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It was just sex.
Brienne told herself that every time.
It was easy to believe when Jaime texted late at night, asking to come over. An obvious booty call. No talking, just clothes on the floor, skin and sweat and a mad rush to orgasm. He showered and left, and she could still smell his scent on her sheets in the morning.
She should resist. She should ignore his texts. She was too old for this, and not at all interested in becoming tabloid fodder if anyone ever found out. But he was just so good with his tongue. His fingers weren’t bad either, and he took direction with such enthusiasm it was impossible to say no.
After a week of getting each other off with hands and mouths, Brienne glorying in his growing desperation, she finally ordered him to fuck her. Pressed against the hard tile of her shower, Jaime’s mouth on her breast and her leg wrapped around his hip. Hard. Deep. Grinding just where she needed it, a love bite on her collarbone and fingertip bruises on her ass.
She felt him with every step the next day, sore in the best ways. But the hunger wasn’t sated. Not at all. Every night she thought she’d get her fill and be done. How many different ways could they fuck? How long could the novelty of her hold its appeal?
Brienne tried to keep things professional during the day, tried to keep her mind on work. But she got hot at odd moments, a stray touch to her wrist recalling his fingers locked around them, holding her in place. His knowing eyes on her across the set. His fingertips skated across her lower back as he passed behind her at the craft services table late at night, an outdoor chase scene keeping them all up long after midnight.
Despite the hour, he still came to her door, no text necessary. Brienne was ready for him. She’d been ready all day, breath catching every time their eyes met.
She’d had sex before, plenty of times. There were men who got off on being manhandled, dominated, the power play hot enough to excuse any issues they had with her face. Brienne never cared when those liaisons ended. Once, twice, a dozen times over a span of months or years. They were just there to scratch an itch better than her toys could. Frankly her toys were better than some of them.
But Jaime got under her skin. She’d started to crave his deep, dark chuckle in her ear when he discovered a new trick to make her fall apart. Pushing his golden head down between her legs wasn’t just about shutting up that smart mouth. His smile, right before he put his mouth on her, was addictive.
Westeros Magazine’s Most Beautiful Man—twice—worshiping between her legs. Eagerly. As often as Brienne would let him. The memory made helping tiny, curvy, undeniably sexy Margaery Tyrell rehearse her ineffectual fight choreography much easier. He wanted to gargle with bleach when he kissed Margaery. That’s what Jaime had said, right before he told Brienne to sit on his face.
The night before he filmed his sex scene with Margaery, Jaime rehearsed it with Brienne. Twice. He couldn’t toss Brienne around the way he could with Margaery, but there wasn’t anything simulated about it either. Every flex of his tight, gorgeous ass drove his cock deep into her, every filthy word he groaned was unscripted and wholly for her. When Brienne saw Margaery walking to the closed set, she couldn’t help but smile to herself.
Jaime came to her afterward, laughing about the ridiculousness of it all. How hard Margaery lobbied to do one more take when she didn’t like a particular camera angle, how she kept trying to flirt with him, like they couldn’t sell the illusion without a bit of real heat between them. “For fuck’s sake, she’s a child,” Jaime scoffed as he shucked off his clothes with practiced efficiency, stalking over to the bed.
Brienne was already naked, too impatient for the tease of a slow disrobing. “She’s not that much younger than me,” she said with a shrug, though 21 felt ages ago. She’d still been a virgin at 21, still a year away from the single night with a college classmate who won a bet by fucking her.
Jaime rolled his eyes and prowled over her, stretching his lanky, muscular form over her. “You’re nothing like her,” he growled, and for once that felt like a compliment.
Brienne sniffed and pushed him away, hiding her smile behind her hand. “Go shower first. You smell like her.” Roses. The girl always smelled like roses. Brienne hated roses.
Jaime turned his head and sniffed himself. He wrinkled his nose. “Does she bathe in that shit?” he grumbled.
She probably did. Highgarden, the Tyrells’ absurdly successful bath and body store, sold rose-scented soap, shower gel, bubble bath, fragrance spray, and at least four kinds of lotion. She left a waft of cloying roses in her wake all over the set.
Jaime backed off the bed, but he grabbed her hand and tugged her up with him. “Come with me. I’ll make it worth your while.” His voice was low and hungry.
Brienne didn’t need much convincing. Jaime had a way of washing her that left her feeling dirtier than when they started. Slick, soapy hands all over her body, hot wet mouth on her nipples and her cunt.
By the time they fell back into bed, Jaime pounding into her from behind, panting praise in her ear while his fingers strummed her clit, neither of them smelled at all like roses. He fell asleep next to her, and Brienne was too tired to kick him out.
So she told herself.
It was just sex.
Mindblowing sex, not that she would tell Jaime that. He didn’t need another ego boost. His latest magazine cover story was proof of that. That cocky grin, those capable hands, the sweetly-focused intensity of his gaze. It was almost enough to forget what a pain in the ass he could be. His utter certainty that he was always right. His perfectionism in everything, even if sometimes she benefited from it. His casual insistence on throwing money at problems. His sharp tongue and impatience. The world could thirst for him, and they did, men and women alike. Brienne was the one who drank him down, who licked the sweat from his skin, who tied him to her bed one night and tortured him in all the best ways until he was wrecked and begging.
And then the shoot was over.
The end wasn’t exactly a surprise, but Brienne hadn’t been thinking about it. She was on set, or in rehearsal, or in bed with Jaime, all the time. Days slipped by in a blur. If he spent more nights in her room than his by the end, that was only convenient. He was just as good at slow morning screws as late-night hook-ups, and she wasn’t about to turn him down.
They barely spoke at the wrap party, Brienne mainly hanging out with the stunt crew and Jaime making the rounds to thank everyone for their contributions. If he lingered with her a little longer than most, that wasn’t notable. And Brienne wasn’t one for parties, not really. No one was surprised when she left early.
Jaime slid into bed an hour or so later, pulling her leg up over his hip and sliding into her without any preamble. She didn’t need it. His hand found her cheek, turned her face to kiss her hungrily, holding her close against him. They didn’t talk. What was there to say? They fucked half the night, fell asleep tangled up with each other, and he was gone when she woke. Truly gone, already on a flight to Casterly Rock.
So that was it. Not quite a one-night stand. A one-month stand? Uncomplicated and utterly without strings.
She was fine with that. If she woke from dreams of Jaime buried inside her and had to dig out her vibrator to fall asleep again, that was just her body missing its new habit. She’d adjust, as she always had before.
And she did. Until he started texting.
I dreamed of you.
She dreamed of him, too, but she saw his infuriating grin everywhere, in magazines and on TV and once on the side of a bus. There was no getting away from Jaime Lannister. Weeks had passed, and he was in King’s Landing training for a new movie. She was home in Storm’s End, in the early phases of blocking out the fights for her next project.
Were we fighting?
His response came immediately. Fucking. I woke up so hard.
Brienne shoved her phone in her pocket and didn’t respond. Two of her stunt crew were testing a harness for a potential drop off the side of a building. Thankfully the lead in this film didn’t insist on doing his own stunts, unlike Jaime.
He texted again that night.
You broke me. I jerk off to fight choreography videos now.
Brienne couldn’t help but respond to that one. So fuck your new stunt guy and get it over with.
His response was almost immediate.
Want you.
It was late, nearly midnight, but even so, she was sure he had plenty of women saved in his phone who would be happy to come over and blow him.
Her phone rang. Jaime Lannister. And it was a video call.
She was still damp from the shower, wearing a threadbare concert T-shirt and panties. Her skin was flushed from the hot water, and her hair was slicked back from her face. What she looked like didn’t matter. He’d certainly seen her looking worse. Besides, they weren’t even in the same kingdom.
With a sigh, she connected the call and watched as Jaime appeared on the screen. He was shirtless and wearing his reading glasses, lounging against a crimson-upholstered headboard.
“What do you want, Lannister?” she asked with a raised eyebrow, trying desperately not to smile. He was gorgeous, undone like this. His artful stubble had grown out to a beard flecked with grey.
Jaime bit his lip. “You, Tarth. Where are you?”
“Storm’s End,” she reminded him. They’d talked about this, while rehearsing one day toward the end of the shoot.
Jaime groaned, and the sound woke that hunger she’d been ignoring for weeks. All those silly women, posting their thirsty comments on his photos, swooning as he walked the red carpet at a premiere in a suit that cost more than her car, she’d thought herself so superior. Ten seconds on a video call and her hand was creeping toward her panties.
“Gods, Brienne, why aren’t you closer?” he grumbled, taking off his glasses and setting them down out of frame.
“I have a job,” she stammered, “and it’s not riding your dick.”
He grinned and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. “But you’re so good at it.”
“Ugh, you’re—”
“Irresistible?” he suggested.
“Annoying.” But she still adjusted her phone so the angle wasn’t quite so unflattering.
“Come on, admit it. You miss me too.” His smug smile was all confidence.
“What makes you think I miss you?” It was easier to duck his question than to answer it. Of course she’d missed him. Mostly his body, but the rest of him wasn’t so bad as it turned out. He understood her work, the passion that drove her and the ignorance she fought against every day. He could have used their affair to humiliate her, his dirty talk veering from hot to degrading, like too many men she’d known. He never had. She’d been in control more often than not, but Brienne never felt like he had a fetish for her size. Something between them had just sparked, and caught fire, and even weeks later she could still feel the burn.
“I know you miss me, because I miss you.” Jaime’s smile went filthy, his voice low and honeyed. “I miss your kiss. I miss your taste. I miss the sounds you make when I’m fucking you.”
“You are such a perv,” Brienne laughed, but her hand kept moving, her fingertips slipping under the waistband of her panties.
“You like my dirty mouth. It does all sorts of things to you.” His eyes narrowed. “Even now. Look at you. You’re all pink and your nipples are hard.”
Brienne could feel the blush burning her skin, her nipples tight against her shirt. He could definitely see them. “That has nothing to do with you. I just got out of the shower,” she pointed out. “My hair’s still wet.”
His eyebrow went up. “Nothing to do with me, huh? Then where’s your other hand?”
The burning was a bonfire now, because her fingers were resting on her mound, not quite bold enough to touch herself. Yet. “Where’s yours?” she countered.
“Wrapped around my cock. Wanna see?” he answered without an ounce of shame.
“No,” she protested. Men tended to think their cocks were far more interesting than they were. Brienne’s interest was mostly in what they could do with them. But Jaime, touching himself… that might be interesting. She never got the sense he was performing with her, only that he enjoyed himself, thoroughly, and had no interest in hiding that. “Maybe. I don’t want a close-up, though.”
He laughed. “Not sure my arm’s long enough for that. Might have to prop up the phone. I wanna see you too. Don’t lie and tell me you weren’t touching yourself.”
She considered lying, but he was too good at reading her reactions now. “Only a little.”
His grin was all teeth. Hungry. “Show me.”
Jaime got closer suddenly and then the phone showed blurry, off-kilter views of the ceiling, the wall, and his chest before he backed up and returned to the bed. She got a quick flash of his ass before he settled onto the bed, pillows propped up behind him. Golden skin kissed by the light from his bedside table, and his cock standing up hard between his legs. His hand slipped over it, stroking lazily as he looked at the screen. “Come on, your turn.”
Was she really doing this? Brienne wasn’t sure yet. When they were together, everything felt easy, right. She lost her mind and the world went away. But here, it was awkward and strange and not at all the same. She looked around her room, trying to figure out how to set up her phone if she decided to do this. “Do you do this a lot?”
“Jerk off?” Jaime asked, amused.
“Phone sex. Video sex? I don’t even know what to call it.” Brienne made herself look at him on the screen as she braced the phone against a stack of books she’d been first too busy and then too tired to read.
Jaime’s hand dropped away from his cock and he leaned toward the phone. “Brienne. Until you, my brother used to joke that I’d taken a vow of celibacy. Do you do this a lot?”
Brienne laughed, and the awkwardness started to fade. “No. Never.”
Jaime shrugged. “Then we won’t know if we’re doing this wrong. Now take off your shirt.”
“You’re demanding,” she huffed, but complied. She’d never liked her chest with its small firm breasts nearly disappearing into broad pecs from her stunt training.
He was stroking himself again. “Remember that night I got you off with just my mouth on your tits?” He’d been very proud of that one.
“Yes.” She didn’t remind him of his wandering hands that night, those had certainly helped. Her nipples tightened further, and she reached up absently to massage one aching breast.
Jaime groaned. He was flushed all across his broad chest, and he was starting to breathe harder. “That’s right, touch yourself.”
Gods, she’d missed the sound of his voice. Husky, strained, demanding, begging, she liked it all. But she wasn’t used to being observed, while she did this. Wasn’t used to considering what Jaime would like to see, instead of what felt best to her.
“Talk to me, Brienne. Tell me how you want to be touched.”
“No, I want to touch you.” Brienne’s eyes wandered over him, draped on the bed for her entertainment.
A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. “Tell me.” His hand quickened on his cock.
“Slower.” He complied instantly. She wet her lip with her tongue and looked at him more closely. It wasn’t just the beard. “You look different.”
He huffed out with a laugh. “It’s smaller on screen.”
Brienne shook her head, but she couldn’t quite bite back a smile. He thought he was so funny. Unfortunately he was often right. “No, your arms, your chest. Are you trying to bulk up?”
Jaime shifted and flexed his arms more obviously, tightened his pecs and sucked in his stomach to show off his abdominal definition. She supposed most women found him attractive that way. “They asked me to put on 10 pounds of muscle.”
Brienne huffed in irritation. “You don’t need it.”
“There are five shirtless scenes. One sex scene. One scene where I walk all the way across the room with my ass on camera. Trust me, I could use the gym time.” His indignation almost made her laugh, but he was still golden and gorgeous and slowly jacking his cock as if to remind her of everything she’d taken for granted those few weeks in Winterfell.
“Do you remember the night you gave me a massage?” she asked, shifting to get more comfortable on the bed. Her phone was closer than his. He could only see her from the waist up. Brienne, for all her confidence, didn’t actually want to be able to see herself from that angle while they did this.
He swallowed hard, and his grip tightened on his cock. “Yeah,” he gulped. “With that oil from Lys.” He’d massaged her into a pliant puddle after a hard day that included the motorcycle chase they’d initially clashed over.
“You ruined my sheets.” There was a vial in her nightstand. Just the scent of it brought back memories of that night, his hands all over her body, then his fingers between her legs, swirling over her clit, slick and firm and relentless as he whispered filthy promises in her ear. Every last promise kept, until both their bodies were slick with heady oils and they were exhausted.
“You didn’t seem to mind.” Jaime gasped a little as his thumb rolled over the head of his cock, his eyes hazy as he worked himself. His brow furrowed a little. “You getting shy on me, or is this not doing it for you?”
Brienne bit her lip. “I don’t like seeing myself on the screen.”
Jaime huffed a laugh. “Trust me, I’m not looking at myself either.”
“Are you kidding? There’s a reason you have so many nude scenes. Women want to see you naked,” she spluttered.
His hand slowed on his cock and he leaned forward. “I want to see you naked. I want to touch you so bad I almost skipped calling and just got on the first flight to Storm’s End.”
“Jaime…” She couldn’t help the rebuke there. She didn’t want paparazzi following her. She didn’t want that life, the one that came with being more to him than a bedmate. Not that he’d ever offered.
“Brienne.” There was an edge to his voice, a sharpness to his gaze. “I know you still have that oil. Get it out, put some on your hands, and rub those gorgeous tits for me.”
Her cheeks burned, and she could feel her heartbeat between her legs, where she was swollen and wet just looking at him on the tiny screen, hearing his voice growl at her from hundreds of miles away. But she reached out to her nightstand and opened the top drawer. The vial of oil was there, next to her vibrator. She liked the heady smell of it, the sense memories it evoked.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime take a similar vial from somewhere out of frame and dab some oil on his hand. He’d left his vial in her room at Winterfell. Either he had more at home, or he’d bought more. “How did you find it? That oil? It’s not exactly common here.”
Talking distracted her from her shaky hands as she opened the vial, drizzled oil on her palm and returned the vial to the drawer without soiling her sheets. She warmed the oil between her palms.
“One of the massage therapists used it on a movie I did in Lys. We spent a week filming a chase through a market and by the end I was so bruised I looked like I’d been tenderized,” he said with a laugh.
How he could talk like that while he stroked himself, she didn’t know. Just touching her slick fingers to one breast made her breath catch. They weren’t his fingers, sure and ardent in their attentions to her meager charms, but she knew her body after years of pleasuring herself. She knew just how to brush her palms over her nipples early on and how hard to pinch when she was close to coming.
“Now,” he said with a catch in his voice, “you said you wanted to touch me.”
Brienne hummed at that, her hands sliding over her chest, hardened nipples catching on her rough palms. This never felt as good when she did it, but knowing he was watching, she could almost pretend her hands were his. Her fingertips tweaked one nipple, wishing it was his lips, his teeth just barely grazing the sensitive bud, his stubble rasping against her breast. But he had a beard now, it would feel different.
His mouth on her cunt would feel different too, the tickle of his whiskers on her inner thighs while he tongued her to climax. She groaned at the thought, and heard a strangled answering moan from him.
“Brienne. Talk to me. Please.” His hand sped up, his eyes going glassy. “ Fuck. Touch yourself. Please.”
One hand still on her breast, the other slid down her belly, slick, leaving a shiny trail on her skin. Into her underwear. No. She wrestled it off awkwardly, one-handed, kicking them to the end of the bed and splaying her legs. She didn’t look at the small image of herself tucked into the corner of her screen, but she thought she could see her bent knees and perhaps her hand, slipping over her mound, fingers sliding through the slickness of her cunt.
“I want to have you under me,” she gasped, sliding two fingers into herself, no preamble. Her fingers weren’t big enough, not to feel full, not to feel like he was with her, in her shabby bedroom, in the bed that had never seen the kind of sex she had with him.
“Are you riding me?” he asked, breathless, a hectic flush on his cheeks and chest, his arm flexing as he stroked.
She shook her head, fingers thrusting, the ball of her thumb pressed tight to her clit. “Not your cock. I’m sitting on your face.” He cursed again and gasped. “And your cock is in my mouth.”
“Add another,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’d have three inside you. My tongue on your clit.”
She added a third finger, the stretch of it not quite perfect but close enough. Brienne was so wet she could hear it squelching as she thrust, knew he could hear it too. There was a time she would have felt self-conscious of that, had in fact in the past once apologized for being too wet. Now she just kept barreling on, seeking her pleasure, watching his tongue wet his lips as he panted.
“I’d have your balls in one hand, rolling them a little, my finger rubbing just behind them.” They’d done this a few times, always Brienne on top, always her in control. He liked direction, took it as well as he did on set, though he could dish it out too. Near the end, when she’d let him take charge sometimes, he’d still put her pleasure first.
Jaime moaned and moved his free hand to his balls, mimicking her words. His eyes were so dark they didn’t look green anymore, and his mouth hung slack. “I’m going to come,” he warned, his body starting to tense.
“Wait,” she panted, speeding up her own hand.
“Pinch your nipple,” he directed. “Fuck, Brienne, I have to see you.”
“You are seeing me,” she laughed. He must see her hand, fucking herself, he’d known how many fingers she was using, but she didn’t care if her slick thighs looked huge on his screen, they were trembling and her cunt was starting to clench and she wanted to close her eyes and didn’t want to all at the same time because Jaime was beautiful coming undone.
But she made a show of cupping her breast, holding its slight weight up like an offering to him, and then pinching it firmly, then more savagely, the pleasure pain shooting straight to her clit. And she came, her breath catching and then shuddering out in a groan.
His answering cry followed before she was done shaking, her fingers slipping out of her. He lay there on her screen, limp, a smear of semen on his belly, his chest heaving in great shaky breaths.
“Come to the premiere,” he said with an odd mix of pleading and command.
She nodded. “Of course I’m coming to the premiere.” It wouldn’t be for months, these action movies always spent months in editing and then the computerized effects took months more.
Jaime shook his head. “No, the one for Sands of Dorne. Next week.”
That snapped Brienne out of her post-orgasm haze. “What? Why?”
Jaime leaned toward the screen, his gaze hungry again. And he told her what he wanted.
He tried to send a private jet for her. Brienne refused. No one cared about her, no one bothered her. Commercial was fine.
He bought a first-class ticket, and when she complained, he said it was necessary because her legs were so damn long and he wasn’t risking her injuring herself cramming herself into a seat in coach.
So she let him.
The hotel room was too nice, too big, too fancy, although the claw-foot tub was the first she’d ever seen deep enough to submerge herself up to her neck.
There was a stylist, who must be used to dressing society matrons who didn’t want anyone to acknowledge their widening girth, because she told Brienne her dress was flattering with a straight face. Brienne only cared about not embarrassing Jaime, not making more of a spectacle of herself and attracting attention.
They would walk up the red carpet together, he’d said, but she could duck away whenever the photographers wanted photos. Many an actor’s spouse did the same. Those not in the business generally weren’t of interest to the paparazzi and Brienne’s wasn’t a face they knew.
And then he’d promised she could critique the stunts while they watched the movie, as long as she kept her comments quiet enough that only he could hear them. She could manage that.
But before that there was trying on dresses (four), and shoes (six), and makeup (she hated it), and a hairstylist (she needed to get the name of the magic cream that softened her hair). And the whole process took so long that she didn’t even get a chance to see Jaime before the limo arrived downstairs to take them to the theater.
The stylist primped and tucked and took a few pictures for her portfolio (Brienne grudgingly accepted that anyone capable of making her red-carpet ready was entitled to photographic proof of her work), and then smiled and told her to have a good time.
Brienne rode the elevator downstairs alone. The limo would meet her out front, then pick him up at his condo. Jaime meeting her here and walking through the hotel lobby would have been a recipe for disaster. He was always recognized and had a hard time turning down autograph and photo requests.
The limo driver smiled brightly and helped her into the limo, a feat made more awkward by the high slit in her dress and the strappy sandals she could hardly believe came in her size. They had a modest heel, at her request. She didn’t want to tower over Jaime tonight. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and she was more than a little worried he’d forgotten what she really looked like in person.
They’d had a few more video sex chats, the last one employing her vibrator while Jaime directed her. But this… seeing him, in person, in public… this made her shake for entirely different reasons. Brienne was confident in her work, in the power of her body, and in seeking her own pleasure. But this was his world, where the press asked any woman who gained five pounds or just ate a large meal if she was pregnant. She had no desire to invite any scrutiny of her height, her face, her muscles, or what in seven hells she was doing attending a premiere with Jaime Lannister. He didn’t expect her to talk at all unless she felt comfortable. Brienne very much doubted she could ever feel comfortable under the hot lights with a bunch of cameras and microphones pointed in her direction.
She was still thinking about the cameras when the door opened beside her and Jaime slid into the limo. He was wearing a navy blue suit, the collar of his bright white shirt popped open. His hair was perfectly styled, his beard neatly trimmed, and she immediately wanted to mess him up.
Jaime smiled, closed the door behind him, and slid right against her, one arm drawing her close as he leaned in to press his lips to hers. He pulled back and said, eyes bright as they danced over her, “You look amazing.”
Brienne rolled her eyes and patted his lapel. “You do, too. It’s obnoxious.”
Jaime preened a little at that, so she shoved his shoulder and he laughed. Then he leaned forward and pushed a button.
“Yes, Mr. Lannister?” said a voice over an intercom. The driver, she assumed.
“How long until we arrive?” Jaime asked.
“About twenty minutes, ser. Maybe another five waiting to reach the carpet.”
Jaime’s grin turned into a leer. “Perfect. Give us a five minute warning.”
“Of course, ser.” The intercom cut out.
Jaime turned back to her, eyes bright, his intent clear.
“Jaime Lannister, you are out of your mind.” She kept her tone firm, but she remembered too well the things he’d told her that first night on video chat, the things he wanted to do to her at this premiere. She was starting to get wet, and she did not want a damp patch on this dress. It was the most beautiful ombre silk, green at the shoulders shading down to teal under her bust and then royal blue in the skirt and midnight blue at the hem.
He cocked an eyebrow and licked his lips. “I told you, Brienne. I want to walk that red carpet with the taste of you in my mouth.” He shrugged. “Your call. I can fuck you with my fingers and lick it off, but then you’ll be wet through the whole movie. Or I can lick you until you come and then lick you clean.” His voice dropped low and his hand slid up her thigh, bared by the daring slit nearly to her hip. “I know you’re curious what the beard feels like.”
She scowled because it was true. “You made me go through all this with the hair and the makeup—and it took three hours, I have no idea why, but it did—and you want to mess it up now ?”
His smile turned smug. “I’m not going to muss a hair on your head. Not going to kiss those delicious lips. But if you don’t let me lick you senseless I’m bound to suck a mark somewhere on that pale, freckled skin and someone might see it. We can’t have that, can we?”
Despite herself, Brienne was getting wetter. The stupidly small thong she was wearing, also silk, was probably already saturated. She shifted and her legs rubbed together and that only made things worse.
Jaime’s hand slid down to her knee and pressed gently, urging her to part her legs. “Come on, give me a taste. I am so damn hungry for you.”
He got off the seat and knelt on the floor in front of her, plenty of space in the limo and the windows thankfully darkened so much no one could see inside. His hands rested on both knees, his hard cock pushing against the zipper of his pants.
“What about you?” she asked. “You going to walk the red carpet with a hard-on?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he said smoothly, and swept his hands under her dress and shifted it to the side, baring the length of both legs.
How was he so tempting? Public sex had never appealed to her, and she was about to do it with him again? She was still amazed no one had caught them the first time. “Fine,” Brienne grumbled.
Jaime grinned again, his hands sliding up her legs to grasp her panties. She lifted her ass just an inch off the seat and he pulled her panties down and off, leaving her shoes on. His hands skimmed back up her legs and he parted her knees with gentle pressure on them, shouldering between her thighs.
One hand skated up to her inner thigh and brushed her curls with his fingertips. He leaned closer and inhaled deeply. He looked up at her and licked his fingertips. “I missed you,” Jaime said sincerely, his eyes dark. He started to lean up to kiss her and remembered himself.
“You’re insane,” she answered quietly, because he was.
And then he lowered his face to her cunt. First he rubbed his bearded cheeks on both her inner thighs, the slight abrasion far more erotic than she’s anticipated. Brienne gasped, and he chuckled as he kissed her inner thighs, suckling a quick mark into one. His fingers played with her, spreading her wetness. He licked a long stripe right up her center and licked his lips. “You taste so fucking good, Brienne,” he growled, and set to work.
She tried to smother her cries, far too aware as they stopped at red lights across the city that the car wasn’t soundproof. A man standing on the corner clearly heard her moaning and tried to step closer to the limo for a closer look, but the light changed and they sped away, Jaime’s head buried between her thighs and her hand clamped to his shoulder to keep from grabbing his perfectly styled hair.
His fingers inside her felt so different from her own, the freedom of surrendering to her pleasure without having to do anything making each touch sharper. Sweat dotted her hairline and her upper back was sticking to the leather seats, her leg now slung over Jaime’s shoulder shaking as she found her hips rocking, driving his fingers deeper into her as he crooked them slightly and rolled the tip of his tongue firmly over her clit. She started panting, stars bursting in her vision as she watched him work, on his knees, his cock poking through his open zipper.
She didn’t remember him unzipping, but his other hand was working his cock, and his eyes were on her. He saw her notice him and his eyes went even darker. His tongue slipped from her clit. “Come for me,” he directed, then licked her again, hard and fast, before returning his focus to her clit, his fingers plunging and twisting and filling her so exquisitely.
She’d have thought this tawdry a few months ago, would have thought it the idea of a bored, frivolous man who needed bigger and bigger thrills to feel anything at all. But right now it felt perfect, it felt like exactly what they both needed.
If only they had five more minutes, she would ride him, the beautiful gown pooled around them. But they didn’t.
And she was about to come now, breath hitching, pressure building in her pelvis, her muscles straining as she rocked against his face. It was his eyes that did it, that pushed her over the edge. His gorgeous green eyes, sharp, intelligent, knowing, and desperate for her of all women. He moaned against her clit and she flew apart.
The limo driver had to hear her. They were flying down one of downtown King’s Landings’ busiest streets, and she almost screamed, all the breath pushed from her lungs. She was still fucking herself on his hand when she realized he’d taken his mouth away, and he had a handkerchief in his other hand. He pulled his slick fingers from her body, capturing his twitching cock just in time to direct his come into the handkerchief, his body slumping as he moaned his release.
Brienne lay back against the seat, her heel still hooked just over his shoulder, her dress rucked to the side, her sweaty thighs and swollen cunt on display.
Jaime blinked slowly, and licked his lips. He folded up the handkerchief and seemed to consider it a moment. He glanced out the window and then ducked down, licking her damp thighs lazily, then swiping up her cunt with the flat of his tongue, cleaning her up, once, twice, three times. He sat back on his heels and used the handkerchief to wipe at his face. His beard was wet with her, but a bit of scrubbing left him mostly just flushed.
Brienne took her leg from his shoulder and scooped her panties off the floor. His cock was softening, hanging out of his pants with a pearly drop of semen clinging to the head. Impulsively she took his cock in her hand and directed the head to her mouth, licking his come then tasting herself on his cock where he’d held himself moments ago. She pulled off and tucked him back into his pants.
Jaime was still knelt on the floor while she put her damp panties back on. He looked sated, fuck-drunk, she’d called it in Winterfell. He would laugh and tell her ridiculous stories and then he’d start touching her again and before she knew it they were screwing, even more ridiculous things pouring out of his mouth as he took her or she took him.
“Five minutes, ser,” the driver interjected, and that brought Brienne back to reality.
She sat up, rearranging her dress and fishing a pocket mirror from the tiny, almost useless clutch purse the stylist had foisted on her. She’d bitten her lipstick, and had to quickly reapply it while Jaime got up on the seat, one knee cracking, and dusted off his pants. He looked a little pink but it only made him look more handsome. She could still smell herself, but whether it was from his face or her panties, she didn’t know. She put back the lipstick and fished out a tiny rollerball bottle of the Lysene oil, dabbing it over one wrist and rubbing her wrists together before setting down the purse.
Jaime turned to her, eyes still dark. “Naughty girl, are you going to make me sit with you in that dark theater for hours where I can’t touch you, smelling like that?”
Brienne laughed. “You can have some filthy handholding, how’s that?”
Jaime quirked an eyebrow but seemed oddly satisfied by her impulsive offer. “I’ll take it. But later, you are all mine. And I have plans.”
The dark promise of those words kept her from thinking too much about what was to come. She could see the theater now, the crowds lined up, and the limo ahead of them. The door opened and Jaime’s co-star, the lovely and voluptuous Arianne Martell, got out. Her dress looked more like an array of carefully tied scarves, wrapping her curves to their greatest effect. Brienne suddenly wanted to vomit. She wanted to hide in the limo and not get out. What was she thinking, coming somewhere like this, standing next to Jaime somewhere she could be photographed?
“Hey.” Jaime’s hand was on hers, his eyes on her face. “I’m here with you, okay? Forget all of that. I want you here.” He leaned in and risked a soft, chaste kiss.
When he pulled back a light smear of red lipstick colored his lips. Brienne swiped at it with her thumb, and he playfully bit the tip of her thumb.
“You’re going to be fine. Just breathe,” he said, and then the limo was pulling up to the red carpet, and the door opened.
Jaime slid out, his camera-ready smile already fixed on his face. He stood and turned back to offer her a hand. Too late to hide in the limo, then.
Brienne slid over, far too aware of the slit in her skirt, grateful she’d not given up on the panties and risked flashing the crowd. She took his hand, his grip firm as he helped her out into the bright lights.
The lights and the noise were so much, a wall of sound, the lights washing out the faces in the crowd. She followed him blindly, Jaime keeping hold of her hand until they were on the carpet, reporters and photographers calling his name. Jaime squeezed her hand one last time and dropped it. “You can step back now if you want,” he whispered.
But that sounded worse than staying with him. “No. I’ll stay if you want me to.”
His smile softened, a more real, more private smile. “Of course I want you to stay.”
And then he stepped forward, Brienne staying a step back and to the side. He acknowledged a few photographers, posed for photos, answered questions about his clothes, and then turned to the first entertainment reporter on the carpet. He knew her name, of course. They chatted about the movie, Jaime smoothly answered her questions thoughtfully but briefly enough to be easily used as soundbites.
And then the woman looked at Brienne. “Who’s your date?”
Jaime hesitated a moment, and Brienne edged closer to him. He glanced over at her, a questioning look in his eye. They should have discussed this. She just shrugged a little.
He turned back to the reporter with his professional smile in place. “This is Brienne Tarth, my stunt coordinator on Winter is Coming , which you’ll see in a few months.”
Brienne inwardly cringed at that title, it was just so bad, but her work on the film was excellent, some of her best despite the sleep deprivation she’d been working with the last four weeks of the shoot.
The reporter eyed her again, no doubt wondering why she was here instead of one of Jaime’s usual starlets. “I look forward to seeing that,” she said smoothly. “That’s a lovely gown.”
“Thank you,” Brienne answered, her tongue nearly stuck to the roof of her mouth. If the woman asked who’d designed it, she wouldn’t know. The stylist had told her, but the name had flown out of her brain, along with everything else the woman had said, as soon as Jaime got in that limo.
But the reporter didn’t say anything else, and they moved on. Jaime was asked about her twice more, and responded in the same way each time.
The relative quiet and dimness inside the theater lobby was a welcome relief, but the onslaught of people wasn’t over yet. Jaime’s director stopped by, and then his co-star came up and hugged him, making sure to rub her breasts on him as she kissed his cheek.
Brienne was fairly certain Arianne Martell’s breasts were only contained with double-stick tape, the silky panels of her dress arranged precisely to show the entire inner swells of her breasts, which were either fake or supported with some clever invisible method under the dress.
Arianne’s eyes fell on her as she finally realized that Brienne wasn’t making her way through the crowd, she was with Jaime. “Who is this, darling?” she asked in obvious surprise.
Jaime responded as he had outside. Arianne looked skeptical. “You brought your stunt coordinator here?”
Jaime nodded, starting to look irritable. Others might not notice, but she saw the faint crease in his brow, the tense set of his jaw. “Yes, we haven’t seen each other in a bit and I thought this would be fun.”
Arianne nodded again, but she still looked confused. She looked back and forth between them. “I must confess, I have never considered befriending my stuntpeople.”
Brienne bristled. She’d heard stories about Arianne. The girl didn’t spend time with her stuntwomen because she did no stunts, not even the easy ones. She had body doubles for anything remotely physical.
“Well,” Jaime said smoothly, “we enjoy each other’s company. And speaking of that, I’d like to get her a drink before the film starts. I’m sure we’ll see you later.” Jaime took Brienne’s hand and led her away through the crowd.
“Do we have to see her again?” Brienne asked under her breath.
He shook his head. “No. As soon as this is over I’m taking you straight home.”
“That’s very presumptuous,” she said, trying not to picture the sort of things Jaime would have in mind.
“Well, you could go back to your hotel.” He dropped his voice lower. “Alone. But I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Oh, really?” They’d reached the bar, and Jaime ordered their drinks, remembering what she liked.
While the bartender worked, Jaime leaned over and set his lips near her ear. The acts he whispered weren’t anything especially kinky, and for the most part nothing they hadn’t done before, but it was the way he said them. Every act sounded like the most fun thing he’d ever thought of, phrased in the filthiest way possible. From the beginning he’d seemed to instinctively understand that she had no use for flowery language. If he’d called what they did “making love” she would’ve been out the door in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t just fucking either. Much as she hated to admit it, she actually liked Jaime. As a person. Even though he was world-famous. And rich. And unreasonably handsome.
So when the movie ended, they went back to his condo, and he stripped the gown off her just inside the doorway. Then the panties, then he was on his knees again, making her come and sliding into her still pressed tight against the door. Brienne had come twice before she even had a chance to look around the spacious penthouse. They had a late-night snack of champagne and chocolate truffles sent by the studio, and played several rounds of cards with sexual favors as stakes until neither remembered who won and the cards were strewn all over the living room and stuck to Jaime’s back.
His massive bathtub followed, bubbles sloshed all over the tiles and neither of them any cleaner, both getting tired but not yet able to stop touching. They finally made their way to the bed, and his plans for edging her half the night turned into something altogether slower and more intimate.
When they woke up the next morning, bathed in soft morning light, Jaime asked her to stay, and she couldn’t think of a single reason to refuse.