Doorways

TITLE: Doorways
AUTHOR: J.D. Rush
PAIRING: Orlijah (ie. Orlando Bloom/Elijah Wood)
RATING: NC-17, for m/m sexual situations.
WARNING: It's about REAL PEOPLE. Not fictional characters. I can't warn you enough about this. If RPS isn't your cup of tea, don't read this story. (Oh, and the 'c'-word? Not my idea. Blame it on the boys.)
SUMMARY: A pub. A doorway. A new love. Or PWP. Take your pick.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I didn't write this story. I swear. Oh, wait, I guess I did. I apologize sincerely. This is not real – just a figment of my fevered imagination. I'm not implying anything about Mr. Bloom and/or Mr. Wood. THIS DID NOT HAPPEN!! (But if it did, I hope somebody got it on film .) The song belongs to Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits. (And yeah, I know about Orlando's mohawk – call it artistic license.) No betas were injured during the writing of this story. Any mistakes are my own.

*. . . .* denotes thoughts
+++++++++++++++++++=

Doorways
by: J.D. Rush

"Sweet surrender on the quayside,
You remember, we used to run and hide,
In the shadow of the cargoes I take you one time,
And we're counting all the numbers,
Down to the waterline." 1

"Lazy son of a bitch," I mumbled angrily around the cigarette clutched between my lips as I paced around the room, berating myself and my horrible work ethic. "Get to it, you good-for-nothing cunt! Damn movie . . . stupid ring . . . fucking fake feet . . . ."

The words trailed off, even as my pacing continued. I almost wasn't paying attention to what I was saying and I CERTAINLY wasn't paying attention to the closed script that sat on the coffee table – the one mocking me, enticing me, accusing me.

I hadn't touched the fucking thing all night.

The scene was an important one between Gandalf and Frodo. Ian would be spot on for every take, and I knew I had to be at my best. Inspirational words from my past filled my head: You can always do better. Why settle for 100 percent when you can give110 percent? The minute you start believing you're great, you stop being great. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I knew all the pep talks. Knew all the tricks to get into my part. Sometimes they worked, sometimes they didn't. But the only way to know was to sit my ass down and learn the damn scene!

I stopped in my tracks and let my gaze drift over to the script, just for one second. BIG mistake. I suddenly knew I'd be a disaster the next day. I'd never remember any of my lines, no matter how long I studied them. I'd destroy the whole shoot. Ian would hate me. Peter would hate me. The crew would hate me. Hell, I hated myself! What the hell was I DOING here? This movie was going to suck. *I* sucked!

"FUCK!" I cursed, turning my back on the table and its clutter, and began pacing once more.

*Okay, okay. Calm down. Deep breath. You're the one who wanted this part so badly – stop being such a puss!*

I knew this wasn't the time to start doubting myself or my ability. The shoot was only three months old – there was still way over a year to go. I couldn't just pack up and go home with my tail between my legs. This was just another job, and yet, it was the biggest one of my career. Hell, it could MAKE my career. I could do it – I just had to put my mind to it. Simple as that.

I mean, I had been acting for so long, it was like second nature to me, more natural that breathing. It was just a matter of slipping into the character, getting into his skin, becoming Frodo. Think like him, talk like him, feel all he feels, dream all he dreams. The lines were secondary – it was the EMOTION of the scene that was most important. I could do that. The lines would flow from that, the words tripping over my tongue as if they belonged only to Frodo and not some scriptwriter. Once I could get into that space, the lines would fall into place, imprint themselves onto my brain. They would become such a part of me that I could perform the scene in my sleep. I've done it a thousands times before. I could do it again.

But I just didn't WANT to do it this time, dammit! What I wanted . . . I wanted . . . .

Orlando.

Just the thought of his name brought a smile to my face. My restless legs stopped their nervous walking, and I dropped bonelessly into a nearby chair. I crushed out my cigarette, already lighting another before the first had ceased smoldering, as my thoughts were suddenly full of Orlando Bloom.

Sexy, funny, exciting, unpredictable Orlando Bloom.

Had it really been only a week since that night? The one that found the two of us naked and sweaty and making love until the dawn's light filtered through the curtains? Just the memory of our bodies entwined together, writhing against each other in passion, caused my heart to beat a little faster, and my cock to get a little harder. Sliding my free hand over the slight bulge in my jeans, I moaned softly, imagining – wishing – it was Orlando's hand once more, touching me as he had that evening. Those very talented hands. Those deadly coral-pink lips . . . .

I was just about ready to blow off the damn script for the night and put my nervous energy to better use with a good healthy jerk-off session when a loud knocking jarred me out of my fantasy. With a disgusted grunt and a few choice muttered curses, I smashed out my cigarette, crawled out of the chair, and went to answer the door. Throwing it open, I was pleasantly surprised to find my fantasy man in the flesh, slouched across the doorway.

Orlando flashed me one of his deadly smiles – the kind that light up his impossibly dark eyes – and said, "Hey 'Lijah. I'm goin' down to Copperfield's for a bite. Wanna join me?"

*Ah! A dashing knight in shining armor has come to rescue the actor in distress! Or something like that. And okay, so the 'shining armor' is a bit of a stretch – more like worn-out jeans, a ratty old T-shirt, and a beat-up leather jacket – but a dashing knight nonetheless.*

"I really shouldn't," I gave a token protest, desperately hoping Orlando would convince me otherwise. "I've got this big scene tomorrow with Ian and I have to learn my lines."

My knight didn't fail me, cutting in with an impatient, "What's the point, Lij? They're only going to re-write the scene by tomorrow, just like they do EVERY bleeding morning. And 'sides, it'll give you something to do while you're getting your feet glued on, yeah?"

I giggled at that. 5:00 a.m. 'foot-call' was definitely not something I fully considered when I had signed on for this movie. "You have NO idea how lucky you are not to be a hobbit, Orli."

"Lucky?" Orlando repeated, incredulously. "I'll have you know it's not easy being the prettiest, most desirable elf in Middle-Earth." Touching his hand dramatically to his forehead, he sighed, "It's such a hard life, but someone has to do it."

I just rolled his eyes and groaned, "Oh, PULEEZE!"

"YOU are the lucky one, my friend. You just have to be cute and pathetic and flash those baby blues at the camera every once in a while."

"Fuck you, Elf-boy."

"See, even Frodo wants to hump me." He heaved another big put-upon sigh. "No one loves me for me."

By now, I was barely controlling the bubble of laughter that wanted to explode. "You are such a cunt, Orli."

"Oh, if only you're mother could hear you now – she'd be so proud."

"Are you kidding? You should hear the mouth on HER," I fired back with a grin.

"Prat," Orlando chuckled. Still slouched in the doorway, he slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, stretching the material tight. At that moment, he looked so fucking fuckable that I had to restrain myself from moaning at the sight. He arched his eyebrow inquisitively. "So, you gonna join me?"

"Who's buying?" I wanted to know.

"I am – first round."

I glared at him suspiciously. Orlando NEVER volunteered to pay. "Let me see the money first," I demanded.

He pretended to be hurt. "Don't you trust me?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and flashed him a steely gaze. "No."

At the challenge, Orlando opened his wallet, revealing a small wad of bills. "See? I'm flush," he announced proudly. "Now you comin' or what?"

I almost asked which little old lady he had mugged, but instead answered, "Yeah, okay, you talked me into it. Just give me a sec." *As if you needed much convincing, you slacker!* I scampered over to the coffee table, pointedly ignoring that damned script, and plucked my key card from the mess. Making my way back over to Orlando, I smiled a full grin. "'Kay, let's go."

"What about a coat?"

I looked down at the well-loved sweater I was wearing and shrugged my shoulders. "Nah, I'm fine. 'Sides, it's only just down the road."

Orlando shook his head and laughed. "You catch pneumonia and shut down production, YOU can explain it to P.J. I'm staying out of it." With that he slung his arm around my shoulder, and together, we headed out.

++++++++

It was quiet at the pub that night – none of the usual gang seemed to be around. I was glad about that because I wanted Orlando all to myself for a change. I know that sounds kind of childish and selfish, but I just wanted – NEEDED – the distraction his company would provide to keep me from thinking too much. To avoid worrying about that damn scene that I really should have been studying for.

And my companion didn't disappoint. He was in rare form, even more charming and entertaining than usual. Our conversation drifted all over the place, the way it usually did with Orlando, anything from sports to politics to music to the latest gossip around the set. And as we were finishing up our appetizers, talk turned to my career, as it inevitably seemed to do when we got together.

It wasn't a subject that I initiated – I never did. In fact, sometimes I was embarrassed talking about myself so much. But Orlando loved to hear about the movies I had made and the actors and directors I had worked with. The subject of acting was an endless source of fascination to him, and he was always quizzing the veterans on the set, soaking up any stories or advice John and Viggo and Chris and the two Seans threw his way. There was almost this kind of hero-worship Orlando exhibited towards his elders that they all found endearing, and they indulged his curiosity without complaint.

But while Orlando enjoyed everyone's stories, he took special delight in pestering Sir Ian. There was nothing he loved more than jumping up into the man's lap after a long day's shooting, and demanding with an impish grin, "Tell us a story, mate."

And Ian never refused, no matter how tired he was. He'd just start spouting some tale or another from his past – the more scandalous the better. His presentations were so entertaining that he'd soon have a full audience of hobbits, dwarfs, orcs, and other assorted folk clustered around. But while I loved hearing Ian's stories, they left Orlando completely enthralled.

Because of my own adventures in Hollywood, I had made it onto Orlando's list of 'mentors', which felt rather strange. I was younger than him, yet I had so much more experience under my belt when it came to making movies. I almost couldn't remember working on my first film – indeed, I had been in 'The Business' for so long, I couldn't imagine any other life.

But it was all still very new to my friend, and his enthusiasm to learn everything he could was fun to watch. And even though I wasn't anywhere near being an engaging storyteller like Ian or John, Orlando always hung on my every word.

"Tell me about working with Mel," Orlando asked, elbows on the table, his entire attention on me.

"You've heard that story a dozen times," I chuckled.

"Yeah, but it's your best one, Lij." Orlando took a swig of his beer and sighed wistfully, "God, I'd do anything to work with Gibson someday. Or Johnny Depp."

I smirked knowingly, and shot back a sarcastic, "I'm sure you would, but they're both happily married."

"Kiss my arse," Orlando laughed.

"Maybe later," I promised, with just the right amount of innuendo touching the words.

The baiting and flirting came so easily between us. It was one of the things that had drawn us together in the early days of filming. I really liked Orlando's easy personality and unique style, his beautiful face and his outrageous sense of humor.

Actually, there were A LOT of things that I liked about Orlando.

He was wild and exciting and completely uninhibited and always game for something new. And by the second week of the shoot, everyone knew of his open dating policy, as he never made any secret about his attraction to both men and women.

It was yet one more thing that I liked and admired about Orlando – he had no fear. He didn't care what anyone thought of him. If you didn't like him, well then, fuck you. He radiated a confidence and self-assurance that bordered on cockiness sometimes. Only as we got to know him better did we all learn he could be as scared and unsure as everyone else.

But the one thing Orlando was always secure in was himself. He knew who he was at all times, even in the new and foreign situation we all now found ourselves.

There were times I wished I could be more like him – carry that same confidence with a 'screw-you' swagger, and not care so much what people said or thought about me. But more than that, I wished I could be honest, wished I didn't have to hide and be on my guard at all times. It's hard enough to be young and gay – it's even harder when you're a celebrity, too. One false move – end of career. I knew that instinctively, and therefore had always kept tight-lipped about my sexuality. I had told my family and they took it pretty well, all things considering. And of course there had been a couple of guys I had fooled around with over the years. But other than that, I had to keep it a secret.

Still, occasionally, I wished I had the courage to tell the world who the REAL Elijah Wood was. And I especially wished I had the courage to tell Orlando how much I liked him.

Really, REALLY, liked him.

As the days went by, Orlando and I started hanging out more and more. At first it was my stories that kept him coming back, or at least that's what I thought. But frankly, I was so infatuated with Orlando that I didn't care – as long as I got to spend time with him, I was happy. I convinced myself it was enough. It wasn't, though. And deep down, I knew that.

Last week it has all come to a head, as it seemed destined to. After all, secrets bound that tightly couldn't help but eventually leak out.

The evening started innocently enough, well, as innocently as anything involving Orlando Bloom can be. We were waiting for our order to arrive – I was nursing a beer while Orlando was sucking on a breadstick, an action prompted by his on-again-off-again attempts to quit smoking. I swallowed a moan of desire as I watched Orlando's tongue trace lazy swirls suggestively around the innocent object.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever wish to be a fucking breadstick!

Suddenly out of nowhere, he asked offhandedly, "Hey, Woodman – who was your most shagable co-star?"

I had been so busy watching him give the breadstick a world-class blowjob, I barely realized he had spoken, and responded with a brilliant, "Huh?"

Orlando put the stick down and repeated, "If you could've shagged any of your co-stars, who would you have chosen?" Before I had a chance to reply, he answered his own question with a smug, "I bet it was Salma."

I blushed, but didn't respond to his intimation. "Orli, can we change the subject, please?"

But he was persistent. "Sigourney?"

"Orli . . ." I pleaded, as I felt my cheeks grow warmer.

"The lovely Jamie Lee?"

"Or-lee . . ." my voice carrying a hint of menace.

"Ah-ha! Melanie Griffith, right?

"ORLANDO!" I scolded, downright exasperated by that point, my cheeks positively burning.

"I don't blame you. I'd do her in a heartbeat."

I snorted. "You're such a romantic."

His voice took on a teasing tone. "C'mon, Lij, seriously – who would you pick? Anyone at all. One night of wild, unrestrained shagging. Who's your fantasy lover?"

"You."

The response was automatic, the word spoken so softly I almost wondered if I had said it at all. By the time I realized I had indeed spoken my heart's deepest secret, I desperately wanted to take it back. Knowing that was impossible, I figured my best bet was to try to turn it into a joke. All I had to do was say SOMETHING, but no words came to me. And then I had waited a second too long, so no matter what I said would have been seen for the lie it was. So I said nothing and just ducked my head to avoid my friend's huge expressive eyes.

EX-friend, my mind helpfully supplied.

After the longest moment of silence I could ever remember, Orlando replied soflty, "Really? You'd choose me?"

There was no turning back now. "Yeah, you," I reluctantly admitted.

"Huh." He had picked up the damn breadstick and was once again unconsciously performing an obscene act with it. After another moment's pause, he announced, "I woulda picked Mel Gibson myself. A good, hard, all-night shagging by Braveheart himself." He crunched down on the stick, then added a wry, "He'd have to wear the kilt, of course."

I burst out laughing and dared to glance up; sparkling, playful dark eyes looked back at me, and I knew everything would be okay between us. "You, my dear Orlando, are a perv of the highest order," I declared decisively.

"And this is news to you?" Orlando fired back.

And just like that, the tension was defused, and we moved onto another topic.

We didn't say another word about the shagability of my co-stars until we got back to the hotel. Then, in the doorway to my suite, Orlando grabbed me around the waist and kissed me. Sweet lips that I had been dreaming about for weeks were suddenly pressed against mine. Sweet, hot lips, and a demanding, clever tongue that quickly ensnared me and refused to let me go.

Not that I was exactly fighting my capture.

We tumbled into the bedroom, mouths glued together, ripping clothes from each other in our haste to feel skin on skin. We had managed everything except socks when impatience got the better of us. Orlando fell back onto the bed, pulling me down on top of him. I was giggling like a fucking schoolgirl, but Orlando silenced me with another deep, hungry kiss.

In my weakened state, it was easy for Orlando to roll me over onto my back – effortlessly, gracefully, just like everything he seemed to do. Sprawled over me, he had me in complete control as his lips trailed over my cheeks, along my neck, and nipped at some spot behind my left ear that sent shivers down my spine. His hands skimmed up and down my sides, over my hips, under my ass, until my flesh was covered in goosebumps. Only then did his mouth return to mine, sucking my bottom lip between his, and raking it gently with his teeth, before crushing our mouths together in passionate desperation.

My mind was floating in that hazy 'I-can't-believe-this-is-happening' world when I felt a knee slip between my legs and push them apart. Once in position, he lowered himself, pressing his body to mine. I moaned loudly at the feeling of his hard cock lying alongside mine, a sound swallowed greedily by Orlando. Without instruction, I wrapped my legs around his slim waist as he rubbed against me, his hips rocking into mine. Hot flesh slipping against hot flesh. I clutched his sweaty shoulders, quickly losing myself to the pleasurable sensations.

Losing myself in Orlando.

It was fast and frenzied and over much too soon. Just a few thrusts, and he was calling my name, muffled as his mouth suckled at my neck. I felt his warm wetness shoot across my belly, the shuddering trembles that racked his body as his hips continued to jerk against mine. His lips inched upwards until they found that magic ear-spot again, and a couple of licks was all it took. I cried out as my orgasm ripped through me, coming harder than I could ever remember.

Orlando rolled off of me, one arm still thrown possessively over my chest. For long minutes we lay there, both of us gasping, our hearts racing, and the most amazing thing – laughing. A gentle, happy, 'oh-shit-isn't-life-fucking-great' kind of comfortable laughter. That had never happened to me before, but with Orlando, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

We must've fallen asleep like that because the next thing I remember, it was morning – and Orlando was waking me up in a most original way . . . .



"HEY! Woodman! Snap outta it!"

The sound of Orlando's voice brought me out of my reverie. I had gotten so lost in those pleasant memories that I somehow lost track of the conversation. "Huh?"

He was once again sucking on some poor, helpless breadstick. "You were thinking about shagging Mel, weren't you? Don't lie to me."

"Actually, him and Liam Neeson," I joked. "Get some Braveheart/Rob Roy tag-team kilt action going."

Orlando let loose with a raucous belly-laugh. "Bloody kinky Yank."

"Says the guy who gives hummers to defenseless breadsticks."

"Jealous?"

"Of that breadstick?" I snorted. "Fuck yeah!"

I jumped as I felt Orlando's foot brush up the inside of my left calf. Stroking it up and down my leg, he impishly cooed, "Play your cards right, my dear little hobbit, and by the end of the night, it'll be the breadstick who's jealous of YOU." With that, he pursed his lips, and went back to putting on a very public display of his oral techniques, reducing me to a squirming mess in my chair.

Into that erotically charged atmosphere, the waitress decided to approach the table with our meals. If she thought anything was amiss, she didn't mention it. Orlando just flashed her a blinding smile and she scurried away, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. But even after she left, his foot continued to caress my leg . . . something I didn't mind in the least.

++++++++++++

"Near misses on the dogleap stairways
French kisses in the darkened doorways . . .
No money in our jackets and our jeans are torn,
Your hands are cold, but your lips are warm." 1

The check came, and Orlando paid it without comment. After we said a cheery 'goodbye' to the owner and his staff, we headed back towards our hotel. Hitting the street, we noticed it had started drizzling while we were eating, but didn't pay it much heed. The hotel was only a quarter mile or so from the pub – hardly worth the trouble of getting a cab. We soon regretted our decision, however, when a sudden torrential downpour hit with a few blocks still remaining on our journey. "Look 'ere," Orlando said, pointing to a darkened storefront, protected by a large canvas over-hang. Grabbing my hand, we ran for cover.

We huddled close together, trying to keep out of the rain, but it was too little too late. We were both completely drenched, although Orlando had a bit more protection due to his jacket. On the other hand, I was already shivering badly, and I wrapped my arms around my chest in a futile effort to keep warm. "I told you to bring a coat," Orlando smirked, not able to stop himself from teasing me.

"Gee, thanks, mom," I shot back through chattering teeth, then added a heartfelt, "FUCK!"

My companion didn't think twice. He pushed me into the furthest corner of our refuge, as far out of the rain as he could, then took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It was a little big, and a little wet, but it was better than nothing for the moment. At my incredulous look, Orlando just chuckled, "Hey, can't have the star of the movie getting sick, right?"

"But what about you?" I asked worriedly, even as I slipped my arms into the jacket.

"I'm okay," Orlando assured me, but already he was starting to shiver, giving lie to his words.

"Bullshit," I stated simply. "Here." With that, I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him as close as possible and sharing my body heat with him. Because of our height difference, my head ended up nestling comfortably into the crook of his neck – a very nice place indeed. I got a whiff of his fading cologne and smiled to myself. Goddamn, he smelled good. "Better?" I whispered, my lips brushing against the wet skin, drying some of the rain drops that lingered there.

"Yeah. Better," he sighed, even as he leaned down and tenderly kissed me. A small, satisfied groan rumbled in the back of my throat as I tasted those addictive petal soft lips. Gentle at first, the kiss quickly grew in passion . . . and it wasn't the only thing growing. I felt my erection pressing into his thigh, and quite unconsciously, started rubbing myself against him. My body still hadn't forgiven me for the interruption back at the hotel, and I knew it wouldn't take much to get off.

As if he sensed this, Orlando broke the kiss, and, without a word, dropped to his knees in front of me.

"Orli! What the hell are you doing?" I squeaked as he started unzipping my jeans and pulling my erection free.

He just looked up, a mischievous twinkle in those chocolate-brown eyes. "Trying to keep you warm, baby," he purred. And before I could voice an objection (yeah, like THAT was going to happen!) Orlando bent forward and took the head of my penis into his hot mouth.

Any qualms I had about the wisdom of what we were doing were quickly squelched as I was suddenly enveloped in liquid heat. I groaned at the delicious sensation, but barely had time to enjoy it before he drew back, releasing me.

I was about to lodge a complaint about his timing when I felt his tongue take over, lapping at the tender tip. He sighed happily as he licked down the length of my aching cock, his tongue painting an intricate design under and around my balls. He sucked first one, then the other into his hot mouth, before continuing with his journey. His tongue traced back up the other side of my shaft, doing some funky fluttery dance that shot sparks throughout my body.

Guess all the practice sessions with those damn breadsticks were good for something after all.

Whimpering in need, I rested my hands on his head, threading my fingers through his short, soft curls, trying to urge him back where I wanted him most. He took the hint, and with a final lo-n-n-n-n-g lick along the underside of my dick, he sucked me in once more.

For a few torturous, tantalizing minutes, he was content just to play with the head of my cock – laving, nipping, gently sucking. With a low moan of pained delight, I fell back against the wall behind me, and only his hands on my hips kept me from sliding to the ground beside him. I was slowly going insane from his skillful ministrations, my fingers tightening in his hair, when he lifted his gaze from his work and looked up at me.

He looked so sexy kneeling there, his luscious lips wrapped around my cock, and his eyes . . . oh, Lord! His eyes were so dark and so deep, I feared losing myself in them. It was as if I was looking down into his soul. He held me in his spell for a moment or two before he dropped his gaze, and turned his attention back to my throbbing cock. Methodically, he began swallowing me. Inch by slow inch disappeared into that talented mouth until he held me deep in his throat. He rested a second, then started humming softly, the minute vibrations rippling along my over-sensitized skin.

I swear I saw God.

Concentrating completely on his task, a gentle steady sucking rhythm was soon established, his head bopping up and down between my legs, and it wasn't long before I came completely unglued. "O-r-r-r-l-i-i-i-i," I sobbed, as my orgasm was wretched from me. My hips jerked with each shot, and Orlando took everything I gave him until I had nothing left to give.

As I stood there, trembling from my release, Orlando wrapped his arms around my hips and hugged me close, his cheek resting on my stomach. He held me until the tremors eased, then he carefully tucked me back in my jeans, zipped me up, and rose to his feet just as gracefully as he had knelt. Licking a stray drop of my cum from his lower lip, he smirked, "Still jealous of that breadstick?"

"You are one crazy fucker, Orli," I gasped, still trying to catch my breath, my heart still pounding.

"It took you this long to figure that out?" he smiled, his hands sliding into the back pockets of my jeans. "Not the sharpest crayon in the box, are we, Frodo Baggins?"

"Shut up, you cunt," I laughed, my fingers curling through the belt loops of his pants, and with a playful tug, I pulled him in for another kiss. His mouth was hot and sweet, tinged with a tangy flavor I realized was myself. I moaned deliriously as his tongue glided lazily around mine, making me lose my senses, and my control. It hadn't taken me long to figure out that Orlando was one hell of a kisser, a fact I was thoroughly exploiting at the moment – not that Orli seemed to mind.

Slipping my arms around Orlando's waist, I pulled him tightly to me, our mouths still fused together. Only as he pressed his body flush against mine, and I felt his erection poking me in the thigh, did I realize he hadn't gotten off yet.

Well, that simply wouldn't do!

Lifting the hem of his T-shirt, I slid my hands up his back, then down again, my fingers lightly skimming over the silky soft skin. Breaking the kiss, Orlando squealed, "Fuck, Lij – your hands are freezing!"

"Not for long," I grinned, moving my hands around to Orlando's front, dropping them lower, and cupping the impressive bulge I found there. With a quick flick of the wrist, I got his jeans unzipped, then reached into the open fly. I stifled a giggle when I discovered no underwear existed between me and my goal. Jesus, leave it to Orlando to go commando!

I nimbly pulled out his rock-hard cock through the opening, running my thumb over the slippery tip, smearing the bead of moisture that had formed. Those dazzling eyes closed and he sucked his breath through his teeth as his hot flesh met the chilly air. Not wanting to cause him any discomfort, I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and started stroking him. Slow and easy, then a bit faster, changing speeds and pressure in relation to the whimpers and moans I drew from him.

Biting his lower lip, he purred, "Mmmm . . . you're good at this."

"Get a lot of practice," I answered huskily, standing on tiptoes and pressing a ghost of a kiss to that soft perfect mouth. "Got Braveheart on DVD."

He looked down at me then, a laugh in his eyes and playing on his lips. "You twat!"

"Takes one to know one," I retorted, my hand continuing its skillful stroking.

"So . . . so . . . witty," he stammered, his fingers digging into my hips as he slowly came undone. My thumb brushed under the sensitive flange just then, causing Orlando to toss his head back and moan loudly. "You're . . . you're . . . ."

"I'm . . . what?" I whispered hoarsely, scraping the same spot again, tightening my hand around his flesh.

"You're . . . ah . . . fuck!" he cried, his thrusting getting erratic as his slick cock slipped through my fingers. A strangled gasp, a final jerk of his hips, and then he shot off, coating my hand with his copious release.

Yuck! Major mistake. Definitely should've thought out my actions a bit more. My bad.

I pondered the problem for a moment or two before I wiped my hand on the hem of my sweater. Yeah, I know – pretty gross, but what else could I do? And hey, it could have been worse. After all, Orlando had to deal with walking back to the hotel in sticky, semen-splattered jeans.

Not that he seemed to care. With one last pleasured groan, he collapsed in my arms. I held him until he gradually came back to earth, then helped him back into his pants. Once he was somewhat presentable again, I teasingly repeated, "I'm . . . what?"

He lifted his head, his beautiful brown eyes still unfocused and sex-drunk, and smiled dreamily. "You're . . ." he brushed his lips across mine, "incredible, 'Lijah." Then he rested his head on my shoulder, his mouth nuzzling my neck tenderly. I sighed contentedly as I held him close, our bodies slightly swaying to the melody of the falling rain and our synchronized breathing.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, just savoring each other's company, bestowing a gentle caress here, a butterfly kiss there. I felt so at peace with Orlando snuggled against me that it took me a moment or two to realize the rain-patter had slowed in tempo. Glancing over Orlando's shoulder, I noticed the downfall was now little more than a trickle. "Looks like the storm's over, Orli. Wanna make a break for it?"

"In a little bit," he murmured silkily, before his delicious mouth clamped over mine once more . . . and the outside world was quickly forgotten.

++++++++

The rain was barely a sprinkle by the time we strolled through the front door of the hotel. Peter and Fran were sitting in the lobby – PJ just rolled his eyes when he saw us. We must have made quite a pretty picture, both of us soaked to the skin and wearing identical goofy grins – not to mention the fact that Orlando was walking rather oddly due to his soiled pants. (Thank goodness his coat was big on me so no one could see my dirty sweater.) I almost busted a gut when Orlando cheekily waved to our fearless leader before dragging me to the elevators. Once the doors closed, the little car was filled with my friend's infectious laughter, and I couldn't stop myself from joining in.

It was a fairly safe bet that we would both get a nice lecture about professionalism and protocol from Peter the next time he saw us.

The ride up to our floor was over quickly, and as we stood in the doorway of my suite, I realized our 'date' was almost over. "Wanna get together tomorrow night?" I asked, stripping off the borrowed jacket and handing it back to its owner. "I'm buying," I added, enticingly.

"Show me your wallet," Orlando commanded, folding his jacket over his arm.

I pouted, playfully. "Don't you trust me?"

He grinned. "You really want an answer?"

Duly challenged, I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my wallet, and flipped it open. "See?" With lightning quickness, Orlando reached out and grabbed my wrist with one hand, while pinching a $10 note from my wallet with the other. "Hey!" I cried out, indignantly. "What the . . .? Give that back!"

"As I recall, I only said I was buying the first round, remember, Mr. Big-Shot Movie Star?" he grinned. "I never offered to pay for your food."

"Orli, you're a total shit, you know that?"

But before I could get a good rant going, he lifted my hand – the one still holding the wallet – and pressed a baby-soft kiss to the wrist. I know my eyes must've bugged out of my head, my jaw definitely somewhere down near my feet. Orlando just looked down at me through those impossibly long lashes, a serious expression in his soft brown eyes. They seemed to reach deep down and caress my heart as he breathed, "You're gonna be great tomorrow, Elijah – just like you are every time you step in front of a camera. I don't think you have a clue how good you really are."

A sudden feeling of gratitude flowed through me at his words, and I had to blink back sudden tears that threatened to spill. "How did you know?" I asked, amazed by his perception.

"Bumped into Billy today on the set and he said you were pretty freaked out about tomorrow's scene," he explained. With a diffident shrug of his shoulders, he added, "Figured you needed something to take your mind off of it."

I felt warm all over at his concern, and smiled shakily. "So you planned all this?"

He laughed. "Well, not the rain storm, no. My original plans were to take you out for a late night snack, then bring you back to your room and molest you."

"Like last week?"

"Yeah, something like that," he admitted, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.

"Well, okay. If you insist . . ." I leaned forward and leered, "Molest away."

We both stood staring at each other, the air tingling with something almost electric between us. Orlando, uncharacteristically, was the first to look away. With a self-conscious throat-clear, he mumbled, "I . . . um . . . I better go so you can get a good night sleep."

I raised my right hand and twisted it in the wet material of his shirt. "What about the molesting?" I teased.

He gave me a smile that was almost sad, kind of wistful. "Some other time. You have to be fresh for tomorrow."

"I don't care."

"I do." He reached out then, and cupped my face in his elegant hands – hands made rough and scratchy from his many hours of weapons training. There was a look in his eyes I had never seen before, something I couldn't describe. Tenderness, yes, and affection . . . but something beyond that. Before I could analyze it, he pulled me close and kissed me, pressing that sweet mouth to mine once more. His velvety tongue licked along my lower lip before prying my lips open, slipping inside my mouth, sliding against my own tongue in long, sensual strokes.

His kiss was not fervent and frenzied this time. It was thorough, but slower, more gentle – loving, even – and hotter than anything I had ever experienced in my life. Without conscious thought, I slipped my arms around his neck and lost myself in his passionate embrace.

This was bad. This was VERY bad. We were right out in the open – anyone could walk by. Christ, P.J. was right downstairs! This wasn't like the storefront, where we were hidden by the dark and the rain and our anonymity. There would be no mistaking this, no question who we were and what we were doing. This was so dangerous on so many levels. And I didn't care. I just didn't fucking care anymore. All that mattered was Orlando here, in my arms – and a kiss that I never wanted to end.

But eventually it did. Orlando pulled back, his hands still cupping my face. "You better get out of those wet clothes and get to bed, or you really WILL catch pneumonia!"

I tried one more time. "You going to help me?" I joked.

He gently stroked my cheek, his calloused thumb rubbing against my lip. "Maybe tomorrow, yeah?"

That strange look was back in his eyes, and though I couldn't name it, I did feel a shiver run down my back. Swallowing hard, I whispered, "Yeah, tomorrow."

Hand gone, he leaned forward and planted a tiny kiss on the end of my nose. "Sweet dreams, luv," he chirped, then with a final sunny smile, he turned and headed down the hallway to his own room.

I watched until he disappeared into his room, hoping against hope until the last moment that he'd change his mind and join me after all. When his door closed, I heaved a disappointed sigh, and entered my own room.

Taking a minute to light up a cancer stick – as Dom so eloquently calls them – I got in a few satisfying puffs as I kicked off my sneakers and stripped off my soggy clothes dropping them where I stood.

Mom would be proud, indeed.

Taking a final drag off my cigarette, I crushed it out, then padded towards the bathroom in just my wet socks. (Living on my own was proving to have some advantages.) On my way, I passed the coffee table – my script was still sitting there, ridiculing me. I knew I should at least take a look at the scene, but the thought of a hot shower and a warm bed was just too tempting. And besides, I didn't want to keep those sweet dreams waiting.

*Oh, well . . . P.J. will probably just change it tomorrow anyway*, I reasoned, stepping into the shower stall, and closing the door behind me.

THE END

1: "Down to the Waterline" by Dire Straits. Off the album Dire Straits. Written by Mark Knopfler.