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.