Intimacy
Celia’s POV
If you ever get the chance to be in a long-distance relationship, let me give you some advice: don’t. Everyone thinks they can do it—oh, it’ll be romantic, we’ll send letters, pine for each other like star-crossed lovers. Newsflash: that kind of nonsense belongs to the movies. The reality of a long-distance relationship is this:
An empty apartment that feels bigger at night and boxes of half-eaten takeout.
Phone calls that start sweet but get hijacked by managers or assistants or whoever needs your partner’s attention more than you do. The line goes quiet, a muffled apology slips through, and then it’s just you again, holding your phone like an idiot.
And flowers. Delivered, sure. Half-wilted by the time you find them on your doorstep because the day swallowed you whole and you didn’t have the energy to check. They sit there, pretty and pointless.
That’s the reality. It’s not romance. It’s a slowly deflating balloon.
Joan swore it was only temporary—just one more leg of the tour, just one more big opportunity she couldn’t turn down. I said “okay” because what else was I going to say? No? Singing was her life. But every time the tour stretched longer, or the time zones got wider, it chipped away at something I didn’t have the words for.
I visited Joan when I could, and she visited me when she could, but our lives were two bullets shot in different directions. That first month and a half of filming was a gauntlet. It felt impossible, living a world away from the woman I loved. Impossible and lonely.
It didn’t help that I’ve always been the kind of person who needs touch like plants need sunlight. Attention, affection, skin against skin—I don’t mean to cheapen it, but I missed Joan’s body. I missed her hands, her lips, her tongue. I was horny, to put it plainly, and I’m telling you this because it helps explain, at least in part, the absolute train wreck that followed.
The producers had an issue with some of the footage. Too much CGI, not enough grit. They wanted real streets. So, the whole production packed up and headed to Cincinnati, where parts of the original Carol had been filmed. They found a strip of downtown that still looked like it belonged to the 1940s, tucked away like a relic no one had gotten around to modernizing yet.
There was also a hotel—a hulking, faded beauty with brass doorknobs and red carpets that had seen better decades. The producers thought it was perfect for the show’s first sex scene. They were probably right, as far as aesthetics go. The wallpaper was this muted floral pattern that felt both romantic and claustrophobic. The lighting was natural and unforgiving. If they wanted grit, The Centurion Hotel had it.
I’d never filmed a real sex scene before—at least, not one that required full-frontal nudity. But if there was ever a way to shatter the last remnants of my Disney princess past, it was baring my tits on HBO. Evelyn, of course, agreed to the nudity clause without so much as a flinch.
Hollywood has rules for these things. Intimacy coaches, closed sets, contracts with bullet points like no touching below the waist unless scripted. It’s a production within the production.
The intimacy coach walked us through it the day before, breaking the scene down beat by beat. “First, Celia, you’ll unbutton your blouse and step into Evelyn’s space.” Step into Evelyn’s space. Like it was choreography and not sex.
Evelyn sat across from me during the run-through. She was wearing a crisp white button-down with the top three buttons undone. That simple choice—a casual rebellion—left a mile of cleavage on display. It took all my power not to stare at those perfect tits for the entire meeting.
“Make sure you communicate,” the coach said, glancing between us. “This only works if you trust each other.”
Trust. That was a laugh. Evelyn and I trusted each other the way rival politicians might. She gave me one of her sharp, knowing smirks and I couldn’t help but return it, quick and biting, like a game of chicken neither of us would back down from.
The room was freezing when we started shooting. A skeleton crew watched from behind the monitors. I stepped into position. Evelyn was already there, perched on the edge of the bed, her robe slipping off one shoulder, revealing a silver of warm tan skin. She didn’t fidget or adjust herself. She was completely still.
“All right,” the director called out. “Let’s take it from the top.”
I unbuttoned my blouse as instructed. Evelyn’s eyes tracked my movements. The intimacy coach had said to find the character in the vulnerability, but all I found was the weight of dark Evelyn’s gaze, heavy as a ton of bricks.
She really was a beautiful woman. I could admit that, even if I didn’t much like her holier-than-thou attitude. But still, Evelyn Hugo had a presence. She could knock the air out of a space just by standing there, make people forget what they’d come to say. It was maddening, really, that someone so insufferable could also be so magnetic.
The kissing scenes had been…interesting. That’s the polite way to put it. Feeling her breasts press against mine, the heat of her skin bleeding through the layers of our costumes, her lips soft against mine—it had all felt too real. Too close. And worse, it hadn’t felt like acting. Not all the time.
Sometimes, afterward, I’d stalk off to my trailer, grab the bottle of mouthwash I kept in the tiny bathroom, and swish until my gums burned. Then I’d sit there, sulking, staring at myself in the mirror as if I could scrub the memory away. Because I’d enjoyed it.
God help me, I’d enjoyed kissing her. Enjoyed the way her hand had brushed my jaw, the way she lingered just a second too long after the director called cut. The enjoyment felt like a betrayal—to Joan, to myself, to the very notion that I was supposed to hate Evelyn Hugo. But it lingered, curling in my chest like smoke.
And now, here we were. About to fake sex.
Fuck me. Literally.
I got on the bed next to Evelyn. She shifted toward me, her hand finding my bare chest like it belonged there. Her fingers brushed over my nipple, and she let out a low groan. “Abby,” she murmured, leaning in to press her lips against my neck.
Her mouth was hot, leaving trails of heat that felt like tiny burns on my skin. Her fingers tightened on my breast, a deliberate squeeze, and I couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped my lips. That wasn’t in the script, and I knew it.
Neither was the way she tilted her head to meet my gaze, something unspoken passing between us that had nothing to do with Carol and Abby. It was Evelyn, her robe slipping from her shoulder, the fabric pooling around her waist. It was me, my breath hitching as her hand trailed lower. And suddenly, all the choreography, all the carefully plotted beats we’d rehearsed, went right out the window.
Her robe fell to the floor. My pants followed, kicked off in a clumsy tangle. We were naked now, the cold air prickling against our skin, save for the modesty patches between our legs that the intimacy coach had insisted on. They felt ridiculous, out of place, the only barrier left between us and something that wasn’t acting anymore.
Her bare breasts were startling in their perfection, the kind of symmetry that didn’t seem entirely mortal. Full and round, teardrops suspended as if gravity had never touched her. I couldn’t help myself. My hands found their way to them, fingers tugging at her nipples, rolling them between my thumb and forefinger until she gasped—a low, throaty sound. I pressed them together, marveling at the way her body responded, the way she arched into me like she wanted more, like she wanted me.
Was she acting? It didn’t seem like it. Evelyn Hugo wasn’t that good. Her body moved with something too natural, too raw, to be faked. She’s enjoying this, too.
I knew the camera was rolling. Knew the crew was somewhere just out of frame, watching this unfold through the detached lens of their monitors. But all of that blurred into the background, irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the way Evelyn’s breath brushed against my neck, the way her legs wrapped around me like she couldn’t bear the idea of letting me go.
I was just about to touch her, ready to bring her the kind of pleasure I knew I could. I imagined her wetness, her taste, her smell. Oh fuck, I thought. I’m going to have sex with her.
And then—“Cut!”
The word sliced through the air like a snapped string, and the moment shattered. The lights came up, harsh and clinical, flooding the room with reality. The spell broke.
The intimacy coach rushed in, presumably to tell us just how royally we’d fucked up. But before she could get a word out, Evelyn snatched up her robe, wrapped it around her, and strode out the door without so much as a glance back.
For a moment, I just sat there, stunned. Then something kicked me into motion. I threw on my own robe, cinched it tight, and sprinted after her, bare feet slapping against the worn hotel carpet.
I figured she’d gone to her pseudo-trailer—the room production had commandeered for her a few doors down from mine. It was a safe bet.
When I reached her door, it was unlocked. That surprised me more than it should have; Evelyn was careful about her spaces, meticulous even. I pushed it open, stepping inside cautiously. The air smelled faintly of her perfume, that crisp, citrusy scent she seemed to leave in her wake. But she wasn’t there.
Then I heard it. A muffled sound from the bathroom. It wasn’t loud enough to be obvious, but it was there, faint and uneven. Crying? Maybe.
I stood frozen for a beat, torn between leaving and knocking, and then decided on the latter. “Evelyn?” I called softly, the sound of her name strange in the quiet. “I’m sorry. Things… well, things went in a different direction.”
The understatement of the fucking century.
There was no response. Just that same soft noise from behind the door. I hesitated, then knocked again, a little firmer this time. “Evelyn? Are you okay?”
Still nothing.
I sighed, pressing my forehead against the doorframe for a second before reaching for the handle. “I’m coming in,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a plea. The knob turned easily, and the door creaked open.
And there she was. Evelyn Hugo, naked and utterly gorgeous, leaning against the counter, touching herself. When she saw me standing in the doorway, she stopped. But only for a second.
“Celia.” She looked up at me through heavy-lidded eyes. “Goddamn you.”
That was all the invitation I needed – or, rather, all the justification I pretended to need. I knew better. Of course, I knew better. I knew what I was doing, knew the lines I was crossing, knew I was cheating on Joan just like Irene had cheated on me. The irony stung like a burn, but it wasn’t enough to stop me.
My mind wasn’t in charge anymore—it had been overruled by something older, something primal. My body was moving forward before I could think to stop it, closing the space between us like it had a will of its own. My pulse roared in my ears, every nerve alive and screaming for Evelyn. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t right. But it was undeniable.
She didn’t pull back, didn’t tell me to stop. Instead, her breath hitched, her lips parting ever so slightly, and I felt the heat of her, between her legs. I slipped a finger inside her. God, she was soaked. This straight woman with a boyfriend had gotten wet from fake-fucking me. That turned me on even more – knowing that I could arouse a woman who reportedly didn’t even like girls. My fingers delved deeper, feeling her clench around my digits as I pumped them in and out.
I found her clit and began circling it with my thumb while fucking her with two fingers. We were standing, pressed against the counter, clinging to eachother. She kissed my neck and I kissed her breasts. It was as far from making love as I’d ever been. There wasn’t any love between us. Just this raw, overpowering lust.
She came with a muffled scream, her body shuddering. Her pussy clenched and pulsed, releasing a flood of nectar. Without hesitation, I dropped to my knees before her, my mouth watering at the sight of her glistening folds.
I leaned in close, inhaling her musky scent before running my tongue along her slit. The taste of her arousal was tangy, sweet, and utterly intoxicating. I lapped at her folds eagerly, my tongue delving between them to gather every drop of her essence.
When I stood back up, she seemed eager to return the favor. She peeled away my strapless thong but she didn’t seem to know what to do with me. It was clear she’d never been with a woman.
I gently took her hand, guiding it between my thighs."Touch me like I touched you," I whispered. I was ready – more than ready – and I knew it wouldn’t take much to get me off. Her fingers were tentative at first, exploring the unfamiliar terrain of my pussy. I gasped as she brushed against my clit, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. She was a quick study.
Encouraged by my reaction, she grew bolder. Her fingers circled my sensitive nub, mimicking the movements I'd used on her earlier. The pressure was perfect - firm enough to send waves of pleasure coursing through me, but not so hard as to be overwhelming.
My hips bucked involuntarily, pressing against her hand, seeking more of that exquisite friction. A low moan escaped my lips, muffled as I crashed my mouth against hers in a passionate kiss. My tongue danced with hers as her fingers continued their delicious exploration.
It didn’t take more than thirty seconds. That’s how tightly I was wound, how badly my body had been starving for something, someone. The release hit me like a match to gasoline—fast, raw, and all-consuming. My scream buried itself into Evelyn’s shoulder, muffled but unrestrained. Loud enough that if anyone had been walking past, they’d know exactly what was happening behind that door.
The lock hadn’t been turned. Anyone could’ve walked in, and the thought only flickered for a moment before vanishing under the sheer need coursing through me. Weeks without sex had gnawed at me, left me brittle and craving, and Evelyn’s body, her hands, her mouth—they were the answer I hadn’t known I was looking for.
Both of us were in long-term relationships. I thought of Joan, briefly, her voice on the phone, telling me how much she missed me. It should’ve stopped me cold, but it didn’t. My body didn’t seem to care about promises or commitments or moral high grounds or future weddings. All it cared about was her body, her hands, her lips. Evelyn.
When we were finished, we cleaned ourselves up without a word. I put back on the modesty cover, even though it was struggling to hold on, considering the state of my pussy. I splashed some cold water on my face and tried to look like I hadn’t just gotten my brains fucked out.
By the time we made it back to the set, the crew was already packing up. Patrice stood near the monitor. She looked as satisfied as a cat who just caught a bird.
“We got the shot on the first take,” she said, her tone light, almost sing-song. “God, you two were perfection, you know that? The chemistry was off the charts.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. She had her robe cinched tight now, her face unreadable. I crossed my arms, trying to mirror her composure, though the heat in my cheeks was harder to hide.
Patrice leaned in conspiratorially, her grin widening. “Marla told me you two tossed the intimacy coaching out the window.” She winked. “Seems like it worked in your favor.”
Evelyn smiled a fake smile. “Sometimes you just have to trust the moment.”
Patrice laughed, her attention already drifting back to a monitor. “Whatever you did, it worked. Magic on camera. I mean it.”
I glanced at Evelyn, trying to gauge if she felt as exposed as I did, but her expression gave nothing away. She looked like the consummate professional, every inch of her carefully controlled. Meanwhile, my pulse was like a goddamn hammer in my ear.
The crew moved around us, breaking down the set piece by piece. It was as if nothing unusual had happened. Just another day on set, another scene in the can. Like I hadn’t just gotten on my knees and eaten out the woman I swore I hated.
•••
Evelyn’s POV
All my life, I’ve been attracted to men. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could see them and not feel the pull, the gravitational force of their broad shoulders and squared jaws, the way their hands could engulf yours, calloused and warm. I liked being beneath a man, feeling him fill me to the hilt, pushing inside me over and over again.
I always thought myself as straight as an arrow. Until Celia St. James.
It wasn’t like she was some otherworldly beauty who could pull anyone under her spell. I’d seen plenty of women just as striking—some more so. But there was something about her, something I couldn’t name that moved beneath the surface of her red hair, that cascade of fire that caught the light just so. I won’t lie—her body didn’t hurt the argument either. She was small and slight, but undressed, her curves told a different story. Her hips had this gentle rise, her ass a curve that was, frankly, unfair to the rest of us.
It was those thoughts—about the curve of her ass, the softness of her edges—that started to creep in during the filming of The Weight of Sand. I blamed the kisses, the touches, all choreographed and staged but so close they didn’t leave much room for anything else. The taste of her lipstick, and the way her body fit against mine felt a little too easy, too natural.
And then there were the coffee breaks, the lunches we staged for the paparazzi. What was supposed to be smoke and mirrors sometimes felt like something a little more real. Sitting across from her, I’d catch myself staring too long at the way she swirled cream into her coffee, at the way her lips curved around her words when she thought no one was listening.
I told myself it was nothing, just my mind running circles around the long hours and the closeness that came with playing pretend. The lines between acting and reality blur all the time—it’s practically written into the job description. I was with Don. She was with Joan. We both had lives built around other people, other promises.
And still, there was something. Something I couldn’t quite name.
Not that it made sense. Half the time, I found her unbearably irritating. The way she acted so prim, so perfect, like she’d stepped out of some old-world finishing school where they taught girls to look down their noses without breaking a sweat. Even when we were lip-locked, her kiss soft and steady for the cameras, I could feel the shadow of her judgment.
We were sitting on a powder keg until that scene. The infamous sex scene in Cincinatti.
I knew the second I took off my robe that we were already past the point of no return. Her eyes flicked to my chest, and for a moment, she forgot herself. Her pupils widened, dark as the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. And then she reached out, her hands finding me before the script said they should. It wasn’t part of the choreography. But her fingers curled around my nipples and my back arched and my legs parted on instinct.
It felt like sex – real sex. I’d never been with a woman before but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew what it entailed. I knew what Celia’s hands were doing as they slid down my stomach.
It wasn’t acting anymore. Not for her, and if I was honest with myself, not for me either. But the camera didn’t care, and neither did the crew. They just kept rolling, oblivious.
It had been weeks since I’d been with Don. My body, traitorous and hungry, craved someone to fill the space he’d left. And seeing her naked—the soft slope of her shoulders, the curve of her hips—was more than I was prepared for. It was a jolt straight to the core of me, where all my careful denials lived.
When the director finally yelled, “Cut!” I almost sighed in relief. Relief that the scene was over, that the heat coiling low in my stomach wasn’t visible to everyone in the room. But mostly, relief that I could leave. That I could get the release my body was demanding.
I yanked on my robe, the fabric catching on my damp skin, and didn’t wait for notes or niceties. I bolted down the hall toward my dressing room.
And then I heard it—her footsteps, lighter but deliberate, closing the space between us. She was following me.
I wanted her to follow me.
The thought hit me like an ache. My hand was on the dressing room door before I could question it, before I could think about what I was about to do or why. The door clicked shut behind me, but I didn’t lock it. A choice, conscious and deliberate. A silent invitation. I went to the bathroom and did the same.
“Evelyn?” It was Celia’s small, soft voice. “I’m sorry. Things… well, things went in a different direction.”
I pulled off my robe and slipped a hand between my legs. I was so wet, so ready. I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted someone before. Not even want – because I didn’t want Celia St. James. I needed her body, needed for sex. For release.
“Evelyn? Are you okay?”
I found my clit and circled it with my forefinger. I moaned softly, let my head fall back.
“I’m coming in,” Celia said finally. And when she came in, I made sure my eyes were open and trained on her. Just her.
“Celia. Goddamn you.”
•••
Sex with a woman was different, but not so different. The passion still flared, the need still clawed its way up my spine. But with Celia it was stripped of pretense, like raw nerve endings exposed to the air. There wasn’t the weight of expectation like there was with men, the unspoken scripts I’d memorized since I was old enough to understand what men wanted from me. With Celia, it was pure heat.
I told myself it was the hours we spent on set, the proximity. Chemistry bred by circumstance, not meaning. I told myself it made sense—the lines between Carol and Abby, between acting and feeling, had blurred. A little of it was bound to bleed through after so many scripted kisses and touches. That’s what I told myself, over and over, like a mantra. That it made sense.
But in truth, none of it made sense.
Celia was engaged. Joan was waiting for her on the other side of the world. My mother was unpacking boxes in Don’s guest house, settling into a life I’d pieced together for her, and Don—well, Don was supposed to be my steady ground. That was a whole other problem.
We couldn’t ruin what little stability we had, not because of this... thing between us. This pull that felt less like a choice and more like gravity. It was primal, I told myself. Biology. Something like an itch you had to ignore or risk scratching yourself bloody. I could endure it, ignore it. That was the plan.
Because Celia and I were nothing more than bodies. There wasn’t a relationship to ruin. We had nothing in common beyond the walls of a set. And I know people love to say opposites attract, but I thought that was just a line—an easy excuse for regret dressed as fate.
I didn’t love Celia. Not even close. But I loved what she did to me, the way she made me feel like I was standing too close to an open flame. That terrified me. She was a loss of control I hadn’t seen coming.