your breast was bound to be the same as another. Wow, was I ever wrong! I was a wreck just thinking about it; Mikhail had a knack for making me feel like a nervous twit, even though he was only six years older.
The next morning, I thought I was going to throw up. This was by far the sexiest scene I’d ever done—and it was just the beginning. This had to go well; Derek was taking a huge chance on me.
I skipped breakfast. I didn’t want anyone to know how nervous I was, and I knew Mikhail would see right through me. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was a twittering, insipid American who squirmed at the mention of “boob.”
Wardrobe fussed with the opening of my bodice for nearly an hour, opening and closing the front to make sure Mikhail wouldn’t have problems. I tried to concentrate on something else, but every time Lisa from wardrobe grabbed the front laces with her hand to check if the tension was right, I pictured Mikhail doing the same. How on earth had I agreed to this? I debated calling my agent up and saying I hadn’t been in my right mind when I’d signed the contract.
I looked at myself in the mirror one last time before making the five-minute trek to the set. My long, light brown hair was arranged in a messy updo, tendrils hanging haphazardly down my face. There was a distinct blush on my cheeks, and my lips looked abnormally moist. Normally, the makeup and costuming put me into character, made me forget myself; I became my character. But all I could think about was Mikhail, and not Marcel and Sandrine.
All of the narrow streets were made of cobblestones; I walked onto the set in running shoes, with my billowy, multi-layered gown bunched and balanced in my arms.
The set had been constructed in the actual castle, completely transformed to look as authentic as possible. The scene was to take place at the entrance to a tight, spiral staircase. Every eye turned in my direction as I bent down to replace my shoes. When I stood up again my gaze instantly found his.
He was standing near the entrance to the staircase, wearing a long, tailored black overcoat, trim black pants with high boots, and a loose white shirt. He grinned. I readjusted the massive pile of fabric in my arms and walked over to him as confidently as I could.
“Wardrobe fixed the bodice issue?” Derek asked.
“Uh, yup,” I fumbled.
“Listen,” Derek continued, taking me aside. Mikhail’s eyes followed us. I couldn’t break his eye contact. “Mikhail and I were talking yesterday. I think we need to alter the scene a little.”
“Oh?” Out of the corner of my eye I could still see Mikhail watching us, his face still and observant.
“I know it’s not in your contract, and I know I’m asking a lot here, but I think it’ll work a lot better if Marcel actually kisses Sandrine’s breast.” He waited for the bomb to drop.
My mouth hung open. I felt cornered. I respected Derek’s genius. I trusted his opinion; no fewer than four actresses had earned an Academy Award nomination through one of his films. But kiss my breast?
I looked over at Mikhail. His expression was impossible to read. He walked over to us.
“Lydia?” Derek looked concerned.
“Yup,” I said, as Mikhail reached us and put his hand on the small of my back. The gesture was both protective and controlling, at the same time. It had the perfect effect. I suddenly felt safe. If it had been anyone else—no way in hell!
“So will you try it?” Derek asked.
I looked at Mikhail again. He smiled and raised his left eyebrow ever so slightly. My eyes rested on his mouth. I imagined those full, wide lips on my actual, real, sensitive breast—not a prop, my breast.
“Oh God,” I whimpered. “Fine.”
“That’s our girl!” Derek slapped me on the shoulder. “Now remember, it’s not binding. We don’t have to use the scene. We’ll shoot it both ways and see what works.”
“OK.” I was down to monosyllables.
The three of us walked back to the staircase.
“Places everyone,” Derek yelled. Everyone scrambled, leaving Mikhail and I on the set.
“So remember,” Derek instructed, taking his place beside the cameraman. “You’ve just been forced to sit through an interminable dinner with the king. Marcel is furious with you, Sandrine, for entertaining the king’s advances. You can’t risk being caught with him or the gig is up. Ready?”
Derek waited a moment while I tried to concentrate myself into character. “OK,” I said.
“OK, quiet everyone. And…rolling!”
“What in bloody hell was that?!” Mikhail growled, grabbing me by the upper arm as I took my first step up the staircase.
“Get your paws off me! No man has, nor ever will, own me!” I squirmed away and went to take another step.
“This is not about ownership, and you know it!” He had me pinned against the wall, his mouth inches from mine. I could feel myself flitting in and out of character: brazen Sandrine one moment, breathless Lydia the next. I thought I detected Mikhail doing the same. We should have ended the scene and started again, but neither of us called it.
He went to kiss me. I dodged and turned my head to the side, as planned. He grabbed my bodice by the front laces with one hand and made me stare into his eyes. His knuckles pressed against my sternum, making the bodice constrict my breathing even more. I clutched at his hand.
“Don’t you dare,” I snarled. “If he catches us, it is done.”
“So be it, then,” he said, twisting the fistful of delicate silk so that the fabric gave.
I had expected my breasts to pop right out of the bodice. They didn’t. The stiffness of the bodice made it stay in place, my nipples still covered. Mikhail looked surprised as well. We stared at each other, both of us clearly out of character. Then Mikhail slipped one hand into the bodice and cupped my breast, pressing me even further against the cold wall with his thighs. I continued to stare at him. My heart was pounding. His eyes felt like knives. I was on the verge of calling for Derek to cut. I knew it was Mikhail touching me, and not Marcel. I knew this was us playing the scene.
He ran his thumb gently, slowly over my nipple. I felt it spring to life under his touch. He angled the tip of his thumb so his nail grazed the erect nub back and forth. We both knew that no one else could see this—this was not for the eventual viewer’s pleasure. It was for mine. I leaned my head back and moaned, just as the script demanded. I was absolved of responsibility for my reaction.
Suddenly popping back into character, Mikhail squeezed my breast harder, tugging the bodice with his free hand. It slipped completely off, pinned between my hips and the wall.
“I don’t care if you bed the fucking emperor himself,” he said against my lips. “It will never change anything between us.”
I still had a flimsy white batik shirt on, ripped down the middle, exposing my cleavage. Mikhail let go of my breast momentarily, seizing me by the shoulders. In one swift motion he pulled the shirt down around my waist, pinning my arms against my sides with the sleeves. I was completely topless down to
