Off-Script

Celia’s POV

When Evelyn walked through my front door in that barely-there dress, cleavage like an open invitation, my brain short-circuited and could only land on one word: dangerous.

Two months. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen her. Long enough to convince myself that whatever had happened between us was a thing of the past. And yet, I hadn’t touched another woman. Hadn’t even really thought about it.

I told myself I was just giving her space. She’d been through hell with Don—dragged through the press, her bruises dissected in real-time on social media. It didn’t seem right to reach out, to put my hands on her when I didn’t know if she even wanted to be touched. But that wasn’t the whole truth.

The truth was, I had picked up my phone at least a dozen times, thumb hovering over her name in my contacts, only to set it down again. I wanted to see her. But I didn’t want to fall for her. I wasn’t ready for that after Joan – plus, Evelyn Hugo wasn’t my kind of woman. I didn’t want to want her.

Instead, I buried myself in work. After The Weight of Sand, I landed a role in some bloated, high-budget action film—the kind where the script was thin, but the check was enormous, and the stunts made it look like you actually had range. Not exactly my thing, but it was exposure. And it had a few decent lines, which was more than I could say for most of the garbage I got offered post-Disney.

I was supposed to be celebrating. The party was, after all, for me. But once Evelyn was there, the whole room got a little dimmer, like the light was recalibrating itself to find her.

I took a slow sip of my drink, letting my eyes drag over her. Then, before I could stop myself, I smirked.

“So,” I said, flicking ash from my blunt into an empty ceramic dish. “You came.”

She crossed her arms, which only served to push her already precarious cleavage even higher, and I knew—I knew—she was aware of it. “It’s your birthday. How could I miss it?”

I smirked, lifting my glass in a lazy toast. “Want a drink? Kitchen’s stocked. Help yourself.”

“No bartender?” She arched a perfectly sculpted brow.

I exhaled a slow stream of smoke, amused. “I told you, Ms. Hugo, it’s not that kind of party.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, taking in the scene—my friends sprawled across the living room, drinks in hand, half of them tangled together on the couch, deep in some conversation that was either philosophical or complete nonsense.

She turned back to me, unimpressed. “Yeah. I gathered that from the clientele.”

I rolled my eyes, taking another drag. “Put away the claws. They’re good people.”

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, like it was some great secret. “Is anyone here straight?”

I gave her a slow once-over, deliberate, dragging my gaze from the curve of her lips down to the hem of her ridiculous, tiny dress. Then I met her eyes again, smirking.

“Including you?” I flicked my ash again. “Nope.”

She exhaled slowly, her gaze flicking toward the door like she was debating whether or not she’d made a mistake coming here. I couldn’t blame her. In that dress, with that practiced posture, she looked like she had wandered into the wrong party—too polished, too composed, the only person in the room who had probably spent more than an hour getting ready. The rest of us? Messy in the way queer spaces tended to be, a mix of thrifted suits, smudged eyeliner, and someone wearing a cropped tank that simply said Daddy in red block letters.

“If you leave,” I said, watching her carefully, “you’ll miss out on what I have planned for later.”

That got her attention.

She turned back to me, trying to look unimpressed, but I caught the way her breath hitched just slightly, the way her fingers flexed at her sides. Her cheeks colored the faintest pink. Evelyn Hugo, blushing. It was unexpected, and annoyingly endearing.

“What you have planned?” she asked, wary, intrigued.

My plans included a strap-on and a pair of handcuffs tucked in the drawer of my nightstand, but I wasn’t about to ruin the fun. Instead, I just nodded, keeping my expression unreadable.

“Trust me,” I said. “You don’t want to miss out.”

She let out another long, measured sigh before turning on her heel and walking straight toward the kitchen. I smirked and followed, watching as she grabbed a bottle of tequila, poured herself a shot, downed it, and then immediately poured another.

“You want a blunt?” I offered, leaning against the counter, swirling the half-melted ice in my drink. “Or I can roll you one. The bong is somewhere—”

“The bong?” Evelyn turned to me with a look of pure disdain. “Are you a frat boy?”

I grinned. “Oh, come on. It’s fun.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I don’t smoke.”

I shrugged, taking another hit of my joint. “Your loss.”

Evelyn wasn’t socially inept—far from it. She could work a room better than anyone, knew exactly how to adjust her smile, her tone, her posture to make people feel like she was letting them in on something special. But here, in my world, she was out of her element.

She sat in one of the worn mid-century chairs in the living room, ankles crossed, posture impeccable, sipping a vodka soda with the forced ease of someone pretending not to be watching the clock. Around her, conversation drifted in overlapping waves—inside jokes, half-drunk debates about movies, someone trying to convince someone else that astrology was real science. Evelyn listened, nodded when appropriate, but I could tell she wasn’t fully present.

I introduced her to a few of my friends—backup singers, B-list actors, people I had gathered over the years after coming out. They were the kind of talented, interesting people who weren’t necessarily famous but probably should have been. There were a few bigger names in the room, but she and I were still the most recognizable faces. Not by design, but Hollywood only made so much space for queer women. I had carved out one of the top spots, and I knew how easily it could be taken away.

I was mid-conversation when a girl—Lana, maybe? Lara?—sidled up next to me, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of gin on her breath. “You look good tonight,” she said.

I smirked, not minding the attention. “I always do.”

She laughed, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, letting her fingers linger near her throat like she wanted me to notice. I did. Before I could decide if I cared, my attention flicked across the room.

A woman had taken the empty seat next to Evelyn—an indie singer with an angular face, a stick-thin body, and dozens of tattoos. She was leaning in, her fingers resting lightly on Evelyn’s knee as she said something with a tilt of her head.

“I heard you were working on that Carol prequel for HBO,” Lana said, nudging my attention back to her.

I turned, slipping into an easy smile. “Yeah. We wrapped a couple months ago.”

She let out a small, impressed sound. “That’s amazing. We need more queer shows, you know?”

Lana was pretty—sharp jaw, tousled hair, a fitted t-shirt that clung in all the right places. But she wasn’t my type. Too butch, too hard at the edges. I liked a little softness, something in the middle, something I could sink into. But I wasn’t above flirting.

“We do,” I murmured, letting my voice dip just slightly, enough to keep her hooked.

Still, my attention kept drifting, my gaze pulling back toward Evelyn. She wasn’t talking anymore. Just staring.

I met her eyes across the room, unreadable, intense. The singer next to her said something, probably something flirtatious, but Evelyn wasn’t listening.

I turned back to Lana, pretending not to notice, feigning interest as I asked about her work as a backup dancer. She launched into a story about her last breakup—because of course she did, classic lesbian small talk—but my attention kept drifting, my responses coming a beat too late.

And then, as if something in her had snapped into place, Evelyn stood up.

She crossed the room without hesitation, stepping between bodies.

“Come outside with me,” she said. Her voice left no room for argument.

I raised an eyebrow. “Bossy.”

She didn’t take the bait. Just cocked her head slightly, waiting.

Lana was still beside me, watching the exchange with mild interest. I could have stayed. Could have let Evelyn sit in it a little longer. But something about the way she was looking at me made my pulse flicker.

I exhaled, flicking the last of my blunt into a half-empty drink on the table. “Lead the way.”

We stepped onto the porch, where the air was cooler. A couple of guys were lingering by the railing, cigarettes glowing between their fingers. Evelyn shot them a look—not rude, not aggressive, just the kind that let people know they weren’t needed. They took the hint and disappeared back inside, leaving us alone.

I leaned against the railing, watching her. “So, what’s this about?”

I almost teased her, called out the obvious—that she was jealous, that watching me flirt had gotten under her skin—but at the last second, I kept it to myself.

“I needed some air,” she said, adjusting the strap of her dress.

I scoffed. “And you needed me here in order to breathe properly?”

Her mouth pressed into a line, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she smoothed her hands down the sides of her dress, like she was working up to something.

“That girl,” she said finally. “Have you fucked her before?”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Jesus, Evelyn. Ever heard of subtlety?”

She ignored me. “It just looked like she—”

“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. “We were just flirting. It was fun.” I tilted my head, giving her a look. “I saw you with that other girl. The one with the spiky hair. She seemed into you.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “She was annoying. And she was wearing men’s cologne.”

I smirked. “That bothers you? Really?”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “It was strong. It gave me a headache.”

I gave her a slow once-over, the way she was standing there, arms folded, lips slightly pursed, like she was trying to talk herself out of something.

“God, you look hot like that,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. But I was drunk, high, and horny—so really, who could blame me?

Evelyn turned to me, eyebrow arched. “Like what?”

I stepped closer, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume. She had a good eight inches on me in those heels, which only made it better. I liked looking up at her. Liked the way it shifted the balance of power – put her in control of me.

“All worked up. All jealous,” I murmured.

“Not jealous,” she said, too quickly. “We’re not… anything.”

“We just fuck,” I whispered, tilting my head up, letting my lips graze the curve of her jaw before moving to her neck. She smelled like vodka and warm skin, and I wanted more of both.

Her hands slid down, resting on my hips before gripping my ass, fingers digging in just enough to make me exhale against her throat. I smiled against her skin, smug, ready to tell her that whatever she wanted to call this, she sure as hell wasn’t indifferent.

Then the door swung open.

Evelyn shoved me back so fast I nearly stumbled, the heat of her touch vanishing like it had never been there.

Spiky-hair stood in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking like she had just caught us doing something illegal.

“Oh,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “So that’s why you weren’t interested. You’re with the birthday girl.”

Evelyn blinked, her expression flickering between panic and irritation. “No, no. We’re not dating. I’m not…” She took a sharp breath, like she needed to reset her brain before it sent her straight off a cliff.

I cut in before she could say something that would make me actually mad. “Relationships,” I said smoothly. “She’s not into relationships.”

Spiky-hair gave me a look like she knew exactly what I had just prevented Evelyn from saying.

I smiled, unbothered. “You need something?”

“Selene’s bringing out the cake,” she said. “Better come quick.”

She lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like she was debating whether to add something else, but eventually just shook her head and walked off.

Surrounded by my friends, I leaned over a lopsided homemade cake, twenty-three candles flickering in front of me. The cake itself was slightly uneven, the frosting slathered on with more enthusiasm than precision, but I loved it more than anything that could have been ordered from some overpriced LA bakery. Selene and Mae had made it together—a chaotic, loving effort from two Hollywood stylists who knew more about picking out Oscar gowns than measuring out sugar.

I made a wish, something half-hearted and vague, and blew out the candles. A cheer went up, someone popped open another bottle of champagne, and the music shifted—someone had queued up Prince, which meant the party was just drunk enough to get interesting.

I cut into the cake, passing out uneven slices, and eventually ended up squeezed between Selene and Mae on the couch, the three of us picking at our plates, gossiping between bites. Evelyn was nowhere to be seen. I figured she’d gone home or went to find Harry.

“So,” Mae said, smirking. “Evelyn Hugo.”

Selene wiggled her eyebrows. “Are you actually fucking the Evelyn Hugo, or is that just some wild rumor?”

I exhaled through my nose, amused. “It’s not serious.”

Mae snorted. “No shit. Evelyn Hugo fucking a woman?”

“Exactly,” I said, licking a bit of frosting off my thumb. “Just fun.”

Selene leaned in conspiratorially. “But she’s really into girls?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “She still won’t admit it.”

They both cracked up, like the idea of Evelyn Hugo, Hollywood’s favorite bombshell, being anything other than aggressively heterosexual was the funniest thing they’d heard all night.

Mae nudged me. “You really have a type, huh?”

“Beautiful and avoidant?” I mused, taking another bite of cake. “Yeah. Apparently.”

Around two in the morning, the party began to wind down. Mae was on her phone, summoning Ubers and splitting fares like a seasoned pro, while the drunk stragglers leaned against doorframes, deciding whether they had one more drink in them or if it was time to call it.

Selene and Mae lived a few houses down, so they left together, arms looped casually, talking in the easy shorthand of people who had built a life around each other. Watching them walk away, I felt a flicker of something I couldn’t name—not quite envy, not quite longing, but something in-between. They had already figured it out, the kind of seamless, domestic rhythm that made most couples fall apart before they even got close. Was that a kind of success? Or was it just another kind of trap? I wasn’t sure.

When I stepped back inside, the house was quieter, stripped of the pulse of music and conversation. The air smelled like burnt-out candles and spilled liquor, the aftermath of a night well spent.

And there, in the kitchen, was Evelyn. She had rolled up the sleeves of her dress—probably expensive, probably dry-clean only—and was standing at the sink, methodically pouring half-empty bottles of wine down the drain. I stopped in the doorway, watching the way she moved. Like Evelyn Hugo, of all people, actually cleaned up after herself.

I raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for the helpful type.”

She didn’t look up. “I hate waking up to the smell of stale alcohol.”

I leaned against the counter, amused. “So you’d rather waste perfectly good wine?”

She glanced at me then, lips tilting up just slightly. “If it was good wine, people would have finished it.”

I came up behind her looping my arms around her waist. “Now that everyone’s gone,” I murmured against her neck, “I want my birthday present.”

She glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifting. “Yeah?”

I tightened my grip, pulling her back against me. “I want you, naked, in my bed.”

That was all it took.

Ten minutes later, we were tangled in my sheets, my blazer and slacks discarded on the floor, a few candles flickering lazily on the nightstand. Evelyn stood at the edge of the bed, slipping her dress off her shoulders like it was nothing, letting it pool at her feet. Underneath, she wore a black push-up bra, delicate lace framing her curves, and—Jesus Christ—crotchless panties.

I exhaled, tilting my head. “You wore those to the party?”

She smirked, running a hand over her hip. “Didn’t think you’d be interested in my underwear choices.”

I pulled her down onto the bed, my fingers already working over the clasp of her bra. “I’m suddenly very interested.”

Her lips found mine, warm, familiar. As she kissed me, her hand trailed down my stomach, slow, teasing, fingers skimming lower—until she touched me.

She let out a soft moan, one that sent a slow, aching heat curling through me.

God, I had missed that sound.

“Not so fast,” I whispered, pressing a hand to Evelyn’s stomach, keeping her exactly where I wanted her. “I have something new.”

She watched as I reached over and slid open the nightstand drawer. The contents inside were a mess of silk ties, glass bottles with fading labels, a tangle of cords from toys that had long since lost their charge. But I wasn’t after anything too ambitious—not yet.

I pulled out a purple strap-on, turning it over in my hands like I was appraising it for the first time.

Evelyn’s expression shifted, her confidence flickering for just a second. Her lips parted, her eyes flicking from my face to the toy like she was processing an unfamiliar script. Not quite fear, not quite resistance—just pure, unfiltered surprise.

“Oh,” she said, her voice thinner than usual.

I smirked, stretching out beside her, letting the strap dangle from my fingers. “I thought you’d like it.”

She swallowed, then let out a breath. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

“Good,” I murmured, trailing my fingers down her bare thigh. “Because I really want to see what you can handle.”

I slid the harness on over my hips. Evelyn’s gaze followed the movement, her lips parting slightly as I ran my fingers over the thick length of it, teasing, letting her sit with the anticipation for a beat longer than necessary.

Then, without ceremony, I pushed the tip inside of her.

Evelyn gasped, her body tensing for half a second before she exhaled, her fingers gripping the sheets beneath her.

I smirked, leaning over her, my lips brushing her ear.

“Relax,” I whispered. “I promise you’ll like it.”

I pressed my hips forward, watching the way her body adjusted beneath me, how she exhaled through her nose like she was willing herself to stay perfectly still. Always so controlled. Always so measured.

But I knew her well enough to see through it. The slight hitch in her breath, the tension that settled in her thighs before melting away. I dragged my nails lightly down her stomach, just to remind her she wasn’t the one in charge here.

“Evelyn,” I murmured, my voice low, coaxing. “You can move, you know.”

Her eyes fluttered open, pupils wide, a flush creeping down her neck. “I am moving.”

I laughed. “Barely.”

She swallowed, then lifted her hips ever so slightly, as if testing the waters, as if waiting to see if I’d pull her back under.

I did.

I moved slow at first, drawing the dildo out, watching the way her body responded, how her breath turned uneven, how her carefully constructed composure started to slip.

She let out a quiet, involuntary sound, and fuck, I’d missed that—that moment when she let herself forget what she was supposed to be and just let herself feel.

I leaned in, lips grazing the edge of her jaw. “That’s better.”

Her hands found my back, nails biting into my skin. “Shut up.”

I smiled against her throat and thrust my hips – hard. 

“Oh!” she moaned. “Oh, fuck.”

“Is it too big for you?” I asked – half teasing, half serious. I did have a few smaller dildos I could’ve used. But I selfishly wanted her to take the bigger one.

“No,” she groaned.

I rolled my hips again, slower this time, letting her feel every inch. “You sure?” I murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Because you sound like it’s too much.”

Evelyn’s nails raked down my back. “It’s not,” she ground out. “I can take it.”

I smirked. “Good.”

I settled into a rhythm, my hips snapping against hers, my hands gripping the tops of her thighs. Her breasts shook with every thrust, her nipples hardened to tight little peaks. We were both sweating and the room was beginning to smell like sex. The mattress creaked beneath us, the headboard knocking lightly against the wall, but the only sound I cared about was the sound of Evelyn falling apart beneath me—her breath sharp, her body pliant, her voice desperate.

“Oh, fuck me, Celia,” she gasped, her arms winding around my neck, pulling me down, nails scraping against the nape of my neck. “Oh, fuck me, please.”

I nipped at the soft skin just below her ear, enjoying the way she trembled. “I love hearing you beg,” I whispered.

Her head tilted back against the pillow, lips parted, her body arching into mine. “Then make me.”

I groaned, rolling my hips harder, deeper, reveling in the way she met every thrust like she needed it, like she had been starving for this as much as I had. It had been two months without this. And we were both pent up – ready for release. My hand slid between us, fingers pressing against her slick, swollen clit, circling, teasing.

Evelyn’s whole body tensed, her breath catching in her throat before spilling out in a moan so pretty it almost made me lose control.

“Celia,” she gasped, voice barely a whisper now, shaking.

I grinned against her shoulder, my fingers working faster, my hips keeping pace. “Come for me, Evelyn.”

My fingers pressed tighter against her clit, circling just right, pushing her toward that inevitable breaking point.

“Celia—” Her voice caught, her head tilting back, mouth parted, her eyes squeezing shut as her whole body clenched around the pressure building inside her.

“Come for me,” I murmured, lips brushing against her jaw. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

A raw, broken sound tore from her throat, her fingers digging into my back, legs locking tight around me as the last thread of control snapped. It hit her all at once. And this time, she didn’t swallow it down, didn’t stifle it behind clenched teeth like she had in Cincinnati. She let it out, unabashed, a moan that cracked open the quiet of the room, breathless and wrecked and so devastatingly honest it made my pulse stutter.

I stilled, watching her. Heat coiled low in my stomach, sharp and unbearable. Fuck, I could’ve come just from watching her like—so lost in it, so utterly undone.

When I finally pulled out, slow and careful, she let out a small, spent whimper. I unbuckled the harness and tossed it to the side, then stretched out beside her, pressing my forehead against her shoulder.

“God, I needed that,” she murmured, voice hoarse, eyes half-lidded. Her chest rose and fell beneath me, her breathing evening out, slowing.

I rested my head against her breasts—soft, warm, the perfect natural cushion.

“Maybe you can return the favor sometime, pillow princess,” I teased, running my fingers along her side.

She let out an exhausted scoff. “I’ve licked you to more orgasms than I can count, St. James.”

I smirked. “Fair. But I wouldn’t mind seeing you with a strap.”

Evelyn exhaled, tilting her head slightly in consideration. “Maybe.”

I smiled against her skin, knowing maybe from Evelyn meant definitely, eventually.

We were silent for a while. I reached for my vape on the nightstand, taking a few lazy hits. The air smelled like weed and Evelyn, and I wanted to bottle it.

Eventually, she sat up on her elbows, staring at me. “You know,” she started, carefully, “if we’re going to keep doing this, we shouldn’t sleep with other people. For health reasons.”

I blinked, exhaling a slow curl of smoke. “Health reasons?”

She crossed her arms, shifting slightly. “I’m not trying to catch an STD, Celia.”

I sat up, watching her carefully, turning her words over in my head. So that was the game. Evelyn Hugo, master of reinvention, dressing up her jealousy in practicality, disguising possession as health concerns.

And just when I was starting to like her a little.

I tilted my head, voice measured. “Why the hell do you think I’m sleeping with other people?”

She exhaled sharply, like she had expected me to just roll over and agree. “Look, I don’t want to fight about it. But—”

“You’re jealous,” I said, slow and deliberate, letting the words settle. “Clearly. You want me behind closed doors, but you don’t want me in anyone else’s bed. That’s not how this works, Evelyn. We’re not—” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Exclusive fuck buddies. That’s not a thing.”

Evelyn’s jaw tightened. “It isn’t safe.”

“Oh, stop it.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “That’s the biggest crock of shit and you know it.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. Just swung her legs over the side of the bed and started gathering her clothes.

I blinked, trying to process it. “Where are you going?” It was four in the morning.

She didn’t even look at me. “I’m leaving.”

I scoffed. “For what? Because I called you out?”

She pulled the dress over her head, adjusting the straps, her mouth set in a tight, unreadable line. “If you’re just going to fuck every lesbian in L.A., then I don’t want anything to do with you.”

I laughed, humorless, pushing myself up from the bed. “Oh, please. We said no strings. And here you are – making strings.”

She reached for her heels, slipping them on with sharp, efficient movements, like she was trying to erase the last hour, like she wasn’t just sprawled out beneath me, moaning my name.

“I’m not making anything,” she snapped. “I just don’t want to be reckless.”

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Reckless? That’s what you’re calling it?”

Evelyn grabbed her purse from the floor and slung it over her shoulder like this was some clean break, like she wasn’t going to be back in my bed the second she got bored or lonely or drunk enough to stop pretending she didn’t want this.

She didn’t offer a parting shot, didn’t throw one last dagger disguised as indifference. Just turned on her heel and walked out.

I didn’t move. Didn’t call after her. Just stared at the ceiling wondering if I was the one making a mistake.

Ten minutes passed.

Then the door opened again.

I didn’t look at first, just smirked to myself. Of course.

She sighed, kicking off her heels near the doorway.

“No Ubers this late?” I asked, smug, stretching my arms behind my head.

She shot me a look but didn’t dignify me with an answer. Just climbed back into bed, sliding beneath the sheets like she had never left.

And then, without a word, her hands were on me.

Warm fingers tracing the lines of my stomach, featherlight at first, then more insistent, more purposeful. Her lips followed, pressing against my collarbone, my throat, the sharp edge of my jaw. She wasn’t asking for permission, wasn’t waiting for me to make some flippant remark. She was just taking.

I bit my lip, refusing to let her know just how much I liked it.

And then she touched me between my legs, where I was still wet and ready, and suddenly, every ounce of irritation, every sharp word that had sat between us minutes earlier, dissolved.

I didn’t hold back. Didn’t try to make her work for it.

I came apart beneath her, and she watched me the whole time, like she had something to prove.