Chapter 21: The Second Take
Thea didn’t put the camera down. She watched the playback, a small, tight smile on her face. “That’s good. Really good. But we can push it further. The audience needs to see the want. The physical proof of it.”
Aidan’s throat was dry. “Further how?”
“Sloane,” Thea said, ignoring his question and speaking directly to her star. “The sofa. Straddle him. We’ll do the same eye contact, but with your weight on him. Then kiss him. Slow. Like you’re deciding whether to devour him or save him for later.”
Sloane nodded, as if given a simple instruction about tea. She placed her champagne flute down with a soft click. In one fluid motion, she swung a leg over Aidan’s thighs, settling into his lap. The emerald silk pooled around them, cool and slippery. He instinctively put his hands on the sofa cushions, bracing.
Her weight was surprising. Solid, real. She adjusted, her inner thighs pressing against his hips, and the faint, deliberate grind as she found her position made the breath catch in his chest.
“Hands on her,” Thea directed, her eye back in the viewfinder. “Hips. Waist. Wherever feels natural. Aidan, look at her like you did before. Like she’s a puzzle you can’t solve.”
He brought his hands up, resting them lightly on the curve of her hips through the silk. He could feel the heat of her skin beneath.
“Action.”
Sloane’s gaze locked onto his again. This close, her pupils were vast, swallowing the gray-green of her irises. Her scent was overwhelming. The previous silence returned, but now it was filled with the press of bodies, the shared warmth. He felt himself hardening beneath her, a purely physical betrayal he couldn’t control. She had to feel it.
A faint, acknowledging flicker in her eyes. She saw it. She felt it.
Then she leaned in.
Her lips were softer than he anticipated. The kiss wasn’t hungry; it was exploratory. A slow, closed-mouth press that lingered. He could taste the champagne, the faint waxy sweetness of her lip balm. His hands tightened on her hips.
On cue, her mouth opened. Her tongue slid against his, a hot, deliberate stroke. It was skilled. Purposeful. A performance of intimacy that sparked a low, unwanted fire in his gut. He kissed her back, falling into the rhythm she set, one hand moving up to cradle the base of her spine.
Thea circled them, the camera’s whir the only sound besides their breathing.
Sloane pulled back a fraction, her lips brushing his as she spoke. The script called for her to whisper, “I see you.” A generic, mysterious line.
Instead, her voice a husky vibration against his mouth, she murmured, “You’re thicker than I expected.”
The words, so blunt and out of place, sent a jolt through him. It wasn’t a character’s line. It was Sloane’s assessment. A piece of real, clinical data inserted into the fake passion. His hips gave an involuntary, tiny jerk beneath her.
She smiled against his lips. Then her hand left his shoulder, slid down his chest, over his stomach. He stiffened, his breath hitching audibly. Thea zoomed in, surely catching the dilation of his eyes, the stunned paralysis on his face.
Sloane’s palm cupped him through his trousers, a firm, assessing pressure. She squeezed, once, gauging the full, hard length of him. “Yeah,” she breathed, the word just for him. “Substantial.”
“Cut!”
Thea’s voice was sharp, triumphant.
Sloane removed her hand, straightened up, and swung off him in the same graceful motion. She smoothed her dress, her expression smoothing back into its placid, professional mask. “Okay?” she asked Thea, as if she’d just tested a microphone.
Aidan sat very still, trying to will the aching tension in his groin to subside. He felt exposed. Seen in a way that had nothing to do with the camera.
“Better than okay,” Thea said, reviewing the footage. She let out a low laugh. “Jesus, Aidan. Your face when she said that. It’s perfect. That’s the gold. That real, raw ‘what the fuck’ moment. You can’t fake that.”
She turned the camera screen towards him. There he was, his beard scratching Sloane’s cheek, his eyes wide with a confusing mix of arousal and shock as her whisper ghosted over his skin. It was visceral. Embarrassing. Compelling.
“That’s the stuff people subscribe for,” Thea said, clicking the camera off. The red light died. “That little crack in the performance. Makes it feel real.” She patted his shoulder. “Good work. Take ten. Then we’re moving to the bedroom setup.”
Thea walked inside, already calling out to a crew member about lighting.
Sloane lingered, pouring herself more champagne. She took a sip, looking out over the darkening sea. “You good?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than he wanted. “Just… stick to the script next time.”
She finally glanced at him, a faint, unreadable smirk touching her lips. “Sometimes the script is boring. The audience wants a peek behind the curtain.” She shrugged a bare shoulder. “And now they know what Catriona gets to play with. Makes the whole fantasy richer, don’t you think?”
She walked away, leaving him alone on the sofa with the ghost of her weight, the imprint of her hand, and the sick, thrilling realization that she was right. The line had been blurred, and a part of him, the part that wasn’t thinking of home, was already eager to see how far it would smear.