Cannes After-Party

Cannes in May is a fever dream of flashbulbs and desperate smiles. I'd been filing copy from the press room since noon, my notebook full of sharp adjectives and my throat raw from shouting over the din of the Palais. But the rooftop after-party was quieter — velvet ropes and whispered conversations, the Mediterranean a dark silk sheet spread below us.

He found me at the bar.

I felt him before I saw him — the shift in the air, the way the bartender's eyes flicked up. Then his hand on my hip, his fingers pressing through the thin silk of my dress.

"There you are."

Leo. Leo Castellano. His film had premiered three hours ago and I'd already written the review that was going to gut it.

I turned. He was taller than I remembered from the press conference, broader. His tuxedo jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the veins in his forearms catching the amber light. He'd been drinking — not drunk, but loosened, his eyes darker than they'd been on stage.

"You read my notebook," I said.

"I read your notebook."

I should have walked away. Every professional instinct told me to. But his thumb was tracing small circles on my hip bone, and my body had already made its decision.

He led me through the crowd without a word, his hand sliding down to grip my ass through my dress. His fingers dug into the flesh, claiming territory, and I bit my lip to keep from making a sound. Past the pool, the cabanas, the last cluster of guests smoking by the railing. Then a door. A corridor. A bedroom with the curtains billowing from an open French window.

He closed the door behind us and the party disappeared.

"I want you to say it," he said, his voice low and rough. "Say what you wrote."

I opened my mouth to speak and he kissed me — hard, possessive, his tongue sliding against mine before I could form a word. His hands were everywhere at once: in my hair, yanking my head back; on my throat, pressing gently; down my body, finding the hem of my dress and pushing it up.

I gasped into his mouth as his fingers found the soaked fabric of my panties. "Jesus," he breathed against my lips. "You're already dripping."

He pushed me backward onto the bed and I landed on my elbows, watching him. He unfastened his trousers and let them fall. His boxers strained against him, and I reached out, pulled them down. His penis sprang free — thick, hard, the head already wet. I wrapped my hand around him and he groaned, his head falling back.

"Look at me," I said, and he did.

I took him in my mouth — all of him, as far as I could, until I felt him hit the back of my throat. His hands found my hair and held me there, not forcing, just anchoring, while I worked him with my tongue and my lips, the slick sounds of it filling the room.

He pulled me off and flipped me onto my stomach before I could breathe. His hands were at my panties, dragging them down my legs, and then his palm was on my bare ass, slapping once — hard enough to sting, hard enough to make me cry out.

"You're going to take all of it," he said.

I didn't answer. I spread my legs wider.

He slid into me from behind and I screamed — not a metaphor, not a descriptive word in a notebook. A raw, guttural sound I couldn't control. He was thick and the angle was deep and I felt every inch of him opening me, stretching me, filling me until there was no space left between my body and his.

He took me hard, his hips slapping against my ass, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. I was babbling — yes, yes, right there, don't stop — but the words were meaningless, just sounds forced out of me with every thrust.

His hand snaked around my body and found my clit. Two fingers, pressing and circling, rough and perfect. I felt my orgasm building from somewhere deep, a coil tightening in my stomach, my legs starting to shake.

"I'm going to come," I gasped.

"Come for me," he said, and he drove into me harder, his fingers working my clit in fast circles, and I shattered — my whole body convulsing, my screams muffled by the pillow I'd grabbed without thinking. My legs locked, my toes curled, and I felt myself clenching around him, wave after wave, until I couldn't breathe.

He pulled out and turned me onto my back, spreading my legs wide. I was still trembling, my pussy exposed and wet and open, and he knelt between my thighs and watched me.

"One more," he said.

Then his mouth was on me — his tongue flat against my clit, lapping, sucking, drinking me. I grabbed his hair and bucked against his face, and I heard myself begging though I couldn't form the words. The second orgasm hit faster and harder than the first. I screamed into my own arm, vision going white.

He climbed up my body, his penis slick with me, and pushed inside again. This time it was slow — deep, grinding thrusts that made my toes curl and my nails dig into his back. He kissed me and I tasted myself on his tongue.

"Look at me," he whispered.

I opened my eyes.

He was watching me — really watching — his face tight with restraint, his chest slick with sweat. Holding himself back. Waiting.

"Come inside me," I said.

He groaned and buried his face in my neck, his hips stuttering, and I felt him pumping into me — hot and thick and endless. I wrapped my legs around him and held him there until he was empty.

When it was over, I lay beneath him, my legs still splayed open, my pussy wet with both of us, the French curtains still billowing. The party drifted on somewhere below.

He kissed my shoulder and rolled off.

"Still giving it a gorgeous failure?" he asked.

I laughed, breathless. "I'm rewriting."