Being a paparazzi is a thankless job, you muse as you sit outside the swanky Manhattan hotel. You are considered the slime of the earth by the celebrities you photograph and loathed by their fans, even if those fans are the very ones fueling the frenzy that requires said celebrities’ photo to be snapped. Being a woman doesn’t make it much easier. It’s a man’s business, and sometimes it gets violent but you can scrap with the best of them.

 

So this wasn’t your first choice of job but a photography degree doesn’t get you far in New York City and this pays the bills that your bullshit waitressing job doesn’t. Its hot and sticky and you would much rather be in your bathroom developing your latest rolls from the photoshoot you did in Central Park this morning but you were assured that Justin Timberlake would be arriving back at his hotel any time now. It’s a lucky tip from an old friend that is putting his painting degree to good use by doing laundry for swanky hotels, and it looks like you were the only one that received it, because there are no other paps hanging around the entrance. They are most likely in the front because apparently the Justin Timberlake always uses the front entrance because he doesn’t want a fuss. Whatever, your painter friend is always right.

Well the Justin Timberlake is late. You check the lense on your camera for the umpteenth time, making sure it’s clean and smudge free.

 

Just then a large black SUV pulls up. You jump to your feet and begin snapping as a tall lanky frame unfolds itself from the passenger seat. He rounds the car and you note the extremely pissed off look on his face that will up the price of these pictures by a couple thousand bucks.

 

“I didn’t know pussy was takin’ pictures now,” he growls and your jaw drops but you recover instantly, flicking the flash button.

 

“Just for that you get the flash,” you snark and snap away, the white light causing him to slow his pace due to temporary blindness. The flash bleaches him out but your money shots were earlier and even though you usually don’t like to waste film, you’ve been sitting in the heat for an hour and feel like being a bitch.

 

“Why don’t you get a real fucking job,” he spats as he reaches the door.

 

“Soon as you do, Sparkly Dance Boy,” you counter, finally lowering the camera and replacing the lens cap.

 

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

 

You look up and find yourself toe to toe with the Justin Timberlake. He’s taken his sunglasses off and is glaring at you, his stormy blue stare causing you to shudder. He’s so close you can smell him, flowers with a sharp hint of musk that is utterly intoxicating. Your breathing goes shallow.

 

“Is there a problem, Mr. Timberlake?” a man in a red suit jacket is popping his head out of the door, eyeing your camera.

 

“No, leave us alone,” he barks, not taking his eyes off you. The man retreats and you are alone in an ally with an extremely pissed off pop star.

 

“Look dude I don’t know who the fuck you think you are-” you start but his laughter cuts you off.

 

“Somebody really fucking important,” he replies, grinning at you lopsidedly. “Or so you seem to think.” He gestures towards your camera.

 

“Whatever. I’ve got what I want so go fuck yourself.” You turn to walk away but one of his large hands closes around your bicep and whips you back to face him, pulling your body flush against his. Your eyes widen when you feel him, hard and pulsing against your thigh.

 

“But what about what I want?” he asks huskily, his lips brushing yours as he forms the words.

 

“I-I” You can only stutter. This is not happening. This is just insane!

 

He chuckles lowly, his chest vibrating against yours. “What’s the matter, baby?” he drawls, licking his lips. “Cat got your tongue?” His smile fades into a look of predatory lust. “Now, you know that’s my job.”

 

Before you even have a chance to respond, he’s crushing his lips with yours, his hands cupping your ass and pressing you harder into him, creating a sweet, torturous friction that has you panting.

 

A car horn blares and he pulls away, glancing down the street where apparently someone was almost run down by a town car. You follow his gaze.

 

You barely have time to focus on the fight that is about to ensue twenty yards away because you are suddenly whipped off your feet. You squeal from the speed of it and find yourself pressed against the wall of the hotel, hidden from view by the stairwell leading up to the back entrance.

 

His lips are on your ear, neck, collarbone, everywhere all at once, his hips grinding his dick steadily into the sweet spot between your legs.

 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” you question weakly.

 

“What?” he whispers into your ear as he hikes up the gauzy material of your skirt. “The only pap around is pretty fucking occupied.”

 

With this you feel two long, slender fingers, penetrate your aching center, his thumb circling your clit. You allow your head to fall back against the brick as his mouth sucks on your throat and his fingers fuck you, slow and steady, his hips grinding impatiently against you.

 

“You want it?” he whispers and you can only groan in response. “How bad?”

 

You look at him and he has his head cocked to the side, smirking at you, his fingers reaching deeper. Your eyes flutter as he curls them, making a come hither motion, stroking your g-spot effortlessly. At this his motions slow to a stop and he removes his fingers, a whine echoing from your throat.

 

“I asked you how bad?”

 

He brings his hand to his lips and smiles before his tongue snakes out to suck your juices from his digits, his eyes never leaving yours. You cannot speak, because this is the single most erotic thing you have ever seen. Instead you grind harder against him, working that bulge in his shorts as best you can with the way his body has you trapped against the wall.

 

His eyes slide closed and his mouth goes a little slack as you work him through his pants. It’s only for an instant, then his eyes snap open again and his hands are up your skirt, tugging your panties down. You reach between you, unbuckling his belt with trembling fingers. He slaps your hand away and does the rest quickly, positioning himself. You can feel the velvety head pressing against your wet heat.

 

“Still don’t have an answer,” he mocks, nipping at your bottom lip.

 

“Will you just fuck me already!” you exclaim, your fist smacking his chiseled shoulder ineffectually and he laughs in your face.

 

“Keep your voice down,” he whispers. “well actually…don’t.”

 

He slams into you hard, and you cry out, not really ready. Apparently he has a reason for being a cocky, arrogant ass. After a few thrusts he holds steady inside you and you feel the ache down to your toes.

 

“Can you take it?” he breathes into your ear.

 

You’re adjusting quickly and decide that his reign of power is going to be over very soon.

 

“I can take anything you got…” you say and he leans back to look you in the face, challenging you with a raised eyebrow. “Sparkly Dance Boy,” you add and watch him scowl.

 

You raise both hands over your head, planting them on the wall and using the leverage you grind against him. His eyes shut and he groans deep in his throat, letting his head fall back.

 

Your pace is slow, teasing but it feels oh so good to you and he certainly isn’t complaining. Your entire body is tingling, as you strain for release. You are so close…

 

But suddenly you find yourself unable to move. His hands are cupping your ass again, holding you still, his body still buried deep within you. You struggle to move, to get any kind of friction but he’s so much stronger.

 

“What’s the matter baby?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting with mock concern. “Oh I’m sorry were you close?”

 

You whimper pitifully, nodding like a child. You really hate him right now and if he didn’t feel so fucking good you’d tell him so. You can feel your orgasm slipping away leaving an unsatisfied ache in the pit of your stomach.

 

“Don’t worry baby,” he grins, taking your legs and securing them around his waist. “We’ll get you there.”

 

He plants his hands on the wall on either side of your head and your hands grip his shoulders as he begins to work you at a pace so frantic you can barely tell when he’s entering and leaving your body. All you can feel is the glorious friction of him inside you and his mouth sucking on that spot just below your ear, occasionally whispering things, dirty things that normally would make you slap a man.

 

Your orgasm hits you like a bus, your entire body trembling, every muscle going rigid, moaning his name, hell you may even be screaming it. He works in and out of you as you tighten around him and with one hard thrust he groans deep and you feel him spill into you.

 

Your arms encircle his neck as he falls against you, the wall behind you supporting you both. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his heart racing against yours, his breath panting at your pulse point.

 

He sighs pulling out of you and you let your legs unclench from his waist, your feet finding the ground unsteadily. You close your eyes pushing the hair back from your face and exhale deeply, still euphoric and tingly all over.

 

You open your eyes and find him doing his belt.

 

“Thanks,” he mutters, giving you a brilliant smile as he slides on his sun glasses. Its then that you realize he’s still holding your panties. He holds them out to you, dangling from the tip of his index finger.

 

Blushing, you reach to grab them but he pulls back and balls them into his hand once more.

 

“I think I’ll keep ‘em,” he grins, shoving them in his pocket. “Oh wouldn’t wanna lose this.”

 

He bends down to pick up your camera, which apparently you dropped at some point during your tryst. He holds it out to you and you snatch for it quickly, but this time he does not try to pull back. He laughs at you. You scowl.

 

Shaking his head he brushes past you, making his way up the stairs.

 

“Justin!” you call and he stops, looking over his shoulder. You hold up your camera and say rather cheekily. “Smile.”

 

He does and you get a quick shot before he disappears inside.

 

Later in your dark room you call different agencies, telling them how you got pictures of the Justin Timberlake outside his swanky Manhattan hotel.

 

“Yes,” you say, “they are from today.”

 

“Yes,” you reply as you pull a smiling photo of the flushed faced, disheveled pop star from the bath, “he’s scowling.”

The only thing you can think about is that this just might be your big break. After several months of calling and sending resumes and running all over the damn city stalking celebrities just to take their picture you have finally, FINALLY, gotten a job as an assistant. Okay so it’s not a steady job, just some last minute temp work for a photographer who you are not even sure of his name. The only thing that the temp agency gave you was an address.

 

Its some huge warehouse in the Soho District. You brought your camera because you heard that sometimes if they get good shots early the photographers may let you shoot some. Even in your excitement you still are aware enough of your surroundings to notice the black SUVs parked around the warehouse. You thrill goes through you as the memory of a tall lanky man unfolding himself from the front seat hits you full force.

 

Its been nearly three months since your close encounter with the Justin Timberlake and yet your mind still wanders to it at least once a day. The way his blue eyes flashed angrily at you, the menacing tone of his voice, the way his dick felt inside you. You shake your head. You cannot think about this now. You have to concentrate. This is for real. This could be the rest of your life.

 

Stepping into the room you see that it’s a pretty simple set. White backdrop, heavy lighting. The camera is ready to go on a tripod, back farther away is the computer where all the frames can be viewed. A privacy screen is set up near the rack of clothes by the far wall, three women scurrying around. The man you assume is the photographer is discussing lighting with another girl about your age. You stride up confidently, holding out your hand and introducing yourself. He sneers down his nose at you and says to go sit somewhere out of the way until he needs you.

 

You turn away and sit down in front of the computer, grabbing the light meter to test it and make sure you know how to use it.

 

“This thing is fuckin’ ridiculous!”

 

You jump slightly and turn in your seat to see – your jaw practically hits the floor – Justin Timberlake emerging from behind the privacy screen wearing black trousers and a large puffy white jacket. He’s fingering the silver buttons, not paying any attention as he slides walks past you to talk to the director. You watch him, your jaw still slack as he struggles to keep the collar of the jacket under his chin as he speaks. You’re still slightly disoriented and only break out of your reverie when the photographer loudly exclaims.

 

“I could sure use a light reading!”

 

You scramble from your seat and stagger reluctantly forward. Justin is sitting on a box, still struggling with the jacket. You hold the light meter in front of his face and only then does he look up at you. Your eyes connect and stare for a minute.

 

“You know how to work that thing?” he asks you after a second, nodding to the light meter and you snap out of it.

 

“Oh yeah, got it. Sorry.”

 

“Its cool,” he says to your back as you walk away and give the photographer the reading.

 

You walk dejectedly back to your chair. He didn’t even recognize you. Your tryst has been floating around in your head since it happened and he doesn’t even remember your face! You chide yourself silently for your stupidity. Of course he didn’t remember! He was Justin fucking Timberlake. He probably had hot, sweaty, amazing, up-against-the-wall, pounding so hard you felt it in your teeth, sex everyday.

 

The sting of your rejection fades quickly as you watch him work. His poses are innovative and sexy and god how the camera loves him. How you would love to get him in front of your camera. Your mind wanders back to that day when he was in front of your camera and in front of you, and inside you. You press your thighs together feeling a flush of want as you watch him tug animatedly at the collar of the jacket he’s wearing.

 

After several shots, he’s sent back behind the privacy screen to change and when he comes back out in grey pants, white tee, and black suspenders. It is the stupidest fucking outfit you’ve ever seen but damn him if he doesn’t look like sex on a stick in it. You scurry to take your light reading again and you can feel him eyeing you.

 

“Have we met?” he asks and you look at him, accidentally erasing the reading so you have to take it again.

 

“Um-”

 

“I’m waiting!” the photographer drawls and you hurry to his side, avoiding Justin’s eyes as you go back to your seat.

 

Another amazing set, another outfit change, another uncomfortable light reading in which he doesn’t say anything, just watches you. When he comes out for his final outfit you nearly fall out of your chair. Low riding jeans and a black hoodie, eyes obscured by aviator shades. He sits on the white block again and you step out to do your thing, becoming a real expert and pressing the little button that gives you a reading.

 

“You’re sure we haven’t met?” he raises his sunglasses, blue eyes piercing you and you feel a tug of longing in the pit of your stomach.

 

“Um-”

 

“Light reading please!”

 

You could smack that photographer, but you think about the $50,000 in student loans you’re sitting on and bite your tongue, reminding yourself that this is how you get in the door. Assisting dickwads like this, who take pictures of men you’ve had sweaty, unbelievable sex with in allies behind expensive hotels.

 

You sit down again, watching as he works the camera. His tongue peeks out to lick his lips at one point and you almost come right then and there. A few more shots and the shoot is over. Justin is standing around talking to a few of the crew and you are about to make your way over to him when the photographer stops you and tells you that you will be cleaning up the space and you are to wait for all of the photos to render through the computer and bring them to his office when they are done.

 

You go back to your seat and see that 50% of 1 of 769 images has rendered and sigh heavily. You look around the room, watching the designers’ assistants gathering their clothes and making their way to the exits. Justin is still standing near by, chatting with one of the lighting girls, who is throwing herself shamelessly at him. You can’t help but feel jealously burn in you as he smiles back.

 

“So I hear they call you Trousersnake?” the girl giggles and Justin nods his head, looking down at his sneakered feet.

 

“Yeah I have a lot of nicknames,” he sighs and you seethe silently watching as image 2 of 769 begins to render. “The most innovative of which, I would have to say, is Sparkly Dance Boy.”

 

Your head snaps up and you find him looking at you, the other girl so caught up in her fake laughter that she doesn’t even notice. He smiles at you, predatory and knowing, his hands still in the pockets of his black hoodie he wore in the last set of pictures.

 

“Excuse me,” he says to the girl who pouts as she watches him walk toward you.

 

You do nothing but gape at him as he leans over the table. The flowery yet masculine scent of him hits you and you’re suddenly up against that wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pounds into you like there is not tomorrow. You swallow hard.

 

“Now I know we’ve met before,” he says, leaning on the table, elbows locked, wrists facing you. His eyes are playful but dark with lust. “Was it the charity event last weekend?”

 

“Um-”

 

“Justin?” the girl behind him is standing there impatient.

 

“What?” he barks over his shoulder and her pout deepens.

 

“Did you wanna go back to my place,” she says, her eyes sweeping maliciously to you.

 

“No,” he states simply, turning back to you and you watch the other girl huff and stomp away.

 

“See you found a real job,” he grins, dropping the act finally and you smirk back at him.

 

“Looks like you still haven’t, Sparkly Dance Boy.”

 

His eyes narrow and as he opens his mouth to retort:

 

“Justin!”  You both look up to find the room completely empty, except for the large dark man in a tailored suit standing near the door. “Ready to go man.”

 

“Nah ya’ll head back without me.”

 

You watch as the man, leery but apparently unwilling to argue, exits the building. You are once again alone with Justin Timberlake. How you have dreamed of this moment, fantasized about this moment for the past three months. You are practically trembling with want for the man in front of you. His head is turned, watching the door where his bodyguard just exited, seemingly listening.

 

“I knew it was you all along,” he says and then slowly turns his head to face you. You look at him blankly. “What? You think I wouldn’t recognize you darlin’?” he asks, reaching a hand out to cup your chin, setting your skin on fire. “I don’t forget faces,” he says, smudging your bottom lip with his thumb. “And I never-” he slips his thumb in your mouth “-forget a great fuck.”

 

You stand immediately, his hand falling from your face and round the table. You grab handfuls of his jacket and pull his body to yours, your lips crushing his hard. He kisses you back, his tongue sliding hotly against yours, his hand moving to the back of your neck, holding you steady, slowing you down.

 

“Calm down, baby,” he says pulling back slightly, your breath panting in his face. “We’ve got time for this.”

 

His hand slides down your body, pressing his palm against the front of your gauzy skirt. You moan, gripping on to his shoulders as he massages you through your clothes.

 

“Damn baby,” he sighs, pressing his hardening cock against your hip. “I can feel you through your skirt.”

 

“I want you,” is all you say, your hands going immediately to the hem of his shirt, pulling both the hoodie and the white tee underneath over his head.

 

He grins wickedly at you, wrapping both arms around you to press you fully into him, slipping one leg between yours, pressing his dick into your hip while pushing his hard thigh against your aching center.

 

“You know I couldn’t help but notice,” he says as you pull your tank top over your head and lets out a soft growl as you unhook your bra, exposing yourself to him. “that only one of the pictures you took the day we met,” he pauses to cup both your breasts, massaging them with his large hands. “ever made it to print.”

 

You’re savoring the sweet twinges of pleasure his hands are giving you and it takes you a minute to comprehend his words. He’s watching you through heavy lidded eyes, and you can feel yourself calm a little. Something about the way he’s looking at you, smoldering yes, but also curious. He genuinely wants to know.

 

“I could only sell the one,” you pant, as his fingers pluck at your nipples.

 

“What about the last one?” he asks, pressing his thigh harder between your legs, causing you to gasp in pleasure. “Surely the one of me post-fuck would have fetched a pretty penny?”

 

You hiss and think about that picture, him smiling, flushed faced back at you. You only ever made one copy and you burned the negatives. It’s back at your apartment in your underwear drawer…right next to your vibrator.

 

“Look do you wanna talk…” you ask stepping back from him, and hooking your thumbs in the waistband of your skirt. “…or fuck.” You let your skirt puddle around your ankles.

His tongue snakes out to wet his lips as you saunter closer to him, your thumbs hooked in the waistband of your panties. His hands reach out and grip your hips, as you undo his belt and button, easing down the fly. You wait for him to slap your hand away like last time but when he doesn’t you slide him out of his boxers, , running your fingertips along his length, educing a shiver from him.

 

Your fingers grip him tight and his mouth falls open in a silent moan. You take the opportunity to kiss him deep, exploring his mouth with your tongue, tasting every last inch of him until your lungs are screaming for air. You pull away panting and find that your hand has begun stroking of its own accord. You swipe your thumb over the head and listen to him hiss, just like you’ve dreamed all this time. Suddenly his fingers grip your wrist and squeeze until you release him. His other hand finds its way to your waist as he dips his head to kiss your shoulder.

 

“You know I still have your panties,” he murmurs against your skin, his finger tracing the lacy edge of your underwear. “I sometimes use them to get myself off,” you gasp at this, his thumb hooking in the waistband, tugging down. “I wrap them around my cock and pretend it’s your pussy.”

 

His words set a fire inside you. Your hands grip his shoulders again pushing him back until he is sitting on the white crate they used in the photoshoot. You climb on top of him and straddle his hips, fully ready to plunge yourself onto him but his strong hands hold your hips steady. You look at his face and find him staring at you, a myriad of emotions playing across his face. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear as he says:

 

“You’re all I think about.” The words sound as if they are pulled from the back of his throat. Then it’s as if he snaps back into focus and he grins at you, positioning you over him. You gasp as you feel him rub the velvety head in your wetness, listening to him suck air through his teeth. “Have you been this wet for me the whole time?” he asks, pressing against you clit and you nod biting your lip. If he only knew…

 

He slips in, guiding you down slow. You are fighting his control, wanting nothing more than to slam your body hard onto him and feel him deep inside, hitting that place no one has been able to touch since. But he’s too strong. So you wrap your arms around his neck and grip his shoulders trying to get as close to him as possible, doing the only thing you can do: flex your inner muscles. The first time you do it you feel his cheek, which is pressed against yours, twitch. The second time you do it, he holds you steady, his dick halfway in and lets you pulse around him, tightening and contracting your pussy walls around him.

 

Your nails are digging into his shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his flawless skin. You’re pretty sure than in a few moments you could get there, just by doing this, milking his cock. You’re pretty sure with the way low moans are bubbling from his throat that he could too. But its not what you want.

 

His hands are resting lightly on your hips now and you take the opportunity to slide the rest of the way down, eliciting a “oh fuck” from him. Once you are sitting flush against him you begin to rock gently, grinding your clit against his hip bone in a way that makes you dizzy.

 

His hand slides up around your back, guiding you, holding you steady as you fuck him. He’s panting hard against your ear he’s begging you “harder,” “faster,” “god please,” and you oblige because even in your wildest fantasies of him wanting you so bad that he begs it was never this good.

 

His face buries in the crook of your neck as you rise up and slam down on him again, setting a pace that you, yourself can barely keep up with. His hands are on your hips again, shifting you slightly and then you feel it, his dick hitting that perfect spot. You are thrown head first with no warning over the edge and the scream of pleasure that rips from your lungs echoes off the walls. He groans deep and you feel him spill inside you, biting your collarbone hard as he comes.

 

Once your breathing goes back to normal you lean back and he grins at you sheepishly.

 

“I think I bruised ya there,” he mutters, brushing his fingers along your collarbone which stings from where his teeth sunk in.

 

You shake your head, smiling and after a moment of looking at each other you slip off him.

 

Its awkward as you search for your clothes and pull them back on. You turn around to find him pulling his hoodie over his head, situating it on his slim frame. Part of you wants to rip it off him and fuck him again. He’s looking at you again, his face a mask of something you can’t place.

 

“Hey,” he says, suddenly and you cock your head at him, showing your listening. He waits a beat before saying anything. “You wanna maybe get something to eat?”

 

Your jaw drops open and he smiles at you in a boyish way. You close your mouth and instead of saying “yes” like you want to, you ask:

 

“Why?”

 

He shrugs, scuffing his sneakers on the ground. “I dunno. Pretty strange coincidence you being here today.”

 

You nod.

 

“Kinda like fate or something.” He’s not looking at you, still watching his shoes. When he does look up he’s grinning mischievously. “And after all after that fuck, the least I could do is buy you dinner.”

It’s a strange thing, dating the Justin Timberlake. Your cell phone used to be strictly for tips on celebrity whereabouts, only used on weekends when you were working. Now you don’t go anywhere without it, carrying it with you from room to room incase he calls, needing you. You used to go about your business, doing your own thing, were accountable to no one. Now you are at his beck and call whenever he’s in town and sometimes when he just wants to see you. Red eye flights across the country, being snatched into hotel rooms, fucked until you can’t walk straight and flown home the next day so you don’t miss your shift.

 

Well this used to be the case until about ten hours ago. You’d arrived in L.A. at about five in the morning, three hours after he’d called you tell you that you had a first class ticket waiting for you at JFK and Tiny would be at LAX to pick you up when you arrived. Tiny, who you’d become rather chummy with over the whirlwind of your courtship, escorted you to the presidential suite of the Beverly Hills Hotel, knocked on the door for you and began to walk away. You were about to thank him when a strong pair of hands grabbed you by the waist and ripped you into the room.

 

Five hours later, when you’re both just a massive heap of jumbled limbs and heavy breathing you pulled yourself out of bed to put on your clothes and get to the airport.. Those strong arms had gripped you before you even get one leg in your panties and pulled you back against him, cuddling you tenderly. This was where it began to go down hill.

 

“Justin I really gotta get back”

 

“Mmmm no.” His breath is hot on your ear.

 

“My shift starts at four,” you moaned as his hand slid down your bare stomach to part your folds, still slick from your marathon session.

 

“Its only ten,” he whispers, finger massaging slowly and you sigh.

 

“Yeah, here. Its one in New York, two and a half hour flight, that gets me home about three-thirty, just enough time to take a cab to the diner.”

 

“How can you do math when I’m doing this to you?” he asked as his fingers probed lower, sliding in.

 

“It’s a gift,” you moaned, enjoying his ministrations for a moment before pushing him away.

 

“Just don’t go in,” he had said, as you began to put on your clothes. “Call in, babe.”

 

“Can’t,” you sighed, keeping your back to him lest your resolve crumble at the sight of him, naked and willing. You forced yourself to think of the pile of mostly overdue bills on the counter.

 

“Yes you can,” he said, sitting up. “You can use my phone.”

 

He slid from beneath the sheets and grabbed his pants that you had ripped from his legs earlier, rooting through the pockets, dropping various things on the night stand in search of his phone.

 

“No Justin,” you said, and watched him pout slightly.

 

“Please?” he said, sticking out his bottom lip and you sighed, getting impatient. It was sweet that he wanted you to stay but you couldn’t help but feel that it was more about getting his way than anything else.

 

“No Justin,” you said again and watched his eyes darken, your suspicions confirmed.

 

“Why not!” he asked angrily, and you struggled to stay calm.

 

“I’ve gotta work. Got bills to pay.”

 

“Oh so this is about money?” he asked snottily, grabbing his wallet and pulling out a wad of cash. “Here.” He tossed it at you, and you watched dumbly as the bills hit your chest and fluttered to the floor.

 

You reached back and slapped him so hard across the face that it hurt your hand. You were both frozen, your arms at your sides, panting for breath; his head turned to the side from the force of the blow. He turned slowly to face you again, anger and astonishment blazing in his indigo orbs.

 

“I am not your whore,” you spat and he laughed.

 

“Coulda fooled me,” he replied hatefully and you reached to slap him again but he caught your wrist this time, fingers digging into the delicate skin of your inner wrist painfully.

 

“Let me go,” you snarled and he looked at you for a long moment, so long that you were almost afraid he wasn’t going to release you.

 

“Get the fuck outta here,” he growled, dropping your arm roughly and you turned your back on him, stomping out of the room and possibly out of his life.

 

But you hadn’t really thought about this all day. Eight hours of serving chauvinist assholes hadn’t afforded you the opportunity. But now as you take the subway home you can’t help but remember the sex more than the actual fight. Passion had never been lacking between the two of you. From the first time in the ally, to the clandestine meeting at a photo shoot, to every other encounter you had ever had you were always left dazed and wobbly, craving more. He was virile and intoxicating and walking up the six flights of stairs to your shitty apartment you really kind of wish that you had called into work and spent the rest of the day lounging by the pool of his fancy Beverly Hills hotel.

 

You stick your key in the lock and it turns easily, too easily, as in it’s not locked. Your heart drops to the floor, your mind going over the thousands of dollars of photography equipment that are most likely gone, your secret cash stash in your freezer, the Chanel purse he bought you last week. Then your thoughts shift to your physical well-being and you marvel at your priorities. A designer purse over your own safety? Your heart argues that it was from him, and your logic shouts that there could be a crazy rapist murderer inside. Priorities indeed.

 

You press the door open slowly and take a cautious look inside. All the lights are on and you panic when you think of the electric bill. You step inside, walking slowly through the small entry way, peering around the wall.

 

Your jaw hits the floor when you find him sitting on your bed, watching your TV, eating your left over take out. He glances up at you and sets the cardboard food container on the table standing immediately, looking sheepish.

 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his denim clad thighs.

 

“What are you doing here?” you say by way of greeting. “How did you find my apartment?”

 

“Um…” he pauses, looking around. “I can explain…”

 

You immediately rush around, grabbing the dirty clothes, books and stray paper that are strewn around the room. On its best day your little studio apartment was cluttered and dingy. Today was not one of those days.

 

“I just…we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms,” he was saying as you grabbed one of your bras that was draped, mortifyingly enough, on the lampshade next to the bed.

 

You stop at his words, arms full of clothes and books. He’s still just standing there, watching you uncomfortably, hands dug deep in the pockets of his jeans.

 

“I shouldn’t have said that to you,” he says. “That’s not who I am. I hope you realize that.”

 

His eyes are imploring and you feel ridiculous, holding your armful of crap, standing in the middle of your Lilliputian apartment while the Justin Timberlake apologizes for being an ass. Your life has gotten so strange since you met him.

 

“Look I didn’t mean to intrude,” he says. “I had this grand idea of showing up and sweeping you off your feet and judging by the look on your face I’ve come off as more of a stalker than anything else.” He laughs uneasily and it snaps you out of your daze. “I’ll just go.”

 

“No!” you exclaim as he moves towards the door. He stops and looks at you questioningly. “Don’t go. You flew all the way here. You already ate all my food.”

 

He laughs. “Sorry about that. I got hungry.”

 

“How long have you been here?” you ask and watch as a blush creeps up his neck.

 

“Um…” He checks his watch. “About ten hours.” Your jaw drops and he gives you a sheepish smile. “I…uh… didn’t know when you’d be home. I didn’t know where you worked.”

 

“You found out where I lived but you couldn’t find out where I worked?” you ask and he shifts uncomfortably.

 

“Now you see, when you say it like that it makes me sound all weird.” You laugh and he smiles. “I got your address from the agency that sent you to the photo shoot.”

 

“They just give out that information?” you ask and he nods. “Comforting.”

 

“Well I did drop a name.” He grins. “Mine.”

 

“And I guess that’s how the landlord let you in?” He nods. “I have got to get a better place.”

 

“It’s nice,” he says and you raise an eyebrow at him. “What it is! Spacious.”

 

“Okay now you’re mocking me,” you reply and finally drop the pile of clothes.

 

“I especially love the wall color,” he chuckles, quirking an eyebrow as he gazes around at the candy blue walls.

 

“I’m a photographer Justin, not an interior designer,” you reply defensively. “And it looked different in the store,” you mutter looking around.

 

“Still, doesn’t it give you a headache?”

 

“Why are you here again?” you ask and he smiles easily.

 

“I was wondering if you could take my picture.”

 

Your mouth falls open. You had been begging him for the past three weeks to shoot him. He always found a way to charm his way out of telling you no but you saw the uneasy look in his eyes whenever you mentioned it.

 

“For real?” you ask and he closes his eyes with a nod, licking his lips.

 

“Any way you want me,” he says throwing his arms in the air and you grin.

 

“Any way?” you ask and his smile goes a little uneasy but he nods again. “Okay, gimme five minutes.”

 

He stands watching speechlessly as you flit around the room, moving furniture and setting up halogen lamps. You pull a crate over and set it in the middle of your lighted stage. You turn to face him and he’s smiling at you, holding your camera. He holds it out to you by the strap and your thrown back to that first time in the ally, sweaty faced and satisfied.

 

You take it from him and stand back, allowing him to slide past you. He pulls up his jeans as he sits against the crate.

 

“Do you want music?” you ask absently, checking you lens.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Throw on the Goldfrapp.”

 

You look up at him. “Perusing my CD collection were you?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, smiling tight lipped and scratching at his ear, embarrassed.

 

The first bars of “Crystalline Green” fill the room and you can practically see his demeanor change. All awkwardness falls away and he’s the Justin Timberlake, adjusting himself on the crate. You look at him through the lens and watch him bob his head to the music, licking his lips.

 

“Take off your shirt,” you say, pulling the camera from your face and he looks at you, eyebrows raised. “You’re wearing an undershirt. The red clashes with my hideous walls.”

 

He laughs and pulls his t-shirt over his head, revealing his white thermal shirt underneath. As he’s tossing it aside you notice his necklace. You smile and reach out touch it. He watches as you pull the pendant away from his body, running your thumb over the little gingerbread boy and girl.

 

“Look!” you exclaim, and he turns from the watches he’s surveying to glance into the glass you’re looking in. “Gingerpeople!”

 

“There are million dollar pieces of jewelry in here and you are excited about gingerpeople?” he laughs shaking his head.

 

“I’m a simple girl,” you reply, cocking your head to the side and leaning in closer.

 

“Hey, can we look at these?” Justin calls to the jeweler who walks over and unlocks the cabinet.

 

“Justin we don’t have to. Just get your watch and lets go,” you say, tugging on his shirt sleeve and but he shrugs you off.

 

“How much?” Justin asks and you turn away sighing.

 

“Twenty-five hundred.”

 

You gasp. “For that?” Justin shushes you.

 

“I’ll take two,” he tells the jeweler, pulling out his wallet and handing her his card. She nods her head and disappears into the back.

 

You smack Justin’s arm and he looks at you grinning. “Are you crazy?”

 

He doesn’t respond, just takes the bag from the jeweler. When you are standing on the street he pulls one velvet box from the bag and opens it, pulling out the chain. He gestures for you to turn around and you comply, lifting your hair as he hooks the necklace, placing a kiss on the back of your neck. You turn and see he’s pulling the other box out, opening it and pulling out his own necklace. He hands you the bag and hooks his around his neck too.

 

“Well would you look at that,” he says, holding his pendant and yours, bringing your bodies close together. “Matching Sparkly Dance People.” You laugh as he lets go and you thumb your pendant before allowing it to fall between your breasts.

 

“Still got yours?”

 

His words snap you out of the memory and you grin at him, pulling the chain out of your shirt and he smiles. You step back, putting your camera to your face and snap him fast, caught off guard. He purses his lips at you and you smile, snapping another.

 

“You know,” you say as he lifts his necklace, holding both charms over his eyes. “Your eyes are the same color as my walls.”

 

“That so?” he questions, licking his lips and you feel a flush of heat.

 

“Yep,” you reply.

 

He holds one charm between his thumb and pointer finger, and opens his mouth. You snap and clear your throat. It’s suddenly very hot in here. You lose all thought when he slides the chain between his lips, winking at you. One more snap and you drop the camera, striding toward him.

 

He looks up at you as you tug the chain from his mouth and cover his lips with yours. He kisses you back slow and sweet.

 

“Done already?” he asks and you growl at him, tugging him forward and onto his feet.

 

He looks down at you, blue eyes that were crystal clear a moment ago darkening by the second. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to press your lips against his, soft, chaste, very unlike his hands that are wandering down your body.

 

He lifts you from the floor and you squeal as he carries you to the bed, laying you back gently, his hand holding your head as he lands beside you with a plop. Propping his head on his hand he gazes down at you, skimming a hand from your shoulder, down over your breasts, before gathering the material of your skirt in his hand until its bunched up at your thighs.

 

You grab a handful of his shirt and pull him on top of you, his hands skimming up your legs as his mouth finds the column of your throat, sucking and licking at your skin. You tug his shirt from his pants, sliding your hands against the smooth skin of his back before tugging the material over his head. His fingers are peeling your tank top up your body and you lift yourself allowing him to pull it from your body. His fingers flick open your bra and toss it aside before laying over you, your chests pressed together, skin on skin, your charms cool against your heated flesh.

 

His fingers are pushing at your skirt impatiently, bunching it around your waist, reaching for your panties. He sits up on his knees as he tugs them from your legs and once he’s freed you of them you sit up and reach for his belt buckle, undoing it deftly. He licks his lips as you unbutton his jeans and ease down the zipper. He stands stepping out of them quickly before crawling back over you, lips crashing into yours. You fall back together, his hardness pressing into your thigh, his hands kneading your breasts.

 

“Justin,” you sigh as his hand goes beneath your skirt, skimming up your thigh.

 

You hiss when he parts your folds, testing you, seeing if you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready.

 

“Damn,” he mutters against your skin, fingers tracing in your wetness. “I should let you take my picture more often.”

 

You silence him with another kiss, your hips moving against hand, your leg sliding against his cock. You hands slip around his back, sliding down to grasp his hips, pulling him more firmly against you. He lifts himself over you, positioning himself, rubbing the head against your aching entrance. You yelp when he penetrates, your body protesting to the intrusion.

 

“Sore?” he asks into your neck and you can hear the grin in his voice.

 

“A little,” you sigh. “Musta been the marathon sex I had last night.”

 

“Mmmm…your man’s good to you,” he sighs, sliding in further, more gentle this time, lips pressing dry kisses across your collarbone.

 

“That he is,” you concede, sighing when he’s buried inside you.

 

He waits a moment, allowing you to adjust. You’re burning around him and when he pulls out you hiss against his shoulder, digging your nails in. His thrusts are gentle and slow, taking care to press kisses in all your favorite places, your pulse point, just below your ear, your throat.

 

After a few moments your raising your hips to meet his, your arms wrapped around his waist, fingers threaded at his lower back, supporting him as his thrusts become more powerful. His lips find yours, tongue sliding in, stealing your breath, as he slides his forearms beneath your shoulder blades, holding your body close to his. He buries his face in your neck, his nose pressed just under your ear and you can hear his every pant, whine and moan, which does nothing but cause the fire that’s building in the pit of your stomach to send little sparks down your spine.

 

You can feel yourself beginning to tighten around him and your hands move to grip his hips, squeezing, letting him know you’re almost there. And that’s when he does it, snakes his tongue out behind your ear and then attaching his lips to that spot just beneath the lobe.

 

You scream his name arching against him as your orgasm races through your body, every muscle contracting. He comes in a rush of breath against your shoulder and a mutter “Oh fuck” hips slamming into yours hard enough to bruise.

 

He collapses on top of you and you clutch his back, holding him as close to you as possible, savoring the last aftershocks of your orgasm, enjoying the small mewing sounds he makes as your body milks his overly sensitive flesh.

 

He pulls out, rolling off of you, but you roll with him, your arms still wrapped firmly around him. He pulls you against his chest and you splay your fingers across his torso, lining your digits with his ribs, rubbing his skin softly, savoring its silken texture. He places a kiss on the top of your head and you nuzzle your nose into his neck, savoring his scent, trying to tug him closer.

 

“I’m sorry about earlier.” His voice is raspy and tired, and you realize it’s been days since you’ve both slept.

 

“You’re forgiven,” you reply, giving him a squeeze before letting your eyes close and giving into sleep.