Mr Americano - ALAN RICKMAN fanfic

Chapter 11 - The Morning After...and After That, and After That, and After That

The distant sound of Alan on the phone behind the closed bedroom door wakes me in the morning from the few hours sleep I'd gotten. Sounds very official. If he were here he'd see the pathetic giddy smile upon my face, buried into his soft pillows as I take a moment to pinch myself, waking up in the bed of a sexy silver fox at his luxurious home. I can smell his cologne all over the pillows. Everything about him makes my mouth water.

My aching muscles are a reminder of the exquisite sex we had last night and that everything was indeed a reality.

7:30.

I sit up in bed naked as a jaybird with the sheets around me and reluctantly reach for my phone, which is no doubt inundated with messages. Yep, although only one from Scott. Surprising.

Ah yes, calling in sick, that dreadful phone call, or in some cases, worse - voicemail that we all detest, and yet somehow it's still tolerable enough to make, in order to give us our free day of leisure. In my case of course, more shagging.

Rules for calling in sick –

1 - Must adapt a fraudulent tone that one can pass off as 'sick,' without sounding like you are impersonating an aristocratic snob his head up someone's ass.

2 – Have a prepared excuse. Diarrhoea tends to be a good one, although of course said in a lady like fashion - 'upset stomach.'

3 – Rehearse if necessary.

Done. And relax.

Alan walks through moments later with sexy shaggy bed hair that makes me want to rip his white shirt off with my teeth. He's paired it with suit pants and looks utterly gorgeous.

His soft kiss meets my lips as he greets me with 'good morning.'

"Did you sleep well?" he asks.

"I certainly did." There is an unmistakable air of mischief dancing about my face.

He gives me a knowing smile, doing up his top button and passes me a bathrobe.

"Darling, I have a meeting around eleven 'o' clock. I'm terribly sorry but I'll have to take you home, which seems awfully rude but..."

"Ohh...oh no, don't worry, it's fine," I say, though I can feel my heart sink. "I'll catch a cab. I don't mind."

"No, no, I'll drive you. It's back at the BBC."

"Does this mean you're staying in London for a while longer?"

"About a week for a small project."

"And where are you off to after that?"

Needy or what. Yet, I can't seem to stop myself from asking questions. I can already feel the loss of us going our separate ways.

He pulls out a suit jacket from a neatly lined wardrobe of formal attire in the manner of James Bond, who by the three mind-blowing orgasms he gave me last night, clearly had a 'Licence to Thrill.'

"Umm, New York. I have a team working on a play there, couple of meetings, castings...." He says it so casually without looking in my direction that it hurts a little.

Oh god, Rebecca. Stop. He's an actor; it's part of the job. I'm suddenly reminded that I'm Rebecca bloody Stone, barista (not the high paying lawyer kind, but the one who makes people coffee for a living) and he is Alan Rickman, movie star and millionaire.

Now what? I go home, resume as normal and deal with Scott's wrath. Would I see Alan again? Would he want to see me again? If he doesn't, am I just going to have to forget about all of this and pretend it never happened?