It's the pose that does it.

She's been so,  mon dieu she hates the moral judgment of the word. But it remains the right one here, in any language. Soo good, since she decided he couldn't give her what she needed, or maybe wasn't ready to, or didn't see her like that. Nothing more than a flying fuck when he got itchy on the road and she was available to scratch.

But here she was, with his encompassing form around her back and his arm causally slung across her collarbone and she could barely keep her lip from between her teeth to smile.

Smile for the camera, Helene. He'd whispered in her ear and she was thankful for their blustery setting the clothing covering her chill bumps.

All day, She'd been trying to keep dry and get some candid shots to go into the vault. Sometimes she wondered why they paid her to take so many images, most of them, a greater preportion than usual, just lived in her computer or Jeff's computer never to be used.

Would they ever release them? To the utter delight and meltdowns of this man's rabid fans.

She gets it, Helene does. What they see in him, she sees it herself often. And she sees more, his dick has made her soul smile on more than one occasion.
It didn't start with these libidinous thoughts, it wasn't one of those moments where he was a living lighthouse or hedonism personified. It's the first scene with the imaginary fish and he's having a bit or trouble. He's also cold and wet. Which are two sensations he doesn't love, but seems to include in every damn piece of art he makes. He's throwing the little bean bag onto the rock and it's not meant to be gentle exactly, but he seems irritated, not concerned as you would be for a suicidal fish when you yourself are suicidal. His character at least. Thank god. But his physical discomfort is intruding on his ability to act right now; he's barely holding on. He loses his balance while frustrated and falls into the water, cursing.

Helene will not laugh.

She hides her giggles while they change him. He got his Gucci denim outfit uncomfortably wet. Why would you chose that outfit to go to a watery death? She is overthinking. As always.

He's ready to go again, fresh Gucci down to his drawers, and by the 10th take, he's in the swing.

When Harry nails it, He gives the director and Helene the biggest grin and she's charmed. The lights have turned on and the fog has lifted. He shines.

He is finished with this set up and Helene has just put her gear away. Harry brushes past her to get around a rock and presses an affectionate kiss to the easily accessible top of her head.

"Thanks for coming, Tiny. Know it's cold."

Helene smiles at him, and somebody else with a camera, someone not her, clicks their picture.

It's always weird when she is the subject. She's pretty sure she has more photos with Harry, selfies at least than with any boyfriend she has had, in her life, which flashes before her eyes, with a highlight reel of her beneath Harry, while he turns her around towards the camera.

The arm that was across her scapula, turns her like a top and her stomach flutters with the motion. His motion. His arm has come across her clavicle, like it did in LA, and she comes together like the place in between those bones, a shallow place where her heartbeat is thumping visibly.

She's thrumming.

Not that there is a damn thing she can do about it. He can do about it. Anybody can, they have so much work to do.

The quiver in her chest and bones and betwixt her legs stays with her all day. Through lunch with all the people she's missed on their break, around the lunch Harry's had cooked for them, with all the little flourishes he likes. All the different food needs accommodated, hospitality on show. It's a wonderful midday after a bitter morning, the sun's even peaked through. The whole group brims with happinesss. Helene and her table included, she laughs and kisses Molly's cheek, she's so cute. 

She stays away from Harry though, through at least theee set ups, one not involving him where she could see his intention to hover and smell her pent scent. So, she puts distance, physically between them all day, especially when they move on to the shoot at the docks.

She's taking far away shots. It was easier to control the pulse at her center when he was in the loose jumpsuit. Now in the tight sweater vest, where he looks like some movie star from a bygone era, she's struggling.

It's sending her. Fly her to the moon.

So she keeps her distance and captures him from afar. She'd been doing so well.

Still is! She reminds herself.

The day is long because of her longing, but Helene makes it through.

"You coming to the pub." She jumps a bit at his breath near her ear, her hair is stirred by its breeze. She's surprised, she can usually feel his approach 10 paces off.

"No, need my bed." She begs off. She's begging he doesn't press, with those puppy dog eyes and dimples he knows how to wield.

"Really?" He pouts. "Need your company." He insists.

Oh, he's reached for the big ammunition, he's used everything in his arsenal, he's even touching her arm. He turns her again and she knows she going to say yes before he bites his lip and says, "please."

"Qui." She exhales. She'd like to qualify the sigh as resigned, but it's full of breath and melodic.

"Yes!" He presses a kiss to her forehead and squeezes her before he wanders off to gather troops.

So much for distance.

The pub is lovely, if their wine selection a bit limited. She can see why Harry picked this for his fictional island. He has excellent taste and this is so picturesque and any number of stories, real and imagined, could be contained in its Walls.

He tastes excellent.

He's across the room holding court. He's a little drunk, and he's just thrown his head back and she can remember the shape of his Adam's Apple on her tongue, and the taste. God the taste of his skin, especially after a show. Her lips would be raw from the salt afterwards, and dual thirsts would greet her in the morning light. Water with something more mineral from his skin.

Helene gulps her wine and tries to tune back in to the English around her. The mix of accents and the still difficult language is enough for her to have to get her mind out of the gutter intentionally to follow along.

Not the gutter, Harry's room.

She's squinting and translating something someone has said in her head and wondering how many times somebody has refilled her glass when another intoxicant fills her senses.

Harry's hand is on top of her head and then sliding down the back of her hair. It's exactly like he does when his dick is in her mouth. But he's usually not grinning like that.

"Tiny!" He's  so jovial when drunk. "This seat taken?"

There is no seat. It's the end of the booth, there is a small amount of brown leather, and Harry wedges himself onto it and picks up her legs, uncrosses them and lays them over his own to make space. He's solved his own problem and worsened hers.

She quirks a brow at him and he just kisses it like it's totally normal she's basically on his lap among all their colleagues. Only in this group he's made close as family would this not look risqué. Only with him. She's thinks only Sarah and Mitch know about them. Know that the 'know' each other. And they aren't on this shoot.

Nobody is looking at them funny, so she had better stop staring at him.

She tears her eyes away, like the wrapper of a condom, and goes back to translating.

It's useless when he starts running his nails along her thighs. She puts her hand on his to stop him, but he just grips her thigh instead.

It is not a step in the right direction. It's only leads one direction for her thoughts. To the way his huge hands look on her tiny body. The way his palm can cover her whole stomach and his fingers reach her honey pot still. She has photographic evidence. Between that thought and the wine, she needs to leave.

"Where are you going?" He looks very sweet, except the glint in his eye. She narrows hers at him.

"My room."

"Already?" He pouts.

"Qui."

"I can't really leave yet."

"I didn't ask you to."

He tilts his chin. "Maybe not out loud." He whispers just under her breath.

She exhales.

"Will you wait up for me?" He looks up through his lashes.

She can't even answer but her head moves up and down like a teabag into hot water in the morning.

She's boiling.

He grins. And leans up to kiss her cheek. "What room?" He murmurs. She knows he could find out if he wanted, but it would also alert the front desk, which might make it to the media, or worse, a fan with Twitter.

"24" she whispers through the veil of her hair. Pulls away from his tractor beam eyes and smiles at the table. Gives a few hugs and a big wave.

The inn is small, quaint. She's on the second floor, which is the top floor, waiting. Helene's kept her clothes on. The same outfit she has had on all day. Jeans, loose, and a t shirt, her dad trainers. Should she change? She tries to remember what Harry had on at the pub. He had changed a fair few times throughout the day.

She think he was wearing a hoodie, his name emobossed on the breast in some language or another, Gaelic?, and loose light jeans. Dirty vans adorning his feet.

She hopes she ends the night in his jumper, or wakes up and slipes it over her shoulders.

The hours slip away and her eyes have kettlebells attached to them. She's just about to take care of single girl tasks, washing her face and putting on the extra lock when the knock comes.

"I was about to go to bed without you." She leans against the door jamb. She's not purposely jutting her hip.  She's not!

"Ahh," he teases, touches the smudges below her droopy eyes and pulls her blonde hair. "You tired."

"Qui, it's been a long day." She breathes.

"What?" He laughs and pushes her into the room with his hips, "your call time was hours after mine!" He flashes his big green eyes.

"Maybe, but I don't have your stamina." She counters. Harry the athlete raises a brow at her statement.

"I've never had a problem with your endurance."

He let's that lie there, and she can tell both of their mind's are roving over memories of late nights turned into early morning mapping flesh.

"No, I suppose you are right." She goes easy when he pulls her forward and his mouth slides against her like a skeleton key into a waiting lock. She expects the kiss to escalate, but maybe they are both a little tired, exhausted from a long day, while longing for an extended night. His kiss remains deep, full of tingling tongue touches, but doesn't get faster, her back doesn't hit the wall, and there are no stops where she is pressed against or onto furniture.

He has some embedded geography of hotel rooms, because he navigates the suite like the globetrotter he is. They are both fully dressed, and the squeezes and rubs over the fabric are exciting, reminiscent of juvenile contained eagerness. When her knees hit the back of the mattress, Helene decides the adults need to take over and hikes the tucked in button down up and over his head, forgoing the buttons.

The black ink on his golden skin is a trail familiar to her fingers tips and she follows it down, down to the leaves framing his joyful path. She can feel the pressure of his erection on the slide mechanism of his trousers and against the strained teeth tethered together on his zipper. If it wasnt metal, it would unzip itself against the force. She sighs when she pulls him out. His dick makes her so proud every time. She can't imagine what it's like to carry it around.

No wonder he is so self confident, the word cocksure occurs to her and she giggles.

"Are you laughing at me?" He looks down and she's charmed, for all his assuredness, he's still vulnerable. It's why he is so endearing.

"Non," she's got him naked and guides him back to the head aboard. He looks more tired than her suddenly, he had a bigger day, job. She'll keep up the inversion of the evening, she can recall no other time together where she had clothes on while he was naked. "I was just think how much I appreciate your dick."

"And it made you laugh?" Oh he's still a little offended.

Helene will have to make it up to him. She ruts against his lap and takes stock.

He's half mast. Which is a rare state for him, in her experience. She nuzzles into his lap and laps from his base to tip. She can feel the plumping under her tongue and decides that's not quite adequate.

She can fit him all the way like this. It won't last, so she takes advantage and mentally pats herself on the back as she seems to expand her capacity as he swells. Once she can't muzzle her nose into his patch of hair anymore she pulls off with a gasp and looks up to his panting face.

"I wasn't laughing at you," she nods towards his bobbing shafts. "In my head, I thought how I'm proud of your dick, and decided it was the wrong word. But the right feeling." Helene put him back in her mouth with her tongue extended out, and stroked him from her throat to the squirming tip.

He's chuckling now and she smiles with her eyes at him. "You're proud of my dick?" His dimples are the size of salad plates.

"Qui, aren't you?" She flashes her brows while
She straddles his lap. She's not sure she's satisfied her mouth hunger for him, but they have all night.

"Well...." He blushes, which makes her giggle. She's fully naked on his bare dick and he's blushing.

"Know you are." She whispers in his ear. "You have every reason to be."

"Mmmhmmm." He could be responding to her statement or her rocking over his lap. If one of them tilted just so....

"You've been cocky!" She emphasizes that by moving her hips to an almost position. "Enough before."

He looks just a touch frustrated.

"Should I show you how proud I am?" She slips the tip in, just the tip. Not quite to the popping point. It's a tantalizing suspension, just rocking while his eyelashes flutter. "Show you why you deserve to be cocky?"

"Mmmmm," he hums, vision now between their legs, mesmerized. "Please." He breathes and looks at her.

"Do we need a condom?" She's not sure how active he's been.

"Not for me." He grabs her hips and tries to push her down, as tantalizing as the pop of a champagne bottle, the moment of jubilant anticipation.

"Better safe than sorry!" she dismounts and grabs a skin. He breathes a breath like he is frustrated.

"Oh, Cherie, ne t'inquiète pas!" She teases and strokes firmly, guiding his foreskin over the sensitive tip. "We're only beginning." He helps her roll it down and lifts her thighs to press against the headboard on either side of him. She's glad it's padded. Harry's done waiting, or being gentle and shy. She can't even acknowledge the pop of their joining she loves, she's too busy catching up to the rough thrust of his pelvis up and into her own. "Merde!"

"Mmmmhmmmm." He hums and catches her lips with his own, a net to butterflies. It's soft, slow and sensual, in opposition to the bruising hold he has on her hips. He can handle her with one of his big hands. The other has found its place on her sensitive nipples. This escalated so fast she thinks the ending will follow the beginning with no middle to enjoy. She was hoping to fuck him slow.

Her hands slide down the headboard, it's coarse beneath her hands in comparison to the hair that fills her hands in the next moment. She pulls his neck back a little roughly. "Wait."

"For?" He keeps working her over his dick and it's compelling, and she loves it, but he's showing her why her makes her proud, and that wasn't tonight's lesson.

"I want to come."

"Good, that's what I want to." He hits her spot unerringly. And she's nearly convinced.

"No, non, on your tongue." She has to forcibly take herself off him. She lifts her knees and places her hands on his shoulders to hoist herself up. It's a favorable arrangement, her legs as long as his torso. "Allez." She suggests and his answer is a smile and the extension of his tongue right up her slit.

Helene has to grab the headboard to stay upright. She knew she was on the way. But how close she was to her journey is even clearer when his hands draw her ass cheeks apart and he's spreading her wetness over both holes while manipulating her clit with his tongue.

When he fits his mouth over her hood, creates suction and licks while fitting two fingers inside her separated by just inches of skin accessing both holes, she clenches without prologue. "Fuck." She rides his face until her orgasm has ridden out its welcome and he pulls his fragrant hand out to aid its twin in holding her steady until she's clutching the headboard and coming against his tongue again. Her wriggling at the over sensitivity only aiding his quest for number two.

She slides down his body slow and she's done, until she remembers her intention when his dripping shaft, wet with her and leaking a few drops for himself, prods her ass. She was gonna run this show, swing her hips like a pendulum so he'd enter a trance like state while inside her, the suspended animation of ecstasy. Helene needed to come so she would be calm enough to do it. To hypnotize him, slow and sweet.

She just needs to control the tempo, bang out a rhythmic unhurried beat on his hips.

It only takes a minor shift in alignment to throw them off their orbit. Send his mercury into retrograde with her pussy. She slides over the tip with ease, she's wet enough that she doesn't even have to work him in like normal. Though it still prickles her nerves with that familiar addictive burn she's only had with him and a few others. Those that pushed her boundaries. She's a globetrotter when she fucks Harry though. Her exhale would be loud if his groan wasn't louder.

"Fuck, Helene!" He looks down again and she decides now that she has given him dinner, he needs a show. Time to mesmerize him.She flexes her pelvis, rounding back and holds the headboard hard to find her beat. It's a slow jam, all the flavor of a samba. She's got a circle like a Ferris wheel and he's stuttering her name like he's afraid of heights but loving the ride.

"Again." Helene demands, her head against his forehead.

"What?" Harry's staring at her motion hard, distracted. Helene stops, she wants his attention, his eyes, his mouth, his dick, every inch of him focused on her, including those inside her. She rides the circle to the top, just his tip inside, and hovers. No other passengers are getting on, she just wants him to admire the view. She clenches and knows he can see it when he shivers.

Helene uses her nose to nudge his gaze up. He looks up, down, up, again. She pulls out enough to nearly unseat him and his fingers dig into her hips. "What?"  He repeats.

"My ñame." She looks him in the eye and presses her panting mouth to his while she slides all the way down, his pubic hair against her swollen clit. "Say my name."

He breathes it out, like a prayer, "Helene!" While she takes them to the top again. "Helene!" He shouts in exhalations when she slams down to his pelvis harder. "Helene!" She swings back up slow, and drops like they've found themselves on a rollercoaster.

By now her name is a chant, "Helene, Helene, helene, fuck Helene!" He's squeezing and staring and licking her lips sloppily and she can tell he doesn't know if he should stop her, try to help her along so they can get off together, or just cum.

He looks desperate to finish.

So she stops, and he looks frantic. "Baby, please!"

Helene shrugs, kisses him and grinds herself against him inside on her spot and outside on begging pleasure zone until she's almost there. She squeezes him rhythmically to keep him ready.

She's almost there. They can hop off this ride together now. So she starts the ascent to the top again, slow circles until he's panting and chanting again, and then it's a free fall ride for them both.

Helene loses her stomach and screams his name in harmony with his chorus of hers.

Their sweaty foreheads rest together, until he is chuckling.

"Quoi?" She catches her breath enough to ask.

"I was just thinking, I definitely won't need a photo to remember this one!"

She feels proud, but she knows there is an image he's forgetting, one that will remind her of this Scottish adventure forever.

Months later, they've found themselves together, like together together, when she comes across it. She posts it, with a longing thank you.

When Harry gets home from set, he's smiling like a Cheshire Cat. "You trying to tell me something?" He shoves his phone at her with the open Instagram.

Helene shrugs. She's feeling proud, even prouder than she felt a year ago.

And she wants to show him.