You enter his hotel room, nervous. You've interviewed celebrities before but none of his caliber — definitely not one-on-one — and seeing as how you're the last one to have a go today, you are afraid he'll be exhausted from the constant answering of the same questions. Promotion is by far the most grueling aspect of an actor's life and career and with the hype behind War Horse he has to be exhausted.
Walking down a short corridor, you come to an open room in his suite harboring a chair and sofa; behind the sofa is a wall draped in a curtain of red velvet. Upon the sofa sits Tom looking cheerful, if a bit sleepy. You walk over and introduce yourself, not able to contain smiling wide when he does the same at you; it's contagious.
"Please sit down," he says, motioning to the chair across the sofa. You do so, crossing your legs and taking out your moleskin notebook full of questions and a digital voice recorder.
"You seem a bit nervous," he states as he also takes a seat.
You take a deep breath, finding the right place in your notebook. "You're my first big story."
Tom makes an adorable face. "Oh wow. Well, I'm just an average guy so please, don't be nervous. I'm sure I'll end up talking way too much about things no one cares about." He laughs at himself and you feel more at ease, less intimidated by his sudden fame. He seems like a great guy actually.
The interview proceeds and you discuss a great many things — with Tom going off into numerous tangents — and of course, the film itself. An hour has passed before either of you realize it and you bring a close to the interview, even if you are enjoying yourself immensely. You even toy with the idea of giving him your number, but that just seems untoward and you decide against it.
You walk over to shake his hand and thank him for his time, but along the way you accidentally knock over a cup of tea from the coffee table, spilling it near his feet and on the white hotel carpet. The heat of embarrassment floods your cheeks as you start apologizing profusely for your clumsy actions. "Oh my god. I am so sorry. I'll inform the hotel not to put that on your bill."
He slides closer to the edge of the sofa, reaching down to retrieve the cup with a chuckle. "It's perfectly alright. See! No harm done..." but he trails off when he realizes his face is mere inches from your thigh and he can see the outline of your garters. He bites down on the side of his tongue, a silent sigh escaping his nose. This is probably not a good idea but your perfume smells amazing and before he can stop himself, his fingers have slipped under the hem of your dress, trailing along the lace of your stockings. You elicit a gasp, both from the shock of his actions and from the warmth of his fingertips against your flesh. He looks up at you, his eyes apologetic, and you wonder how it's even possible for someone to be so beautiful.
"I am so sorry. I just..." He begins to pull back his fingers but you bring your hand down atop his, stilling his fingers against your lace.
"Please, don't stop."
You watch his pupils widen and further darken his blue-green eyes as his hand smoothes up your thigh and around to palm a soft, plump buttock. You suddenly feel very naughty for deciding to skip panties today, a smile tugging at your mouth. The fingers of your right hand run themselves through his ginger-brown waves kicking up the scent of vanilla and spice; his tresses softer than you imagined. His other hand traces up from your knee getting dangerously close to the meeting of your thighs.
The back of his hand brushes lightly across your folds, and he moans a little to find that you're smooth and bare ... and oh so wet. Turning his hand over his middle finger slides up your slit, taking with it your arousal.
