Harrison, the controlling guy who I met in New York, is realizing his life isn’t the picture-perfect existence he thought it was. It’s almost laughable. One thing he is, though, is dominant in bed. As soon as we walk into my bedroom, his demeanor changes.

I’m in front of him and his hand twists my hair as he spins me around. I don’t have time to blink or think before his mouth is on mine in a bruising kiss. This man may have issues, but one thing he doesn’t have is an issue over his ability to fuck.

I’m wearing sexy lingerie from the last scene we filmed today. I worked out a deal with the studio on this scene beforehand. Because of my porn background I’m particular on a few things and sexy lingerie is one of them. I wanted something very tasteful and I got what I asked for. I’m wearing black thigh-high stockings, and underwear to match my sexy black bra.

His eyes rake my body from top to bottom and I feel that familiar tension in my lower belly, that burn between my thighs. His hooded gaze lands on my breasts and a finger hooks over the edge of my bra cup. He tugs it down, exposing my entire breast. My nipple hardens, as if it’s reaching out to him, practically begging for him to suck it. He only brushes the back of his hand over it, torturing me.

I cross my legs and clench my thighs. The feeble attempt to ease the ache fails. My need for him is fiercer than it’s ever been. He repeats the bra action on the other side, teasing my right nipple. I stare at his face as he bites down on his lower lip. Then my eyes drop to the crotch of his jeans. At least I’m not the only one who’s needy right now.

My itchy fingers reach for his pants, but he pushes them aside.

“Did you tease Holt like this?” he asks, his tone harsh.

Is Harrison jealous?

“No, I teased Finn.” I clear up his confusion. “The character Holt plays. I don’t give a fuck about Holt.”

A smile teases at the right corner of his mouth. I want to kiss it so bad, I can already taste it.

“Good. After tonight, you won’t remember Holt’s name.” He hooks a finger in the center of my bra and jerks me up against him. Now I’ll get my chance to taste his mouth. My tongue tastes the Barolo from dinner when I push past his lips. We stroke each other’s lips; our teeth click together because Harrison doesn’t kiss like a pansy-ass. He takes what he wants and leaves no room for any thoughts or needs.

And then I’m in his arms as he carries me to my bed. I try to get rid of my lingerie.

“No. I’m going to fuck you in that. The next time you wear it, you’ll think of me.”

He doesn’t even take off my panties, only tugs them to the side before his mouth finds me. I’m already wet for him. He didn’t have to do that, but an orgasm is always a nice perk.

I’m lying on my back for a minute or so before he flips me like a pancake. He’s strong, the sinews of his biceps punctuated by this motion. He picks me up like I’m nothing more than a feather. The man has moves. His tongue tunnels into my pussy from behind as his hand, which is wrapped around me, seeks out my clit. I’m flushed with desire and need for him like I’ve never experienced.

When I was making smut films, I didn’t think too much of sex because it was only a means to an end. I wasn’t exactly ashamed of it, because I was doing it for a good reason. I desperately needed the money. The truth is it felt silly most of the time. Dressing like a hooker nurse—honestly, how many hooker nurses hang out in hospitals—and saying yes, yes, yes, over and over in a high-pitched, squeaky voice was enough to make anyone feel idiotic.

But with Harrison, there’s this burning need, this fire in my veins that engulfs me. I only want more of him.

It doesn’t take long for an orgasm to carry me off, and soon, Harrison’s cock is pushing deep inside me. Slow at first, but then faster. I glance over my shoulder to watch. His eyes are closed, head thrown back, as his hands grasp my hips and he bucks into me like a wild animal. It’s primal the way he fucks me, touching places inside that spark off reactions I’m unfamiliar with. My hands claw the comforter, nails almost sinking through to the down. I’m on the precipice of another climax, and when I hear him groan low and long, I follow him. He slides down to the floor and sits, panting like the animal that just spectacularly fucked me.

“I know one thing that doesn’t need fixing,” I say.

“What’s that?”

I crawl to the end of the bed so I can see him. “The way you fuck.” Then I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he regrets what just happened between us. Did he feel what I did or was it just another lay for him? I’d like to ask but I don’t.

“I don’t think I need fixing,” he suddenly says, staring off into the distance. Is he angry? It’s hard to tell.

“What did you study in college?” I ask.

“Business. Why?”

“You should’ve been an engineer.”

“Why an engineer?”

“You’re OCD. Everything has to run perfectly, smoothly. If things aren’t just so, you fix them. You would’ve loved being an engineer. Or a computer science major. Writing code and creating perfect programs. That is so you. Either way, you have OCD. Are your socks and underwear drawers perfectly arranged and is your closet color coded?”

His brows almost launch off his face. I hold my arm up and say, “See, I have you pegged. You do need a therapist. Possibly even a shrink. By the way, how’s Helen Reddy?”

By now, my head’s hanging off the end of the bed, resting on his shoulder. He picks up a chunk of my hair and twirls it.

“No, no, you’re not getting off topic here. You can’t switch to Helen. I do not need a therapist.”

“Go on. Admit it. I’ve given you some pretty good things to roll around in that brain of yours, haven’t I? Not to mention, you always think everyone has to fall into this mold. Well, look what happened to me. That mold didn’t work out so well.”

He sits up a little. “Your mold is fine. You’re just a nonconformist.”

I chuckle. “Uh-huh. Right. Nonconformist.” I’m more like a nonreformist.

“What are you hiding, Midnight?”

My thoughts tumble back to when I was a teenager. There’s no stopping the shudder that rips through me. It’s a horror story no one wants to hear, even me.

“Must be pretty bad. I can help, you know.”

“Jesus, you can’t help me. Nobody can. Besides, it’s over and done. No going back so I don’t want to talk about it.”

He swivels on the floor to face me.

“We’re friends, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, you saved my career.”

His mouth curves upward. “Aha! You admit it.”

“Yeah, although you put me through the damn ringer for it.”

“It’ll be worth it when you’re up for an Academy Award.”

I punch his shoulder. “Never gonna happen.”

“Never say never. Anyway, if we become close, not that we aren’t now, would you ever consider telling me?”

What does he mean by that? “Are we close?”

He looks me square in the eye. “I’m not sure. I get this vibe from you that you don’t want to be.”

“I do. It’s just that it takes me a while.”

“So with that, you avoided my question,” he says. “Would you ever tell me?”

“I don’t know. It’s impossible to answer that.”

“Will you answer one thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Is there anyone you’re close to that you’ve told?”

“No. No one knows the whole story. Only one person knows part of it, and it’s not because I had a choice.” I don’t mention that several others know and it’s only because they were the ones who forced me to do those awful things. “Listen, life isn’t always hearts and flowers. I went through some bumps and there were a lot of rocks thrown in my path, but you know something? I figured out a way around those obstacles. And thanks to you, you pushed me through the last one and helped me navigate that shitstorm. So let’s drop this. I’ll never be permanently fixed. There will always be issues buried inside me. And that’s okay. I’ve learned to live with them. If I can, you can too.”

He stands and walks to the kitchen. Maybe he’s thirsty. I check out his ass. It’s definitely a keeper. Wicked thoughts jump into my mind, but I push them aside and follow him to the kitchen. He hands me a glass of ice water.

“Thanks.” I swallow it down. “It’s late and I need to get some sleep. I have to be at the studio at 5:00 a.m.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grabs me and pulls me into the solid wall of his chest. I run my hand over the smooth bronze skin until I get to his neck, and then up to the scruff covering his face. His hair is artfully messy, but that’s because my hands were in it briefly. I run them through it again, thinking how sexy he looks standing naked in my kitchen.

“You can always stay, though you’d have to get up super early.”

“Early never bothered me, but I doubt you’d get much sleep.”

“Yeah, and that wouldn’t do me much good for tomorrow, would it, when I’m trying to impress my director and producer?”

“And not Holt?”

“Shut up about him. I don’t give a damn about him, although he did finally stop insulting me.”

He only nods and walks toward the bedroom. When he comes back out, he’s ready to leave.

“The ink on your stomach? Are you really unscarred?” I ask, referring to the large tattoo that spreads across his lower abs.

“I thought I was. Until I met you.” He leans close until our lips graze. Then he walks through the door, and I have to smile at that. No one is unscarred as far as I’m concerned. If they think they are, they haven’t lived.