Jon took his time hiding the fucking machine, unable to resist enjoying the predicament he had her in. Once the canvas was tucked and tied in place, though, he strode to the end of the recliner chair and undid the buckles that held Hannah in place. His hands didn't immediately withdraw, however... he left them resting around her ankles, almost fully encircling the joints, stroking the bare flesh between the bottom of her yoga pants and the straps of her shoes as he studied her closely, cocking his head. Damn... was this his lucky day, or what? One of Hollywood's top ten most desirable women turning out to not only be a freak, but wanting him to be the Virgil to her Dante through the nine circles of sexual inferno. He felt like pinching himself – or her.<br/><br/>Jon pulled roughly on her legs, sliding her down the chair until her ass was perched on the foot-rest, and her curvesome body collided with the hard planes of his. A grunt of stimulation was forced from his lips as her weight pressed against his crotch for a few moments, and his hands, which had slid up her legs to grasp her thighs as she had fallen towards him, dug in tighter. After a few more moments of intense, aggressive scrutiny Jon loosened his hold and stepped aside, offering her a helping hand off the chair. “Next time you ask me to unstrap you, you'll need a safe word,” he smirked, sweeping his arm to usher her to the door.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The bright studio lights made her feel like the layer of make-up she wore was floating on a sheen of sweat. The set glimmered; everything was chic, white, elegant, a Hollywood vision of how the middle-class lived, and the cast milling through it, adjusting the blocking of the furniture and angle of the lights seemed especially out of place in their scruffy, workmanlike attire. It was between shots, and the director was bickering with the gaffer over some technicality while most of the crew tried to look busy or swarmed the craft services table, and Hank, a great burly bear of a man who played her character, Heather's, abusive partner but wouldn't hurt a fly in real life was hunched over his script, memorising and re-memorising his few lines with obsessive-compulsive intensity.<br/><br/>Her phone buzzed.<br/><br/>A text message blinked on the screen when the phone was unlocked. An address, pretty far out from her usual Beverly Hills stomping rounds, in one of the many less salubrious parts of LA. The rest of the message read:<strong>9 pm. Making some finishing touches on my little project. Don't keep me waiting.</strong>