Page 53 of Lights, Camera, Omega

On the projected screen, the romantic leads begin to slow dance in an empty smoke-filled bar. Between my legs, Sol curls two fingers inside me, his lips closing around the tender bud of my clit.

I watch his golden lashes against his tanned cheekbones as he devours me, his tongue flicking over my clit while he pumps two fingers as deep inside me as he can reach. Even though I’m craving even more of him—his knot, his bite—I can’t hold on any longer. I feel my orgasm fire off in a hundred tiny quivering clenches of my muscles—my vision exploding into a rainbow oil slick of stars as I cry out in pleasure.

“That’s right, cum for me, Sunshine. Cum hard,” Sol talks me through my orgasm, his fingers still stroking my G-spot as my feet rattle on the dashboard on either side of his muscular shoulders.

“That’s a good girl,” he purrs as I let out a whining cry, my pussy still gripping his fingers.

He slows to a stop, rising up on his knees to kiss my mouth, my own salty sweetness still on his lips.

“How was that?” he asks, fingers still inside me.

“So good,” I whine, swiveling my hips slightly—forcing his fingers deeper inside me once more.

“Well, since I was so rude and rushed ahead, I suppose I should do the gentlemanly thing…” He trails off, fingers moving once more, his mouth dips between my thighs.

“What a gentleman,” I sigh happily—my fingers lacing in Sol’s blonde hair again; both of us, unbothered by the movie credits, already nearly finished rolling.

Even though it feels like ages since I’ve spent a night alone in my studio, in reality, it’s only been about a month.

Last time, Julian and Magnus were at Cannes and Sol had to shoot all the car chases for the latest installment of the Swift’n’Scandalous franchise. Why they didn’t replace the boring meathead A-lister who pretends to drive like Sol can when they could have had Sol himself, baffles me. But then again, I wouldn’t wish being a famous actor on anybody.

Who am I to resign Sol to such a fate? Even if I know he wants it so desperately

Tonight no one is abroad at a film festival. Magnus is in meetings with the second unit director for our upcoming film, Julian is hard at work preparing things at Tern’s Nest for his date with Daphne tomorrow–and Sol is more likely than not getting more than he bargained for trying to adhere to the no-knotting rule we set down for our initial courting dates with Miss Dale.

I do my best to shrug it off, turning up the record player spinning Coltrane—returning to my latest work; a shameless imitation of Jean-Honore Fragonard’s ‘The Swing’. Except, in my forgery of the famous work, I have replaced a tiny oil painted Daphne in place of the swing’s original occupant–opting to paint Sol’s face on the courtier; catching a surprise glimpse of the lady’s underthings as she sails through the air before him.

I had thought about painting the two of them into Renoir’s ‘Dance at Bougival’ but decided on ‘The Swing’ instead.

My forgery turned fanart is a charming diversion, both from my anticipatory loneliness and from the fact that I haven’t painted anything truly original in nearly a year.

I let my paintbrush and pallet rest on a nearby stool, taking the several paces back to my drafting table to collect my half full wine glass. I’m about to settle into critiquing my choice of color for Daphne’s tiny oil paint daub eyes when the door to my studio flies open.

“Sol,” I swish my cabernet franc around the high walls of my stemmed glass.

“You look positively…” I look him up and down—his eyes wild, alight with unspent passion, his hair rumpled, and his erection visible and gently weeping precum into his expensive dark wash jeans.

I’m about to take another sip of wine for effect, but he’s on me before I know it.

“Shut up,” Sol growls at me, taking the wine glass from my hand and setting it beside the paintbrush and pallet before he shoves me up against the nearby cement support pillar.

Before I can protest, the intermingled scent of Daphne and Sol, hits my nose. The pear and apricot fruit notes—rich and sweet, almost turning with rot—the intoxication of wine or moonshine.

“I guess the date went well then,” I laugh at him, but just the smell of them together has my metaphorical motor running already.

Sol doesn’t respond right away, just crushes his mouth with mine—his hands already at the bottom of my t-shirt, breaking our kiss only to strip the cotton garment over my head.

“Tell me again why we agreed not to fuck her until the first round of courting was done,” he growls, yanking his own shirt up and over his head.

I can’t help but laugh, grabbing Sol by the belt loops of his jeans and pulling him in close to me.

“Something to do with honor and tradition, no doubt, probably Magnus’ idea,” I grunt, catching Sol’s bottom lip gently between my teeth as he darts in to kiss me.

“Scoundrels and outlaws like us don’t have any honor—doesn’t the old silver fox know?” Sol snorts a laugh, shoving me back against the high topped table where I typically work on sculptures—it’s glossy stainless steel surface empty of works in progress for now.

The shove forces me into a seated position atop the metal table, Sol’s already at the counter’s edge—between my parted knees, his calloused fingers already fumbling with my belt buckle.

“Easy there,” I gentle Sol, like a riled horse. He’s rushing so quickly with my jeans that I’m worried he might unwittingly gore me with my own zipper fly.

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