<div class="floatleft">(http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bt3K5ZPHsxU/TS-EGTXXTUI/AAAAAAAAAEA/LMVoLAnwSc0/s800/5208072646_1b589def37_b.jpg)</div>The question simply hangs for a moment or two. I might possibly have even let it go, seeing it's snarky nature quite clearly marks it as rhetorical. Only, I'm drawn into engaging with you. It actually feels wrong to<em>not</em>grab you, as I have, or tease you, as I am.<br/><br/>"Who says I'm thinking right now?" The words retain a menace even though they are barely audible. I tilt my head, nestling close enough that my lips graze over your jaw and my cock begins to grind on the most sought after arse in the world. "That really is what's wrong in our industry. There's no spontaneity. And we never listen to our customers either."<br/><br/>The hold I have around your neck grows just a tiny bit stronger. "When was the last time anyone came up to you at a convention and gushed about a scene - one single scene - and not just the generic 'oh my God, you're the hottest pornatar ever...'"<br/><br/>Now, my attention shifts to your breasts, natural and therefore incredible. I knead one of the set, groaning in your ear, suckling on it as the heat between us rises. There remains a flash of anger, that little something that makes this little rendezvous stand apart from everything rise, but it is directed at the world.<br/><br/>I pinch your nipple, knowing full well how very sensitive they become, seeking proof that the attraction is mutual, and, without the slightest warning, I flip you around and run that thick fucking cock up and down your booty, making it ever so apparent that we are no longer decent.<br/><br/>Cue the cell phones, and then the Instagram tags.<br/><br/>"You've never be caught in public, have you?" I breathe with a sense of sinful pride. "Not even for a shoot." Now there is smugness too. The kind that will rekindle a woman's rage.