Work Text:
It is freezing.
October slowly began to give way to November, and the golden hue of the mild autumn air fled into hibernation, leaving the stage to the icy north wind that sweeps through the grey city as if a switch has been flicked.
You hate winter and the cold, biting air penetrating to the bone, even more than you hate slow-walking people or warm, stale beer after work – but what you positively despise is waiting in the cold.
Another torrent of swear words pours out of our glossy mouth, and you're really close to taking your hands out of your coat pockets to check the time, despite the freezing temperatures, when his car finally turns around the corner.
"For god's sake, Alan", you grumble as you yank open the door and fall into the passenger seat. "Do you know what punctuality means? I was this close to freezing to death."
Without a look at him, you harshly tug at your scarf.
"Good morning to you, too", Alan greets you dryly, steering his car back onto the deserted, murky street.
You respond with an incomprehensible mumble and rub your hands together, the cold still stubbornly clinging to you. You have hoped, counted on him, that his car would be nice and warm, but the bastard hasn't even turned up the heat. Fumbling with the buttons of the climate control, you've began to curse again.
Alan watches you silently while sipping his coffee, his left hand lazily laying on the steering wheel as he watches your silent outburst.
Still quietly, but very obviously complaining about the cold and his lateness, you side eye him with a glare and grab the second cup of coffee.
"The one time I'm late is a tragedy, but the dozen times you are are little hiccups?"
His baritone voice sounds relaxed despite his scolding words, one of his traits you like the most about your boss, and you huff into your coffee cup.
"Make it make sense, darling."
You roll your eyes, very annoyed, very cold, and one of your hands lets go of the toasty cup to change the radio station and the volume while you're at it.
Def Leppard blares from the speakers, way too loud for this early time of day, and you sit back and sip your coffee with an overly smug expression.
The sigh Alan gives nearly drowns in the music, but you react to it anyway, and you do it very maturely. You stick out your tongue.
"Only old people listen to classical shit", you state with a shrug, knowing how much it pisses him off when you call him old despite your moderate age gap – he is only about 20 years older than you, a youthful 49 years old, but nevertheless, you take great pleasure in taunting him, particularly in the morning when it's just the two of you.
Alan quickly realized how to put up with you after hiring you, so he just sighs again when he pulls onto the highway, and simply says:
"You are a delight."
Finally satisfied, you look out of the window, and drink your remaining coffee in peace until you reach the theatre.
It's not the first movie you're working on with Alan, and you're pretty sure you know his work methods by heart now, but the last few weeks have been different, if not difficult.
The current job you got him, playing the protagonist of the rather controversial movie "An Awfully Big Adventure", is technically the same old story as every other movie, yes, but you know he comes from the theatre and put his heart and soul into his projects, so seeing him play an actual theatre actor is fascinating.
He melts right into the scene and blends in so naturally as if he lived, breathed for nothing else but this – it's a delight to watch.
He's an outstanding actor, there is no doubt in that, but his P.L. O'Hara is a whole different experience. You could watch him perform for days and nights on end.
He's enchanting, looks awfully dashing in his brown leather jacket, not to mention his motorcycle scenes – god, it's unfair how good he looks wearing these ridiculous goggles – and his female co-stars are swooning over him, on screen and off.
And his silly little assistant? Yes, you may fancy him a bit, too, but how could you not? The way he treats his colleagues, the crew, the caretaker, even – he's such a stupid British gentleman.
You're not even mad at the pretentious giggles that ring through the studio when Alan entertains his loyal flock of admirers yet again, no. In fact, you've spent a few breaks happily chatting with Prunella Scales who plays the insanely lovely bookkeeper Rose and is equally swept off her feet by "the talented Mr Rickman" as the others.
It's a friendly, platonic crush, mostly induced by his wise, witty, and dry remarks and his sheer bottomless wisdoms about life, and as corny as it may sound, it's fun.
The afterhours feel like these little moments back in school when your favourite teacher dropped little anecdotes from his personal experiences, and you're hanging on his lips, sipping tea and whispering "ooh" and "aah" at his knowledge, and your eyes wander over the people you've grown closer to, all these extraordinary people, and you smile at the impressed, smitten faces.
Except for one.
You've arrived at set a few days later than the rest of the cast, given Alan's role would only appear after a good third of the movie.
During your call with the agency, they said they loved his work on his latest movie and wanted no one but him for this "exclusive part" – their words, not yours.
Although you've taken the compliment with open hands – you were really proud of his embodiment of Franz Mesmer and appreciative they've seen and liked the movie for it was kind of an underdog after Alan's last, bigger roles – checking the script was a bit of a marathon.
You've discussed it with Alan after you've skimmed through it, and over coffee and later, wine, decided that it needed to be handled with care, portraying a casanova having a most scandalous affair with a minor, not to mention their blood relation – don't ask.
You still remember Alan's words when you uttered your hesitations:
"You know the business when it comes to actors like little old me, darling, but you've never worked with minors. Think of it as puppy protection, it's still ruthless, but more sheltered. I'll keep an eye on her, don't worry."
So, you've hit the deal.
Looking back now, all the talk about inexperience, insecurity, and awe of young actors were just empty words, shallow and vast, because sweet Stella is the complete opposite.
When you first met her, she didn't even look at you twice but attached herself directly to Alan, made eyes at him and shamelessly exploited his willingness to help, to shelter.
You're sure she'd sleep with him right away, too, because oh, she'd already figured out the ropes of showbiz, and she plays her cards like the big boys too, that reckless, sly bitch.
She is by no means innocent, and trusting, kind-hearted Alan is putty in her childish, malicious hands, and the thought of it lets you clench your jaw (and fist).
In midst of all these amazing, seasoned, humble actors, she's a loud and childish menace, that girl, and you've had your fill of her already, thank you very much.
"Good morning, love."
"Hello Prunella", you sigh, glad the kind actress tugged you out of your mind, that jealous, stupid thing, and you return her warm hug gratefully.
"You look awfully tired", she states in her nonchalant, yet charming grandmotherly way, and you laugh and run a hand through your hair.
The truth is, you're not, but how could you explain to that sweet women that your crush on your boss makes you an erratic green-eyed fury lately, and that your flushed skin and furrowed brows are tell-tale signs of homicidal ideation towards a girl that's not yet legal.
"I am", you respond. "I guess that's why I'm glued to the coffee table."
Prunella laughs, and you almost want to hug her again until the cold pricks of jealousy thaw away. Oh, that angel of a woman.
"You work too hard, love. I'm having a word with that ruthless Mr Rickman."
You avert your eyes and softly shake your head. That would make it worse, you're pretty sure.
"He'd fire me on the spot if he knew I'm talking shit to his favourite person on set."
You grin and rub her arm briefly.
"Oh please", she scoffs, moving to walk to the set with you. "He could show his appreciation a lot more if you'd ask me."
"But I don't", you reply. "Now get your cute bum on stage, Mrs Rose."
The rolling of her eyes is without any reproach when she shimmies into her blazer.
"You're lucky I love you, sweetheart", she grumbles.
"Oh, I am very grateful for you", you laugh as you drop your bag on your seat and fish your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans.
"And I'm grateful that I get to reprimand sweet P.L., if not Alan", she singsongs. "He should focus less on that girl and more on his hard-working assistant if he wants to keep her."
She disappears into the crowd of her colleagues before you have the chance to answer, and you unlock your phone with an amused, exasperated huff.
What you would give if all women were like her, but no – that child runs around here somewhere, too, probably already on Alan's ass, and you check the filming schedule with a deep frown on your face.
The glares you shoot the couple before the camera get icier the longer the scene goes on, although Alan does an amazing job as always, and as his assistant, you should be thoroughly relaxed because everything goes more than smoothly, but oh – you want to shut her up so fucking badly you almost crush your plastic cups more than once.
Alan throws you some unreadable looks now and then at which you just roll your eyes – petty, yes – and proceed to tap on your screen answering e-mails and looking terribly upset doing so.
It's borderline childish, the way her annoying, squeaky voice hurts your ears, but fuck, let it be childish then. It's way more pathetic how she throws herself at a man thrice her age, isn't it?
You look up through your lashes, eyes narrowed at the present scene because you know which one comes next in his schedule, and you mentally prepare yourself for the absolute rage that simmers low in your stomach.
Alan's eyes meet yours again, and this time he draws an eyebrow.
'What', you mouth at him and turn before he can react, annoyed at his patronising look and his apparent parental need to defend that girl, keeping her safe a little longer before she loses her "innocence" to the show business.
You scoff grimly. As wise as he is, he can be so naive. The soft spot he has for her makes you sick.
Your phone vibrates, and once again you notice how in your head you are today – stewing over a literal child, for god's sake. How very unprofessional.
You spend the next hours until break on your phone, answering business calls and keeping yourself busy with chatting to friends so your mind doesn't even get a chance to rage with jealousy.
But the few glances you involuntarily sneak at the hustle on stage nip at your gut like frostbites on warm skin. It's not overly painful, but stings enough that you can't ignore it.
It fucking sucks.
You don't know if you're really relieved when the regisseur finally calls for a break. You've nursed an empty cup for the last hour while tapping mindlessly on your screen, bored but also unwilling to watch them, when Alan steps into your vision.
His amber eyes fix on you, seizing you up and down as he wanders over, pours himself a cup of coffee before saying, not without a little bite to it: "Humouring your friends?"
"For all you know, I could have bought you your next movie role. Be more grateful."
He looks at you for a long moment, then turns to stand beside you, watching the crew and sipping on his lukewarm coffee.
"Did you?"
The tip of your nose reddens, and you unconsciously hide your face behind your own coffee cup. Caught red-handed.
"No, but that doesn't matter. I don't have to excuse myself for being on my phone when it's literally my job, O'Hara."
Alan raises his eyebrow, not at all amused by your strange, defensive rudeness. Your cheeks burn.
You've always loved to walk the fine line between cheeky and crude, but you've overstepped it today, and you know it. Fucked over because of a stupid girl.
He swiftly empties his cup and throws it away, then bows down to you.
"Exactly", he drawls quietly.
"You're working. So quit playing on your phone and do what I'm paying you for."
Ouch. Though you've never had any quarrels about your phone time, he's not quite wrong – and still your boss. You give him a contrived nod.
"Yes, Sir."
The sarcasm doesn't leave your voice completely, but Alan's already on his way back to the makeshift theatre without another glance at you – a strange feeling remains, however.
Your eyes follow his tall, broad figure. The leather jacket he's wearing is so distinctively him somehow, although he doesn't even own one himself, but it makes you weak in your knees. The biker look suits him very well, and it annoys you so much.
You turn your phone back on and check his schedule.
Great.
It's time for a certain girl to step in front of the camera again, and for once, you desperately wish for some Baileys in your coffee.
"Stella Maris", you mutter before you find your place at the set. "What a stupid name."
Your empty cup lands a bit more forcefully in the bin than necessary.
The following hour is a real shitshow. Fuelled by too much caffeine and too little food, the devil on your shoulder is getting louder and louder – you've already crossed a line, Alan's already annoyed with you, why do you have to pretend to be polite now? At worst, you can blame it on work stress or something. They only see you on your mobile phone all day anyway.
You've changed sets from the theatre to P.L.'s dark and rather questionable flat in the meantime, the place where the magic – the disaster – is about to happen.
Alan is already out of his jacket, turning on the kettle. It's a matter of minutes until the Unspeakable, and Stella is sitting on his bed, looking so happy she might burst.
You hope she does, that stupid, little girl.
They are sharing a few last words, Alan moved to stand beside her now, watching the little gremlin dressed in all red as if she's a hallucination, then bows down, slowly, blinking, then closing his eyes before –
"Cut!"
Alan's eyes instantly flicker to you, as do everyone else's, but your gaze is locked on him, with furrowed brows, your teeth boring into your lip so hard you're about to draw blood – no kiss?
"Back to position, we're starting again from the beginning. Alan, Georgina, good job."
The sharp words cut through the silent air, and everyone slowly shuffles back to their initial work. Your gazes linger a bit longer, intertwined, probing, then Alan's pulled to the door by her, babbling exaggeratedly, happily.
Only then do you realise that you were the reason the shooting stopped – your hands are cramped on the back of the chair in front of you, your knuckles almost as white as snow. Your tight grip on the hard plastic and your lack of attention must have pushed the chair with too sudden a jerk, an involuntary reaction on your part to the impending kiss, and your bag and its contents have fallen to the floor with a loud clatter.
You notice a few last glances at you after you've shoved your belongings back into your bag, and smile apologetically, but half-heartedly, because you are again focused on the mismatched couple in front of the camera.
It wasn't intentional, nor was it necessarily unappreciated, whether or not it's fair to the crew, or Alan specifically. Knowing him well enough, the crease between his eyebrows thickens in slight concern for the young actress and the upcoming kiss – although professional, he's still uncomfortable, and guilt rises to flush your cheeks.
The director calls for the start of the scene, the door to P.L.'s flat opens (you could scream at the sight of her), the obligatory words are exchanged before Alan leans down again.
And – there it is.
You're already scrambling through the scattered backstage team when his lips press against hers.
You're trying not to make it obvious that you're fleeing, you really are, waving your phone around mumbling "Important call", but nobody pays you any further attention anyway. All eyes are fixed on your boss kissing that wicked, little witch, getting worked up with perverse joy at the sight, and your stomach turns.
You avoid Alan's gaze that burns on your flushed face when your fleeting gaze catches his before you turn the corner, the indistinct chatter piercing, stinging, and you slam the door close behind you when you storm into your trailer and slump down on a chair.
Silence. Solitude.
You're not an extraordinarily rational person.
Alan knows that.
He appreciates you for that very reason, not only as his assistant, but as his friend too, but this is just going way beyond limits.
Your cheek is rather welcoming in the business, charming yet confident, witty – you were a match made in heaven, Alan and you, professionally and privately. His dry, British humour is something you've valued greatly, equally just like his courteous, almost antiquatedly good manners.
It takes a great deal to make him lose his composure, you can say for sure because oh, you've tried it considerably more than once.
But you've walked the tightrope of audacity with a little bit (a lot) of too much false confidence, sticking your jealous nose high above the grey skies of London, thus the fall was deep.
You sigh and run your fingers through your hair.
You've not only made an utter fool out of yourself today, no, you've begun to crush on your goddamn boss, too. You really don't need to complicate any social relationship right now, especially not a professional one, thank you very much.
But feelings are rarely convenient, and it's almost funny that your silly little crush got triggered by this minx of a girl, well – almost, because you're still in here sulking like a child.
A knock on the door catches your attention, and you pray it's everyone but Alan, but alas, when the door swings open, rather harshly at that, you're met with an unpleasant scowl.
"You could have waited for an answer, at least", you mutter, trying for a comedic relief, but his face remains unchanged. Annoyed. Disappointed.
"What in the bloody hell was that?", he hisses quietly after he closed the door to your trailer, approaching you.
You open your mouth, unsure, hesitant, but he beats you to an answer.
He's really mad.
"You're acting like a bloody child. What's gotten into you?"
Alan towers over you, and the shadow on his face deepens the valley between his dark eyebrows and chisels out his nose in a way that's more threatening than sexy. Maybe both. Maybe threateningly sexy.
You dare to take a stuttering breath. He waits.
For a second, you think about confessing, telling him the truth, being compliant – you decide against it.
"I got a call, Alan", you spit. "And I didn't want to disturb the little lovebirds again."
You could have gone without that, shit, you should have just stayed silent, apologized, and gotten back to work, swallowing your pride, your jealousy, and once the movie was done, you could have never wasted another thought on her again.
But feelings are rarely tame, and you've always preferred being fierce to bland, accepting to suffer the consequences.
His taller, broad body is still hunched over you, dark amber eyes narrowed in obvious anger, a half sneer painted on his prominent lips.
You can smell the faint, lingering traces of his spicy cologne, the bitter coffee notes in his warm breath caressing your face, and some recent marks of sickly sweet, cheap perfume, crassly breaking through his otherwise warm, inviting scent.
She's everywhere.
Driven by a sudden impulse you scramble to your feet, hastily, eye to eye with Alan who is forced to stand up, and your laboured, heavy breath fills the small space between your faces.
With your neck craned up to meet his frustrated gaze, you snarl: "If you have nothing else to say, I would like you to leave me to my work, please."
His bright eyes are now almost bronze with irritation, and you wonder briefly how anyone can have so much expression in their gaze, until Alan answers you with a gruff groan.
"What's your bloody problem?" he hisses angrily. His shoulders hunch forward as he lowers his head, looking down on you with disgruntled authority, and it pisses you off that he's so much bigger than you – and shamelessly taking advantage of it at this very moment.
You straighten your back, not letting on the soft tremor that runs through you at his otherwise so subtle, now annoyingly obvious dominance, and place a firm hand on his chest.
The tip of your ring finger rests on the cool zipper of his leather jacket, and you firmly push him away from you - or at least you try to, because Alan doesn't move an inch.
"Go back on set," you spit exasperated. Desperate.
"Go back and kiss that stupid girl until her lips are frayed. I bet she'd more than enjoy that."
You wish you were her.
Your heavy breath harshly cuts through the sudden silence of the trailer.
There.
You've said it.
Your heart is pounding so wildly in your chest that you're afraid it's about to rip from your chest and chase through the fog of London, and your eyes twitch back and forth between his. You almost expect him to snort a "Ridiculous!" and leave the trailer, shaking his head at your stupid jealousy, but his gaze is – astonished. Burning.
His tongue runs over the skin on the inside of his cheek as he looks at you.
"Is that why you made such a fuss?" he growls slowly.
"Because of a movie kiss?"
Your hand is still on his chest, clawed into his jacket, and his words send heat up your face, throbbing, rushing, blood red.
You feel stupid, small, childish, the moment he utters these words, even more than all the hours before your quarrel.
"I do", you hiss, clenching your fist until your knuckles are white. "I fucking do, Alan, fucking crucify me."
If he's done it on purpose, letting you fly into a fury after his words, he doesn't break his cover – no, the raging fire in his eyes and the scowl on his pink lips let a delicious shiver blaze through your body, down your spine and straight between your legs.
"You're my bloody assistant, for god's sake", he murmurs angrily. His deep voice is strained, rumbling through his chest, and you feel the vibration of his words under your fingers.
"I know", you answer with a bite, almost feeling the acid of your own words burning on your tongue.
"Don't remind me of how stupid I am, Alan, ok? I know."
"It's unprofessional", he snarls, gritting his teeth. "Highly immoral, inappropriate, and out of place. God, are you even listening to yourself?"
You close your eyes at his words, the groan that slips from your lips almost a desperate sigh. You know it, goddamn.
"Yes."
Your words are flat. Defeated.
The fingers of your hand uncurl themselves and flex, letting go of his jacket, and of your pride.
"I know."
You're still so very close to each other that the warmth of his familiar scent almost overshadows the numbing coldness of a broken relationship that slowly seeps from your fingers into your stomach, and you let your hand fall from his broad, perfect chest.
"Now do me a fucking favour and go back to shoot some more love scenes with that little girl", you sneer, pushing his body aside; hoping your ache follows, but before you have the chance to move another inch, Alan growls and catches your wrist with his bigger hand.
Your breath is pinned in your throat when he forcefully pulls you back against his body, now in full contact with your smaller one – warm, hard, right.
"My bloody assistant", Alan hisses against your lips, eyes an amber rage of fire, before his long, sinful fingers grab your face and his mouth clashes against yours in a breathless, devouring kiss.
His tongue charms a devoted moan from so deep within you you're almost sure his silken kisses caress your innermost, blazing soul.
"Alan-"
You moan against his hungry lips, barely able to reciprocate his angry bites, surrendering to his erotic assault, drowning in the growing swirl of sexual desire.
The firm grip of his fingers around your chin loosens, and his hand moves quickly into your open locks. You gasp briefly before he presses you against him again, your hair in his fist and he tugs, painfully, stingy, yet oh so deliciously until you stumble back into his chest.
Every fibre of your body burns with heightened awareness that this is real, happening, and his roughness makes your being sing with delectable epiphany.
His smell engulfs you like crashing waves, so potent and familiar, yet suddenly so new, exciting, arousing – as if you were seeing him with new eyes, eyes that for years had been veiled by naivety and ignorance of the mighty deliverance he kindles in you.
You don't feel comfortable obeying, satisfying other people's egos, conforming – yet it feels strangely right when Alan's body, large and somehow protective yet excitingly threatening, dominates yours.
"Do you know where you belong, darling?" rasps Alan into the stuffy, tingling, increasingly warm air of your trailer as his grip on your hair slowly but firmly pulls you with him until his broad back hits the aluminium wall.
"Do you know your position now?"
It sounds almost mocking, and he swallows your indignant coo with another kiss before you can question your unusual submissiveness, but to his chagrin (or rather, amusement), you sink your teeth into his lower lip with a low grumble, claws sharpening.
"Do you know yours? Because I'm sure you're kissing the wrong one right now."
His responding laugh is deep, grim, and softly vibrates through both your bodies. The hand in your locks slides down to cup your neck, his other lands on your hip, swiftly pulling your lower body against his, before he tilts your head roughly to the side and whispers into your ear: "Still jealous, are we?"
His husky voice and the unambiguously possessive hand around your throat make your knees weak like wax, and your lace is drenched with your hungry, rich arousal. You can't help but moan weakly, slumping against him. He effortlessly steadies you, and you're wanton, a helpless puppet, molten lava pulses through your core as his quiet chuckle rings through to you.
"Shut up", you snarl, but a pathetic little whimper escapes your lips when his hard erection grinds against your centre, his fingertips pressing against the rapid pulse on your throat, desirous, seizing, before he forces your willing, needy body onto its knees before him – and you make it far too easy for him, sinking down almost immediately, light-headed with an impossible, violent craving for his cock.
God, he smells delicious.
You look up through your lashes, with doe-eyes glittering in the dim light, meeting his intense gaze. His sharp, drawn eyebrows and hooked nose are chiselled with shadows, curved lips swollen, kiss-bruised, his concentrated face carved out of marble – he looks good enough to eat.
That is indeed your intention, to feast on him like a woman starving.
Your nimble fingers make quick work of his belt buckle, and shortly afterwards his boxers, too. Your lower lip trembles a bit when your teeth sink into it as you release his mouth-watering erection, swollen and ready to be enclosed by your eager lips.
"Maybe you will remember your place now, darling", Alan murmurs, words dragging heavily over his lips, then his hard breathing suddenly gets cut off by a deep, guttural moan when you rub your soft tongue along his length at once.
"That's it", he groans, his dark, honeyed eyes fixed on your face in awed satisfaction, and his hands come up to your face to caress your cheek while you suck his silken cock with a dizzying fervour.
He fills your mouth perfectly, his hot, smooth skin runs along your lips and tongue like a polished, dripping delicacy.
You've never imagined this argument to end like that, your lips blood-red and wet, your mouth stuffed full of his throbbing cock, sliding over your messy tongue, and your lace thong thoroughly soaked with sloppy need.
He coats your lips with salty, sticky seduction as his left hand slides back into your hair.
"You're being such a good girl for me", he drawls, flexing his long fingers into your locks, before he grips your chin again and begins to fuck your whorish mouth.
Saliva is dripping from your swollen lips as he ravishes you, his low moans of pleasure trickle down your spine and tug at your cunt in the most delicious way as he uses your body.
Choked moans rumbling at the back of your throat take your breath away, but if it would come down to that, you would die a happy woman.
Alan watches the sinful slide of his length over your lips, his lust-blown eyes half-closed in rapture until he slows his thrusts gradually, a sigh of content slipping out of his mouth.
"Up", he orders quietly.
You do as you're told. Only in retrospect do you resent your blind obedience, but you have always been better at following orders in the bedroom than outside of it.
Alan strokes your cheek with his index finger, his thumb gliding appreciatively over your moist, used lips.
"You're such a pretty little assistant," he murmurs. "Your desire to be the only one who can satisfy me is remarkable. You even suck my cock for that, and you do it so beautifully."
Almost oblivious, he looks at your lips as if you were still kneeling in front of him and letting him fuck your mouth.
A shiver runs down your spine at his insanely filthy words, making your eyes roll into the back of your head.
You need him. Now.
As if he's read your mind, his hands land on your waist, exploring, before ripping your shirt off your body in one swift motion.
A surprised gasp stumbles across your lips.
"Delectable," Alan mutters as his hand wanders over the soft skin of your breasts, before he unceremoniously grabs you by the waist and presses your body against the wall he was leaning against a moment ago – the dull thud is followed by your strained moan which he kisses right off your lips.
The slow rub of his tongue drives you crazy with desire, you feel the press of his erection against your abdomen and almost whine in protest that he should finally take you, but every word sticks in your throat as his fingertips graze over your hard nipples.
His touch is heaven, and a sob of relief fills the space between you.
"Please", you whisper brokenly, and Alan roughly thumbs your nipple again and again until your legs almost give out underneath you. Only then, he stops.
Your hands claw at his shirt, struggling to take it off, your mind so filled, flooded with the need to orgasm through his cock that none of your senses obey you anymore.
He shushes you when his lips caress the shell of your ear, talented finger working the button of your jeans, and when you tear at his collar in desperation, you're already naked.
Gentle, yet determined fingertips slide down your legs, followed by your lacey underwear , and by the time you've figured out the extremely difficult task to get him rid of his shirt, Alan is rubbing soft circles over your clit, charming pretty moans out of his assistant.
His cock slides along your heated skin every so often, causing your cunt to flutter despite the sensual ministration of his thumb, and you mewl weakly, desperate.
"How badly do you want me?"
His mouth bites kisses along your sensitive neck.
"Tell me you want me to fuck you and I'll do it", Alan growls lowly, the motion of his fingers urgent now, hard.
"Please", you whisper again, and your back is arching off the wall. "Please fuck me, Alan."
His thick fingers slide from your clit, swiftly, purposeful, and he enters you with a growling sigh, and you almost howl with the pleasure of being filled, used, fucked.
"God, yes", you sob as his fingers start an intent, quite efficient rhythm of slipping in and out of you, curling and thrusting in all the right places.
"You're so bloody responsive", he purrs and gathers both of your wrists in his free, idle hand, pining your hands above your head at once.
"Everyone in this building will hear you once you have my cock buried inside you."
His sinful voice enters you a second before his cock does, prolonging your liberating moan into a prayer that's anything but holy, and Alan is right – your cries of pleasure vibrate through the thin, skimpy walls of your trailer and ring to to everyone unlucky enough to be present on that very day.
So it happens that one person in particular leaves work that evening with a positively sour face, childish features contorted into an ugly grimace, while you sneer after her, still glowing from the orgasm given to you by your especially generous boss and his magnificent cock.
When it's time for you to leave too, and Alan hands you your jacket, honey-bright eyes and mischievous smile, you beam at him like the Cheshire cat, very smug and very at ease.
He just shakes his head and cocks an eyebrow before he pulls you along and outside the theatre, all while mumbling: "You're a menace. A horrible, jealous menace, and I have never been more grateful for that than today."
It goes without saying that from that day on, your jealousy is only brought out now and then in pretense, because angry sex with Alan is just too delicious to do without – and if you allow yourself to be completely honest, seeing Stella suddenly stagger through the actors like a lost puppy, whimpering in vain for Alan, you almost feel sorry for that dumb, little girl.
Almost, though, because when your withering glances get too fiery, he pulls you into your trailer and makes you forget what inane girl is whining out there the moment the door clicks shut.
So, being an actual adult, you bite back unnecessary comments, because your duties as his assistant are just far more important than chasing after silly squabbles with a child – and you've always been very diligent and, concerning your latest boss and greatest lay, exceptionally and most eager to please.