Page 52 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“I am yours, Lana,” I whisper, barely able to form words. My voice and body belong to her now. “Do what you want.”

She pauses and focuses on my face while considering my words. Maybe she sees my desperation. Maybe she understands what I need is her.

“Take this off.” She tugs on the hem of my t-shirt, and I'm pulling the piece of clothing off faster than she can blink.

The sound of her breath inhaling sharply as she scans her eyes up and down my body, as if she didn’t see me half-naked yesterday at the lake, makes my cock twitch. It comes alive when she’s around, and I want nothing more than to bury it inside her this very moment.

She stands on her tiptoes and leans forward to place a gentle kiss on my lips. Then her kisses travel down my neck, to my chest, to my stomach until she’s squatting down and undoing my pants.

I choke on my breath; not entirely sure this is real.

I must be dreaming.

Her fingers grazing the skin of my lower stomach as she slowly unlatches the buttons is all too real. I’m so fucking hard right now it hurts.

She pulls down my pants and briefs. A light gasp escapes her swollen lips as my erection springs out. She doesn’t hesitate and takes it in her grip, wrapping her fingers around, the tips almost touching. I shudder at the contact of her soft and smooth skin.

Beads of pearly pre-cum start dripping, and Lana licks her lips at the sight of it. Her eyes find mine again, and I'm pleading with her. I’m begging her to take me.

I jerk forward the moment her warm mouth closes over just the head but it’s more than enough. She flails her tongue against the sensitive skin as she laps up the pre-cum. Then she takes more. It's greedy and my stomach tightens as she slides me deep. My dick touches the back of her throat briefly before she’s sucking back up the length. The way her tongue wraps around my shaft . . .

“Fuck.”

She starts bobbing while squeezing the base of my shaft and it feels so fucking good. My hands grip her hair, and she releases her hold, giving me permission to fuck her mouth. I thrust once, to the hilt, and when she doesn’t gag, I start pumping harder, faster. She welcomes me by relaxing her jaw and throat, allowing me to go deeper.

I'm not going to last long.

She moans around my length and the vibration sends shocks all the way to my spine. The moment she cups my balls with one hand, those shocks expand and ripple through my abs. I fuck her mouth harder, causing her to dig her nails into my hips. The massaging of my balls, the pain and pleasure of her nails, mixed with the way those wide hazel eyes stare up at me—

Fuck. I’m coming.

My release pours down her throat, and she takes it all. Her eyes water, her leftover mascara from the night before smears with tears. When I'm finished spurting, Lana makes sure to lick up every last drop.

She removes her lips from my cock with a pop and proudly smiles. Hell, I’m fucking proud. I’ve had more blow jobs than I can count, and they’ve never been that good.

This woman.

I refuse to let her go.

After leaving Lana’s, following a quick make-out session post blowjob, I'm walking through the hotel lobby in a good fucking mood when a familiar voice calls out my name.

Jensen Boliver. The director of Tyler’s Team.

Good mood officially killed.

I knew this day would come. I dreaded seeing my former best friend after he dropped out of my life.

Jensen is your stereotypical Hollywood director. I swear to God. He’s got the black-rimmed glasses, the beanie with brown curly hair feathering underneath, framing his round face. He wears dark jeans (rolled up at the bottom) and a long-sleeved, flannel shirt despite it being near ninety degrees outside.

He’s tall, though a few inches shorter than me, and thick. Jensen confessed to me one drunken night that he struggles with body dysmorphia. He said he hated his tree trunk thighs and flabby stomach. I wonder if that’s why he covers it up with this hipster lumberjack persona. Jensen may hate his body, but women love it.

“Never thought I’d be working with you again,” he says, and I was sure he meant it in jest, but disdain weaves through his words.

I don’t respond as he attempts to greet me with our secret handshake—three palm slaps, two fist bumps, a fist to the chest over the heart. It’s a stupid handshake, and maybe not even original, but we made it up as teens and have been doing it ever since.

Well, we did when we were friends, up until my downfall. Before he abandoned me like all my other so-called friends.

Jensen must have realized what he was doing and quickly drops his hand.

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