Page 77 of Hearts Adrift
When his lips brush over my ear, whispering, “Your ass feels so good around my dick, Finn, I don’t ever want to slide out. I just want to live here inside you.”
How even words like that can sound like poetry.
Coming from the right set of lips.
With every thrust, my own cock is driven deeper into the smooth, soft, slippery bed sheets, stroking it closer and closer to the edge, yet barely not enough to spill over. It’s a beautiful insanity he’s captured me in. I’d happily endure this torment for hours.
I just want to live here inside you…
It’s incredible that we last as long as we do. For two men who’ve craved each other all this time, I would have expected us to explode the moment we had the chance. But River is a patient man. And I’m a strong guy able to take as much as he gives. And whether we go on for half an hour, a whole hour, or the rest ofthe damned night, I fully plan on cherishing any length of time I have with River.
The climax comes like waves shattering against rocks.
Even long after it happens, it still feels like he’s inside me, as we lie on the bed, cradled in each other’s arms, his contented gaze pouring into mine. I think I never allowed myself to believe it could be possible for this to work.
The longer I’m lost in his eyes, I think I’m starting to.
Finale - River
“That’s a wrap!”
Music to my ears.
The energy on set contrasts considerably with how it was months ago with our last director. The replacement—Lauralin May, a fierce and talented director who is known for always inspiring and urging the best out of her cast and crew—gives the room a warm round of applause, thanking and congratulating everyone on a job well-done. I’m filled with confidence that under her leadership, this film will be more than just some cash-grab sequel; it’ll be a noteworthy work of cinema capable of standing on its own legs.
I believe that’s the wording I hear probably ten times at the wrap after party, taking place in the large penthouse of a hotel near our new set in California. Every cast and crew member there, it’s such a lively celebration of the trials and tribulations we had to overcome—even beyond the nightmare of Trent Embers—to complete this project to everyone’s satisfaction. I make my rounds with a tasty cup of rum punch (minus the rum) basking in the warmth of the room. I make sure to stop by Lauralin and praise her on an insightful and inspiring directorial job. I learned a lot from her, so much that I’ve even considered someday in the future stepping behind the camera instead of in front of it.
I find Lexi by a window looking thoughtful and happy, just having finished chatting with a pair of ladies from the costumecrew. She brightens up when I approach, and I get the biggest hug from her. There’s something so free about her over these past few months, like it’s just me and her against the world again, back in the days when we made a running gag out of attending ridiculous auditions together and grabbing a bite afterwards without the faintest notion that either of us would actually hit it someday. “Lauralin wants me to join her on her next project,” Lexi tells me, her eyes giddy. “We’ve been talking every day between takes, I feel like we’re becoming actual friends.Me,” she says, a hand to her chest. “Friendswiththe Lauralin May. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, exactly … Consulting? Assisting? Maybe there’s a tiny role for me? I don’t know, but I don’t care. I amsothere.”
“Look at us,” I tease her, “all grown up, out here in the big wide world.” I nudge her. “Don’t be a stranger. Better keep me at the top of your growing call list when the big things happen.”
“Big things are going to happen,” she says, taking my hand suddenly and squeezing it. I’d nearly forgotten that was our thing, and I return her squeeze and echo the words, “Big things are going to happen.”
It’s been the motto of our professional lives.
Maybe, before another scandal happens, we should be more specific about what “big things” we’d like to happen.
“I forgot to ask,” says Lexi suddenly, her eyes turning to me. “Is it true? Did you … sell your house in LA?”
Instead of an answer, I just hug her. We’ve always had that kind of friendship that doesn’t need words. She hugs me back tighter, and there we stand for a good length of time, our island of peace by the window overlooking some downtown street while the after party roars and laughs and chatters around us.
My goodbye is cordial, but inside, I’m feeling a deeper pull to leave rather than linger.
My urgency is less about what I’m leaving.
More about where I’m headed.
And to whom.
It’s likedéjà vuwhen I’m behind the wheel again and blazing down the highway from the airport to the Gulf of Mexico in a rental with no sweltering jacket or hood—just my shades with my hair out and flapping in the wind.
And Anya on speaker: “Last I heard, the pimple on all our asses Trent Embers gave up seeking representation for his pitiful defamation suits. Lawyers aren’t idiots. No one wants to touch that radioactive mothball.”
And she goes on: “Oh, did you hear about all the other women who came forward after Lexi? This Trent guy, he’s acockroach, Riv, a fuckingcockroachcrawling up the legs of so many women. That fuck-nut is gonna getburied.”
And on: “Apparently he was the guest speaker on some lame hole-in-the-wall ‘cancel culture’ podcast. Even all the cancel culture critics were shouting to cancel him.”
And: “A close source says he’s burning through all his money. I might feel bad if he wasn’t a fucking shit stain.”
