"Behind The Lens" with Multiple Celebs

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #1
With Dua Lipa
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Anal, Fingering, Rimjob
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

It hadn’t been long, just a couple of weeks, since I, Logan Fitzpatrick, shot the wedding of Hailee Steinfeld and Josh Allen. That job wasn’t just high-profile, it was career-defining. Every major outlet covered it. My name was suddenly in demand. What followed was an avalanche of emails, social media buzz, and phone calls from people I never thought I’d hear from.

But one message stood out.

A sleek, minimalist email from British Vogue. No subject line. Just a simple message: We’d like to fly you out for an exclusive shoot with Dua Lipa. Are you available this week?

Fuck yes, I was available.

The next morning, I was stepping onto a first-class flight, cradling my camera case like it was a newborn. A few hours later, I touched down. No sleep, no downtime. I checked into the hotel, tossed my bags on the bed, changed my shirt, and hailed a cab straight to the shoot location.

When I arrived, the energy in the studio was chaotic but controlled. Lighting techs fussed with rigs, assistants adjusted racks of designer outfits, and makeup artists hovered like hawks. But all that background noise faded when I saw her.

Dua.

She was standing near the wardrobe setup, sipping from a bottle of water, half-smiling as a stylist adjusted the sleeve of her jacket. And damn, she looked unreal. That wasn’t just celebrity polish, it was presence. Command. Confidence wrapped in effortless charm.

Our eyes met for a moment. Just a flicker. But it lingered.

I approached and introduced myself, doing my best to keep things cool. “Logan Fitzpatrick,” I said, offering my hand. “Apparently I’m the lucky guy getting to shoot you today.”

Dua’s smile widened just a bit, enough to let me know she caught the double meaning. “Lucky indeed,” she said, her accent wrapping around the words like silk. “I’ve seen your work. Hailee’s wedding was stunning.”

“Helps when your subjects are literal movie stars,” I replied with a smirk. “But today? I think I’ve got something even better to work with.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you always this smooth?”

“Only when the camera’s not in my hands.”

She laughed, low and throaty, then tilted her head slightly. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

From there, it was like magic. The moment she stepped in front of the lens, everything else faded. The chaos, the noise, the crew, it all vanished. It was just her and me. Click. Click. Click. She moved effortlessly, slow turns, sultry glances, quick bursts of attitude that made every frame feel alive.

“Give me more of that energy,” I said, adjusting the lens. “Like you’re about to take over the world.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “What if I already have?”

I grinned. “Then let’s make the world remember it.”

Her gaze locked with mine between shots, and there was a spark, subtle, but unmistakable. After the third outfit change, she wandered over as the crew reset the backdrop. She leaned in close, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

“Are you always this intense when you shoot?” she asked, lips close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her perfume, something floral, but with a sharp, spicy edge.

“Only when the subject’s worth it.”

She smiled again, slower this time, eyes scanning my face like she was trying to read more than I was giving. “Careful, Logan. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re trying to charm me.”

“And what if I am?”

Dua paused, lips parting slightly like she was about to say something, but then just smirked and turned back toward the camera. “Then I hope your follow-through is as good as your lighting.”

Damn right, challenge accepted.

That wasn’t just banter, that was a line in the sand, and Dua Lipa had just dared me to cross it. And let me be clear, I’m not the kind of guy who blinks when a global icon locks eyes and throws down like that.

We went right back into the shoot, but now it wasn’t just electric, it was nuclear. Every pose she struck felt personal. Every smirk, every glance was aimed through the lens and straight into me. The rest of the team might as well have vanished into smoke. It was just her and me, in a dance of light, shadow, and unspoken tension.

She'd shift, flash of leg, flick of hair, arch of the neck, and I was right there catching it, anticipating every movement like we’d done this a hundred times before. But this wasn’t repetition. This was chemistry. This was combustion.

“I need five,” she said.

The second Dua walked back onto set in that outfit, black leather sculpted like it was poured onto her, gleaming under the studio lights, I knew we were about to push this shoot past anything British Vogue had dared to imagine.

Her hair was slicked tight, that long braid snapping like a whip every time she turned. And the way she moved? Like she owned the room, hell, like she was the room. Confidence weaponized. And I was going to capture every damn second of it.

"Alright, Dua. I want heat. I want danger," I said, stepping back behind the lens. “You’re not posing. You’re challenging them. Make the camera beg.”

She turned her back to me, hands on the wall, hips arched, that coat flaring just enough to reveal… yeah. She knew exactly what she was doing. I clicked the shutter.

Click.

She spun around and bit the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes locked onto the lens with a hunger that damn near made my hands shake.

“More of that. Keep that fire,” I instructed.

Dua didn’t wait for another cue.

She shifted her weight, one hip cocked with defiance, and slid her fingers across the curve of her waist, slow and deliberate, like she was daring me, or anyone watching, to look away. Her eyes never left the lens. That wasn’t just posing anymore.

Click. Click. Click.

She moved again, hands to her hips, chest out, chin low, like a panther ready to pounce. Her leather outfit caught the light and practically radiated, every muscle beneath it coiled, precise. The braid whipped behind her as she pivoted, striking her silhouette into a pose that would have shattered glass.

“Damn,” I muttered. Not even to her. Just to myself. Because holy hell, she was on another level.

“Don’t stop shooting,” she said, breathless but sharp, voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. “I’ve got more.”

“Then show me,” I snapped back, adrenaline flooding in. “Show me the version of you no one else gets to see.”

She grinned, wicked, knowing, and her entire demeanor shifted. The smirk turned feral, her stance widened, and her fingers traced the seam of her outfit like it was part of her own skin.

Later that day, the studio lights had dimmed, the echoes of hurried footsteps and clicking shutters long gone. The chaos had emptied out, and in its place was silence, the kind that only settles when something real is about to happen.

It was just me and Dua now.

She hadn’t changed.

She was still in that outfit, the sculpted black leather dress that clinged to her every curve like it had been painted on. Her skin still shimmered faintly from the shoot, the sheen catching the soft light from the monitor as we stood side by side, going over the photos.

I don’t even remember who suggested staying back to review them, maybe it was her, maybe it was me, but neither of us had rushed to leave. And now she was leaning in just a little too close, her perfume curling through the air again, spicy and floral, intoxicating as hell.

“Look at this one,” she said, tapping the screen, her voice smooth, a little husky from the long day. “You caught me just as I turned… see the way the braid cuts through the shadow?”

I looked, I did, but my eyes weren’t on the photo anymore.

They were on her.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” I said, grinning.

“Trying what?” she asked, eyes looking up to meet mine, that wicked curve returning to her lips.

“To act like you’re just here to review shots.”

She tilted her head, braid slipping over one shoulder like a slow-moving fuse. “Who said I’m pretending?”

My throat went dry.

She took a step toward me, not much, just enough. Her hand grazed the edge of the table, fingers tapping softly, rhythmically. That leather outfit, still molded to her, gave nothing away but demanded everything in return.

“I’m still dressed for the shoot,” she said, voice low and deliberate. “But I think we both know... this part wasn’t for them.”

She leaned in, her breath warm against my neck now. My heart damn near punched through my ribs.

“So,” she whispered, “what are you gonna do about it, photographer?”

I turned toward her slowly, eyes locked, tension coiled so tight the air crackled.

“Simple,” I said. “Set up one more shot.”

Her eyes lit up, fierce and hungry. “Then make it count.”

And with that, the real moment began.

Moments later, I moved into position behind her.

The back of her outfit, that slick, sculpted leather, was tugged down just far enough to bare her shoulders, the zipper drawn halfway with a deliberate slowness that made my pulse hammer in my ears. Her skin, warm under the soft studio lights, was flawless, smooth, glowing, real. A striking contrast to the hard, untouchable image she projected all day. This was something different. Something raw.

Dua didn’t flinch. Didn’t look back.

She stood still, poised, the same confidence radiating from her even now, maybe especially now. One hand rested on the edge of the table, the other casually draped on her hip, her head turned slightly to the side, exposing the elegant line of her neck. She knew I was behind her. She wanted me there.

“You’re quiet,” she said, voice low and teasing.

“I’m taking in the view,” I said, and it wasn’t a line, it was the truth.

She laughed, soft and dark. “So you do know how to appreciate beauty when it’s not behind a lens.”

My hand hovered near the zipper, the urge to pull it just a bit lower crawling through my fingertips. But I stopped, not out of hesitation, but control. She didn’t need to see the look on my face to know what I was thinking. The tension between us was thick enough to choke on.

She leaned back slightly, just enough to brush against me. Deliberate. Calculated. Her head tilted again, and she whispered, “Are you sure you’re not still shooting?”

“I don’t need the camera anymore,” I said, my voice sharp and hushed. “Some things you don’t capture. You experience it.”

She exhaled, slow and charged, and in that moment, standing behind her, fingertips grazing the edges of her exposed back, I knew this wasn’t the aftermath of the shoot.

This was the real session.

And neither of us was ready to call it a wrap.

With that, the rest of her leather dress hit the floor, Dua completely exposed, and I dropped to my knees behind her.

My hands clamped onto her hips, those world-famous curves, right there under my palms, and she shivered, just once, but enough for me to notice. I pressed my thumbs into the groove above her ass and she eased herself down, folding at the waist, spine arching like a taut bow. Her bare skin was perfect, and I bent forward with a hunger that had nothing to do with composure or professionalism.

The first touch was a surprise, she gasped, then let out a laugh that spiraled straight into a low moan. I spread her cheeks wider, exposing the tight pink ring that flexed under my breath, and let my tongue circle it, gently at first, then harder as she arched back against my face.

“Jesus, Logan,” she hissed, and I smiled, she felt that, too.

Dua’s ass was, in every sense, a work of art. I traced every contour with my lips and tongue, lapping slow, then fast, circling her star until she groaned. I licked her, steady and deep and relentless, savoring the taste and the way she trembled when I flicked my tongue just right. Each time I pressed in, she gripped the table.

“That’s it,” she whispered, goosebumps prickling her thighs, “don’t fucking stop.”

I didn’t. My tongue worked her, opening her, soft then hard, turning slow circles with steady pressure that made her moan again, the muscles in her legs shaking. Every sound out of her felt like a dare, and I answered it, grabbing a fistful of her braid with one hand and holding her open with the other, devouring her until her knees gave way and she melted onto her forearms.

Her ass, slick and flushed, trembled as I licked her rim, then dipped my tongue deeper, pushing past the tight ring until Dua croaked out, “Holy shit, Logan, fuck.”

I kept going, tongue pressed flat and deliberate against her, inhaling her heat, her sweat, her absolute want. My hands slid up, grazing her ribs, and trailing the curve of her waist with my fingertips as my mouth stayed locked on her.

“Fuck, Logan, god, right there, don’t you dare…” She cut off with a breathless gasp.

I pressed my face tighter, greedy, letting my stubble scrape her softly. With each circle, each plunge, she got louder, her accent breaking into something animalistic. The hand not tangled in her braid slipped down to cup her cunt, finding her hot and wet, dripping over my fingers. I let them join my mouth, two thick fingers slipping inside as my tongue kept working her ass.

I tongued her, and worked my fingers in tandem, scissoring gently as her body rocked into the pressure, greedy for it, instinctive. Dua arched, letting all her weight rest on the table, thighs trembling against my cheeks, ass grinding against my mouth. She pushed back, grinding her ass into my face, her hips shuddering. It was filthy, obscene, and she didn’t care. Neither did I. She wanted to be devoured, to surrender every last inch, and I was going to give it to her.

“God, fuck, yes,” she moaned, “more, more…”

Her taste, her scent, her sweat mingled in the air, intoxicating and so sharply hers that all I could do was chase it, bury my face deeper, lose myself. I let go of her braid and gripped her cheeks with both hands, parting her wide. I rimmed her, flicked her, pressed hard and deep, until Dua was just a collection of sounds, moans, curses, rasps, my name spit out in syllables drawn from the back of her throat.

I obliged, pressing firmer, flattening my tongue and flicking it fast over her rim, while my fingers worked up a slick rhythm, twisting as I felt her clench around them. Her cunt pulsated around my fingers, and I knew she was close. Dua’s pussy clamped down hard on my fingers, spasming as she came with a low, helpless groan.

Moments later, I got off of the floor, pulleds my pants down, and lined my rock hard cock up with her oh so fuckable asshole. I pressed forward, slowly, not wanting to force it too much at first. There was some resistance, maybe she tensed, or maybe I was just a little too eager, but then the head pressed past tight muscle, stretching her open.

I gave her time. Felt her warmth stretch and mold around me as I entered deeper, patient, savoring the increment as her tightness finally gave way. My hands bracketed her hips, fingers digging in where old bruises bloomed under her skin. Each inch I fed into her was received with guttural little moans that escalated until I was fully sheathed, flush against her ass, the world narrowed to only the throb of pressure and the wild pulse in my own skull.

“Ugh,” she cried out.

I withdrew, slow, and watched as her body seemed to plead for my return, then drove in harder, now less merciful, letting the rhythm take hold. The slap of our flesh echoed sharp in the empty, shuddering room.

Her ass opened to me, greedier than any mouth could be, that ring of muscle grasping, reluctant to let me go. I buried myself, both hands locked at the sharp flare of her hips, and pistoned in, each stroke slicker, meaner, bottoming out with a slap that echoed off the cinderblock studio walls. She howled, voice bouncing from every corner, a performance for an audience of none.

“Fuck,” she gasped, “fuck me, deeper.”

I gave her everything, hips rocking, cock splitting her open, glare locked on the place where we joined. She was a sculpture of need and hunger and I was the chisel, relentlessly, carving more from her every second.

The slap of skin punctuated every thrust. Dua braced herself, she threw her head back, braid snapping down her spine. Her ass bounced against my hips each time I bottomed out. The look she shot me over her shoulder was pure defiance, a queen daring a servant to do better, harder, more. I met her stare and drove in with a force that made her slap the table.

I was close, too close, but I didn’t dare relent. She demanded everything, so I’d give it to her. She shrieked then, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, a sound that made my cock twitch and my control snap. I slammed forward, burying myself to the hilt, and let go, every muscle clenching as I spilled inside her. The last throbs shot through us both, and she arched, grinding back to milk out every last drop of my baby batter.

We hung there, bodies fused, sweat mixing, both of us shaking. Dua exhaled, low and satisfied.

“Is that how you wrap up every Vogue shoot?” she panted, voice still edged with laughter.

“Only the ones worth remembering,” I answered, breathless.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes catching mine, and just like that, the tension sparked again. We weren’t done. Not emotionally. Not mentally. Maybe not even physically.

“Good,” she said, voice steadying, “because I plan on remembering every second of this.”

The words hung in the air between us, not a question, not a challenge, but a promise.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #2
With Kylie Jenner
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Choking, Rough Sex
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Another week, another high-profile job. Logan Fitzpatrick barely had time to breathe, let alone process the whirlwind his life had become. Business was booming, sure, but it wasn’t just about the bookings anymore. No, lately, it felt like something else was driving him. The truth was, he lived for this chaos. It fed something in him, something hungry, something that didn’t know how to sit still.

After wrapping up the British Vogue shoot with Dua, you'd think he'd take a damn break. But no, Logan dove headfirst into his next gig, this time a photo shoot with Kylie fucking Jenner. A shoot for her Khy bikini collection in collaboration with Frankies Bikinis. Sunlight. Skin. Fame. And her.

He didn’t like the Kardashians, not really. He found their whole empire loud, performative, saturated with too much gloss and not enough grit. But Kylie… that was different. She was the one he’d never admitted to crushing on, not to his crew, not even to his ex who once caught him lingering too long on one of Kylie’s campaign ads.

And now she was about to be in front of his camera. Half-naked, sun-kissed, and expecting nothing less than magic.

The location was already set, a secluded beach estate in Malibu, private, pristine, and worth more than Logan had made in the last two years combined. He arrived early, as always, wanting time to scout the angles, adjust for the light, and settle the humming nerves he refused to acknowledge.

The crew milled about, prepping equipment and laying out pieces from the bikini line, a red one, a black one, and barely-there fabrics that were more suggestion than garment. Everything was soft tones and coastal warmth, but Logan felt none of it. All he could think about was how this woman, this brand, was about to walk onto his set and test every last ounce of his self-control.

And then, like clockwork, she arrived.

Kylie didn’t enter the space. She claimed it. Surrounded by assistants, stylists, and the ever-hovering PR rep, she moved through the area like a queen in a territory she’d already conquered. Her dark eyes scanned the set with clinical ease, taking in every detail. And then she looked at him.

That one glance? It hit like a gut punch.

“Logan?” she asked, her voice calm, businesslike, yet soaked in confidence.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, trying not to sound like a kid caught sneaking into a club he didn’t belong in.

She smiled. It wasn’t friendly, it was knowing. That smile said, You’re going to work for it. Every shot. Every angle. I’m not just your subject, I’m your test.

He raised his camera, pretending to check the settings, needing something between them, even if it was just glass and steel. It was a few minutes later when Logan looked up from his monitor, and everything around him just… dropped away.

She had changed.

The first bikini for the shoot, a blazing red two-piece from the Khy collection, tied tight at the chest, loose at the hips, was doing a hell of a lot more than selling swimwear. It looked like it had been designed specifically to weaponize her curves, to broadcast exactly how untouchable she was. And from the way she moved, slow, like a lioness hunting its prey, she knew it.

Kylie stepped through the dappled light of the garden trail behind the estate, half-shielded by overgrown greens and thick brush. Her towel slung casually over one shoulder, her feet bare, her skin glowing like it had been dipped in honey. She didn’t say a word at first. She didn’t have to.

The red bikini clung to her like sin. Every tie, every inch of fabric was perfectly placed to make Logan’s job impossible. Not because of technical challenges, no, the light was perfect, the backdrop lush. It was her. The way she filled the frame. The way her presence hit like a shot to the chest.

“Start here,” Kylie said, her voice smooth, commanding. “Keep it natural. No bounce, no flash. Just me.”

Logan nodded, finding his voice buried somewhere beneath all that heat. “Yeah. Got it.”

She moved into position beside a stretch of thick rosemary and low-hanging leaves, her hips cocked just slightly, her hand to her side. Her head dipped as she let her hair spill forward. The red of her bikini burned against the green, drawing the eye like blood on satin.

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You gonna shoot, or just keep staring?”

Logan snapped back to it, raised the lens. “I’m good. Just… adjusting.”

Kylie tilted her head. “I’m not here to be adjusted. I’m here to be captured. So do it.”

Click.

The first shot landed clean. Too clean. Professional. Cold. It wasn’t enough.

Kylie shifted again, subtly this time, letting the strap of her bikini top slide just barely down her shoulder, exposing more skin but without crossing a line. Just nudging it. Just enough to make Logan bite the inside of his cheek.

Click.

Click.

She leaned slightly into the frame of leaves behind her, arching her back just enough to deepen every curve.

Click.

They were on the second look now. The heat had shifted. The garden shots were done, and the crew had peeled away, giving them space by the pool for the next setup.

Kylie had once again changed.

This bikini was darker, black with subtle white dots, thinner straps, sleeker fit. It clung to her like it had been stitched onto her skin, damp already from her first dip into the pool. Water beaded on her chest and shoulders, sunlight catching every curve in glinting gold. Her hair was slicked back now, jet black and soaked, framing her face like it had been styled for one shot, and one man’s eyes.

Logan raised his camera, but he was too slow.

“Hold up,” Kylie said, arching herself backward in the water, the curve of her back breaking the surface in a slow, gliding motion. Her chest rose, catching the light perfectly, and she tilted her face just enough to let her jawline sharpen in shadow.

Click.

She smirked at the sound. “Better.”

“Logan,” she said, voice low, amused, “you always get this quiet when you’re turned on, or is it just me?”

He lowered the camera an inch. Just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m focused.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Focused,” she repeated, drawing the word out. “Cute.”

Then she dipped fully beneath the surface, vanishing for a beat. When she came back up, water poured off her hair and shoulders, her bikini clinging even tighter now. Her lips were parted, her gaze sharper.

He lifted the lens again.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“That all you’re gonna do?” she asked. “Just stand there and shoot me like this isn’t driving you out of your fucking mind?”

His jaw flexed. “This is me being professional.”

She swam closer to the edge, placing both hands on the wet stone ledge, lifting herself halfway out, barely covered, soaked, heat radiating from every inch of her. “What if I told you I’m tired of professional?”

Logan said nothing.

“You ever shoot underwater?” she asked, teasing the line between business and something else entirely.

He nodded. “I have the gear.”

She smirked. “Good. Bring it. Next round, I want to go under. Close. Real close. I want you in there with me.”

He clenched the camera in his hands. The shot was incredible, but this wasn’t a shoot anymore.

This was bait.

And Logan? He was already hooked.

The pool was quiet now. No crew. No distractions. Just the two of them, and the heavy tension hanging in the humid afternoon air.

Logan slipped into the water slowly, camera in hand, sealed in its underwater rig. The moment his head dipped below the surface, the noise of the world cut out, replaced by the soft, echoing hush of water. Peaceful. Still.

Then she appeared.

Kylie swam into frame like a siren, slow, elegant, unapologetically close. Her body moved with that same fluid control she’d carried all shoot long, only now it felt more intimate… more intentional. Her dark hair flowed around her shoulders, and that polka dot bikini seemed to melt into the water.

Logan raised the camera, framing her from below as she arched backward in a suspended pose, her chest rising toward the surface, her eyes opening underwater and locking onto him.

Click.

Then she swam forward. Closer.

Her hand gently brushed the side of his arm beneath the water, barely there, but enough to make his lungs tighten. He didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. Her mouth parted as she floated beside him, a single bubble escaping, trailing upward like a secret.

They hovered there, faces inches apart, bubbles rising between them.

Then she did it.

She leaned in, slow, testing him, and pressed her lips softly against his underwater. Warm, soft, lingering. A kiss that shouldn’t have happened. A kiss that did. Just long enough to make it unforgettable.

And then she pulled back.

Both of them surfaced at the same time, water cascading off their skin, breaths shallow. Neither said a word. It hung in the air between them, undeniable now.

The camera gear hit the edge of the pool with a heavy thunk as Logan climbed out first, chest tight, mind spiraling. He grabbed a towel, barely looking back.

Kylie pulled herself out next, water dripping from her curves in slow, taunting rivulets. She didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. She walked over, grabbed her robe, then leaned in close, wet hair clinging to her cheek, voice low enough that only he could hear.

“You’re done for the day,” she whispered, her breath warm at his jaw. “But I’m not.”

He swallowed.

“I’m at the Mandarin, top floor. Penthouse suite. Come by tonight… if you’re not too scared.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving water and chaos in her wake.

A few hours later, The Mandarin Oriental, Top Floor.

Logan stood in the hallway outside the penthouse suite. The hall was too quiet. The carpet was too soft. Everything was too polished. The kind of place where discretion wasn't just expected, it was sold.

He lifted his hand, paused, then knocked twice.

The door opened almost immediately.

Kylie stood there in a cream robe, tied just enough to hold a shape, but loose enough to hint. Her skin still glistened faintly from the pool, damp hair falling in waves over one shoulder. She held a glass of something golden, eyes locked on him with zero effort and all the power in the world.

“Took you long enough,” she said, eyes sweeping him from head to toe.

Logan smiled. “I had to make sure I didn’t show up looking like I was too eager.”

She stepped aside without another word, letting him in. “You failed. You look eager as hell.”

The suite was warm, dimmed, impossibly sleek. The windows framed the skyline like a movie set.

“I see you went all in,” Logan said, taking the second glass waiting for him on the marble counter.

Kylie raised an eyebrow. “You think I do anything halfway?”

“Didn’t look like it earlier,” he said, taking a slow sip. “Especially not in that bikini.”

She smirked. “You noticed.”

“Pretty sure half of Malibu noticed.”

“And yet you’re the only one I invited up.”

Logan moved closer, setting his glass down on the table without breaking her gaze. “So what’s the plan, Kylie? Do I pretend this is some casual post-shoot debrief, or do we stop wasting time?”

She took a step toward him, hands slipping into the pockets of her robe, voice velvet smooth. “Why would I waste time with a guy who clearly knows exactly what he wants?”

“I do,” he said. “Right now, it’s standing three feet in front of me, wearing a robe that’s one deep breath away from falling off.”

Kylie let out a soft laugh, biting her lip. “You’ve got a mouth on you, Fitzpatrick.”

“You’ve got a lot worth talking about.”

That brought her even closer, no hesitation now. Her fingertips found the hem of his shirt, dragging slowly upward, her voice a little softer but no less dangerous.

Not soft. Not careful. It was a kiss that was hot, like she’d been waiting since the pool to tear him open. Logan’s hands found her waist, fingers sinking into the curve of her hips through the thin fabric of her robe. She tasted like champagne, and he kissed her back like it was oxygen, like he didn’t care if the whole city saw it through those damn windows.

The robe slipped. It fell in a hush to the floor, pooling around her bare feet.

Kylie pressed into him, her bare chest against his shirt, her fingers working the buttons one by one, slow and deliberate. She didn’t rush. She unwrapped him like a gift she planned to enjoy on her terms.

“You always let your clients undress you?” she asked against his neck.

“Only when they look like this,” he growled.

She bit his bottom lip, playful and rough. “Good answer.”

His shirt hit the ground next, and her hands roamed across his chest, dragging nails just hard enough to make him flinch, to remind him, she was still in control.

But not for long.

Logan spun her gently but firmly, pressing her back against the edge of the marble counter. The cold stone made her gasp, and he swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. His hands slid down her sides, memorizing the curve of her waist, the lines of her thighs. She arched into him, pulling him closer until there was nothing between them but heat.

The kiss broke, and for a moment they just stared at each other.

“I thought photographers were supposed to keep their hands off the talent,” Kylie said, voice breathless but teasing.

Logan grinned, his hands still roaming over her bare hips. “Then you should’ve hired someone else.”

She grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand back to where she wanted it.

“I hired exactly who I wanted.”

And then there was no more talking.

Just hands. Mouths. Tongues. Skin.

And then just like that, Logan flipped Kylie over, her stomach pressed up against the marble counter.

A moment later, Logan’s pants dropped to the floor, his cock pressed hard between her cheeks as he gripped her hips, the tension making every nerve in his arms burn. She was wet, slick, and as he slid the head against her, Kylie looked back over her shoulder, readiness etched in every taut line of her spine.

He pushed in, slow at first, savoring the strangled gasp that jumped out of her. She felt it, every inch, and he could feel her back arch, her body tense and open all at once. Logan held her there, one hand on her hip, the other sliding up her ribcage to palm her breast. The marble was cold against her skin.

She pressed back against him, greedy, unafraid of what she wanted. He let her set the pace, the angle, her hips rolling him deeper and harder until each thrust echoed off the glass and stone. Logan met her pace, fucking her harder, deeper. He memorized it, the way she sounded, the way her body took his, the way she kept turning to glance at him over her shoulder.

Logan gripped her harder, using her hips as handles. Kylie took everything he gave, every rough motion, the way he pressed his chest to her back and bit down on her shoulder. Each breath came out in shudders, gasps, punctuated by his hands gliding up her stomach, then pinching and rolling her nipple, making her arch even more.

He was wild for her, obsessed with fucking her good and hard, the warmth, the way she turned to catch his gaze even as she let him drive her into the stone. Kylie looked over his shoulder, holding his stare. The slap of skin on skin, the way her hand braced against the counter and the other reached behind to dig into his hip, pulling him deeper.

He thrust harder, not thinking, only wanting to fill her, to watch her body react with every inch. Logan leaned in, kissed her nape, licked the wet salt from her skin. “Fuck, Kylie,” he moaned out.

He grunted into her hair, pulse racing, then yanked her hips back, burying himself deeper. The slap of her ass against him echoed off the high glass and stone. Kylie’s forearms pressed flat to the counter, head dropped between raised shoulders, her wild hair shrouding her cheek as she cried out in pleasure. She shifted her feet farther apart, offering herself up, greedy for the way Logan drove into her.

Logan set his hands wide, palms flattening against the cool marble next to hers. He leaned low, his chest grazing her back, and fucked her with steady, dangerous force. She didn’t make noise for effect; every gasp and whimper and sharp string of profanity was real, dragged out of her by the collision of flesh and stone and something neither of them had thought about before tonight.

As Logan looked up, he could see her profile reflected in the glass backsplash, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to see more. Logan reached, fisted the tail of her hair and pulled gently until her face turned back, locking eyes with him.

“You can go harder, you know.” Kylie said.

He didn’t answer, just drove in deeper, pace snapped tight. The pressure was insane, her heat, the friction, the way she squeezed around him, like she was planning to wring out every drop he had to give. Every thrust drove her hips to the edge, her skin blooming red where it met the marble, but Kylie never flinched, not for a single second.

“God, like that. Don’t stop.”

He held her there, bent hard over the counter, breathing in her sweat and perfume, his own sweat slicking his chest. Every time he hit her deep, her thighs tensed and he caught the tremor in her knees, seeing it reflected in the glass. There was nothing fragile about Kylie now, she wanted it rough, he could tell by the way she met every thrust.

Logan pulled her upright, back pressed to his chest, arms caging her in. She twisted in his grip, catching the edge of the counter for balance. His hand slid up, fingers closing around her throat, not hard, just enough to claim her attention. Her breath hitched, mouth slack. Kylie tilted her head, jawline bared, and he bit down on the curve of her shoulder. She shivered, lips parting in a sound that was all hunger.

“Ugh. so fucking good.”

He leaned over her, breath hot at her ear. “Look at yourself,” he growled.

Kylie tried to, eyes looking up. He drew back, letting her see him, her, everything.

Logan palmed her oh so perfect ass, spread her wider, and drove himself into the root. God, Kylie was perfect. She met him, push for push, bracing herself as he aggressively thrust into her, the kind that left bruises. She was so wet he could hear the slap of skin, as his cock slid in and out of her, could feel it in the way her pussy clenched, every time he went back inside of her.

She was close, Logan could tell by the way she went rigid in his grip, thighs clamped around him like a vice, whole body trembling. His hand still circled her throat, thumb feeling her pulse jitter, counting down the seconds until she let go. For a moment she fought it, her hips pushing back so hard he nearly lost his balance. Then suddenly her whole body shook and she made a sound, legs shaking as she came, pussy clamping and grinding on his cock, every muscle in her drawing him in.

He pulled out, and turned Kylie around in one motion, hoisted her up onto the counter so her calves dangled over the edge. Logan stepped in, no hesitation, and dragged her forward by the waist until her ass slid to the very edge. He wrapped one arm under her thigh, hiking her knee, her thighs were still shaking when he lined himself up again and pushed back into her already well fucked pussy.

There was nothing shy in the way Kylie held his gaze, nothing uncertain about the grip she kept on Logan’s arms as he hammered into her over the cold hard marble counter. She wanted it every bit as much as he did. More, probably. Her calves tightened around his waist, pulling him closer as he worked her over, nipping her bottom lip between every rough kiss.

She dug her fingertips into his shoulders, Logan responded in kind, reaching both hands up to frame her jaw, pinning her in place while he fucked her, the speed fast and urgent now. He couldn’t get enough, and from the way she clamped down on him, neither could she. Every thrust knocked her farther up the counter, back slamming against the wood cabinets, Kylie’s tits bouncing with every hard thrust.

"Harder! Faster!"

Logan was out of his mind. He watched Kylie’s thighs tense on either side of his hips, her heels digging into his ass to drive him deeper, her hands moving from his shoulders to his jaw. She rode every thrust with him, no give, just pure pleasure and friction, that felt so fucking perfect.

Kylie licked her lips like she was starving, breath coming in ragged little sighs. Logan pinned her harder to the counter, both hands gripping her ass to haul her forward and backwards, in an up and down motion as his prick hammered away at her snatch. He leaned forward, mouth dragging along her collarbone, Logan left a mark just above her breast and she barely flinched, instead pulling him closer with a wild little laugh.

Logan felt the heat build from his balls, as he came hard, the first pulse dripping from her even before the second forced itself deep. Kylie let out a low, filthy gasp, grinding on him as he shot rope after rope of cum, filling her up until it leaked out around his cock, down onto the cool marble and smeared across their skin.

Afterwards, Logan glanced over at the oven clock. "Shit... it's nearly two am."

Kylie smirked, brushing her fingers down his chest. “Then don’t go.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“My room’s down the hall,” she said. “Big bed. Even better view. You should stay.”

Logan leaned in, kissed her again.

“Lead the way.”

The End

[Blocboy VC]

Nice job so far. I'll say though, you should tweek the first chapter a bit, since it seems like the story is gonna be in third person as of now, and it was kinda weird shifting from first to third so suddenly. I'll say that third person is better, and I'm really liking where this is going.

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #3
With Madelyn Cline
Written by TheLW
Codes: Blowjob, Handjob, Public
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

Logan Fitzpatrick kicked the door shut with his heel, grocery bag cradled in one arm, keys still dangling from the other. His apartment was quiet, dim afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, catching the dust in the air. He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, headed into the kitchen, and started unpacking.

He had just set the eggs and milk in the fridge when his phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up: Lee Thompson.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Lee,” Logan said, answering it. “How’s it going, man?”

“Pretty good,” Lee said, voice upbeat and familiar. “Actually, I’ve got a job opportunity for you.”

Logan leaned against the counter, already wary. “Oh yeah? What kind of opportunity?”

“Our movie premiere photographer just called in sick,” Lee said. “We need someone to cover the screening of the new I Know What You Did Last Summer. You were the first guy in L.A. I thought of.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t done red carpet work in over a year. “Just pictures?”

“Well,” Lee said, drawing the word out. “You’ll also get a VIP pass. You can actually sit in for the film. Free drinks, afterparty access, the whole Hollywood nonsense package.”

Logan gave a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I can't imagine the movie’s going to be any good.”

Lee laughed with him. “Probably not. But come on, Jennifer Love Hewitt’s in it. You used to have a massive crush on her, dude. Like posters-on-your-wall level crush.”

Logan smirked despite himself. “Yeah… yeah, I did.”

“And they’ve added a few new girls to the cast,” Lee added. “Fresh faces. Hot as hell. I’m telling you, it’ll be worth the drive.”

Logan paused, chewing it over. A free VIP pass, maybe a few decent shots, a night out he didn’t have to pay for, and yeah, maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing Jennifer Love Hewitt up close.

“...Alright,” he finally said. “Fair enough. I’ll do it.”

“Atta boy,” Lee said, already sounding relieved. “I’ll text you the details, red carpet starts at 6:30 sharp. Wear something decent. And bring your camera gear, the real stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it,” Logan said, chuckling. “Guess I better charge some batteries.”

“You’re the best. Drinks on me after.”

Logan hung up, staring at his phone for a moment longer before tossing it on the couch. He exhaled, glancing toward his bedroom.

“Alright,” he muttered.

He grabbed his camera bag from the closet, already running through mental checklists, lenses, batteries, SD cards, press badge.

Still... could be fun.

The red carpet was chaotic. Not surprising though.

Publicists barked instructions, handlers waved talent down the line, and flashes popped like strobe lights. Logan stood at his assigned spot, wedged between two other freelance photographers, camera raised, lens locked, his finger hovering over the shutter button like a sniper waiting to pull the trigger.

It was loud, it was crowded, it was a goddamn circus, but he’d done this enough to block it all out.

He was scanning the line, capturing the usual parade of B-list celebrities and influencers trying too hard, when something shifted.

A hush.

No, not exactly, but a shift in energy. Like the crowd collectively leaned in.

And then she stepped onto the carpet.

Logan’s finger twitched on instinct, snapping a photo before his brain caught up.

She was stunning.

She wore a silky blush-pink gown that clung to her like it had been poured on. The deep plunging neckline left little to the imagination, the fabric gathering just below her ribs and cascading down in elegant, ruched waves. It hugged her hips, then split slightly at the leg, revealing a glimpse of smooth skin and strappy heels that peeked out with every step she took.

Her hair, long, honey-blonde, and sleek, fell down her back like liquid gold, parted down the middle. Her makeup was flawless, accentuating high cheekbones, full lips with a soft pink gloss, and eyes that held just the right amount of mystery. She didn’t pose like the others, she owned the space, calm and deliberate, like she knew the effect she had and didn’t need to work for it.

Logan didn’t blink.

He lifted the camera again, more focused now, tracking her movements through the lens. His hands, usually steady, were just a little less so.

She glanced in his direction, no, right at him, and held his gaze for half a second. Just long enough to make him forget why he was there.

Click.

The flash caught her mid-turn, the soft fabric of her dress catching the breeze and her expression unreadable, a Mona Lisa like smirk with a red carpet glow.

“Jesus,” Logan muttered under his breath, checking the preview on his display. “That one’s going on the reel.”

The photographer to his right leaned in. “She’s the new lead. Final girl, I think.”

Logan nodded slowly, still staring.

Final girl or not, tonight, she was the main event.

A short while later, inside of the movie theater, the house lights had dimmed, the last few murmurs fading into silence as the screen up front flickered with studio logos and ominous music. Logan sat in the very back row, the freelancer’s refuge. No one to block his view, no one to notice if he ducked out early, and, most importantly, no one to expect small talk.

Or so he thought.

He had just leaned back, arms crossed loosely over his chest, when he heard movement beside him. A rustle of fabric. A faint whisper of perfume, warm, floral, expensive.

He turned slightly, and his heart nearly skipped.

Madelyn Cline.

Her.

She was easing down into the seat right next to his, pink dress flowing like liquid silk as she settled in, crossing one leg over the other with effortless grace.

Logan blinked. “Uh... hey.”

She looked over, lips curving into a knowing half-smile.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice low and unbothered, like they were old friends and this wasn’t insane. “Didn’t feel like sitting with the rest of the cast.”

He gestured vaguely toward the crowded rows up front. “Too much ass-kissing?”

She smirked, eyes back on the screen. “Something like that.”

A beat of silence passed. Logan glanced down at the camera bag resting at his feet.

“I was actually working the carpet tonight,” he said, feeling weirdly compelled to explain himself. “Didn’t think I’d be sitting next to one of the stars.”

She turned her head again, giving him a slow once-over. Not flirty, just observant.

“You got a name, camera guy?”

“Logan,” he said. “Logan Fitzpatrick.”

“Well, Logan Fitzpatrick,” she said, voice dipped in amusement, “you didn’t do too bad back there.”

He blinked again. “You remember me?”

“I remember a lot of things,” she said, cryptically, before turning back to the screen just as the movie began to roll.

Logan stared at her profile for a second longer, his heartbeat just a little faster than it should’ve been.

This night had just gotten a lot more interesting.

About halfway through the movie, Logan was only half-paying attention. The film played out in flickering shadows on the screen, but his focus kept drifting to the woman beside him.

Madelyn hadn't moved much, still reclined casually in her seat, one leg elegantly crossed, her The projector light caught her face just enough to highlight the glint in her eyes, and for a moment, everything else, the movie, the other people, the absurdity of the situation, disappeared.

She leaned in slightly, her breath warm as it brushed his ear.

"You looked like you needed help staying awake," she whispered, the words velvet-smooth and teasing.
gaze fixed on the screen. But then, her hand shifted.

Casually. Slowly. Until it brushed lightly against his thigh.

Logan stiffened.

At first, he thought it was accidental. The row was narrow, and maybe she was just adjusting. But then her hand stayed there, fingers resting with unmistakable intent, just enough pressure to be obvious, not enough to make a scene.

He turned his head to look at her.

She was already watching him.

Her lips just barely curved into a devilish smirk. Like she knew exactly what she was doing, and was daring him to do something about it.

Logan swallowed. Hard.

He turned his head, just enough to murmur back, “You’re playing with fire.”

She pulled back, her smirk widening. “Good thing I like the heat.”

The movie had just taken a turn, but not nearly as wild as the one happening in the back row.

Madelyn’s hand lingered, barely, almost a phantom touch at first. She kept her eyes on the actors being shredded on-screen, but her fingers walked up Logan’s denim-clad thigh, slow and with intent. Any casual observer glancing back would have seen nothing more than two strangers staring ahead.

Logan steadied his breathing while her fingernails traced around the edge of his zipper, his cock strained, insistent, against the denim. She curled her fingers under the denim, tugged down the zipper, the sound lost under a swell of on-screen screams.

Madelyn’s lips parted, the barest hint of a smile. She didn’t look at him, not at first, just brushed the heel of her palm against the ridge of his hard-on. Exquisite, barely-there pressure that somehow set his nerves on fire. His right hand twitched, curled against the armrest, gripping it like a lifeline.

He glanced nervously around the theater. Nobody looked their way. A few rows down, one of the film’s B-list alumni was scrolling her phone, screen illuminating her face in a blue-white glow.

Madelyn slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, sliding it in with silent mastery and the steadiness of someone who’d made up her mind long before she sat down. Her fingers found him instantly, closed around him. She did not hesitate. No lingering glance for permission, no second-guessing. Her hand claimed his cock and squeezed, firm but knowing.

Through it all, her eyes monitored the screen, as if splitting her consciousness between the B-movie deaths above and the harder-to-predict drama of Logan coming apart in the dark beside her. If she caught his pleading, half-panicked side glance, she gave no sign. Logan sucked in a shallow breath he could barely control. Madelyn stroked him in an unhurried rhythm, as her fingers moved in an up and down motion.

She worked his shaft with relentless precision, never jerky or obvious, just a slow pace. His thigh tensed under her forearm, and he bit back a moan that would’ve drawn every eye in the theater his direction. Instead, he dug his nails into the plush seat cushion, sweat gathering along his temples. He tried to focus on the movie, to anchor himself in its stilted dialogue and shrieking teens, but all he could do was wait for her next move, his body entirely at her mercy.

She leaned toward him, not watching, mouth barely moving as she whispered, “Don’t make a sound.”

He nodded.

She jerked him, alternating long pulls with short, furious flurries. Madelyn didn't even give him the courtesy of eye contact. Her gaze stayed on the bloodbath flickering above, her face in profile, beautiful and coldly amused, as if this was the only way she could get through the film’s wooden dialogue.

Her gaze flickered. She shifted, her hand leaving Logan’s lap for the barest moment. And then, with confidence, she angled her body toward him, lowering her head until that movie-screen-perfect mouth hovered inches from his cock. The neon wash from the film cast shifting patterns across her cheekbones, her hair brushing his stomach as she exhaled slowly onto the exposed, throbbing length of his cock.

Madelyn’s head bobbed, slow at first, and the slide of her lips was exquisite. She used her hand to twist and coax in tandem, working the shaft with a synchronization that left him helpless. Somehow, impossibly, she stayed completely composed, even as the tip of his cock hit the back of her throat. She took him deep, as deep as she could.

Madelyn let her eyes drift up to his wicked amusement dancing there, then reached for his hand and guided it to the back of her head. He felt the impossibly soft shine of her hair, the lacquered smoothness of her scalp as he flexed his fingers, the insistence of her rhythm and the steady squeeze of her tongue around him. If anyone glanced back now, they’d see nothing but a woman’s head dropped briefly to the lap of a man, a silhouette in the dark, a slightly hunched figure, still as a predator, and a man paralyzed in his seat.

Every instinct screamed at him to groan, to thrust, to react, but he bit into his lip, all because he knew that if he made a noise, any noise, they would be busted. Sweat pricked the back of his neck as every nerve in his body threatened to betray him. He could feel the cresting edge of climax rising, heat gathering at his core, but Madelyn slowed, just enough.

He glanced down, watched the ripple of her throat as she swallowed around him, felt the hitch in his breath. He saw the curl of her smile as she sensed how hard he worked to keep silent, and she delighted in it. Madelyn was patient. She kept the exquisite torture on a simmer, knowing exactly how to wind him up and hold him there, balanced on that breathless edge.

A few rows down, the B-lister tapped out a tweet, oblivious. The couple even closer had begun a whispered argument, movie forgotten. No one saw what Madelyn was doing in the shadows.

Logan would never remember a single beat of the movie’s third act. She worked him so relentlessly, with such unrushed certainty. At some point, as the on-screen heroine’s scream bled into a shuddering, synth-fueled chase, Madelyn sunk lower, and twisted her wrist at the base of his cock in a way that made Logan’s legs seize and jaw clamp down until his teeth ached.

She took everything he gave, didn’t pull away, didn’t slow, not until every pulse and aftershock of him had been wrung out and swallowed. Then, with obscene grace, she smoothed her hair, zipped him up, and returned her folding silk hands to her lap.

It was as if nothing happened. The film’s credits rolled, a cheap pop anthem blared, and the MC stepped onto the makeshift stage at the front of the theater, thanking the cast, promising free drinks, and rallying everyone toward the velvet-roped after party upstairs.

“Ready?” Madelyn asked, glancing at Logan.

Logan adjusted his jacket and nodded, face slack and pale, the back of his neck still tingling. He followed her out wordlessly, the camera bag clattering against his hip as he stumbled toward the aisle. His legs were unreliable. No one paid them much notice, not in the swirl of the departing crowd, as they made their way to the glowing "VIP LOUNGE" sign and ascended the staircase.

The afterparty was squeezed into a makeshift speakeasy on the theater’s second floor, all velvet curtains and low slung sofas, a staging ground for actors, influencers, and the handful of industry parasites that always trailed behind. There was a crush at the door, a bottleneck of “oh my god!” hugs and cold appraisals, and Madelyn breezed right past, barely glancing at the faces crowding her periphery. Logan trailed in her wake, relief washing over him as he realized how few people gave a damn about the hired camera guy’s presence.

The End

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #4
With Dua Lipa and Tate McRae
Written by TheLW
Codes: MFF, Alcohol, Blowjob, Fingering
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

It had been almost two months now since Logan was hired by British Vogue to do a photoshoot with Dua Lipa, an assignment Logan initially approached with the same professionalism he brought to every gig. Big names didn’t rattle him. He'd shoot actors, musicians, models, politicians… he’d seen enough egos to last me a lifetime.

But Dua? She was different. Not just the beauty, which was obvious, but the way she carried herself. Effortless. Confident. She didn’t try to command the room, she just did, like gravity worked a little harder around her. The camera loved her. Hell, everyone loved her. But for some reason, when they spoke between takes, she didn’t treat him like just another person behind the lens. She listened. She joked. She leaned in.

And he should’ve known then, he was screwed.

The photoshoot lasted a couple of hours, wardrobe changes, lighting resets. You name it. And in the midst of it all, they kept gravitating back to each other. There was sexual tension between them, and they both felt it. It wasn’t loud or obvious, but it simmered just under the surface, waiting for one of them to make the first move.

Most of the crew had wrapped and left, the studio slowly emptying. Dua stuck around, claiming she wanted to go over some of the shots with me, even though the images were already backed up and filed. They stood close in front of my laptop, scrolling through the photos, complimenting the lighting, the poses, the angles. But her shoulder brushed against him once. Then again. And she didn’t pull away.

They hooked up that night in the backroom of the studio, surrounded by half-packed gear and a still-warm pot of shitty coffee. It was fast. A little reckless. But holy hell, it was electric. When it was over, they didn’t talk about it. She gave him a crooked little smile, like they’d both just gotten away with something, and that was that.

But it didn’t stop there.

Over the next few weeks, it became a pattern.

A text at 10 p.m.

A car waiting outside.

A bottle of wine was already opened.

Clothes on the floor.

Breathless silence.

Then back to normal like nothing ever happened.

They weren’t dating, at least not officially. That word never even entered the conversation. But the truth is, they weren’t just hooking up either. There was something else brewing under the surface, something unsaid. She started sending memes during the day. Checking in. Asking if he’d eaten. Logan found himself looking for her name when his phone buzzed, catching himself smiling at dumb inside jokes.

And it wasn’t just Logan. She got weirdly quiet when he mentioned working with a female model for another job. She “jokingly” asked if he was seeing anyone. When Logan posted a photo from a rooftop bar with a friend, she texted, “Nice view. Who’s the arm?”

Like he said, it had become a pattern, so it wasn’t surprising that on a quiet Thursday night, Logan had just finished editing a set from an ad campaign shoot and was debating whether to order takeout or pretend he had groceries when his phone buzzed.

“Are you still in Los Angeles?”

Simple. Out of nowhere. No greeting, no context.

Logan leaned back in his chair, smirking a little. He hadn’t heard from Dua in a few days, not unusual, not alarming, but enough for her name to light up his screen and command full attention.

“Yeah, still here.”

She didn’t make me wait long.

“Flying in tonight. Got a friend with me… Tate.”

Classic Dua. Just the right amount of flirty to keep him guessing, just vague enough to make his chest tighten. They never really did the whole “constant texting” thing. But now she was back in his city, tossing him a breadcrumb like he hadn’t been wondering when she’d show up again.

“Where are you two staying?”

A pause. Then the dots.

“Thinking somewhere in West Hollywood. But honestly, we haven’t booked yet. Got a better suggestion?”

Logan could almost hear her voice in that message. Smooth. Teasing. Testing him.

“You could crash at mine.”

Another pause. This one longer.

“Tempting… but only if you promise to behave in front of Tate.”

There it was. She was doing this on purpose. Not just checking in. Not just making plans. She was playing the game again, setting the pace, pressing the right buttons.

And Logan was all too happy to let her.

Logan tossed his phone on the coffee table and stood up, already feeling the shift in the night. L.A. had a funny way of getting louder when she was in town.

And something told him it wasn’t just going to be a drink and a friendly catch-up.

An hour or so had crawled by since Dua's last message. Logan told himself he wasn’t pacing, but the way he kept glancing at the clock, yeah, he was pacing.

Then came the knock.

Not rushed. Not timid. Just… confident.

Logan opened the door.

And there they were.

Dua stood there first, leaning casually against the frame like she hadn’t just tossed his night upside down with a few texts and a wink. That low-key lethal look from the photo? It hit harder in person. Oversized long-sleeve layered over something darker underneath, one shoulder hanging loose like gravity only applied when she wanted it to. Fitted jeans hugged her hips, and those checkered slip-ons gave her this I-don’t-need-to-try energy that made it impossible to look away.

Then there was the other one. Tate.

She was standing just slightly behind Dua but definitely not in the background. Long blonde hair, loose and parted down the middle. A cropped brown jacket hanging open over a white tank top. Short denim shorts that showed off legs for days, and those slouched jeans layered over boots like she walked off the set of a music video and didn’t bother changing.

She didn’t smile right away. She just looked me over, measuring, maybe. Or maybe just naturally intimidating without trying. Either way, the air shifted when Logan made eye contact with her.

Dua tilted her head, smirking like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Hey,” she said casually. “So... this is Tate.”

Before he could even respond, she added…

“As in Tate McRae. Fellow singer. Canadian. Looks like she walked out of a Levi’s ad. Don't let the jacket fool you, she’s trouble.”

Tate raised an eyebrow at that, half-smirking.

“I’m actually very polite,” she said, stepping forward and extending a hand. “But yeah, I do break a lot of hearts.”

Logan shook her hand. Firm grip. Cool skin. Definitely not the type who got nervous meeting strangers.

“Good to know,” Logan said, nodding as he stepped aside to let them in. “And Dua’s what, just here for moral support?”

Dua brushed past me, close enough for her shoulder to graze mine.

“Please. I’m here to cause problems,” she said over her shoulder.

And just like that, the night officially began.

Logan poured them tequila, Dua’s choice, naturally. Tate didn’t argue. She just kicked her boots off at the door like she owned the place and slid onto the couch without waiting for permission.

Now the three of us were seated, way too close for comfort on a couch built for two and a half, tops. Logan was in the middle. Of course. Tate on one side, one knee curled beneath her, facing in. Dua on the other, legs crossed, elbow slung casually along the backrest, her fingertips brushing the edge of my neck every time she shifted.

The music was playing low, some R&B from Logan’s “don’t overthink it” playlist. Not loud enough to fill the silence, but just enough to make you lean in when someone spoke.

“So,” Tate said, swirling her glass, her gaze sharp and unreadable. “How long have you two... known each other?”

She asked smoothly. No accusation. No emphasis. But there was an edge in it, like she already had her own theory and wanted to hear how close you’d get to the truth.

Dua let out a quiet little laugh beside me.

“Oh, we go back a bit,” she said, drawing out the last word like a string of honey. “We met on a shoot. One thing led to another...”

She trailed off and looked at me with that slow, knowing smile.

Logan smirked, trying to keep my cool.

“Very professional start,” he added, taking a sip. “Vogue would be proud.”

Tate raised an eyebrow, her eyes darting between us.

“Right,” she said, biting back a grin. “And how’s the professionalism holding up?”

Logan choked on his drink, just a little. Dua laughed louder this time.

“It was holding up great,” she said, leaning forward to pour another round.

Tate didn’t miss a beat.

“Was?” she asked, glancing between us again.

“And then we fucked.”

She said it flatly. Casual. Like she was stating a fact about the weather.

Tate blinked. Then let out a short, surprised laugh.

Dua shot her a wicked little smile and leaned back against the couch, letting her arm drape behind him once more.

“Yeah,” she said, voice low but playful. “Then he started texting. Got a little clingy.”

“Clingy?” Logan shot back. “You’re the one who FaceTimed me at 2 a.m. from Ibiza.”

“I was drunk,” she replied, grinning. “You picked up.”

Tate raised her glass like she was watching the best damn reality show of her life.

“This is better than the last album rollout I sat through,” she said, taking a long sip. “Are you two always this open?”

“Only when there’s tequila,” he said, finishing his drink.

“And an audience,” Dua added, locking eyes with Tate.

That landed.

Tate set her glass down on the coffee table, leaned in just a little closer, her gaze sharp.

“Well... I’m not just here to listen,” she said.

Dua smiled.

“Good.”

Dua didn’t waste a single breath. She leaned in, one hand sliding up the back of his neck as if to steady him, which, for a second, he needed. Logan was about to say something, he didn't even know what, maybe a joke, maybe a protest, maybe nothing at all, but she was already turning her head, already closing the space between her and Tate.

It wasn’t a delicate kiss. There was nothing shy about it. The air shifted in the living room, thick with anticipation and heat. Dua lifted Tate’s chin, tilted her face just so, and pressed their mouths together. Tate didn’t hesitate, not for a second. For a girl with a handshake like a viable threat, she kissed like she meant to make a memory of it.

When they broke apart, everything felt slightly off-balance, but in that good, butterflies-in-your-stomach way. Dua looked at Logan sideways, her lips parted, her breath quick. She was testing him, or maybe inviting him, or maybe both. Tate just looked amused, like she’d suspected things might go in this direction and was more than game.

Logan watched, found himself unable to look away, as Tate’s tongue darted out, tracing Dua’s bottom lip, as if they’d engineered this moment since stepping through his door and were only now letting him in on the plan. Tate didn’t even glance his way. She pressed in again, lips skating along Dua’s jaw, then, quick as a spark, turned to him. Her face hovered just above his, eyes sharp, watching every micro-expression, the way a lion watches a twitch in tall grass.

“Are you good with this?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She smiled.

Seconds later, her mouth was on his, and Tate kissed like she wanted a fight and a surrender at the same time. Dua just watched, arm still behind Logan’s head, her palm sliding from his neck and down his spine, not possessive, not even guiding us. She hovered there a second, her nails catching on the nape of Logan’s neck, and then she kissed each of them in turn.

Tate’s laughter got sharper, her hands everywhere at once. She knocked over the bottle to the floor, half-spilled and forgotten.

As Dua glanced back, the faintest dare in her eyes, lips curling that half-mischief, half-command smile. Her hand found Logan’s, not holding, but guiding, pulling his fingers to the inside of her thigh, a silent “come here” and “pay attention” rolled into one gesture. Logan’s hand followed the cue.

Logan caught the signal between them, some shared look, some wordless agreement that left him slightly behind, and exactly where they wanted him. Their mouths met again. More urgent, less exploratory.

Logan fumbled with button and zipper, Tate was already a step ahead, hers undone before he could process it, hips popping to slide the denim shorts down, her thigh pressed to Logan’s, skin warmer than he had expected. Dua didn’t hesitate. She hooked her fingers under her own waistband, sliding her pants off in one smooth motion, then peeled away her top, leaving nothing between the three of us but skin and expectation.

Her energy changed, less devil-may-care, more deliberate, almost competitive. Tate shot her a look, half-lidded, a little dangerous, and then Dua was in her lap, straddling, kissing her again, pushing her back into the couch cushions with a force that made her gasp. Tate’s hands, blunt and greedy, moved up Dua’s waist, the tips digging in until coral lines flushed above her hips.

Logan watched, momentarily paralyzed, the two of them locked together, legs tangled and hands in hair. He could smell the tequila and sweat and coconut conditioner. Tate’s laugh had gone from sharp to breathy. She grabbed Dua’s waist, tugged her closer, and for a half-beat, Dua’s eyes flicked toward him, hunger and mirth mixed together. She broke from Tate and leaned in, hand on his chest, and kissed him hard, open-mouthed, as if reclaiming lost territory.

Tate, not to be left out, leaned across and bit Logan’s shoulder, gentle but definitely not an accident. She pulled him down by the back of his head, and suddenly it was all limbs and mouths, one body indistinguishable from the next, a knot of sweat and skin and fingernails. Logan’s glass hit the floor, rolled under the coffee table, and no one cared.

Eventually, both Dua and Tate found themselves, down on their knees, on the floor, working over his cock and balls. Tate got there first, grip tight, mouth hotter than he expected, but Dua was right beside her, as she wrapped her fingers around the base and fed Logan’s cock into Tate's mouth. There was no coordination, but somehow, they fell into sync, trading places every few seconds, hands gliding over Logan’s thighs, nails catching skin, tongues both fighting and collaborating for space.

Dua looked up at him, lips slick, and smirked, as if she’d scouted his weak points in advance and was delighted to prove it. She kissed the head, slow and deliberate, before letting Tate take over again, deeper this time, hands braced on my knees. Tate moaned as she sucked, eyes shut, then squeezed Logan’s balls in a way that sent a jolt all the way up his body.

he’d been in threesomes before, once or twice, but this wasn’t even in the same category. There was no awkwardness, no insecurity, just two women who seemed to have an inside bet about who could make him cum first.

Tate pulled off and stroked me with a grip that dared Logan to wince, while Dua licked her hand and massaged his balls, rolling them with the casual finesse of someone tuning an instrument. Tate, propped up on her knees, braced herself with one hand on his thigh and sucked the head so hard her cheeks hollowed. Dua’s mouth landed at the base, her tongue pressed flat as she looked up.

They changed formation, Tate lowering to tongue Logan’s balls as Dua enveloped the tip. Tate’s breath was hot and uneven as she swirled her tongue and squeezed my thigh, the bite of her nails leaving marks on his skin. Dua bobbed, slow and deep, until she gagged, then pulled back, spit glistening. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and shot a look at Tate.

"Don't let her get too confident," Tate said, as she licked along the underside of Logan’s cock.

Dua, undeterred, grinned and pushed Logan’s knees further apart, squeezing the inside of his thigh. She crouched lower, her hair falling in waves around her face, and went to work on Logan’s balls again, tongue flat and insistent, her palm cradling the base of his cock but letting Tate have the tip. Tate, meanwhile, had both hands wrapped around the shaft, one just behind the other, stroking as she sucked. The sensation blurred into a numb, throbbing need.

It was, in a word, amazing.

At some point, both women got up off of their knees, and bent over the couch, as Logan got into position behind them. Asses now in the air, skin pressed side by side, Dua’s fingers disappearing between Tate’s wet thighs. Tate bucked at his touch, her moan breaking through her clenched teeth, hips rolling as Logan pushed into her. He alternated. One minute, Logan was inside Tate, the next, buried in Dua, who clung to the back of the couch and laughed every time he switched bodies, like she was winning a game.

The curve of Dua’s back was perfect for gripping, a dark latticework of hair falling over her shoulders, and she moaned with each thrust, never quite surrendering, always half taunting. Tate braced herself, slender arms curved like parentheses around the couch cushions. Her ass bounced, inviting a slap, and Logan obliged, leaving a palm print that bloomed pink where she shivered.

Dua glanced over her shoulder, lips parted around a moan. “Don’t go easy,” she said, voice low and urgent. “I want to feel it tomorrow.”

Logan kept going, relentless, first in Tate, then in Dua, each time feeling the difference. Tate was impossibly tight, bracing for the shock of every stroke, jaw clenched, Dua loosened, easing into it, a huge greedy bloom of pleasure in every sound she made. “Don’t slow down,” she blurted, half-laughing, head thrown sideways to look at Tate slamming back onto Logan’s cock, her blonde hair a mess, Tate caught Dua’s eye, lips curling in open challenge, and slammed herself back against him.

Tate reached between her legs and circled herself with two fingers, working in time to the thrusts. The sounds in the room, panting, the slapping of skin on skin, it was one hell of a sight to behold. Dua grabbed the small of her back and pushed her forward so Logan could drive even deeper. Tate yelped, the wordless noise of someone at the edge, but held still, ass arched and trembling, riding the aftershock.

She’s not gonna last,” Dua announced, hand smacking Tate’s ass

Tate shot her a glare, but didn’t slow her own motion, just met Logan’s thrusts with equal force, as if matching him was the only way to keep from toppling over.

Logan shifted focus to Dua, and for a moment, he was just hovering, tip sliding against her pussy lips, slow torture. Dua growled, actual growl, in her throat, and reached back to grab his wrist, pulling him into her so hard Logan had almost missed. Her legs spread wider, knees planted on the couch-fabric, and she raised up, offering everything.

“Dua wants it hard,” Tate said.

Logan gripped Dua by the hips, skin slick with sweat, and slammed into her. Trying not to lose his grip, with every pump of his cock, into Dua. She was impossibly wet. Dua’s hips snapped back to meet Logan, an involuntary hinge, and the breath left her in a sound that was barely a whimper. There was nothing delicate about it. Logan pounded her steadily, skin smacking, both of them sweaty and unashamed.

“Yeah, like that,” Dua moaned. “Come on.”

Logan set a pace that bordered on mean, each thrust a challenge to her pride and her body. “More,” Dua growled, and he delivered. Her ass rippled, hips bucking with a violence that made his own grip slip. Logan doubled down, voice thick in his ears, lost in the way her back arched and her head rolled.

Tate turned around, so she was sitting on the couch properly, before she started rubbing her own clit.

Logan fucked Dua harder. The slap-thump of hips to ass was obscene. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Her words blurred as she pushed back on him, greedy for more. Dua arched back, grabbed at the edge of the cushion, and muttered, “Fuck, I’m close.”

Tate’s fingers slipped in and out, as she worked over her sex mound, watching as her friend Dua got fucked good and hard. She was quiet now, biting her bottom lip, but the motion of her fingers was relentless. Her eyes were locked on where Logan was splitting Dua open, watching every inch, every recoil and impact.

He couldn’t look away. Tate’s hand was a blur, slick and shiny, knuckles pumping, each time she pulled out her fingers, they glistened in the overhead light. She rubbed them over her clit, slow at first, then faster, teasing herself until her hips jerked.

Logan pushed into Dua hard, losing any sense of rhythm, just chasing that last finish line. His body tensed, and she felt it, planting her feet and spreading her legs wide, squeezing around him as he bottomed out. The sound Dua made was raw, a full-bodied gasp that became a threat and a promise at once. Her whole frame went rigid, then collapsed, trembling and clutching at the slipcover.

"Fuck, that’s hot," Tate hissed.

Tate’s hand, still buried between her thighs, stared fixed on Dua, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth. Her fingers flashed with every motion, flecked with her own wetness. “Come on, finish,” she spit out, her legs working open and closed in little spasms. “Fucking finish inside of her.”

Dua’s ass flexed as Logan drove the last few strokes, cock so deep and stiff he thought he’d split her in half. Her breathing hitched, then broke, her whole body seizing around him. Dua collapsed forward, panting, forehead pressed into the armrest. Logan felt every aftershock in her thighs, the way her ass clenched and released, spasms rolling out in waves.

Logan was close, and Tate saw it. She reached over, her hand slick, and wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock as he pulled out of Dua. She jerked Logan just once, hard and deliberate. “Give it to her,” she whispered, fierce and wild, and before he could protest, she guided the head straight down, right onto Dua’s lower back. Logan’s cock pulsated, as rope after rope of white spunk came splattering onto Dua’s sweaty, trembling skin.

The whole room smelled like sex and tequila.

His knees buckled and Logan half-laughed, half-groaned, slumping onto the floor. Dua lay sprawled, her back sticky, glancing over her shoulder with a look that could stun a horse. Tate sat cross-legged on the couch, hand still between her thighs, eyelids heavy.

For a moment, every sound in the apartment was silent except for the blood still rushing through his ears.

To Be Continued

[TheLW]

Behind The Lens #5
With Tate McRae
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Blowjob, Shower Sex
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.

The next morning, Logan woke alone in his bed.

It didn’t make sense at first. He remembered drifting off with Dua tucked against one side of him, Tate sprawled against the other, his king-sized mattress barely enough for the three of them. Now, the space on either side was empty, the sheets still faintly warm, the faint trace of perfume clinging to the air.

He stretched, yawned, rolled out of bed. The house was too quiet, until he caught it. The sound of water, steady and close.

Logan followed it down the hall. The bathroom door was ajar, steam curling out into the corridor, damp heat clinging to his skin as he stepped closer. He pushed the door open and walked in without hesitation.

The mirror was fogged, the room blurred by steam, but the silhouette behind the shower curtain was sharp enough to draw him forward. With one smooth tug, he pulled the curtain back.

Tate stood beneath the spray, water streaming down the curve of her shoulders, her hair slick and heavy, clinging to her neck. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cover herself. Instead, she turned slowly, letting her eyes rake down on him, pausing at the unmistakable bulge straining against his boxers.

“Well,” she said, voice honeyed with amusement, “someone’s happy to see me.”

Logan grinned, unbothered, leaning casually against the wall. “Hard not to be,” he shot back. “You make quite the wake-up call.”

Tate’s smirk deepened, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. She dragged a hand down her stomach, fingers circling at her hip before letting them slip lower, her body arching slightly under the water. “Dua had to take off. Left me here all alone,” she murmured, as though it were a crime. Her eyes locked on his again, gleaming with mischief. “Which means it’s just you and me.”

Logan stepped closer, the steam wrapping tighter around him, the water’s hiss swallowing up the outside world. “You say that like it’s a problem,” he said.

Tate tilted her head, extended her hand through the curtain of mist. Droplets slid down her wrist, catching in the hollow of her palm as she held it out to him. “Not a problem,” she said. “An opportunity. Unless you’re planning on standing there pretending you’re not dying to touch me.”

Logan’s grin sharpened. He stripped his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor, his eyes never leaving hers. “Pretending isn’t really my style.”

Tate laughed softly, low and approving, the sound vibrating in her chest. “Good,” she whispered, beckoning him closer.

Logan didn’t take her hand right away. He let his gaze trail over her, the droplets racing down her skin, the way the spray bounced off her collarbone and broke into rivulets that slid lower. Steam wrapped the room in a haze, curling against his chest as he stepped forward, closing the space between them inch by inch.

Tate arched a brow, her hand still extended, waiting. “Taking your time?” she teased, though her voice carried an edge of anticipation.

“Just enjoying the view,” Logan said, his grin crooked, his tone easy. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband, pushed his boxers down, and let them fall. Her eyes looked down, then back up, the smirk she wore deepening into something sharper.

Finally, he reached out, his palm closing over hers. Tate’s skin was wet and hot from the water, her grip confident as she tugged him closer. He stepped into the spray, the water hitting his back, heat sliding across his shoulders as the curtain swayed shut behind him.

The shower was too small for distance, too intimate for pretense. Tate’s body brushed his with every subtle movement, her damp hair clinging to his chest when she leaned in. She tipped her head back into the spray, droplets catching her lashes before she blinked them away, her smile a spark in the mist.

“Better,” she said, her voice nearly drowned by the sound of water.

Logan let his hand trace the line of her arm, over the slope of her shoulder, until his palm rested against the curve of her back. “Much better,” he answered.

For a moment, neither of them moved, just stood there, steam swirling, the shower’s water beating down around them like a second heartbeat.

Tate didn’t hesitate, she pressed up against him, skin to skin. Her mouth found his neck, tasting salt and humid heat, teeth grazing just enough to claim territory. Logan was distracted for a moment by the sensation, her hands everywhere at once, fingers mapping the terrain of his stomach, nails raking down his chest.

He stole a kiss, water beading between their lips, tongues tangling with the hunger of two people who’d done this before and knew exactly how reckless it could get. But Tate always played with escalation, always skipped middle ground and went straight for the edge.

She broke away, eyes glimmering. Then she dropped to her knees with a practiced, almost theatrical grace. The tile of the tub was cold, but she didn’t flinch, both hands braced on his thighs, a little pressure testing his balance. She looked up at him with a sly, uneven grin and licked a single drop from the curve of his hipbone, then worked her way in.

Logan’s world narrowed. He let his head loll back against the tile, breathing steam and soap and the faint chemical tang of too-hot water. Tate’s mouth was the only thing that mattered. She took him slow at first, teasing, with every bob and swirl an exercise in patience. Logan gripped the edge of the glass door, the surface slick under his palm.

Tate alternated between shallow and deep, with a slow, rippling pull, like she was working him over with a measured intent, not letting him break, not letting him fall apart. Tate’s tongue licked along the base, the tip of her nose pressed into his skin, and Logan tipped his chin down to watch, searching her face for a tell, for a sign she was playing for anything other than pure enjoyment. The water beat a migraine rhythm against his shoulders, louder each time he braced the slick porcelain for balance.

Steam rose around them, the glass fogged so dense it felt like they were locked in some makeshift sauna. Tate liked to tease, knew exactly how to keep him on the edge without letting him drop, she’d always had a knack for control, for resisting and denying, only giving in at the last possible moment.

She stopped suddenly, lips flushed and swollen, and glanced up, smirking. Water dripped from her chin. That fucking look. Then Tate wrapped her hand around him, just below the head, squeezed until he twitched. “You look like you’re about to pass out,” she said, voice husky from the work she put in.

Logan only grunted, teeth gritted, the wordless permission she offered. Tate’s mouth found him again, her tongue slick and greedy, her lips bruising the ridge beneath the head while her grip tightened and pumped in counterpoint. She gagged just once, eyes gleaming up through wet lashes, savoring his shudder.

She pulled off with a pop, spit and water dribbling down her chin, using both hands to stroke him, her touch deft and obscenely assured. Logan’s knees buckled, the cold porcelain digging into his calves as he rocked forward, chasing the sensation, throttle opened, every muscle wound taut.

Tate didn’t let up, fatigue and desire and last night’s sleep deprivation all blurring together, and still she worked him, relentless, swallowing him again, the tip of her tongue tracing the pulsating vein along the underside like she wanted to claim it for herself. She stayed like that, watching him through her lashes, until the control snapped and he bucked forward. Tate pulled off, and laughed, a guttural sound drowned out by the hiss of water.

“Do you ever come up for air?” Logan gasped, when he could.

Tate pulled back, lips swollen, a single strand of saliva stretching and snapping before the water washed it away. She nipped at his thigh, then climbed up him, slippery and predatory. Logan caught her under the arms, hauled her up with a strength he knew she expected from him. She wrapped around him, calves locking behind his knees, hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, tongue brushing against his teeth as he captured her mouth.

He spun, pressing her back to the tile, careful despite the hunger that raged beneath his skin. Showers left little margin for error. Her breath was hot in his ear, chest heaving against his, nipples pebbling with every shift of her body. He set his hands at her waist, thumbs digging lightly into the tense muscle just above her hips.

With that, Logan lowered Tate McRae onto his rock hard cock, she landed on him with a wet, graceless slap, the rounded angle of her ass catching the base of his cock and sinking him to the hilt. She made a sound, a crushed gasp caught between the water and the tile, Logan couldn’t tell if it was pain or want, or if there was even a distinction for her.

Tate rode him from the start, hips pistoning up and down with a purpose that bordered on petulance, like she needed to teach him something. Stinging slap of skin, the water making everything worse, frictionless and friction-high at once. Her ankles locking behind him, her cunt clenching so tight around his cock it felt like every nerve in him had been wired straight to the movement. He rocked up to meet her every plunge, slamming her into the tiled wall in sync with her pace.

“Ugh, fuck Logan.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t have to. Tate’s whole spine bent backwards, forehead nearly grazing the slick porcelain as she bounced up and down, gathering the force of gravity and slamming back on to his cock, with each thrust. Tate’s heels dug in, her hands braced on his shoulder and the slippery ledge of his upper back, her nails nearly drawing blood as she rode out the quartz-bright rhythm, Logan’s cock planted solid inside her.

There was a noise on loop in his throat, some distorted blend of grunt and gasp, but the water devoured it before it could echo. The glass was opaque, hammered by steam and whatever flesh pressed against it. He couldn’t tell where his body ended and hers began, just the relentless, piston cadence and the way she bent backwards, hair plastered in ropes against her face, lips parted as drops clung to her chin.

“Fuck, Fuck… so good.” Tate cried out in pleasure.

A hard twist of her hips and he nearly lost his footing, his knees notched to the bathtub’s porcelain curve, water pooling around his ankles. He slammed her once, twice, feeling the aftershock tick through his spine. Tate grinned, feral, eyes opening only to roll back as she threw herself into another shattering bounce. Skin on skin, bone on bone, a single, brutal mechanism. Every collision smashed all the air out of his lungs, he couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to.

She cracked her forehead back against the tile, bared her teeth. “Harder,” she growled, voice ragged.

He flexed his quads, thrusting upward until her thighs started to tremble around his hips and her pelvis pressed down, grinding, each movement more intense than the last. Logan braced himself, and let her wear him out, as every thrust jacked the tempo higher, and Tate wanted everything hard or not at all. He sawed up into her, cock hard and thrusting inside her, and then she bit his neck, sharp and deep. He felt the mark bloom, a stinging ache that would outlast the shower.

Tate’s arms snaked around his neck, not for embrace but leverage, using him as a fulcrum to batter herself against the wall and drive him deeper, impossibly deeper. Logan felt her contract, a flutter and clutch that started low and spread like a riot up his spine. She was still grinning, eyes wet and bright, mouth open for oxygen or laughter, Logan couldn’t tell which, but it didn’t matter. He met her tempo, pistoning upward as the tile battered his kneecaps, until every slap of their collision sounded like it might break something important.

“Fuck, you...” He meant it as a warning, but there was no air to load the words, so it came out strangled, a tangle of syllables crushed under the force of her rhythm. Tate’s nails raked his shoulders, the sting a blur of heat that barely registered, because everything below his stomach was knotted and on the verge.

She clamped down, grinding herself flush to the base, and Logan felt the tremor at the base of her spine, her body cinched around him, a hot, vice grip. He was so close, half a dozen sharp plunges away from filling her up with his spunk, drowning every thought in a pure, electric white noise. His thighs trembled. Tate’s chin lifted, water sluicing down the sharp line of her jaw, and she ground down on him, rocking fast, insistent. Her moan split the fog.

He felt her clench, full-body, a shudder that started where he filled her and rippled out to every muscle in range. She made no sound, just a hitch in her throat and a locking of her legs, rigid around his waist. A second later, another orgasam, harder, her fingers curling tight enough to leave marks. Tate’s hair was everywhere, a mess plastered to her cheek and shoulder, and she bit down on his earlobe to keep herself together. Logan barely heard himself grunt, then groan, as he went with her, the pressure cresting and exploding, his whole body jerking as he emptied his balls into her, rope after rope of his hot cum shooting into her awaiting womb.

When the water finally ran cold, Logan and Tate tumbled out of the shower. The bathroom mirror was dripping with steam, their reflections blurred but close together, shoulder to shoulder as they half-heartedly tried to towel off.

Logan leaned back against the counter, chest still rising and falling, watching Tate wring the water from her hair. She caught him staring and arched an eyebrow. “You look smug,” she teased.

He smirked, unapologetic. “I feel smug.”

Tate chuckled, shaking her head as if she wanted to call him insufferable but couldn’t quite bring herself to. “Careful. You’ll make Dua jealous.”

At the mention of her name, Logan’s thoughts went back to the empty bed, the faint warmth where Dua had been. He wondered where she’d gone, whether she’d come back, and what it meant that she’d left them to their own devices.

Tate must have seen the shift in his expression, because her teasing softened into something sharper. She stepped closer, tracing a damp finger along his jaw. “Don’t overthink it. Dua doesn’t do accidents. If she wanted to be here, she’d be here. If she wanted you to wonder, she got what she wanted.”
Logan nodded slowly. Tate was right, Dua always played the long game.

**Later That Night**

A few hours later, Logan found himself across from Dua at a tiny family-owned Italian spot tucked off a side street in Los Angeles. The place smelled of garlic and simmering tomatoes, its mismatched chairs and hand-scrawled chalkboard menu a far cry from the glossy circles Dua usually moved in. But she seemed at ease, her dark hair pulled back, a glass of red wine glowing in her hand as candlelight flickered between them.

They eased through the early talk. Logan told her about the morning with Tate, how the shower had bled into the bedroom, how Tate had been a storm that left him worn and grinning. Then, with a crooked smile, he added that it didn’t matter, Tate was pure fire, sure, but fire burned out. Dua, though? Dua lingered, carved herself into him in a way no one else could.

She listened without interruption, a faint smirk playing on her lips. She didn’t seem rattled. If anything, she looked pleased, like she’d been waiting for him to admit it. She shifted the conversation with ease, talking about her day, shopping on Melrose, a coffee with an old friend whose name carried weight. Every piece of it sounded casual, but Logan knew better than to take anything she said at face value.

Their food arrived, plates of pasta that steamed in the warm air, a basket of bread between them, and for a while, they let the conversation drift. It wasn’t until Logan was halfway through his second glass of wine that Dua set her fork down and fixed him with that steady, unblinking gaze.

“Come with me,” she said. “I want you to meet my family.”

The words landed like a challenge, though her tone was soft, almost casual. Logan wiped his mouth with his napkin, stalling just long enough to read the intent behind her eyes.

“Give me a couple of days,” he said at last. “Sally set me up with a shoot, InStyle Magazine. Can’t blow it off.”

At the name, Dua’s expression changed, something sharp, something calculating, but it was gone in an instant. She nodded, her smile returning like it had never left.

“Two days,” she echoed, lifting her glass again. “Don’t keep me waiting longer than that.”

To Be Continued