Chapter 2: Overtime
"Yes." The word came out against his lips, half whisper, half plea. "Whatever they're paying, whatever the scenes are. Yes."
Ruben's grin spread slow against her mouth. "Knew it," he said, and kissed her deep, and Teresa's voice cut across the set before Nancy could answer anything.
"Cut, print, hold. gorgeous, people. Reset for scene four." She was already up from the monitors, glasses flashing, headset clamped on. "Wardrobe, bring the robe, she's cold between takes. Ruben, fifteen minutes, don't lose the load, I need it for the finish."
Nancy laughed, breathless, still pinned to the wall with him thick and pulsing inside her. "Is this normal?"
"Normal's boring." He eased out of her carefully, one hand braced on her hip, and she felt the loss instantly, an empty ache where he'd been. He steadied her on her feet, then caught her elbow when her knees wobbled. "Easy. Water first."
A production assistant handed him a bottle. He made her drink, tilting the bottle himself, watching her lips around the rim with an expression that said the break was only going to make things worse for her. Then he draped a white robe over her shoulders, and it was the strangest luxury, standing naked in a soundstage wrapped in a soft robe while a dozen people moved lighting rigs.
"You're a natural," Teresa said, appearing beside them, scanning a clipboard. "Whatever workshop trained you, tell nobody. Scene four is the bed, you on top to start, we flip for the finish. Fourteen minutes, people."
"On top," Nancy repeated, and felt heat climb her throat.
"You'll like it," Ruben said. "Control's yours. Drink your water."
They reset in fourteen minutes exactly. The robe came off. The dress they'd dropped on the floor was carried away by someone with a lint roller, and Nancy climbed onto the tangle of velvet sheets with the lights burning hot above the bed, every inch of her lit. Ruben followed her, naked, unhurried, and the crew reset around them like a tide coming in.
"Scene four, mark," Teresa called. "Action."
Nancy put her hands on his chest and pushed him back onto the sheets.
He went with it, eyebrows lifting, amused, and she climbed astride him with the boldness of a woman she'd never met before today. Her thighs were still trembling from the wall. She didn't care. She reached between them, took him in her hand, and the weight of him there, hot and rigid in her fist, made her shiver.
"Breathe," he said, hands settling on her hips. "Sink down slow. You set the pace."
She rocked forward, dragging the head of him through her wetness, teasing herself with it until she was whimpering. Then she held him steady and lowered her hips.
The stretch hit her all over again, different from behind, deeper somehow, her own weight driving him into her inch by inch while her mouth fell open. Her hands braced on his chest. She got halfway and had to stop, panting, full to bursting.
"There you go," he murmured. His thumbs stroked circles on her hipbones. "Take the rest when you want it."
She wanted it. She sank down the last stretch and he filled her to the root, and the sound she made was low and shameless, an animal noise from somewhere under her ribs. His jaw tightened. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding still for her.
"God, I can feel you everywhere," she gasped.
"Move when you're ready."
She moved. Slow at first, rolling her hips, learning the angle, and every time she ground down her clit dragged against the base of him and her whole body lit up. She found a rhythm, up and down, her heavy breasts bouncing with it, and she caught one in her own hand and squeezed just to feel it. The camera whispered somewhere to her left. Teresa was saying something about coverage. Nancy was past hearing any of it.
"Harder," Ruben said, low, watching her ride him. "You won't break."
She fucked him harder. She slammed her hips down, taking him deep, over and over, her thighs burning, sweat running between her breasts, and he met her on every stroke, driving up from below, and the sound of it, wet and rhythmic and filthy, filled the soundstage.
"That's it," he growled, and the composure had cracked wide open now, his voice rough. "Ride that cock. Look how good you take it."
She was going to come again. It built fast, a third orgasm rolling up from nowhere, and she gasped it out loud, "Ruben, Ruben, I'm," and he wrapped one arm across her back and pulled her down flat against his chest without breaking stride, and started thrusting up into her from underneath, hard and fast and relentless, her clit crushed against his sweat-slick stomach.
"Give me number three," he said against her ear. "Now."
She came screaming into his neck. Her whole body seized, her pussy clenching around him in hard waves, and he kept pounding through it, dragging it out until she was a boneless shaking thing draped over his chest, mumbling into his skin.
"Ruben." Teresa's voice, tight with excitement. "Beautiful, but I need the flip. Roll her, missionary, camera two has the close-up. Nancy, honey, you still alive down there?"
"She's fine," Ruben said, and rolled.
He took her with him, still buried inside, and suddenly she was on her back in the velvet sheets with her legs hooked over his forearms and him looming over her, folding her nearly in half. The new angle was obscene. He pressed in deeper than before, deeper than she thought her body allowed, and she clawed at the sheets.
"Oh my God."
"Legs up higher," Teresa called. "That's the shot, hold that."
He did. He hooked her knees over his shoulders and started to fuck her, long deliberate strokes first, then harder, his hips slapping against her ass, and the whole bed shifted on its marks with the force of it. Her breasts shook with every thrust. Her necklace flew wild. She was moaning nonstop now, a stream of it, yes and fuck and deeper, no filter left anywhere in her.
"Say it," he panted, leaning over her, folding her further. "Tell the camera what you want."
"Fuck me," Nancy heard herself say, loud, facing the lens, facing everything. "Fuck me harder, please, I want to come on your cock again."
"Christ," Ruben said, half a laugh, all gravel, and gave it to her.
The next orgasm came up on her like a train. He felt it, she saw it in his face, felt him swell inside her, and he reached down between their bodies and pressed his thumb hard on her clit and she detonated. Her scream cracked. Her vision whited out at the edges. Somewhere above her Teresa was shouting, "Hold, hold the frame, don't you dare cut," and Ruben drove through her climax three, four, five more deep strokes, and then his rhythm broke.
"I'm close," he ground out. "Where do you want it?"
"Finish on her chest," Teresa called. "That's the beat, that's the money."
Ruben pulled out fast, knelt up between her shaking thighs, and fisted his cock over her, two rough strokes, and came across her bare breasts in thick hot stripes, groaning low and long, his stomach tightening with it. Nancy lay in the wrecked sheets, painted and gasping, her own pulse roaring in her ears, and looked down at herself and laughed, actually laughed, dizzy and soaked and absolutely alive.
"Scene four," Teresa said into her headset, satisfied. "Print. Somebody get the girl a towel, and a coffee. Ten minutes to scene five."
Ruben leaned down and kissed her forehead, still breathing hard. "You're going to be famous," he said, "and nobody can ever tell me you weren't."