“Whatever,” I muttered, arching into his nearness. “I really just needed you to help me balance so I didn’t fall off my shoes.”

“I’ll be your rock anytime, my lady.” He nuzzled my neck with his beard, before pulling away and sitting back down with his beer.

Both of our phones went off at the same time. A text from Asha said, “Doing great. Can I get a steamier option? A little kissing maybe?”

My heart started to race. I’d never kissed someone on command before and I was surprisingly nervous about it. I was sure he was used to it since he seemed to kiss at least one woman in every film he was in.

All that practice had made him one helluva kisser.

He patted the spot next to him with a grin that told me he was up to no good.

I sat down, leaving too big a gap between us. I felt stiff and awkward. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Was I supposed to keep my mouth closed or really kiss him? Surely tongue was frowned upon in a fake relationship?

He inched closer and slid an arm across the couch and around my shoulders, pulling me closer still. With his mouth against my ear, he said, “I know we’ve got PDA in our contract, but I’m not into kissing someone who doesn’t want to be kissed.”

I pulled back to protest, but he said, “Shhh. It’s okay. I don’t want you to kiss me because you have to. I’m sure we can come up with another way to get people talking. Let’s just pretend we’re on a real date and my girl has worn smoking hot shoes that are filling my head with filthy images…” The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. “In this pretend scenario only of course—but they must be killing her feet, so I need to take care of her before even contemplating anything else.”

He reached down and snagged my legs, pulling my feet up and across his lap.

“May I?” he asked, grasping one of my shoes. I nodded, curious to see what he had in mind. I was so used to having every element of my scenes planned out, always the one in control, that the spontaneity of his gesture was thrilling. He slid each of my shoes off and placed them on the ground delicately.

I bit back a groan when he began to rub one of my feet in deft strokes with his giant hands. Heels were a reality of my life as an expected part of my work attire, so my feet perpetually ached. Once upon a time, I may have been self-conscious about him rubbing my feet out of the blue, but working as a domme had trained that patriarchal bullshit right out of me. My body had lots of flaws, but none of them made me self-conscious anymore.

He watched me intently as he made his way up my heel and along my ankle, kneading the tender ligaments there. The intensity of his stare was erotic in its own right. He seemed to be able to accurately read my minute reactions, returning to the spots that felt the best, leaving me to consider whether he was equally attentive in the bedroom.