“Do us a favor and unfasten my jeans, love,” he says in between erotic drags of his open mouth over mine, right to left. His saliva is smeared across my lips and cheeks and I love it. It feels appropriate. It matches my rough baseline of need for this man inside of me. “Take me out. Get used to seeing me in your hand. That’s the only place it wants to be.”

I’m eager, breathless, while thumbing open his button and tugging down the zipper carefully over the thick curve of his shaft. But I’d be lying to say there isn’t a part of me that experiences a sudden flash of inadequacy. This man has done this professionally. With other professionals. Plus I’m younger than Tobias by seven years.

Am I going to come across like a total amateur?

That thrumming baseline of lust inside of me crashes with a flurry of cymbals when I draw him out and see him live for the first time. In the flesh, not on a screen. To say he’s well-endowed would be stating the obvious. Not only that, he’s groomed and smooth and…fuck it, he’s succulent and ripe. My knees start to dip toward the floor, simply because it’s the kind of erection a girl wants in her mouth. It’s a foregone conclusion that this man gets a blow job, right? Out of appreciation for the grooming alone, he—

“Whoa, love.” He uses his body to push me upright again, against the humming metal box and I see he’s sweating, his throat muscles standing out more than usual. Is he even…shaking slightly? “I thought we established that I’d be slamming that tight ass up against the engine box until you can’t keep your knees up anymore?”

I don’t remember him talking quite like this in any of his films.

Hoarse and pleading.

I love it.

“Yes. I-I know. But that’s kind of…” I’m stuttering in between gulps of cool air. “You’re really going off script, aren’t you? Skipping to the end—”

Something akin to panic passes through his eyes. “There is no script with you, Elise. There is no beginning, middle or end.” He leans in close, rolling his forehead against mine. His hands grip the material of my leggings, shoving them down my hips, thighs, until I join the effort and kick off my ankle boots, toeing off my bottoms the rest of the way. “None of it was real. You are what’s fucking real.”

“I hate that I needed to hear you say that.”

“I hate that I made you need to hear it.”

“Okay, then,” I half-sob against his mouth, because the connection between us in this moment is so great that it’s causing a vicious twist in my chest. His arousal is back in my hand and I’m stroking it, exploring while his rasping breath stirs my hair. He produces a condom from the pocket of his jeans and we rip the package eagerly, rolling on the lubricated latex together.