Behind the Camera, Ch. 02

The next morning came fast.

Too fast.

My alarm buzzed at five, but I was already awake--lying there in the quiet dark, Ginger curled beside me, her bare back warm against my chest. Her breathing was slow and even, one leg thrown over mine, her skin still smelling faintly of sweat, salt, and vodka.

I could've stayed like that for hours. But duty calls.

I slid out of bed carefully, brushing a kiss to her shoulder. She didn't stir, just mumbled something incoherent and shifted deeper into the sheets.

Thirty minutes later, I was on-site with a headset, coffee in one hand and a camera in the other, setting up for the first hits of the day. The sky was bruising with light, a thin veil of pre-storm mist rolling off the surf. Crew members were already in motion--extension cords, cables, sandbags. Everyone moved faster than usual. That buzz in the air wasn't just barometric.

I felt her before I saw her.

She arrived on-site in fitted black leggings, hiking boots, and a storm-rated jacket half-zipped over a snug tank. Hair pulled back in a low ponytail, no makeup except for a faint flush that hadn't quite faded from last night. She looked good--too good. She knew it.

And I knew exactly what was under those clothes.

"Morning, Ginger," someone called.

She gave a casual wave, voice steady. "Let's make this look effortless, boys."

But when her eyes found me across the lot--just for a second--everything else blurred. No smile. No nod. Just a look. Heavy. Knowing. The same mouth I'd kissed senseless now issuing crisp call times and segment rundowns.

Professional.

Except when she passed behind me, she leaned in just enough to whisper, her voice barely audible beneath the wind and static of the crew comms.

"I still feel you."

And just like that, I was rock hard in damp cargo pants, gripping a gimbal with fingers that suddenly didn't work.

She walked away without looking back.

Storm prep carried on. Generator checks, IFB tests, shot blocking. I set up framing with the beach behind her, lens dialed in while pretending I wasn't replaying the sound of her moaning my name, face painted in cum, eyes wild with hunger.

She was all business during the briefing. Clean delivery. Clear timing. Perfect posture.

But between live hits, she'd casually step closer than necessary.

Brush past me with a soft "Excuse me."

Touch the mic pack on her hip just so I'd glance down.

No one else seemed to notice. But it wasn't for them.

It was for me. And I felt every second of it.

We were back to work.

But that storm?

It wasn't just in the forecast anymore.

The morning ran hot and fast--segments taped, edited, fed back to New York. Ginger nailed every hit, as expected. But there was something tighter in the air between us now. Not the delicious tension from last night. Something else. Thinner. Sharper.

It started small.

I was crouched near the gear table, adjusting settings, when she walked past and said quietly, "You good?"

I glanced up. "Yeah. You?"

She gave a tight smile. "Of course."

But the smile didn't reach her eyes.

Later, during a lull between shots, she leaned over my monitor, reviewing playback. Too close. Her arm brushed mine, and my body reacted like it still had permission. But this time, she didn't lean in. She leaned away.

"Looks solid," she said, stepping back.

Professional. Polished. Distant.

I caught up with her near the uplink truck.

"Hey," I said low, keeping it quiet. "Everything alright?"

She glanced at the crew around us, then back at me.

"We're good," she said. Then, gently but firmly, "But this is work."

I nodded. "Of course."

She crossed her arms, eyes searching mine. "Last night was... what it was. But we have to be smart."

I stepped a little closer, keeping my voice even. "I'm not trying to make things complicated."

Her laugh was quiet, dry. "Tyler, it already is."

Silence stretched between us. Just the wind and the distant crash of waves.

"You regret it?" I asked.

"No," she said instantly. "But I do need to keep my shit together. And I can't do that if I'm thinking about the way you looked when you came on my face while I'm trying to read storm data."

That hit like a whip--sharp, honest, turned-on and turned-off at the same time.

I exhaled, nodding. "Got it. Boundaries."

"Good," she said, brushing a hand down her jacket. "Keep them. Because I can't afford to look distracted out here. Not with cameras. Not with this crew. Not with what I've built." Her voice was still calm. But her eyes... they were storm-dark.

"I respect that," I said. And I meant it.

She started to walk away, but paused. Glanced back over her shoulder.

"And for what it's worth," she added, quieter now, "you didn't make it easy to leave this morning."

Then she was gone--already halfway across the sand, headset in place, barking timing into the mic like none of this had happened.

But it had.

And I wasn't about to forget it.

The storm hadn't hit yet, but the pressure had.

The light shifted gray-blue overhead, and every gust of wind sent gear covers flapping, sand biting across the parking lot. Ginger was flawless on-air--locked in, precise--but that crackling undercurrent between us? It hadn't gone anywhere. If anything, it was worse now. We were pretending to be separate. We weren't.

Midway through a logistics brief, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Ginger: Professional enough for you?

I didn't even look up--I could feel her somewhere behind me, probably in the tent with the APs, probably not looking at me. I smirked as I typed.

Me:

Scary professional. Ice queen. Very impressive.

Beat. Then--

Ginger:

Good. I'm trying not to think about your mouth on me.

Not doing great at it, though.

My fingers tightened around the phone.

Me:

Tell me where you're thinking about it.

Exactly.

A pause. Then:

Ginger:

My thighs. The way they were shaking.

The sound I made when you kept going after I came.

I shifted behind the gear trailer, out of sight for a moment. Adjusted myself. My cock was already straining. She was fucking relentless.

Me:

You're playing dirty.

Ginger:

You asked for data.

I'm still processing.

Another vibration.

Ginger:

Also, I'm not wearing underwear.

I nearly groaned out loud.

I glanced across the lot. She was walking past the sat truck now, clipboard in one hand, headset cord swinging, face unreadable. But I saw it--just the slightest sway in her hips. A little more weight in her step.

Me:

See what happens when you say I'm too good at boundaries?

She didn't respond for a full minute.

Then--

Ginger:

Challenge accepted.

But if I get through the next segment without looking at you... you're mine after wrap.

I stared at the message for a beat, then sent back.

Me:

Forget after wrap.

Come meet me in the van. Say we're checking feed cables.

We'll have a... conversation.

This time the pause was shorter.

Ginger:

What kind of conversation?

Me:

The kind where I find out just how true that 'no panties' claim really is. And maybe remind you what my mouth feels like.

Across the lot, I saw her stop at the corner of the tent. She pretended to check her phone. Her shoulders didn't move. But her breath did.

She typed. Slowly.

Ginger:

Two minutes. Back of the Sprinter.

Then she was gone.

Not looking back. Not breaking stride. But headed straight for the news van like it was the only safe place left in the storm.

I pocketed my phone, grabbed a spare cable, and followed her without a word.

Because whatever this "conversation" turned into--I wasn't walking out of that van the same man.

And she knew it.

The van door slid shut behind me with a solid thunk.

Dim inside. Tight space. Coiled cables, emergency lighting, a monitor still powered on from earlier. Ginger was already there, standing with her back to the metal shelving, arms crossed, breathing a little faster than normal.

She wasn't playing calm anymore.

"Tell me you locked it," she said.

I clicked the latch.

She looked at me for half a second--then grabbed my shirt and pulled me in.

Our mouths crashed together. Desperation. Heat. Her hands yanked my jacket open, sliding under my shirt, nails dragging across my stomach. I had her pressed to the wall in seconds, one thigh between hers, the outline of her breasts crushed against my chest.

"You've got two minutes," she whispered against my mouth. "Maybe three."

"Then let's make it count."

My hand was already sliding down, fingers slipping under the waistband of her leggings. No panties. Just warm, wet skin waiting for me.

"Fuck," I groaned. "You weren't lying."

"I told you--" Her breath caught as I slid two fingers through her slick folds. "Oh fuck..."

I found her clit and circled, slow and firm. Her hips jerked. She bit her lip hard, trying not to moan, trying to keep it together in case someone passed too close to the van.

"Keep your voice down," I said, teasing the tip of one finger inside her.

"Then don't do that--" she gasped. "God--"

I pushed two fingers deep, curling them up, thumb pressing just right against her clit.

Her legs trembled. Her head dropped to my shoulder.

"Tyler--Jesus--don't stop--"

"I'm not," I whispered, pumping my fingers faster, harder, feeling her grind against my palm. "You're already close, aren't you? That tight little body ready to fall apart for me."

She nodded frantically, barely able to speak.

Her thighs clenched. Her hands grabbed at my shirt, trying to keep quiet, to hold herself together--but it hit. Fast. Hard. Her whole body went tight, then shuddered against me, her breath catching in silent, desperate pulses.

I held her through it, fingers still inside, pressure constant, until she nearly collapsed against my chest.

When she finally exhaled, she looked up--eyes glassy, lips parted.

Then she dropped to her knees.

"You've got about sixty seconds," she said, tugging open my belt. "Don't waste them."

My cock sprang free, already hard, flushed, slick with pre-cum.

Her mouth wrapped around the tip like she'd missed it, tongue swirling once, twice, before taking me deeper. I groaned, hand sliding into her hair.

"Fuck, Ginger..."

She bobbed faster, hollowing her cheeks, eyes locked on mine. One hand stroked the base, the other gripped my thigh. She took me all the way in--then moaned around it.

I throbbed in her mouth.

"You want it?" I gritted.

She nodded, lips still sealed tight around me.

"Take it, baby."

I didn't last.

She sucked hard, one last deep pull--and I came, thick and fast, down her throat. Her eyes fluttered, and she swallowed every drop. Didn't pull off until I was twitching, spent, gasping.

When she stood, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, breath shallow.

"I win," she said simply.

Then she kissed me once--quick, hot--and unlocked the door.

"We've got ten minutes before the next hit," she said, back to business, voice almost steady.

I was still buttoning my pants when she stepped out.

No one knew.

But my fingers still smelled like her, and my mouth tasted like sin.

And I knew we'd barely scratched the surface.

By late afternoon, the storm surge had pulled back, giving us a rare, eerie pocket of calm.

Ginger was back on camera in a windbreaker and tight black joggers, her hair tied high and clean. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but not the faint smirk that tugged at her lips whenever she passed too close.

The rest of the team was too focused to notice anything. We were racing light--trying to get golden hour b-roll before the clouds swallowed the sun again.

She stood on the edge of a dune, mic in hand, waiting on the cue.

I lined up the shot.

"Bit left," I said in her earpiece.

She adjusted. I watched the sway of her hips as she stepped, the way the curve of her ass flexed with each little shift of balance.

Then I saw her fingers move.

Subtle.

Deliberate.

She dragged one fingertip just below the hem of her jacket, down the inside of her thigh, pausing right where I'd had my fingers buried hours earlier.

I almost dropped the camera.

She didn't look at me. Just waited. Calm. Poised. That little smirk still pulling at her lips.

We wrapped the shot. I walked up to adjust her mic cable.

"You trying to get me fired?" I asked under my breath, eyes scanning the gear, voice low enough for only her to hear.

She tilted her head slightly. "I'm just standing here. Maybe you're the one with the dirty mind."

"You touched exactly where I made you come."

She shrugged. "Sometimes muscle memory kicks in."

"You're a menace," I said, stepping close--just enough that the toe of my boot brushed hers. Her breath caught.

She smiled, then whispered, "Still tasting you on my tongue, by the way."

I clenched my jaw.

Crew was everywhere. Thirty feet away, someone yelled about sandbags. A drone buzzed overhead. But in that second, it was just her. Just me. Just what we weren't doing.

"What if I dragged you behind the dune right now?" I asked, not quite joking.

"You wouldn't make it back in time for the five o'clock hit."

She turned and walked away.

But not before she let her fingers trail across my wrist--barely there. Just enough to feel.

The sun was setting behind her, wind pulling at her jacket, and all I could think about was getting her alone again.

She was right.

I wouldn't make it back in time.

And I wouldn't care.

The hotel lobby buzzed with storm updates and exhausted crew chatter. Gear cases stacked against walls, boots squeaking on wet tile, producers flipping through shot lists on iPads with jittery fingers.

We'd wrapped the day's segments just after six. Ginger and I were both soaked in sea air and work sweat--no makeup, no mic packs, just real skin and damp clothes.

They'd shuttled us back to the hotel in one of the crew vans, squeezed shoulder to shoulder in the backseat. Five people, no words between us. But her thigh pressed against mine the entire drive.

She didn't move.

Neither did I.

Now we were waiting in line for takeout sandwiches at the hotel café, standing a few feet apart, pretending not to care.

I glanced over.

She was leaning against the wall, jacket unzipped, arms crossed under her chest. Her joggers hugged her hips, and her cheeks were still flushed from the cold wind. But her eyes--when they flicked to mine--were burning.

I checked my phone.

Me:

You've been teasing me since noon. You like being mean?

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She didn't even hide her smile.

Ginger:

You make it too easy. Watching you squirm is addictive.

Me:

I'm not squirming.

Ginger:

You're hard in sweatpants. In public. That's squirming.

I looked down. Adjusted my stance. Fuck.

I typed.

Me:

One more look like that and I'm gonna drag you into a stairwell.

Ginger:

Not if I drag you first.

I pocketed the phone before I did something stupid.

We moved up in line. The guy ahead of us ordered something wrapped in foil and slathered in guilt. Ginger stepped beside me, close enough for her jacket sleeve to brush mine.

I didn't look at her.

She didn't speak.

But her fingers grazed my hand for half a second. Just enough to feel. Just enough to destroy me.

After we ordered, we ended up in the elevator together. Alone. Fifteen silent floors.

She stood across from me, watching the numbers climb.

"Say it," I murmured.

"Say what?"

"That you want to touch me right now."

She licked her lips. "I'd rather show you."

The elevator dinged. Doors slid open. She stepped out first.

We were on the same floor.

She didn't wait. Didn't speak. Just walked down the hallway like nothing was wrong.

I followed.

Her door opened.

She paused in the frame. Looked back.

And smiled.

"Goodnight, Tyler."

Then closed the door in my face.

No touch. No kiss. Just her scent still lingering on the air--and my cock aching in my pants.

I stood there for a long moment.

Then I texted her.

Me:

You're not gonna sleep.

Ginger:

You either.

Me:

You're gonna lie there thinking about my mouth on your pussy.

Ginger:

Only if you lie there thinking about my mouth full of you.

I stared at the screen until it faded to black.

And didn't sleep a damn minute.

1:12 a. m.

Sleep was nowhere near happening.

I lay on top of the hotel sheets, hard and restless, scrolling past texts like I hadn't been checking every two minutes for the past hour. My cock was swollen, twitching with every replay of Ginger's face, her voice, her thighs clamping around my fingers in that van.

My phone buzzed.

Ginger:

You up?

I didn't even pretend to hesitate.

Me:

Still hard. Still pissed. Still thinking about your mouth.

Ginger:

Still soaked.

Still picturing your fingers inside me.

Still trying not to moan every time I shift in bed.

My hand slid over the bulge in my boxers, slow and instinctive.

Me:

Slide your hand down.

Two fingers. Slow.

Show me.

A long pause.

Then--

Ginger:

Tyler...

Me:

Don't think. Just do it.

I want proof.

Ten seconds later, a photo dropped in.

Her thighs spread wide under the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The white sheets pulled tight beneath her, fingers pressed inside her pussy--wet, flushed, raw. Her body looked like it had been waiting for this all night.

Ginger:

You better be jerking off to this.

I was.

Me:

I am.

But I want more.

Ginger:

What more could you possibly want?

Me:

A full nude.

Stand up. Go to the mirror. Show me everything.

No reply.

I stared at the screen.

Then finally--

Ginger:

You're insatiable.

Me:

I know what I want. And right now, it's you. All of you.

There was another long pause.

Then another message.

Ginger:

You better not show anyone.

Me:

I wouldn't. This is just for me.

Another minute.

Then a photo came through--and it damn near knocked the breath out of me.

She was standing in front of the hotel's full-length mirror. Her sleep shorts and top were gone, folded neatly on the chair in the background. Her body was bared--every inch. Skin flushed, nipples tight, her thighs parted slightly, hand resting low on her belly like she'd just stopped herself from going further. She wasn't posed. She wasn't performing. She looked vulnerable. Wild. Completely, heartbreakingly real.

Ginger:

You better be fucking dying right now.

Me:

You're unreal.

I've never wanted someone this bad in my life.

Another photo followed--my own.

Boxers down, cock gripped tight at the base, flushed and wet at the tip, veins standing out against the tension.

Me:

This is what you do to me.

Ginger:

Goddamn.

I'm touching myself to that right now.

Again.

Me:

Show me.

I want to see you come to the picture of my cock.

The reply came slower this time. And then--

A new photo.

Her fingers rubbing fast, soaked and messy. Her legs pulled up again, chest rising visibly in the background reflection of the mirror. Her pussy gleamed. And even through a still image, I could feel the tremble in her thighs.

Ginger:

I came so fucking hard.

Me:

Then open your door.

Nothing.

Then--

A knock.

Not hers.

Mine.

I yanked it open.

Ginger stood barefoot in that white cami, her nipples pressing through the thin fabric, her black shorts hanging low on her hips. Her face flushed, mouth slightly open, her phone still in her hand.

Her eyes were dangerous.

"I was trying to behave," she whispered.

"You were in the mirror taking pictures of your naked body for me."

She stepped inside without another word.

And I shut the door behind her.

The door clicked shut behind her, but the tension didn't. It crackled in the space between us, thick as smoke, hot as lightning.

She stood there, barely dressed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. My phone buzzed in her hand--her nude still glowing on the screen. Her cheeks were flushed, her legs bare, and I could see the shine between her thighs even from here.

She didn't say a word.

She didn't have to.

I grabbed her waist and pinned her to the wall in two steps, mouth on hers before she could catch her breath. She kissed me like she was starving--tongue sliding into mine, teeth grazing my bottom lip, hands clawing at my shirt like it had wronged her.

"You sent me that fucking mirror pic," I growled into her mouth, lifting her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist.

"You asked for it," she panted.

"I didn't know it would wreck me."

I carried her to the bed and dropped her on it like a promise.

She was already tugging the cami over her head, baring those perfect breasts, nipples dark and hard from the AC and the fire in her blood. I yanked my shirt off and pushed my boxers down in one motion. My cock sprang free, thick and heavy and aching for her.

She stared. Licked her lips.

Then laid back and pulled her shorts down slow.

No panties. Just that glistening, swollen mess I'd watched her finger on my screen.

"Spread," I said, voice low.

She did--legs wide, knees up, pussy parted and dripping.

"I want you to look," she said. "You made me like this."

I dropped to my knees between her thighs and buried my face in her.

She cried out instantly, hips lifting into my mouth. I sucked her clit slow at first, then fast and firm, tongue flicking while two fingers slid back inside her soaked heat. She grabbed the headboard behind her, moaning loud now--no pretense left, no neighbors on her mind.

"Fuck--Tyler--don't stop--"

I didn't.

I added a third finger, curling deep, fucking her fast while I sucked her clit in time. She started to come apart, thighs trembling against my face, gasping between broken words.

"I'm gonna--fuck--I'm--"

She shattered--body convulsing, pussy clenching around my fingers, slick flooding my palm. I didn't stop. I slowed, dragged it out. Kept licking until her entire body melted into the sheets.

When I crawled up over her, she was panting, eyes glassy, lips parted.

"I need your cock," she whispered. "Right now."

I didn't wait.

I lined up and pushed inside in one hard thrust--burying myself to the hilt. We both groaned.

She was tight. So fucking tight. Warm, wet, perfect.

I fucked her deep. Slow at first. Stretching her. Making her feel every thick inch.

Her hands gripped my ass, pulling me harder into her.

"I missed this," she gasped. "I wanted this all day."

I picked up the pace--slamming into her now, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. Her tits bounced with every thrust. I bent and sucked one into my mouth, biting lightly while I rammed her.

"Harder," she growled. "Fuck me harder--make me cum again--"

I flipped her over and took her from behind, grabbing her hips and pounding into her. Her moans got louder, filthier.

"You like being filled like this?" I growled. "You like my cock deep in that tight pussy?"

"Fuck yes--fuck yes, Tyler--don't stop--"

I reached around, rubbed her clit again. Her body clenched so tight I almost lost it.

Then she came again--screaming into the mattress, body convulsing as I kept fucking her through it.

I wasn't far behind.

I pulled out, stroking fast, standing over her.

"Where do you want it?"

She rolled to her back, eyes wild, tongue out.

"Everywhere," she whispered. "Cover my fucking face with it."

I groaned, jerking harder.

"Look at me," she said. "Look at what you've done to me."

I exploded--thick ropes of cum streaking her cheeks, her chin, her lips. She smiled through it, mouth open, eyes never leaving mine as I emptied every drop onto her.

When I was done, she licked her lips slowly.

She was still on her knees, mouth slightly open, lips slick and parted as his cum slowly dripped from her chin. Her cheeks were streaked, her breathing shallow, her eyes glazed with something between disbelief and surrender.

Tyler watched her silently, chest rising and falling, pulse still hammering from the release. She hadn't moved yet. Just stared at the floor for a moment like she was trying to steady herself.

Then she stood--unsteady but graceful--and walked toward the bathroom. She didn't close the door.

He gave her a minute, then followed.

The mirror caught her before she spoke. She was leaning over the sink, palms pressed to the counter, staring at her reflection. Her face was flushed, glistening, streaked with the aftershock of what she'd just asked for. What she'd begged for.

Tyler stepped inside, quietly.

Her eyes met his in the mirror.

"I asked you," she said, voice soft but sure. "I asked you to come on my face."

He nodded once. "Yeah."

She reached for a towel, paused, then set it down again. Her voice dropped.

"I've never done that before," she said. "Not once."

He waited.

"Not even with my husband," she added, quieter. "He's asked. A few times. I always said no."

Her eyes stayed on her reflection for a long second, then flicked to his again. "But I asked you."

"I know," he said. "I was surprised too."

She exhaled a slow breath. "It makes me feel like a slut."

Tyler didn't flinch. He stepped closer.

"Why do you think that?"

Her eyes watered slightly--not with sadness, but from the rush of adrenaline still fading from her limbs. "Because I liked it. I liked how it felt. I liked knowing it was yours."

There was silence--full, electric.

He reached out gently, thumb catching the corner of her mouth where a bit of him still glistened.

"I don't see a slut," he said. "I see a woman who finally let herself feel what she wanted."

Her laugh was short, breathy. "That doesn't make it less confusing."

"No," he said. "But maybe it makes it more honest."

She turned slowly to face him. Her cheeks still flushed, lips raw from kissing, from gasping. Her voice lowered, unsteady but brave.

"I wanted it so bad. I've never wanted anything like that before. And I don't know what that says about me."

He met her eyes. "It says you wanted something real. Messy. Intimate."

She nodded, chewing her lip. "It wasn't even about the act. It was what it did to me. Like I gave something away I'd never shared with anyone."

He reached for her hand, twined their fingers together.

"You didn't give it away. You chose to give it to me."

She looked down at their hands. "And I'd do it again."

He leaned in, lips brushing her forehead. "Anytime you ask."

Her eyes fluttered closed at that. Her voice was small, almost afraid.

"Even if I ask again soon?"

His answer was immediate. "Yes."

She finally picked up the towel, wiped slowly at her cheek, her jaw, her lips. But she didn't look away from him--not once.

And when she finished, she pressed the towel to his chest and smiled.

"I might feel like a slut," she whispered. "But I've never felt more alive."