’d
come closer to celibacy in recent years than she cared to admit. She couldn’t, in all fairness, begrudge him a night—or even
a lifetime—in Delia’s arms. She wouldn’t .
Sure, she’d thought maybe, after filming was done, they might finally—
But it didn’t matter what she’d thought. It didn’t matter what had prompted her to put off making definite commitments after
the end of filming. It didn’t even matter how close she was to losing her excellent dinner in a convenient potted plant.
If she could stop looking at the two of them, that would probably help her nausea.
“Sorry. I was trying to remember whether I’d already arranged for a cab from the ferry to the airport.
” Turning back to Ramón, she offered him a cheerful, self-deprecating smile.
“As long as you don’t consider whether I’ve packed a single item in my suitcases, I’m totally set to leave.
How about you? Are you heading out tomorrow too? ”
“Um... no.” A small, happy smile creased his tanned cheeks. “Nava and I intend to stay for another two weeks after everyone
else is gone. Then her daughter’s coming to visit us here, and the three of us will knock around Ireland for a while.”
Maria’s mouth dropped open.
Fy fan . How in the world had she missed that ?
Shaking her head in delighted shock, she hauled her director into a congratulatory hug. “You sly thing. I had no idea. None.”
His smile widened into a grin. “Good. That was the goal.”
Across the small dining room, Darrell traced a finger down Jeanine’s exposed arm as the longtime couple sipped wine and chatted
with Conor. Who, even as she watched, found himself wrapped in Fionn’s embrace when the chef emerged from his kitchen and
leaned against his husband from behind. And at the half-cleared table, their camera op and cinematographer were sitting remarkably
close together, the two women whispering quietly and playing with each other’s fingers.
Carefully, she kept Peter and Delia in her peripheral vision. No need to look directly at them again. Not even to confirm
her newfound theory.
“Ramón.” Perhaps it was a tad indelicate, but the question had to be asked. “Is literally everyone in this room fucking except
for me?”
He barked out a startled laugh, expression lit by more open joy than she’d ever seen from him before. “We are a particularly
incestuous bunch, now that I think about it.”
Even as Ramón spoke, Darrell coaxed Jeanine into a shadowy corner, no doubt to do something Maria had not experienced in many, many endlessly horny months.
“You’re not kidding,” Maria muttered.
“I thought you and Peter...?” Ramón trailed off, raising a meaningful brow.
She shook her head, and the director blinked at her in seeming shock.