"You know you owe me, right?" Low and husky, a siren's call destined to enthrall. Capturing the captor was its spell.

Sable orbs, embedded with subtle specks of sepia, grew more vivid when her velvety caress tugged you to proximity. Nuanced cosseting done to your nape, a temporary pet lingering to tingle the spine, until it skimmed the nether of your hair.

Soft; tender.

Everything she wasn't.

"Where's that reward you promised me, hm?" A slant of her head angled her lips at an ideal position of spooning yours. Deliberate curves began to spread languidly across her face, parting to breathe, "I'm waiting."

Puffs of tangible warmth wafted to your phiz, enticing you to close in, pinch the tantalizing distance, and...

"CUT!"

Internal groans were about to resurface, fracture sensual masquerade, and run off the razor-edged tongue with, "There goes take number fifty-nine, thanks for nothing, acting prodigy." But air, in a trice, occupied her grip.

Insults, and you? Withdrawn—put on hold. Where was the flesh of your scruff she once grasped? The fine hairs at the basal?

Right there, a fucking country mile after wriggling free, cold-shouldering the stressed director's projectile of scolds. Side-eye daggers missiled at her direction.

Wow, you really hate her guts.

Feeling's mutual, though.

"Just fix your face and move," were his departing words of encouragement, casted off by your stern back. "You're not a stick."

And for the sixtieth time, cameras flickered to life and buzzing staffs encircled the stars of the show. A snide comment, "You look like you're constipated," glided to reserve on your ears whilst extras shuffled on lorn streets.

"Don't look so offended," scoffed she through a widening, sick smirk. Spry digits looped the hind of your neck to yank you to her countenance's vicinity—readying the scene. "You know you can't keep delaying this movie forever.

The fans love us together.

And..." her nose brushed the tip of your own, "they can't wait to see how much of a good kisser you are."