She gives a quick triple knock and lets herself into his trailer without waiting for him to answer. Luckily he's wearing trousers, even if his shirt is still undone and his tie hangs loose around his neck. She's switched into something more comfortable and that soft grey sweat shirt which he shouldn't find appealing, but he does, somehow. Perhaps because she only wears it when she's in a mood to relax. Which means she's here to hide from the rest of the cast and crew.
Something that he doesn't mind at all. It's become a bit of a ritual with them thus far. First thing in the morning, marking out the scenes, running their lines, going over the blocking. Later in the evening, a night cap and discussing the next day's shooting schedule, maybe a little bit of gossip.
She cuts a glance at him as she makes them both a cuppa. She hasn't taken her make up off yet, and in an instant, those dark eyes and full lips draw a wave of heat and heaviness down into his groin.
"You're taking liberties again," he drawls, settling into the bench seat behind the table.
"Are you complaining?"
"Just stating the obvious." He puts his still booted feet up on the chair, crossing one long leg over another. He stretches his arms over his head and eventually drapes them across the back of the couch. Well, his right arm anyway. The left stays curled behind his head, as the trailer isn't big enough for him to stretch out completely.
She stands in the kitchenette, resting her hip against the cabinet, both hands curled around her mug, watching him through the rising steam. She's running through the scene in her head again, only this time she's just bent over his desk and his hands are pushing her short skirt over her hips. There's no one else in the room, no camera crew, no cast. Just the two of them and he's putting his hands on her skin.
Of course, it's just a fantasy. He'd never even laid a finger on her, not even in jest. Not even surreptitiously. Just the anticipation alone had had her tied up in knots all afternoon.
"You were a perfect gentleman today."
He just grunts at her, head tipped back, blue eyes watching her.
"I thought, surely with that scene..." Her voice tapers off as she takes a sip.
"You thought what, precisely? That I was going to feel you up in front of the cameras?"
"No. No, of course not."
He cocks his head to one side, still watching her. She's not just beautiful. She's stunning. She has a classic elegance, an air he associates with the movie stars of old. High cheekbones, alabaster skin, a wide mouth over a sharp chin. And those eyes, those gorgeous dark eyes.
He purses his lips as he looks at her, long since passed the point of wondering whether or not he should. He knows he shouldn't, nor should she, but it's never been a question of 'if'. It's only ever been a question of 'when'.
She brings him his cup of tea, and eyes his boots on the chair. "Doesn't wardrobe come to collect those at the end of the day?"
"Sometimes. Unless I tell them to bugger off."
She looks down at him like she can't decide whether to slap him or shag him senseless. "You want help taking them off?"
"If you like." Oh how he hopes it's the latter.
She hesitates another moment, and then sets her mug down and rests a hand on his boot, still looking into those eyes. She can feel the warmth of him through the snakeskin. Gently, she moves a hand under the heel, tugging it off and setting it aside. She pulls the other one off, and places it beside its mate. There's an earthy scent, sweat and leather, pungent and humid, strangely intimate. Not unpleasant at all. She takes a deep breath, and he hums, watching her react to his proximity.
"Come here," he whispers, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
"Just for a moment."
She looks down at his feet, at her mug, anywhere but at him. "You were a perfect gentleman." It begs repeating.
"That's not what you wanted though, is it? You wanted my hands on you."
She looks away, chewing on her lower lip, biting back a knowing smile. She won't deny it. She can't.
"So come here and sit beside me, and let me put my hands on you, Lee."
She stands, turning away, shaking her head. She gets two steps before stopping, a nervous laugh rising in her throat. He stands too, and by the time she's turned, he's there. He takes her face in his hands, bending to catch her mouth in a soft, slow, deep kiss.
All conscious thought evaporates. She can't breathe. He's touching her and she's exquisitely aware of the pressure of his hands as they skim down her arms, down to the small of her back, pulling her in close to his body. Her own trembling hands thread around his neck and she can't think. She tastes tea and cigarettes, and the wet heat of his mouth, the taste that is nothing but him. Each small mouthful takes her higher, and she clings to his neck, her fingers raking through his hair.
She melts against his chest and he gathers her closer, almost purring at the sweetness of her kiss. She's tall, and he can feel her crushed against him. His hands slip lower, over the swell of her bum, pulling her in tight against his hips, letting her feel just precisely what she's doing to him.
She gasps against his mouth, her grip around his neck tightening. "Phil, please."
"I want you."
The knock at the door makes them both start, jumping apart like guilty teenagers discovering their parents have arrived home early. He snarls something under his breath and she can't help but laugh, a desperate sound. She can't help but go back for one last kiss, one lingering, exquisite kiss before she makes herself pull away.
"It's all right. It's probably just the pages for tomorrow. Sit back down."
His fingertips dig into the meat of her hips and he growls against her jaw, a guttural, raw sound that lights her up all over again. Her eyes flutter closed, but she has to put space between them.
"Sit." She pushes him back towards the small couch, her eyes bright. She drags her hands through her hair, over her face. "Is my lipstick all..?"
"Here." He hands her his handkerchief and she turns to the long mirror behind the door, listening to him breathe. It's just a quick fix, and she moves to hand it back to him.
"Keep it." The knock sounds again, and someone calls his name. She glances back to see him settled again, long legs kicked up on the chair again. He nods, flashing her an easy grin. "Go on."
She smooths her hands down her front again, and clears her mind. She's an actress. This is what she does. She becomes someone else at the drop of a hat. It's just a step to the door, and she smiles at the script runner.
"New pages for tomorrow?"
"Yes, thank you." She takes them with a smile.
The door closes and she rests her forehead against it, fighting back a wave of giggles. She's still clutching his handkerchief in her fingers, and she stuffs it in her pocket. She turns just enough to look at him and he's smirking, too.
"You're insane," she says, and the accusation is nothing but affectionate.
"And you're too far away."
"I'm leaving now."
"Yes. God, don't make this harder than it already is."
"That," he grins, "would be impossible, I think."
She dissolves in laughter again, the sound bright and wonderful, he thinks. She's so beautiful when she smiles. He'd give anything to see that smile first thing in the morning, looking at him across the pillows. He listens as her voice fades away again, and she's still smiling. Giddy. He can feel this, whatever it is, crackling in the air between them.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, turning back to the door.
"Don't be," he answers without hesitation, his voice gentle. "Don't be."
"See you in the morning?"
"I'll be here."
She lets herself out without looking back. And even aching as he is, he's all right with that. He knows she'll be back.