She loves the way his tongue curls up around his "r"'s, and how it curls up around her earlobe or her nipple depending on where she is in the process of riding him in the makeup chair in her dressing room.
The dressing room, she reminds herself. Nothing here is really "her's." She flinches a little, and his hands loosen on her thighs so only the half-moons from his blunt fingernails remain. She leans up and slides back down.
"Fuck, Kris," he sighs to her collarbone. She mentally measures her skirt to make sure it'll cover the red marks now blooming around the fingernail dents on her legs. His teeth drag over her neck and she groans in disapproval.
"Sorry," he mutters. Those "r"'s again.
She adjusts her grip on the arm rests and fucks him slow and mind-blowing, the way they never really have time to do it.
"What are we going to talk about tonight?" she asks softly. When we're in public. On camera, on tv, mostly on our best behavior.
"Mmmm," he grunts as she scoops her hips up against his. His hands are big, and his grip on her hips is heavy and tight but it feels so, so good. "That ‘Rome’ thing? With that skinny tan shit?"
She "mm"'s in reply. Co-stars, boyfriends, whatever. It's never really mattered to him. He's always known he's her only once-in-a-while vice and unlike him she doesn't even try to quit.
"He's married to the Black Pea woman, isn't he?"
"Mhm," she manages through pursed lips.
"Ugh, she always looks so dirty," he grumbles. He raises an eyebrow. "Haven't caught anything, have you?"
She peels herself up from him, arching her back against his hands and glares, trying to be intimidating. Her palms lie flat on his chest, her fingertips just touching the base of his throat, tapping up and down disapprovingly. His shirt collar's open like it's the end of the show and they're talking about what they've learned. Not a damn thing, obviously.
He grins and his hands slip up her ribs and his fingertips begin to tickle mercilessly until she squirms and shrieks once. He slaps a hand over her mouth and feels her teeth scrape against his palm as she wheezes silently, eyes starting to water.
He's laughing now too, all perfect smile and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes that she loves and he shifts in the chair underneath her until she "hm"'s exquisitely at his movements.
She runs her hands down his face and kisses him, one on each corner of his mouth and then square in the center. She pauses and looks at him, waits for his eyes to slide open slowly and then looks into tired blue. If there's a rehab for perky younger blondes she doesn't want him to find it.
His arms wrap warm around her waist and they're all slow and deep and shallow breath. He slides a hand over her hair, pushing it off her face - it's wild from his hands messing up the nice soft curls she started out with. She'd scolded him, but he didn't take her seriously. He never does.
She clutches at his shoulders, nails digging into the seams of his dress shirt as she stares down into his eyes. She breathes deep, in and out, concentrating on waiting a few seconds longer. It's intimate, stunningly so, for two people who aren't supposed to be doing this. They've always been good at breaking that convention.
Someone passes by in the hallway and their muffled half of a conversation is about puppets, and a new pair of leather chaps for the intern.
God, they're fucked up.
She rocks against him, and her thighs burn like hell, but it's worth it - these few stupid minutes every few months. The first time it was so bizarre; both of them stone-cold sober, giggling and knocking things over left and right in that tiny dressing room. Somehow they carried on a whole conversation about the Dog Whisperer as she kicked off her boots and shimmied down onto her back on the couch.
She remembers how he'd kissed her, insistent and smooth. How he'd muttered strings of curses around her wrist, closing his fist down tight around her itty bitty hand when he came. As they got dressed there were a lot of "um"'s.
Things go much smoother now. He knows she likes his hands, but not on her ass, that she hates it when he kisses her forehead, and to never ever ask her who her daddy is. She knows he likes . . . her.
"Hey," she whispers. Her eyes hold his close and she opens her mouth to continue but he pulls her down again for a kiss and teases at her tongue with his until she's sighing into him again and her hips shift and lift and pull and he's fucking done for.
When she crumbles down against his chest with her chin tucked on his shoulder he rests his hands on her back. He curls his fingers around and runs his knuckles over the peaks and valleys of her spine. Up and down, up and down.
She squirms and shoves his arms away. "Craig that tickles!"
He shrugs. "Gonna make the kitten face again?"
She rolls her eyes and inspects her fingernails. "If you're good."
He chuckles incredulously.