I need…
I need more.
I lift my hips to press against him, and oh god, that feels good, to feel him push deeper, and there’s an ache again as he moves deep into me, but his touch and my ascent to climax makes that ache delicious.
“Wes!” I whimper.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice tight.
I nod. Cup his head in one hand and a hard taut cheek of his butt in the other. “This is beautiful.”
“Does it hurt?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
He lets out a sigh. “I was worried I was hurting you.”
I pull him closer, and he groans, pushes into me. “Not anymore. Now it just feels…” I trail off as I lift to meet his thrust, and ecstasy surges through me. “Oh god, Wes. So good. It feels so good, now.”
We’re moving in concert, now. He drives into me and I surge to meet him; he groans and I answer with a cry, a whimper. He growls my name and I whisper his.
He is still touching me, slow circles of his fingers against me. I don’t need that anymore. His presence is enough. I’m there. His arousal within me presses against me now in such a way as to drive me to wildness, and I take his hand and tangle our fingers, he presses our joined hands to the pillow above my head.
He’s driving into me with slow intensity. “Jo, god, my god, my Jo.”
I cry out as he fills me and fills me, and I’m complete with him, utterly glutted on everything that is Wes, my Westley, and my legs clamp around his buttocks and my thighs grip his waist and I thrust and grind against him and I’m crying, tears wetting my cheeks as I cry his name and scream breathless wordless and wild.
His lips kiss my cheek and his tongue touches my eyelids and I realize he’s literally kissing away my tears.
I explode around him, and I yank my hand out of his and touch myself to incite the climax, to fuel it, to send it hotter. I feel myself clamp around his erection and he groans and thrusts deep, his belly against mine and his hips on mine and he’s seated so deep that I can take no more of him and I’m coming around him and stars burst behind my tight-shut eyes and I scream and I scream and curl up against him and my fingernails rake down his back and my other fingers are a blur against my clit and then I clutch his butt in both hands and claw my fingers into the muscle there and pull.
“Wes!” I cry. “Wes, Wes, please, oh god, please, don’t stop. Love me, Wes.”
He surges against me and I’m spasming around his thick manhood and I feel him pulse. “I do, Jo, I love you—” His forehead drops to my breastbone and his skin sweat-slick and he’s crushing into me. “Jo, my Jo, my Jolene…I’m coming, Jo. I’m coming, oh god, oh god, Jo.”
He drives into me, and I’m still clenching spasmodically around him with my own climax and I’m crying and gasping—when I feel him release, I groan with him. He floods me.
Fills me.
We move together into the last throes of love, sweat commingling, breath united, kissing lips and catching breath and clutching hands and bumping hips against hips, and he moves in me still and I love knowing the feel of him inside me, and I love knowing I’ve given him this, that he’s given me this.
Finally, we slow our movements.
He rolls, still nestled within me, and clutches me to his chest; we’re on our sides, body to body, and still tangled and united.
I listen to his heartbeat with tears of joy and happiness dampening my cheeks.
“Thank you, Wes,” I whisper.
He swallows hard. “For what, Jo?”
I rub his chest, find his stubbled jaw. “For making my life complete.”
“It’s the other way around,” he whispers.
It’s a long, beautiful, magical night.
We make love endlessly.
The fire dies in the fireplaces. Stars wheel beyond the windows.
Finally, exhaustion takes over.
We’ve taken a shower together, which began as a quest to get clean, resulted in more lovemaking, and ended, eventually, in us actually washing each other.
Now, clean and warm, I cling to his neck and his thigh is over mine, and his hand rests on my butt and I smell his clean skin and feel his breath and our pulses are synched.
I am loved.
Come what may, I will always have this one magical day.
You Were Meant For Me
Westley
Michael and Magnus take us back across the fields and along the shoreline, back to the airfield.
Jolene glows.
Her smile is bright and endless and infectious.
I loved her before…
Now?
She is…within me. All of me. Such a short time, I’ve known her. In a book, it would be Insta-love. Ridiculous. Fantastical nonsense. But…time is relative, right? The time I’ve spent with Jolene Park has been…compressed and concentrated. Every moment has been replete with meaning and intensity. We’ve thrown ourselves into this with no regard for the consequences, no thought for the impossibility of falling in love with someone you’ve just met.
Reality be damned.
I love her.
The helicopter carries us back to LA, and the limo is there to greet us, with bagels and coffee for breakfast.
She’s wearing her dress again. I love the way that dress makes her smile brighter, and the way it brings out the wild green of her eyes and makes her cream skin even more beautiful.
We go to the sound stage, instead of home.
She holds my hand as we find the crew preparing, and the director flipping through his notebook full of scribbled ideas, and the crew just off set.
Eyes are on us, but she just looks around in wonder—we’re filming “You Were Meant For Me.”
I get her a chair near the director and introduce them, and then I’m whisked off to costume and hair and makeup, and I go over my lines and murmur the song under my breath.
I get back to the stage, and Shania and Jolene are talking. I rehearse my blocking a few times, and then Adam calls for quiet on the set and Shania and I take our places.
I have to put yesterday out of my mind. Channel the character, the story. It’s all there, and I take last night and the love and the wonder, and use it.
Only, Shania drops a step—cut, from the top.
I forget the lyrics—cut.
We both miss our turn and bump into each other.
Again and again.
Half of the takes, I barely make it through the opening of the song and into the dance number.
Or, if we do, one of us goofs a step or a turn.
After half the day and twenty-some takes, Adam calls a break.
The crew scatters, and Adam pulls me aside. “We need to talk, Westley.”
I nod, and catch Jo’s eyes. She smiles, waves at me. I had Jen bring her ukulele and meet us at the sound stage with it, in case Jo got bored and needed something to do—there are a thousand quiet corners where she could sit and play and sing, or read on her phone.
Adam and I confer outside for a few minutes, going over the scene and basically Adam politely telling me to get my shit together.
We head back in, and I’m mentally going over my blocking, going over the steps, the holds, the turns. Not paying attention.
Adam grabs my arm and squeezes, hard. I stop, look up, and tune into the world around me.