But we’re hoping this’ll be enough to convince people that the land’s just been rented out for the shoot, which will let us come back here next summer with additional security.
It’ll work. It has to.
And if it means that Zion and I owe a few favors to a whole lot of people, well, what’s a few favors compared to a thousand kinksters outed, their lives destroyed?
The flogger flicks my ass and I don’t have to pretend to like it when Zion leans in and whispers—perfectly audible to the fat microphone hanging over our heads, “I’ll break you, Anna Madura. And you’ll love every second of it.”
A line that’s a little ridiculous. A line he’ll probably hear over and over again for the rest of his career—his life—like poor Arnold withI’ll be Back.
“You’ll have to try…harder,” I reply, half taunting, half begging, and completely breathless. Anna Madura, the sultry spy character the exec team created for me is designed to be the perfect foil to Zion’s intrepid, falsely easygoing Matthew Kincaid.
The scene goes on for a few more minutes, with Zion—skin oiled to a shine and muscles pumped up to some modern standard of perfection—pretending to beat the crap out of me and me greatly enjoying every second, before we cut and rerun it a few times. Enid’s a perfectionist, I’ve heard.
Oh my god, I’m working with Enid Connor.
Various crew members rush the scene, but Zion insists on undoing my cuffs himself. He starts with my ankles, caressing me in the process, then my wrists, which he massages one at a time. Lamé throws a robe over my shoulders and Zion helps me slide it on, then ties up the sash, finally using it to pull me closer.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers. “The love of my life.”
Tears rush my eyes. “So are you, Mr. Mason.”
“You gonna take my last name, now that we’re—” He pauses and flicks a look over his shoulder. And rightly so. I wouldn’t put it past thatETcrew to be recording everything we say.
“Why would I?” I ask, giving him a wicked little smile. “I’ve already got one.”
He grins, wide and happy, and leans in. “I fucking love you, Ms. Hernandez.”
“You can call me Mrs.”
“Oh, you minx. Keep talking like that. Say it again.”
“I’m your Missus.”
“Mine,” he whispers, so quiet you’d have to read lips to know what he’s saying.
“Yours,” I say in response. “All yours.”
“Fuck, I need you now.”
“Right here?” I tease, wishing… Oh, whatever. We can hold off for a bit. Anticipation, I’ve learned, can be as good as the real thing.
“I’d do it, you know.”
“I know.”
“Ahem,” says Enid, her scratchy voice bringing us back to the present. “Y’all should probably get a room.”
I hide my burning face in Zion’s chest for a second before stepping back and facing our new director.
“So, uh, we’re gonna call it a night.” She glances left at something. Or…someone? and looks back at us. “I heard the Craft Services here’s pretty good.”
“The best,” says Zion, with a huffed laugh.
“Yeah,” she says, looking left again. “Yeah. So, uh, let’s talk, okay?” With that, she heads over to Max, who laughs outrageously at something she says.
“Is she flirting with Max?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the lights.
“Looks like it.”
