When she opens her eyes she is on a stage, the curtain drawn shut, but she can hear the noise on the other side. Screaming, cheering, and above everything her name. She can hear her name over and over again. They are frantic, wild, they need her.
She is wearing black suede boots that follow the curve of her leg to her knee, adding an extra four inches to her height. She runs her hands over the matching red lace shorts and bra that complete the outfit. She feels stunning, daring, desired.
The music comes on, a frenetic dance beat that causes the screaming to escalate. And the curtain parts.
She stands still for a moment, center stage. Then she raises her arms slowly above her head, running her hands through her long, unruly hair, swaying her hips in an erotic suggestion. She lets her hands make their way back down her body, finding their way over her neck, her breasts, sides, thighs, allowing the audience to live vicariously through her fingers. She moves towards them, each step an invitation to see her more closely, to want her more fervently.
He is there when she gets to the edge of the stage. He is always there, watching her. Watching others watch her. But she belongs to him, she always has.
He offers her his hand, helps her out of the spotlight. They exit the crowd together, and she knows that he is the only reason she would leave this fevered adoration. He has something more powerful to give her.
Suddenly they are alone in a room and he is pulling her into a tight embrace, using her hair to tilt her head back to meet his lips. He owns her completely.
He slips the straps over her shoulders, using them to pull her arms back, thrust her breasts forward into him, securing her this way. He runs his lips, tongue over her neck, tasting her. She moans softly into his chest.
“Can you reach everything comfortably, Lana?” he asks, turning her slowly so her back now pressed against him.
She flexes her hands, brushing over his stiffened length through his jeans.
She carefully unbuttons and unzips his pants, freeing him. She leans back into him, using her shoulders to leverage her restricted hands over him, stroking, caressing. He moves into her rhythm. His breathing becomes shallow, quicker. It is warm and heavy on her ear. She lets go. Her lips on his skin are light. They move fast, never lingering long in one place before moving on to savor another. She slides from ear, neck, chest to the line along his hip, his thigh, before finding him, ready and eager for her mouth.
He can feel the desire in her every motion: lips closing tight and then releasing, tongue sliding up and down, teeth barely making momentary contact. He hears the sigh that makes its way from her.
Then he is laying her down on the bed. He pays careful attention to her, finding places that cause her back to arch and muscles to clench. His fingers blaze trails that his tongue soon follows. He attends to her voraciously, in a way that makes her clutch desperately at the sheets, and stifle screams.
He moans as he slides into her for the first time. He can feel her ripple and tighten over him, as her hands rake across his back, pulling him closer in to her.
“Oh, god, Dean. Please don’t stop,” she whispers in his ear, her voice soft but full of need.
It seems like forever that they enjoy each other like this. The pleasure is overwhelming, it consumes everything. She cannot discern where his body stops and hers begins. Soon she can taste his sweat with her every breath, hears nothing but his labored breathing, feels nothing but where they touch. She screams out when he finally finishes, arching her hips up to follow him over the edge.
Satisfied, she stretches against him and lazily trails her fingernails from the hollow of his back to his shoulders. She can already feel the heat dissipating from the room. She closes her eyes and listens to the sound of his heart, gently slowing its pace.
When she opens them, she is lying in her bedroom alone, Reese knocking softly at the door.