I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
12 min read·2,214 words·7 views
0:000:00
[Voice Memo: 001]
[Timestamp: 8:12 PM]
Okay, note to self: when the Airbnb description says ‘rustic,’ it’s not a design aesthetic. It’s a legal disclaimer. I am currently in a cabin in Big Bear that has the insulation of a wet cardboard box. It is snowing—not the cute, Los Angeles-girl-sees-snow-for-the-first-time-and-makes-a-Reel snow, but the 'we might find your body in April' kind of snow. The power is flicking like a dying neon sign at a dive bar on Sunset. I’m wearing three layers of cashmere and I can still see my breath. Jamie, you’re an idiot. You could be in Santa Monica right now, drinking a fifteen-dollar green juice and complaining about the marine layer. Instead, you’re… wait.
(Sound of a heavy thud against wood)
There’s someone at the door. If this is a slasher movie, I’m the first one to go. I’m definitely the girl who dies before the opening credits.
[Voice Memo: 002]
[Timestamp: 8:18 PM]
It’s not a serial killer. Or, if it is, he’s been cast by a very high-end agency. His name is Miller. He’s the 'caretaker,' which is apparently a job that requires you to be six-foot-three and have shoulders that fill the entire doorframe like a wide-angle lens. He told me the smoke from my chimney was backing up and I was going to give myself carbon monoxide poisoning. He looked at me—at my three sweaters and my fuzzy Uggs—with this expression of pure, unadulterated pity. It was the kind of look a mechanic gives a guy who tries to put oil in his radiator.
He’s in the living room now, messing with the fireplace. I’m in the kitchen recording this into my phone like a lunatic because I need a witness. He’s wearing a Carhartt jacket that looks like it’s seen actual work, and his jeans are worn in all the right places. Not 'distressed' by a machine in a factory, but actually worn. He has these hands… big, calloused, capable. The kind of hands that look like they could snap a 2x4 or, you know, do other things. I need to stop. The cold is getting to my brain.
[Voice Memo: 003]
[Timestamp: 8:34 PM]
He fixed it. Apparently, the damper was closed. I didn’t know what a damper was. I told him I thought it was a decorative lever. He laughed. It wasn't a polite, 'I’m a service worker' laugh. It was low and rumbling, like a V8 engine idling in a quiet garage.
'You’re from the city,' he said. Not a question. Just a fact.
'Is it the cashmere or the panicked look in my eyes?' I asked him.
He looked me up and down. His eyes are the color of a dark stout, and for a second, the air in here got significantly warmer than the fire he just started. He didn't look away. He has this way of standing—totally still, totally grounded. In LA, everyone is always moving, twitching, checking their phones. Miller just *exists*.
'A bit of both,' he said.
Then the power went out. Not a flicker this time. A full, cinematic blackout. The only light in the room is the orange glow from the hearth. It’s hitting his jawline in a way that makes me want to call my DP and tell him he’s fired.
He’s still here. He said he should wait for a bit to make sure the smoke doesn't start backing up again. I offered him a drink. I have a bottle of Highland Park in my bag because I’m a professional. He said yes. God, his voice is like sandpaper on silk.
[Voice Memo: 004]
[Timestamp: 8:55 PM]
We are sitting on the floor in front of the fire. The chairs were 'too stiff,' according to me, but really I just wanted to be on his level. We’ve been talking. He’s not a talker, but he’s a listener, which is way more dangerous. I’ve told him more about my job in the last twenty minutes than I’ve told my therapist in a year. He thinks my world sounds 'loud.'
'It’s all noise,' I told him.
'Is that why you’re here?' he asked.
He was leaning back on one elbow, the firelight catching the rough texture of his shirt. I realized I was staring at his mouth. It’s a good mouth. Firm, but with a full lower lip. I felt that specific pull in my lower stomach, the one that tells you the conversation is about to stop being a conversation.
I’m going to stop recording. I think I’m about to do something that isn't in the script.
[Voice Memo: 005]
[Timestamp: 9:42 PM]
(Sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing. The crackle of the fire is loud. A low, muffled moan.)
I… I left the phone on the rug. I forgot. But I can’t—I can’t move to turn it off.
Everything happened so fast but felt like it took three hours. He reached out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear and his fingers caught the edge of my jaw. His skin was warm, a total contrast to the freezing room. I didn't pull away. I leaned into it.
'You're shivering,' he whispered.
'I'm not cold anymore,' I said. And I wasn't.
When he kissed me, it wasn't some tentative, first-date bullshit. It was a claim. He tasted like the Scotch and something clean, like pine needles and cold air. He pulled me toward him, his hands sliding under the bottom of my sweaters, findng the bare skin of my waist. His palms were hot and rough, catching on the fine knit of the fabric. I let out a sound I didn't recognize—a little hitch in the back of my throat.
He’s so solid. Pressing against him felt like leaning against a mountain. He rolled me onto my back right there on the rug, the heat from the fireplace hitting one side of my body while the draft from the window hit the other. He stripped me out of those layers with this focused, methodical intensity. He didn't rush, but he didn't hesitate.
'Beautiful,' he muttered, his voice dropping an octave as he saw me. He wasn't looking at me like I was a girl in a magazine. He was looking at me like I was something he’d been looking for.
He’s between my legs now. I can feel the weight of him. He’s still in his jeans, but his shirt is open. I’ve got my hands in his hair—it’s thick and a little bit coarse. He’s kissing my neck, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin right under my ear. Every time his tongue hits my pulse point, my whole body jumps.
'Miller,' I’m saying. I don't even know why. Just his name.
He moves down. His hands are on my thighs, pushing them wide. He’s looking at me, really looking at me, as he slides his fingers into my underwear. He’s so wet. I’m so wet. He finds my clit with his thumb and the friction is perfect—steady, heavy pressure. I’m arching my back off the rug, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
'You like that?' he asks. His voice is a low vibration against my skin.
'Yes. God, yes.'
He doesn't wait. He uses his teeth to tug the lace down, then his mouth is there. It’s a total sensory overload. The smell of the woodsmoke, the flickering orange light, the freezing air on my breasts, and the incredible, focused heat of his mouth on me. He’s using his tongue in long, slow strokes, then circling, then sucking. I’m losing my mind. My heels are digging into the rug. I can feel the tension building, that tight coil in the center of me getting tighter and tighter.
He reaches up and grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. It’s such a dominant move, so effortless. He looks up at me while he keeps working with his mouth, his eyes dark and intense. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s watching me break.
I’m shaking now, for real. My breath is coming in short, jagged gasps. 'Miller, please. I’m—I’m going to—'
He doesn't stop. He speeds up, his tongue flickering against me until the coil snaps. I’m coming so hard I can’t even scream, just this long, low sound as my muscles seize. He stays there, holding me through it, his thumb still moving, keeping the sensation going until I’m practically sobbing.
[Voice Memo: 006]
[Timestamp: 10:05 PM]
(The recording is muffled, as if the phone is partially covered by clothing.)
He’s inside me now. Finally.
He got out of his clothes so fast it was a blur. He’s even bigger than I thought. His cock is thick, heavy, and dark in the firelight. He knelt between my legs and I reached out, my fingers wrapping around him. He’s rock hard, the skin smooth and tight. He let out a ragged breath when I squeezed him, his eyes closing for a second.
'Jamie,' he warned.
I didn't stop. I ran my thumb over the head of his dick, catching the bead of moisture there, and he let out a growl that made my toes curl. He grabbed my hips, his fingers sinking into my skin, and guided himself in.
He filled me up completely. It was that perfect, stretching ache that makes you feel like you’re finally grounded. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting every inch of him. He started to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm. This wasn't a frantic city hookup. This was… substantial. Every thrust felt like it was intended.
He’s staring at me, his face inches from mine. I can see the sweat on his forehead, the way his jaw is clenched. He looks like he’s fighting for control.
'Look at me,' he says.
I can’t look away. I’m watching him move in and out of me, the way his chest muscles flex with every push. I can feel him hitting my G-spot, over and over, that blunt pressure sending sparks all the way to my fingertips. My hands are all over him—the small of his back, his lats, the rough skin of his elbows.
He’s picking up the pace. The sound of our bodies hitting—that wet, rhythmic slap—is the only thing I can hear besides the wind outside. It’s getting louder, more desperate. He’s breathing hard now, his chest heaving against mine. I can feel the internal pressure building again, the second wave starting to crest.
'Miller, now. Don't—don't stop.'
He lets go of my wrists and slides his arms under my back, lifting me up, crushing me against him so there’s no space left between us. He’s slamming into me now, his thrusts deep and fast. I’m clawing at his back, my teeth sinking into his shoulder to keep from yelling.
He hits that one spot, that perfect angle, and I’m gone. I’m coming again, my internal muscles clamping down on him in waves. He feels it. He lets out a loud, guttural groan and plunges into me one last time, his whole body tensing as he spends himself inside me. He’s shaking. The big, solid man is actually shaking from the force of it.
He collapses on top of me, burying his face in my hair. We’re both covered in sweat, our skin cooling in the mountain air, but the heat where we’re connected is still intense.
(Silence for several seconds, just heavy breathing and the fire.)
'You okay?' he asks. His voice is a wreck.
'I think I might actually like the mountains,' I whisper.
I can hear him smile against my neck.
[Voice Memo: 007]
[Timestamp: 10:45 PM]
He’s still here. We’re wrapped in a duvet now, sitting back in front of the fire. The power is still out, but I don't care. He brought in more wood and the fire is roaring. He’s currently in the kitchen, making us some kind of 'mountain grilled cheese' with a cast-iron skillet and the remains of my expensive cheddar.
I’m looking at the rug where we just… yeah.
This wasn't on the itinerary. I came up here to clear my head, to get away from the noise of the industry, from the constant pressure of being 'on.' I expected to spend the weekend reading scripts and feeling lonely in a high-end way. I didn't expect Miller.
He walks back in, wearing just his unbuttoned flannel and his boxers. He looks like a dream, but he feels real. He hands me a plate and sits down next to me, pulling me into his side. His arm is heavy and warm across my shoulders.
'The storm is supposed to clear by morning,' he says.
'Oh,' I say. I’m surprised by how disappointed I sound.
He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. 'Roads will still be closed until noon, though. Maybe later. The plows take their time on this ridge.'
'Good,' I say.
He leans in and kisses my forehead. 'Eat your sandwich, city girl.'
I’m keeping this recording. Not for the 'process.' Not for a script. Just for me. Because for once in my life, I don't want to edit a single thing. This is the first take, and it’s perfect.
Note to self: The damper should definitely stay shut.
