A Golden Opportunity with Hailee Steinfeld

[TheLW]

A Golden Opportunity
With Hailee Steinfeld
Written by TheLW
Codes: Blowjob, Cheating, Pregnant
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

I first noticed her before I realized it was her.

The room backstage at the Golden Globes was chaotic disguised as elegance. Assistants with headsets, stylists hovering like anxious birds, producers whispering into phones. Then there she was, standing just off to the side of the corridor, calm in the middle of it all, like the noise had learned to bend around her.

Her hair was swept to one side in smooth waves, glossy under the lights, the kind of styling that looked effortless but clearly wasn’t. It framed her face softly, drawing attention to her eyes and the faint smile she wore like she already knew something everyone else didn’t.

The dress hugged her in a way that felt intentional. A long-sleeve gown in a warm blush tone, almost blending into her skin, threaded with fine silver lines that caught the light every time she shifted her weight. It shimmered instead of sparkled, subtle but impossible to ignore. And then there was her belly, unmistakable, rounded beneath the fabric. One hand rested there instinctively, protective and proud all at once.

Pregnant. Radiant. Elegant.

Hailee Steinfeld.

I clocked the way people reacted to her as she moved through the space. Smiles lingered a beat too long. Conversations stalled when she passed. And she noticed. You could tell by the way her eyes looked up, how she leaned into it just a touch, like someone starved for stimulation in a room full of rules.

She was flirting. Not coyly. Openly.

A brush of fingers here. A laugh that landed squarely on someone’s chest. A look held a second longer than necessary. But every guy she interacted with kept a careful distance, like there was an invisible line drawn around her. Respectful. Cautious. Afraid.

I didn’t move at first. I watched.

Then she turned, caught me looking, and instead of breaking eye contact, she smiled wider.

That was my opening.

I stepped closer, close enough that the hum of the room softened, replaced by her presence. Up close, the confidence hit harder. There was nothing fragile about her posture, nothing tentative in the way she held herself. Pregnancy hadn’t dulled her edge. If anything, it sharpened it.

“You look bored,” I said.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, surprised. “Do I?”

“A little,” I replied. “Like you’re waiting for someone to actually talk to you."

“Careful. That’s a dangerous assumption.”

“Someone had to make it.” I said.

She studied me then. Her gaze dipped, lingered, then came back to my face, and for the first time that night, she looked... unsettled.

“You’re not weird about it,” she said.

“About what?”

She glanced down at her stomach, then back up. “This.”

I shrugged. “Why would I be?”

That did it.

Something in her expression shifted, like a lock clicking open. She exhaled, slow, and stepped closer, enough that I could smell her perfume, warm and understated.

“Most people are,” she said quietly. “They either pretend it isn’t there or act like it’s the only thing they can see.”

“And what do you want them to see?”

Her lips parted. For half a second, she didn’t answer. Then the corner of her mouth curved upward, sharp and playful.

“Depends who’s looking.”

A producer called her name from down the hall. Five minutes until the next segment. She didn’t move right away. Neither did I.

Instead, she leaned in, her voice dropping just enough that it felt like a secret. “You’re trouble.”

I smiled. “You don’t look like someone who minds.”

Her hand brushed my arm as she turned to go.

“Commercial break,” she said over her shoulder. “If you disappear for a few minutes, no one will notice.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by lights and applause, leaving me standing there with my heart beating harder than it had any right to.

When the monitors flicked to ads, I followed.

Shortly thereafter, when both Hailee and I found somewhere a little more private. I’d barely closed the door behind us before Hailee was on her knees. Her hands found my waistband, unfastened, and drew me out into the cool air of the dressing room. My cock throbbed, already half-hard, thickening as she looked at me with something like mischief or reverence, her lips parted just barely as if she were about to inhale an entire symphony.

The first brush of her thumb was deliberate, testing the heft, before her lips followed, soft and warm, the tip of her tongue painting a circle before she closed the gap entirely and took just the head between her lips. She drew it in, then grazed along my frenulum in the exact same way someone would lick cake batter from a spoon with relish, with precision, with a devouring sense of purpose.

She worked me in slow motions, her lips forming an airtight seal and her hand moving in tandem, pressing her thumb into the sensitive underside with every downstroke. Every so often, she’d look up, just to make sure I saw her, as if daring me to flinch. I did no such thing, because for the first time in weeks, I wanted to see how long I could last.

Her stomach, full and tight under the blush dress, pressed into my shin when she leaned forward. She wasn’t hiding it anymore, wasn’t pretending she was anything less than spectacularly, unapologetically pregnant. The thought alone nearly undid me.

Hailee did things with her mouth that made me forget every etiquette lesson I’d ever learned about actors and greenrooms and polite company. Her tongue swirled with athletic grace, teasing, darting, always knowing precisely how much pressure would keep me poised in that state of wanting, never quite enough to tip me.

She was savoring it, and me, and her face made it clear she was owning every inch of my attention. When I reached down to stroke her hair, she shifted, letting it fall over her face, a dark curtain that hid the lines of stress at her temples but nothing of the hunger in her movements.

There were a thousand ways to praise a woman for this, but the only word that made it out was “Jesus.”

She paused, letting me slide out of her mouth, and looked up with a glint in her eye. “Just Jesus?”

“There’s a reason you’re famous,” I said.

She grinned. “So I’ve been told.” Then without warning she swallowed me again, deeper this time, the tip of her nose flush against my skin.

“God, Hailee, you’re...”

It was perfection. She had the rhythm of it, the patience, the intuition for exactly when I needed slow and when I needed fast. I groaned, low and grateful. “Fuck, that’s good. Better than good. You should win an award for this.”

She smiled around my shaft, lips tight, and kept going, letting a bead of saliva drip down to gloss my balls. Her hand pumped in sync, squeezing just enough, and I could feel my own restraint start to crack.

Hailee did something with her tongue that should’ve been illegal in at least four states. The friction built, pleasure gathering in my thighs for a long moment, and she sensed it, backing off just enough to deny me the edge. She sucked hard, then licked soft, then licked me like an ice pop, fast, shallow flicks that made me buck forward despite my best intentions not to be That Guy. She wanted me to be That Guy, wanted proof she’d reduced me to pure reaction, and I coughed it up willingly, hands on her hair, hips fighting for control.

She choked me down again, and this time she didn’t slow. Her pace went vicious, desperate, short and mean, as if she was trying to wring every drop straight from my body and from the world’s gaze. My cock throbbed between her lips, and when I risked a look down, I saw the wet trail glistening on her chin, that unbothered, full-throttle focus like this, here, was the only thing she still wanted from the night.

One hand balanced on the taut drum of her belly, the other fisted around the base of my shaft. Each time I twitched, she redoubled, feeding off the shudder, head bobbing, and her lips a perfect ruin of pink around my skin. My fingers tangled, careful not to pull too hard, careful not to risk breaking the spell she was casting with her mouth. I let out something halfway between a groan and a plea, and my knees threatened to betray me, buckling at the crescendo.

“Hailee, I’m...” I managed, but she didn’t let go. Her eyes, impossibly sharp, met mine. She wanted this, made it clear she wasn’t just performing for me, but for every person who’d ever looked twice at her and wondered what she could do if unburdened by image.

Minutes bled out. My legs shook. She was tireless, relentless. She’d forgotten the threat of being caught. The whole dressing room faded away, just the closing-in pulse of wet heat, the friction and the urgency. I felt myself start to go, all warning bypassed, a boiling point reached in a breathless instant.

“I’m close,” I muttered, annoyed how hoarse and pleading I sounded.

She didn’t pull back. If anything, she doubled down, hollowing her cheeks and swallowing every surge, her hand pumping in sync so the finish was wild and messy and a little desperate. My knees buckled. She kept me buried until I convulsed, until I heard her swallow and felt the vibration of her satisfied moan all the way up my spine.

When she finally let go, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, eyes shining with something smug and unrepentant. She stood up slow, smoothing her dress, and straightened her posture with one practiced sweep.

We both heard the thrum of footsteps in the hallway, hints of a segment producer’s urgent voice. Hailee held up a finger, a universal just-a-sec, and took one more moment to steady her breath. Then her composure snapped back into place. She shot me a look, half challenge, half dare you to say anything, before sliding the door open wide.

She stepped out as if nothing had happened, her expression the sort of serene that came from secrets well kept. I followed, a few paces behind, heart still jackhammering against my ribs.

The corridor had only gotten louder. Someone from the wardrobe department rushed past in a panic about a shoe emergency. The moment Hailee appeared, she was swarmed, hair, makeup, a flutter of assistants with checklists and lint rollers, a publicist who handed her a bottle of electrolyte water as if it were a transfusion bag.

The End