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He didn't want her until he couldn't have her.

Now Craig can't stop thinking about her.

He wants to touch her hair, feel the silk of the locks twisting around his fingers. He wants to run his lips over the smooth, pale skin of her thigh. He wants her breath on his neck, her body under his, sweating and twisting and keening. He wants sex, he wants to fuck her, to press her to a mattress, to taste her cunt. He wants it dirty and sweet, he wants her sitting in his lap in the morning eating toast, he wants her grinning and teasing as she wraps herself in a towel after showering in his bathroom.

He's never fantasized about a woman like this before. He doesn't like to think about what it might mean. He tells himself that she's just a woman; a pretty woman, a smart woman, a woman that makes him laugh and smile and want things he's never wanted before. Just a woman.


He wakes up in the morning with his cock hard against his stomach and remnants of a dream Bridget and her mouth on him, breasts swaying above him. His hand is on himself without a moment's pause and he's already so close, all it takes is a few tugs and he's pulsing, balls tight and throbbing, letting the orgasm wreck him in delicious waves.

He lays there with come cooling on his skin and his dick still hard in his hand and sighs.

He needs to do something about this soon. Waiting around has never been his style.


Craig can't find his place with her in front of the camera any more.

He blows a few lines, and even when the words fall out of his mouth they don't sound the way they should.

People tapdance around it. Bridget's nerves seem to grow to match his own. She's less certain without him to work off of. He watches her own frustration grow and realizes that she doesn't see yet what's happening; she isn't as quick to blame him because she looks toward her own shortcomings when something isn't working.

Others are less forgiving. He gets a lecture, annoyed looks thrown his way when the day's schedule begins to fall apart. They've got families they want to get home to. They don't want to be here well into the night.

He retreats and tries to force himself into the headspace that he needs to be occupying right now.

Then he catches sight of her across the room. She's all Kahlan, hair tumbling around her shoulders, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, metal gleaming against her calf. She looks stunning, a fairytale in white holding a cappuccino and laughing into a cell phone.


He sees her on the phone with that secret smile and knows who she's talking to.

There are rumors that she's seeing someone. He hears whispers of conversation, a name thrown in casually and then more often.

At first, it's all right. At first, he tells himself that it's probably nothing serious. But he sees that trace of a smile on his face and his fingers tighten into a fist. He feels like something is slipping away and he doesn't know what to do about it, because this isn't about chasing the prettiest girl on the playground. This is his job, and hers, and their lives are built around this right now.


He turns and walks off in the middle of someone else's sentence.

Maybe he's overestimated his acting skills because she comes after him. Her voice, vowels curving with concern, knocking lightly on his trailer door. "Craig?"

He thinks about pretending he isn't here, a childish whim, but opens the door. "Bridge, hey."

"Is... uh, is everything okay?" She smiles like she isn't quiet sure what's going on.

"Yeah..." He could act like nothing is wrong. She wouldn't call him on it. That's not really her style. She'd give him that curious look and he could ignore it and she'd go away. "Look, I'm just having some issues, it's nothing."

"It doesn't seem like nothing." She's still standing on the doorstep and she's looking at him with those eyes and his stomach twists, warmth worming through the unease, and damn it all. He must be developing masochistic tendencies because suddenly he knows he's willing to put up with this to be alone with her for just a few minutes, to fuel another stupid fantasy.

It would be so much easier if he were just thinking with his dick right now. His dick is stupid and easy to please. His heart is the one fucking this all up.

He opens the door and lets her in.


She sits on his couch with her legs drawn up under her, girlish, unintentionally alluring. "So what's wrong?"

"It's nothing, really," he says, and sighs. "I've just got this... thing."

She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. He has to fight not to stiffen, in more ways than one. Maybe his dick still has a say in the matter, too. "What kind of thing? You know you can talk to me."

"That's just it, B." He rubs a hand over his face. "I shouldn't. Because this kind of thing can... it can mess up a dynamic on set. We're pretty good, I think. We've got a good thing here. I don't want to be the reason it stops being good."

He can't look at her and she's not saying anything and he knows that she knows exactly what he means.

"It could be complicated," she says, weighing her words, parsing out the sentiment she wants. "But it doesn't have to be bad."

His head jerks around to look at her. "What?"

She bites her bottom lip. "You can't be surprised."

"But you're - I thought you were dating-"

"We've gone out," she admits. "But it's not... it's nothing serious. And I'm..."

Her skin is pale and he can see the color rise easily. It almost makes him smile. "What?"

"I've had a crush," she says.

He laughs in disbelief. "You haven't."

"I have! God, Craigy, have you looked at yourself in the mirror?"

Now it's his turn to duck his head. "Fine, we're both startlingly good looking individuals. That's why they pay us the big money."

She's smiling too and he looks at her and their gazes meet and the flutter of warmth he'd felt earlier surges. It's not a bad thing now; it's something tempting and promising and he chases it. He reaches out and runs his thumb over her cheek, fanning his fingers out against the curve of her jaw, fingertips resting along her neck. "Bridget..."

Her chest rises. "I like it when you say my name."

He leans in, mouth close to hers. "I can say it any time you want."

"You're so cheesy..." Her words trail off against his lips, disappearing into a kiss. It's soft and wet and damp and lingers where something onscreen would stop, his mouth opening against hers, her tongue soft and eager sliding against his own.


Bridget is stretched out on his bed, her cell phone in her hand, sending a message to someone. He stands in the doorway and just looks at her, thinking of the night before, the things they'd done; the soundtrack rings in the back of his mind, laughter and moaning and the soft panting mewling sounds she made as she came around him, with his head buried between her thighs.

"Dinner tonight?" He asks.

They've got a full day of filming, but he's infatuated, he's a schoolboy in love and he wants to spend every moment with her. He can't remember the last time he felt like this.

"I have plans, remember?" She says, and he thinks of the conversation he stormed away from the day before, the one that led to Bridget following him to her trailer.

She's got a date.

She's got a date and she plans on keeping it.

"Plans." He tries to bury the things that rise up inside of him; petulance and anger and a great sense of unfairness.

She puts her phone aside and turning toward him. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are sleepy, and she's beautiful. He sits on the edge of the bed, abandoning the shirt in his hand to lean over and kiss her, because he's not sure what else to do. She puts a hand on his chest and trails her fingers downward. "But I might be able to break them."

"Break them," he says, brushing his mouth over hers again. "I'll make it worth your while."

He can't read anything in her gaze, but she's smiling and surely that's a good sign. "I'm sure you will."