Hollywood's Secret Baby

He said that he loves me. Lizzie called him dad. Everything is coming together. Throw the scene I filmed on top of it, and besides Lizzie’s finger, together could not have gone better. Especially not with this happy ending.

Cory’s raging hard, and so are my nipples as he lifts the extra large t-shirt I love to sleep in and worships my breasts with his tongue. I grind against him, holding in my moan as Sarah’s guesthouse may not be some tiny shack in a backyard, but it’s definitely far from huge. Only a single wall separates us from Lizzie, so we have to watch our noise level.

Still, I can’t help the groan that es

capes my lips as Cory enters me. As he slides in, I come to a sitting position on his well-developed legs. As he fills me, a sigh of sheer contentment works up my throat and out my mouth as I tilt my head back and ride him.

My breasts bob and our skin slaps against each other. I would love to stretch this out, but just in case Lizzie wakes up because of the strange surroundings, we have to make this quick. Cory seems to have the same idea, because unlike the previous times, he’s rushing through the motions, like we’re racing against the clock.

While I’m doing all the work on top, he’s making up for being on the bottom by being sure that I’m satisfied, inside and out. While his one hand explores up and down my body, his other concentrates on my clit.

It might be vanilla sex, but I’ll take a quality French Vanilla over a shitty mango ice cream any day of the week. And while this session is bound to be over fast, I’ve already had enough of a taste to know that I’m going to be ordering this same thing the next time we get a chance to take things a little slower.

“My turn,” Cory hisses out, and in one swift movement, he pushes me back while coming up and over me. My head hangs over the edge of the bed, my neck exposed. Blood rushes upwards and I’m lightheaded, but Cory’s next move brings me back to our steamy reality in an instant. He lifts my legs up over his shoulders and sits up, effectively lifting my ass a good six inches off the bed. In this defenseless position, he pounds me.

I actually slap a hand over my mouth as the moans overcome my previous sensibilities. There really is no helping it, as all the sensations are racing towards a finish line that’s approaching faster and faster.

“I’m almost there,” I whimper out.

And then I am.

I’ve had little quivers before that run up my spine and leave me feeling like a pile of jello left out in the sun. But I’ve never experienced anything quite this intense.

The orgasm Cory induces in me seizes control of each and every one of my muscles, pulsating through them like music through a speaker. I convulse underneath Cory as he finishes inside me with the last thrusts driving home my own fall into sheer ecstasy.

At the end, I’ve drifted off to that place between the waking world and dreams. Then I’m back again, panting under Cory’s heavy and sweaty body.

“I should have told you I love you sooner,” Cory says with a joking lilt to his breathy voice.

My only answer is to slap his arm, and I can barely manage that.

After five minutes to catch our breaths, I push him off and head to the bathroom to clean up. When I come back out, my face washed and mouth minty fresh, Cory is sitting up in bed, the light from his phone screen illuminating the shock on his face. When he notices me, he looks over, holding up his phone. At the top is the banner for the New York Times paper. Just below it is my picture and a screenshot of the post I made this morning about Jeb Eli.

“Augusta.” Cory’s voice reflects the disbelief that’s holding him upright like a rope is wrapped around his neck. “What did you do?”

Chapter 28

Early mornings on the beach. Scuffs and bruises, laughs and deep talks as Lizzie and I learn to surf together. Ten-hour days filming. Hours more spent in make-up and hair. Take-out. Pizzas. Far too much ice-cream. Then when Lizzie is asleep, other things for dessert, when Cory and I have the energy.

This is the next three months of my life. Six days a week. Despite this schedule, we still manage to make it back to Disneyland five times. All Lizzie has to do is give Cory a look. He’s proving to be a model father.

When the last day in the studio rolls around, there’s definitely this regret in my chest as I wonder if I could have done more. Lots of talking with the crew members who I’ve come to be on a first-name basis with. Especially my make-up girl, Sophia, and my hair designer, Lindsey. But when the final wrap is called, what I feel mostly is satisfaction.

My job in all of this is done. Now it’s time to move onto the next step. For Cory, this means post-production. Cutting the film together, setting up a release date, and all of the nitty-gritty details that go into giving a movie the chance to be an all-out blockbuster. Normally this type of job would fall on a number of shoulders, but with his budget burning away faster than autumn leaves doused in lighter fluid, it comes down to him alone. Which means no more working only ten or twelve hours a day. He’s lucky now to get four hours of sleep per night. His phone rings constantly, and sometimes I only see him when he stops by the house to change clothes.

As much as Lizzie and I both miss having him around, with my part done, we have the opportunity to do something we’ve never done before: enjoy life. We have one week without a care in the world. One week of baking in the California sun, eating far too much ice cream, and watching movies until we fall asleep on the bed together.

Finally, reality will wait no longer. Lizzie has to start school, and since we have no plans on returning to Alabama, this means getting set up in the local school district. Although she tries to hide her nervousness over starting all over again at a new school, it’s loud and clear in the way she only picks at her last dinner as a free girl. And it’s not like her last meal before the first day of school is slim pickings.

I’ve pulled a ‘Lorelai Gilmore’, as I like to call it, and ordered just about every food that delivers. Just like the mother-daughter duo in the show I used to watch when I was a teenager, we have an absolute smorgasbord of food laid out on the coffee table. Hamburgers, fried chicken, pizza, Chinese, and even an order of the fish tacos from the food truck where I don’t even have to place an order any more. The moment the owner sees me, he just starts whipping up half a dozen tacos. All in all, it’s far too much for any two normal humans to eat, but I give it my best shot. Lizzie, on the other hand, eats half a slice of pineapple pizza and then leans back into the couch.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

Lizzie just shrugs. Her eyes are on the TV, but she’s not watching. She’s somewhere deep in her head, mired in thoughts too heavy for a ten-year-old.

“French fries?” I ask, holding out the greasy carton.

“I miss my friends,” she comes out and says. “Becca. And Zach. And Skye.”