Page 19 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

Cues are set, lights are ready. Waiting on you, boss.

Fuck. Not only should I not be fucking jerking off at work—literally going against everything I fucking preach and stand for—but I have no business doing it tothis. Our private moments, meant to experience together again, not… with me somewhere between cumming and crying, sweaty and angry, confused and alone.

I yank my hand from my shorts and jump to my feet, heading into the private bathroom attached to the office. I wash my hands with soap, splash water on my face, and get a goddamn grip. Returning to my desk, I push the lid closed on my laptop, snatch my phone and head out.

I have shit to do.

Around four, after apologizing to Brielle, Lance leaves to accept a refrigerator delivery back at his apartment. I think it’s one of the only times he’s left work early, and to be honest, I was surprised he didn’t pay a set hand to go to his place and receive it for him.

But then again Lance is private, and the idea of someone from work inhabiting his space even for a minute makes me snort. He’d hate it.

Brielle, in another one of those fitted black skirts and flouncy blouses, patent black heels to match, strolls up, clutching her notes. “How did you feel about that last scene?” she asks, her head tipped to the side as she stares at what remains of the set.

We just had a standard scene, male and female, age gap. Uma, the actress, played a girl named Elizabeth who falls in love with her roommate’s dad after hearing his voice on the phone. The scene we filmed, though, was their first time. I didn’t feel insane about it, but I didn’t loathe it either.

I scratch at the side of my jaw as I remember the final thrust, and the way Uma moaned as Otis pumped into her.

“I think it’s fair. The actors did great. But I think I let them get too far into their comfort zones.” I look over at Brielle, finding her pen unmoving against the paper as she studies me. Her wide green eyes make my chest tight, and I don’t know if it’s how serious she is when listening to me about directing, or if it’s because I have a crush on my protégé, but either way, I don’t focus on the cause. Just the delightful, tight feeling that burns behind my ribs. “Your first time is… maybe romantic, I can admit there’s a possibility of that,” I say, noticing there are specks of blue near her iris, and how the large spotlight behind her illuminates her angelically. She’s fucking gorgeous. “But it doesn’t feel that good.”

Her lips turn down, making a soft curve of combative indifference.

I smirk. “Don’t tell me you orgasmed the first time you had sex,” I tease. “We may be trying to turn adult films into a new genre of art where kink, sex and love can all exist—but we still need to sell movies. And orgasms during every PIV scene are crucial. Our viewers want it. But it’s not real.”

I bump my shoulder into hers, knocking a wavy strand of hair free from the twisted heap of gold atop her head. I love how as the end of the day nears, she puts her hair up. Sometimes with a pencil, sometimes with an actual hair elastic. But around four o’clock, the prim Brielle is gone, and left behind is the Brielle who wants to learn about switch panels and how to sign off on deliveries from Cohen.

She wants to learn, and she seeks it out. And that is attractive. It reminds me of Lance.

Finally she laughs, and I love how her eyes shine when she’s happy. So different from the harsh pinch she wears when arguing with Lance. She’s sexy then too, but this is pure beauty.

“Okay,” she concedes, drawing it out. “So the first time usually isn’t all moany and hot,” she says, her laughter dying off as she turns to face me, pushing the stray hair off her face.

“You put your hair back in the afternoon,” I say to her, and both of us notice how quiet my voice is. I know she does, because her cheeks color, just a bit. “You’ve done it every day.”

She smiles, and the pink in her skin tone makes my pulse pick up. “Yeah. Usually when the final scene wraps, and there’s non-directorial things to learn.” I don’t miss her nervous swallow and the way she chews the corner of her mouth a little.

“The program is a directorial mentorship,” I respond, my eyes narrowing of their own volition as curiosity takes over. “You don’t have to learn about any of those things forthisprogram.”

She hits me with an equally puzzled look, and pressure rushes up my thighs, centering in my groin. “But I need to know everything about a studio to be an effective leader.” Her voice softens as she says, “I don’t just want to be a good director. I want to be a goodleader, like you.”

Her sweet words make my head swim. “Did you really want to get into documentaries?” I ask, because it’s rare when a film school student leaves wanting to make documentaries. In your youth, you’re swayed by flash and awe. Documentaries about drugs and crime, yeah, but trees? I scratch my head, wondering if I’m remembering that correctly from the single line of information I got from Ezra. “Did you want to make a documentary about… trees?”

She laughs, and it’s not a giggle or a fake laugh but more so, she’s enjoying our conversation, our banter. I haven’t felt that in ages. Everyone here is kind and agreeable, sure, but I’m the boss.

Brielle doesn’t see me that way right now. I can feel it.

“I did. I mean, there’s obviously more to it than what you just reduced it to,” she starts, her laughter fading as she squares her shoulders with mine.

“I’m sorry,” I spit out. “I didn’t mean to belittle it or anything. I love and appreciate all films, truly.”

She waves a hand between us to say no worries. “Oh it’s fine. I didn’t mean to come off offended. I’m totally not. I just meant, you know, it wasn’t just,” she raises her hands, spreading them in a fake marquee as she says “Trees by Brielle Parker.”

I find myself laughing, and Brielle laughs too.

“Anyway, I really did want to get into documentaries because I love telling unknown stories. But,” she shakes her head, wearing a silly look of disappointment, “I’m stuck here instead.”

“I’m glad to have you stuck here,” I reply honestly. “I’m sorry your father hates it.”

Her face pales. “Oh my god, did he call you?” She looks truly horrified and sinks against me, clinging to the chest of my shirt. “I’m so, so sorry he called. I don’t–”

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