A Life in Hollywood Ch.18 - Emilia Clarke {Dolce & Gabbana} (Patreon)

A Life in Hollywood

Chapter 18 - Emilia Clarke

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Emilia Clarke’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing on the coffee table. She was sprawled across her couch in her cozy London flat, legs tucked underneath her in an oversized grey hoodie that had seen better days and soft black shorts. The flat was a comfortable mix of lived-in charm and quiet luxury — high ceilings with original crown molding, large sash windows letting in the gray London light, a big sectional couch piled with throw blankets and half-read books, and a kitchen island visible from where she lay. Scripts were scattered across the coffee table and floor around her, but she wasn’t really absorbing any of them. Her eyes kept glazing over the dialogue, her mind elsewhere.

The screen lit up again. Rachel. Third time that morning. Emilia sighed, dragged a hand through her messy dark hair, and answered on speaker.

“Morning, love. You sound thrilled,” her agent said with that familiar practiced cheer.

“Rachel, if this is another vitamin water gig where I have to pretend I’m glowing from electrolytes and running through fields like a lunatic, I’m hanging up right now.”

Rachel laughed, warm and knowing. “No vitamins today, I promise. We’ve got real money on the table. PepsiCo is coming in strong for their new crisp campaign. Thick-cut, gourmet flavors, the works. They want you front and center — cheeky British humor, you in a light sundress on a sunny day, biting into a crisp with that big infectious smile, maybe a playful little wink to camera. Two days’ work, six figures plus solid residuals. Clean, easy, and the brand loves you.”

Emilia pulled a face even though no one could see it. She sat up a little, adjusting the hoodie. “Chips again? I literally just did the soda campaign last year. Running around parks pretending fizzy drinks fix all my problems. Now I’m the official snack queen? I feel like I’m one commercial away from doing breakfast cereal in my pajamas while telling everyone how great fiber is.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Rachel replied, still upbeat. “People love watching you enjoy food. It’s approachable, it’s fun, it’s very you. The engagement on the last soda one was massive — shares, comments, the algorithm ate it up. This crisp spot plays to the same strength. Light, relatable, happy Emilia enjoying simple pleasures.”

Emilia stood up and wandered toward the kitchen, her bare feet padding across the hardwood floors. The flat’s big windows overlooked a quiet street lined with Victorian terraces. She leaned against the marble counter. “What else have they got?”

“Domino’s is pushing hard,” Rachel continued smoothly. “New stuffed crust pizza line. They want something fun and flirty — you in a cozy modern kitchen with one of their pizza guys, pulling those massive cheese stretches, laughing, that girl-next-door energy. Super relatable, family-friendly but with a little sparkle. Papa John’s came in right behind them — similar deal, but they’re picturing a warm family dinner scene around a big table. You as the cool aunt who shows up with the pies, everyone happy, big smiles, passing slices around. Both are fast shoots, good pay, easy residuals that keep coming in for years.”

Emilia rubbed her temple with two fingers. “Pizza and chips. Brilliant. Am I just food now? Is there a kebab brand or a curry takeaway waiting in the wings too? I can see the headline already — ‘Emilia Clarke: Britain’s Favorite Takeaway Companion.’”

Rachel chuckled. “It’s not that bad. These are huge brands with huge budgets. They see you as approachable and likable — the person people want to share a pizza night with. But there’s one more that stands out. Dolce & Gabbana reached out about their new perfume. This one’s different. High-end. Shooting in Rome — beautiful authentic trattoria setting, golden hour light pouring in, flowing dresses, that Mediterranean glow. They want you as the face of the scent. Elegant but still sexy. They specifically loved your theater background and want to lean into something a little more sophisticated — maybe a short singing moment, a touch of performance. Pay is stronger than the food stuff, and the exposure could open real doors — fashion campaigns, events, the whole thing.”

Emilia leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the gray London street below. A light drizzle had started. “Rome sounds nice. Really nice, actually. But I don’t know… I’ve been trying to be pickier lately. Every time I turn something down I worry I come off as difficult or ungrateful.”

“Look, the snack brands are easy money,” Rachel said, her tone supportive but practical. “Quick turnaround, residuals forever, zero stress. D&G is the one with real legs — could lead to fashion contracts, red carpet moments, bigger opportunities down the line. But it’s completely your call. You’ve got Dragon Girl money in the bank. You don’t have to say yes to everything that comes in.”

Emilia laughed softly, pushing away from the counter and wandering back toward the couch. “Dragon Girl. God, that feels like forever ago. I’m just tired of being the cute one selling junk food. The D&G one at least sounds like I wouldn’t be pretending to have an orgasm over melted cheese or crunching crisps like it’s the highlight of my day.”

“Exactly,” Rachel said. “That pizza and crisp stuff is safe, but the perfume one gives you room to actually perform a little. Think about it. I can push back on the food brands if you want — tell them we’re focusing on higher-end right now. But they’re offering fast cash and they really want you. Call me after lunch and let me know where your head’s at?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Rach. I appreciate you filtering all this.”

Emilia hung up and tossed the phone onto the couch. She poured herself a fresh glass of water from the kitchen tap and stood at the big window again, watching the gray London street below as the drizzle picked up. The flat felt quieter than usual, the kind of heavy silence that made her thoughts louder. The space was a comfortable mix of modern and lived-in — high ceilings with original crown molding, large sash windows that let in the dull afternoon light, a big sectional couch piled with throw blankets and half-read scripts, and an open kitchen with white marble counters and a small herb garden on the windowsill. Commercials. It all felt like settling sometimes. She’d done theater that lit her up from the inside, massive TV that changed her life and made her a household name, proper films with real weight and challenge. Now it was crisps and pizza. She took a long sip of water, the cool liquid doing little to ease the restless knot in her chest.

Her mind kept drifting to Osiah. He had this way of cutting through the noise, of making decisions feel simpler without dismissing her concerns. She picked up her phone again, thumb hovering over his name, the screen lighting up her face in the dim afternoon light. She almost tapped call, then set it down on the windowsill. Not yet. She needed to think first, to sit with the offers a little longer without outside input.

The rest of the morning dragged on. She tried to focus on one of the scripts again, but the words blurred. Around eleven Rachel called back with extra details — exact shoot windows for each option, mood boards for the D&G wardrobe (flowing silks, soft earth tones, elegant but sensual), notes from the creative team about possibly singing a short Italian song in the perfume ad to tie in her theater roots. Emilia listened carefully, asked a few clarifying questions about timelines and location logistics, but kept her answers vague and non-committal. She didn’t want to close any doors yet. By the end of the call she told Rachel she’d decide by the end of the day.

By early afternoon the restlessness had settled deep in her chest, a low hum she couldn’t shake. The drizzle outside had turned steadier, streaking the windows. She paced the flat for a bit — from the living room with its comfortable sectional and scattered scripts, through the open kitchen with its marble counters and fresh herbs on the sill, past the bookshelves lined with theater playbills and old photos from drama school. Nothing helped. Finally she grabbed her phone, took a slow breath, and called Osiah.

He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, you.”

His voice, calm and low, immediately made her shoulders drop. She smiled without meaning to and sank deeper into the couch, pulling a throw blanket over her legs. “Hey. Got a minute? My agent’s drowning me in commercial offers and I’m overthinking everything like an idiot.”

“Shoot,” he said. She could hear faint background noise — distant voices, the soft clatter of equipment being moved, like he was walking somewhere on a set. “I’ve got a bit before the next setup.”

Emilia tucked her legs underneath her more comfortably, getting settled. “First, how was the Gaga thing? I saw some clips online — you, Tony Bennett, all that jazz. Looked like a really nice run.”

Osiah let out a low chuckle. “It was solid. Intimate theaters, great crowds every night. Tony’s a legend — the man has stories for days. Kept the whole crew laughing between shows with old road tales from the fifties and sixties. Gaga’s a force of nature. Full energy, changing outfits between numbers, hitting every note perfectly. I mostly kept the production side smooth — quick changes, lighting cues, making sure the transitions didn’t kill the vibe. Good change of pace after the big Marvel chaos. Learned a lot about live music flow.”

“Sounds perfect for you,” she said, genuinely pleased. “I bet you were the calm one in the middle of all that sparkle and sequins and Tony’s smooth delivery.”

“Someone had to be,” he replied, amusement clear in his tone. “How about you? Season 5 of Game of Thrones is coming up soon, right? Near release. How was filming that one? I remember you mentioning it was intense.”

Emilia groaned softly, running a hand through her hair. “Intense is an understatement. It was the longest, most draining season I’ve done so far. We were shooting in these brutal locations — freezing cold nights in Northern Ireland and Iceland, wind cutting right through you even in layers. There were days where we’d be out in the snow or on these exposed sets for fourteen, fifteen hours straight, and the emotional stuff… Daenerys has a lot going on this season. Lots of big, heavy moments — the kind that stay with you even after the cameras stop rolling. I’m excited for people to see it, but also nervous. You know how it is — once it’s out there, it’s out there. You can’t take it back. Filming felt like we were all running on adrenaline and coffee for months. There were nights I’d get back to my trailer and just sit there staring at the wall, trying to shake off whatever scene we’d just done. The dragons got even more impressive, though. The effects team outdid themselves — the way they integrated them with the practical sets, the scale of everything. It was wild watching it come together in post. But the whole thing was this constant push and pull between the spectacle and the personal stuff. I think that’s what made it so tiring… and so worth it.”

“Bet they did,” Osiah said. “You always bring it. I’ve seen the earlier seasons. Your scenes hit different. People are gonna lose their minds when it drops.”

“Thanks,” she said softly, the warmth in her chest spreading. “It means a lot coming from you. Anyway… back to my current headache.” She launched into the details, walking him through everything her agent had thrown at her that morning. “PepsiCo wants me for this new crisp campaign. Sundress, big smile, cheeky British humor while I crunch away. Six figures for two days. Then Domino’s is pushing stuffed crust pizza — me in a kitchen flirting over massive cheese pulls, girl-next-door energy. Papa John’s similar, but they want a cozy family dinner scene where I’m the cool aunt bringing the pies. Easy money, all of it. But I keep thinking… am I just the snack queen now? I did the soda thing last year. Feels like I’m stuck in junk food land.”

Osiah listened without interrupting, the faint set sounds still in the background. When she finally paused he gave a small hum of understanding. “The food ones sound like they’ll pay the bills but won’t do much else. You’ve done enough of those. Quick shoots, decent check, but it’s the same vibe every time.”

“Exactly,” Emilia said, relieved he got it so quickly. “Then there’s the Dolce & Gabbana one. Perfume commercial, shot in Rome. Italian trattoria setting, golden hour light, flowing dresses, Mediterranean glow. They want something elegant but still sexy. They loved my theater background and mentioned leaning into a little performance — maybe a short singing moment. Pay’s better, exposure’s huge, could lead to fashion stuff. But I don’t know if I want to be the face of perfume right now. I’ve been trying to be pickier.”

He was quiet for a thoughtful second. “The food ones sound like they’ll pay the bills but won’t do much else. You’ve done enough of those. The Dolce & Gabbana one — Rome, perfume, something with a little elegance — sounds like it fits where you’re at. You could actually enjoy it instead of just cashing the check.”

Emilia smiled despite herself, leaning back into the cushions. “You always make it sound so simple. Like I’m not being dramatic for once.”

“It is simple,” he said, calm as ever. “You’re good at this shit. Pick the one that doesn’t make you roll your eyes when you think about shooting it. The Rome one gives you something real to do. The snack stuff is just… snack stuff.”

She laughed, the tension easing out of her shoulders. “Fair point. They mentioned wanting me to sing a bit. Something Italian. Brought up my theater days. That part actually sounds fun.”

“That’s perfect,” Osiah said, voice warm with real interest. “You did theater, right? Before all the dragons and everything.”

Emilia felt her cheeks heat up. She shifted on the couch, suddenly a little shy. “Yeah… a bit. Nothing huge. Mostly student stuff and some regional productions. I was always the one belting out musical numbers when they let me. It was messy but I loved it.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “I only did elementary school plays — some tree in a Christmas thing one year, a talking rock once. Real high art. I had one line and I still managed to trip over my costume. My mum still has the photos somewhere. I looked ridiculous.”

She giggled, the sound light and genuine, the last of the morning’s stress melting away. “Okay, fine. One time in drama school we did a production of Guys and Dolls. I was Adelaide. Had to do the whole ‘Lament’ number — sneezing, crying, the works. I was so nervous opening night that I actually made myself sneeze for real on stage. The audience lost it. Thought it was brilliant method acting. I was just trying not to die of embarrassment. The director later told me it was the most honest moment in the whole show.”

Osiah chuckled, deep and warm. “That’s gold. Real commitment. Most people would’ve panicked and frozen. You turned it into something memorable.”

“Another one was The Importance of Being Earnest. I played Gwendolen. Lots of posh accent practice and dramatic exits. I tripped over my own dress during one performance and turned it into this big theatrical flounce. Got a standing ovation for the physical comedy I didn’t even mean to do. The cast teased me about it for weeks.” She was smiling properly now, properly relaxed. “Theater was messy and fun. No CGI dragons trying to eat you, no massive crews, no green screen for days. Just you, the cast, and whatever chaos happened that night. I miss that energy sometimes — the live crowd, the immediacy, having to adapt on the spot.”

“Sounds like you were made for it,” Osiah said, no hesitation. “That live crowd, figuring it out on your feet, rolling with mistakes — that’s rare. Most people freeze up. You clearly thrived. You should lean into that for the commercial. Bet you’d kill it.”

Emilia bit her lip, a flush of warmth spreading through her chest at the easy, genuine praise. “You think? I’ve been second-guessing everything lately. Wondering if I’m still that girl who could just get up and perform without overthinking every single thing.”

“I know you are,” he said simply. “You’ve got range. Don’t sell yourself short on snack ads. Go do the D&G thing. Rome, nice clothes, singing — sounds like a good time. You’ll enjoy it.”

She took a slow breath, letting his words settle. “Actually… they need a solid production person on the ground. Someone who can keep things moving without stressing the talent. You free? I could put your name in. Might be fun having you there.”

There was a short, thoughtful pause. Then Osiah laughed low. “You trying to drag me to Italy, Clarke?”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted, grinning wide enough that her cheeks ached. “Come on. Good food, nice setting, and I won’t have to fake enthusiasm the whole time. Plus I trust you to keep the set from falling apart. And… maybe we can find some time for other antics while we’re there.”

Osiah’s laugh deepened, warm and knowing. “Antics, huh?”

Emilia’s voice dropped a notch, playful but with a clear naughty edge. “You know what I mean. Rome at night, good wine, no one watching too closely… We could sneak off after wrap, find some quiet corner with a view, or that trattoria after hours. I’ve been good for weeks. I might need you to remind me how much fun we can have when the cameras are off.”

“Careful, Clarke,” he said, the amusement clear but his tone steady. “You’re gonna get me in trouble before we even land.”

“That’s the idea,” she shot back, laughing softly. “Just think about it. Me in one of those flowing dresses from the shoot, you helping me out of it later. Or we could find a rooftop somewhere, city lights below us, your hands on me while I try not to moan too loud. I’ve missed that side of things. The shoot will be professional, but after hours… I’m hoping you’ll help me be very unprofessional.”

Osiah hummed, the sound low. “You’re dangerous when you get like this. Alright, I’ll keep it in mind. Send the details. I’ll make it work. Could use a change of scenery anyway — and apparently some trouble with you.”

Emilia’s smile widened, a flutter of excitement mixing with the relief. “Great. I’ll tell Rachel right now. And seriously… thank you. For listening and not making me feel stupid for overthinking this.”

“Anytime. You’ve got good instincts. Trust them.”

They talked a few more minutes — light stuff about Rome, what the shoot might look like, Osiah asking more about her theater stories. She told him about another production where she’d had to improvise an entire song when the pianist messed up the timing, and how the audience had cheered louder for the mistake than the planned performance. He shared his own ridiculous elementary school rock costume story, making her laugh until her sides hurt.

By the time they hung up, the decision felt easy. She texted Rachel: Let’s do the D&G one. And add Osiah Morse to the production team if they need someone solid.

The reply came back fast: Perfect. They’ll love that. Shooting in two weeks. Rome trattoria location confirmed.

Emilia leaned back on the couch, lighter than she’d felt all day. Rome. Singing. And Osiah there to keep things steady — and, hopefully, unsteady in all the best ways after hours. It sounded like exactly what she needed.

Two weeks later they were in Rome. The production had set up in a charming old trattoria tucked away in Trastevere—exposed brick walls worn smooth by decades of use, dark wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, red-and-white checkered tablecloths on sturdy wooden tables, and the rich, mouthwatering smell of garlic, fresh basil, simmering tomato sauce, and baking bread drifting from the open kitchen. Sunlight filtered through the tall, arched windows, casting a golden afternoon glow over everything. It was exactly the kind of authentic, lived-in spot that made the Dolce & Gabbana creative team happy — romantic without being cliché, warm, and full of character.

Osiah had flown in the day before and was already in full 2nd AD mode, clipboard in hand, headset around his neck. He’d spent the morning walking the space with the director and DP, marking sightlines with tape on the floor, checking cable runs along the walls so nothing would trip the extras or catch in the shots, and making sure the background actors (local extras dressed as happy diners in period-appropriate casual attire) knew how to move naturally — chatting, eating, gesturing — without pulling focus from Emilia.

Emilia arrived mid-morning, looking fresh and radiant in a simple white sundress that caught the light beautifully, the fabric flowing softly around her figure. Her dark hair was down in loose waves framing her face, a light touch of makeup enhancing her natural glow. She spotted Osiah near the bar area coordinating with a lighting tech and walked straight over, a bright, genuine smile breaking across her face.

“You made it,” she said warmly, pulling him into a quick hug. Her body pressed warmly against him for a second, the scent of her light perfume mixing with the trattoria aromas, before she stepped back, still smiling.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied, returning the smile with that calm steadiness of his. “Place looks good. Lighting’s gonna love this time of day — the golden hour through those windows is perfect.”

The director, a sharp Italian guy named Marco with quick hands and an even quicker eye, called everyone together for a quick briefing near the main dining area. “We want elegance with warmth. Emilia, you’re the heart of the ad — confident, sensual, enjoying life. Move through the space like you belong here. We’ll build to the song moment near the end. Make it feel alive.”

Osiah caught Emilia’s eye from across the group and gave a small, encouraging nod. During a short break while the crew adjusted lights and repositioned a few tables, he pulled her aside near one of the side tables piled with prop wine glasses and bread baskets.

“You’ve got that theater voice,” he said quietly, keeping it between them. “Why not use it properly? They mentioned an Italian song. How about ‘Quando, Quando, Quando’? Classic, romantic, fits the setting perfectly. You sing it while walking through the trattoria, interacting with the extras, ending at the table with the perfume bottle. Makes it feel alive instead of just another ad.”

Emilia’s eyes lit up, a spark of excitement crossing her face. “I love that song. Used to sing it in voice lessons back in the day. You really think it works here?”

“It’ll stand out,” Osiah said, nodding. “Gives you something real to do instead of just posing and smiling. The trattoria setting sells itself with that — the warmth, the movement, the music tying it all together.”

Marco overheard the suggestion from a few feet away and jumped on it immediately, clapping his hands once. “Yes! I like this idea very much. Classic and modern at the same time. Let’s rehearse it now, Emilia. We’ll run the sequence.”

They ran the sequence three times before the first full rehearsal. Emilia moved through the space with natural grace, chatting lightly with the extras at the tables — a quick laugh here, a playful touch on a shoulder there, picking up a glass of wine from one table and taking a small sip before setting it down. When the music cue hit, she started singing “Quando, Quando, Quando.” Her voice was warm and confident, carrying through the room with that slight smoky quality she had. The Italian rolled off her tongue smoothly, the melody filling the trattoria beautifully. Osiah watched from the side, making small adjustments — telling an extra to lean back a little for a cleaner sightline, signaling the camera operator to follow her movement more fluidly, adjusting a cable that was catching the light.

“You’re killing it,” Osiah told her during the next reset, handing her a cold water bottle with a small smile. “That last run felt real. Keep the little laugh right before the second verse — it reads genuine and pulls the audience in.”

Emilia took a sip, her cheeks a little pink from the praise and the singing. The cool water felt good after the warm lights. “Feels good to actually perform something again. Not just hit marks and smile. Thank you for suggesting it — it feels right. I was worried it might come off too theatrical, but with the trattoria setting it just… works.”

“You’re balancing it perfectly,” Osiah said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “The way you’re interacting with the extras makes it feel lived-in. It’s not just a commercial — it’s a little moment of life. Keep that energy.”

They shot the main coverage in the golden hour. Emilia changed into a flowing cream dress that hugged her figure nicely, the fabric catching the light as she moved between tables. She sang the song with growing confidence, her voice warm and smoky, the Italian lyrics rolling naturally. The camera followed her as she leaned over a table, laughing with an older extra playing a diner, sharing a playful glance before turning toward the lens with a confident, inviting look while the perfume bottle was revealed on the final table. Osiah kept everything tight — quick resets between takes, making sure the background diners looked like real people enjoying their meal instead of stiff extras, adjusting a cable that caught the light, signaling a slight camera move for better framing.

Between setups Emilia would glance over at him, and he’d give quiet feedback or a thumbs up. “Good eye contact with the older guy at table three,” he said during one break. “It sold the warmth. Just ease the shoulder tension a touch on the final turn — you’re carrying a little from the nerves.”

One take where an extra moved too early, Osiah caught it instantly on the monitor and had it fixed with a quick hand signal before Marco even noticed. The director clapped him on the shoulder after that one. “Good eyes. You’re making my life easier, Morse. Keep that up.”

As the sun started to dip, they got the final wide shot with Emilia finishing the song at the table, lifting the perfume bottle with a satisfied, sensual smile. The whole crew applauded when Marco called cut on the last take.

“Beautiful work,” Marco said, beaming as he reviewed the monitor. “That song was the right call. Emilia, you brought it to life. The emotion, the movement — it feels special. We got everything we needed and more.”

Emilia walked over to Osiah while the crew started wrapping gear. She was glowing, a light sheen of sweat on her collarbone from the warm lights and the energy of performing. The cream dress clung slightly to her skin in places, highlighting her figure. “That felt amazing. I haven’t sung like that on camera in ages. Thank you for pushing the idea. It gave me something real to hold onto instead of just posing.”

“You did the work,” he said simply, but his tone carried real respect. “You made it look easy. The way you played off the extras in the second verse — perfect. Natural, warm, exactly what they wanted.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers, a small, grateful smile on her face. “Couldn’t have done it without you keeping everything running smooth. You notice all the little things — the sightlines, the extras’ movements, the lighting shifts. Makes me less nervous knowing you’ve got the details handled.”

The crew wrapped efficiently, everyone in good spirits after a productive day. Laughter and easy banter filled the trattoria as lights were killed, tables pushed back, and gear packed away. Osiah stayed until the last cable was coiled and the equipment van was loaded, double-checking that nothing was left behind. He walked the space one final time, making sure no props were missing and all sightlines were clear for the next day’s potential pickup shots.

Emilia waited for him near the exit, a light jacket thrown over her dress now that the evening air was cooling. “Long day,” she said as they stepped out into the Roman street. The city was alive around them — scooters zipping past, people laughing outside cafés, the distant sound of music drifting from another restaurant. “But a good one.”

“Yeah. Solid shoot,” Osiah agreed. “You looked like you belonged up there.”

They walked a short distance toward the production cars, the city buzzing around them with evening energy. Emilia stayed close, her arm brushing his occasionally, a comfortable silence settling between them as they enjoyed the Roman evening.

The wrap party was in full swing at a private rooftop spot not far from the trattoria, perched on the top floor of a restored historic building in Trastevere with sweeping views over the terracotta rooftops and the distant glow of the Colosseum. The space was open and elegant, with warm terracotta tiles underfoot, low stone walls topped with climbing vines and fragrant jasmine, and clusters of comfortable lounge seating arranged around low tables. Tall olive trees in large terracotta pots dotted the edges, their leaves rustling softly in the evening breeze. String lights hung in graceful loops overhead, casting a soft golden glow that mingled with the flickering flames of several gas lanterns placed along the perimeter. The air was filled with the rich scents of garlic from the pasta dishes, sweet cream and coffee from the tiramisu, and the sharp, bright notes of fresh basil and olive oil from the antipasti platters. Wine flowed freely from several stations set up along one side of the rooftop, with bottles of red and white open and ready, alongside chilled prosecco in ice buckets. Music played from hidden speakers tucked discreetly among the plants — a lively mix of Italian pop tracks with upbeat rhythms and smooth jazz standards that kept the energy warm, relaxed, and celebratory.

Emilia had changed into a simple black dress that hugged her curves, the hem riding just high enough to show off her legs. She stayed close to Osiah most of the night, introducing him to a few people from the crew, laughing at stories from the shoot, her hand occasionally brushing his arm or lower back as they moved through the crowd. The atmosphere was lively but comfortable — crew members clinked glasses, shared bites of food, and recounted funny moments from the day, like an extra almost knocking over a wine glass or the way the golden light had caught perfectly during one take.

Marco, the director, stood up midway through the evening and tapped a glass with a fork to get everyone’s attention. The rooftop quieted as he raised his wine glass, the string lights casting a warm glow across his face.

“Tonight we celebrate a good shoot,” he said, his Italian accent warm and enthusiastic, carrying easily across the space. “This commercial could have been just another perfume ad — pretty pictures, empty smiles, something you forget the moment the screen goes dark. But thanks to all of you, it feels alive. The lighting team made Rome look like magic — those golden hour shots through the trattoria windows were something special, the way the light caught the wine glasses and the fabric of Emilia’s dress. The extras brought the trattoria to life — you didn’t just stand there; you made it feel like a real place where people eat, laugh, and live. And Emilia…” He turned to her with a big smile, raising his glass higher. “You brought heart. The song, the movement, the way you connected with everyone on set — it was special. You made the commercial feel like a little story, not just an ad. Thank you for trusting the vision and for bringing so much warmth and authenticity. To the team — salute!”

The crew cheered and raised their glasses, a wave of applause and laughter rippling through the rooftop. Emilia blushed but stood up briefly, smiling as she looked around at everyone.

“Thank you, Marco,” she said, her voice clear and warm as she held her own glass. “And thank you to everyone here — the crew, the extras, the lighting team, the sound team, everyone who worked so hard today. Shooting in a real trattoria with all of you made it feel real in a way that a studio set never could. The smells, the light, the way the space came alive — it was special. Osiah especially — you kept everything running so smoothly I barely had to worry about anything except performing. It was a gift having you there, catching every little detail so the rest of us could focus. Here’s to more projects like this, where the work feels good and the people make it better. Salute!”

More cheers erupted. Glasses clinked loudly, laughter rose again, and the party continued with renewed energy as people returned to their conversations, refilled their wine glasses, and passed around fresh plates of food. The music picked up slightly, and a few crew members started dancing lightly near one of the open areas while others settled into the lounge seating, sharing stories and toasting the successful day.

After an hour or so Emilia leaned in close to Osiah, her breath warm against his ear. “We’ve been so fucking well-behaved the whole shoot. No sneaking off, no distractions. I think it’s time we have a little fun.”

Osiah raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You got somewhere in mind?”

Emilia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. She grabbed his hand and tugged him away from the main group, weaving through the crowd toward a quieter corner of the rooftop. There was a small alcove partially hidden by tall potted plants and a low wall—private enough, with the city lights of Rome stretching out below them. The distant hum of the party faded as they slipped behind the greenery.

The second they were out of sight she pushed him back against the wall and kissed him hard. Her mouth was hungry, tongue sliding against his as her body pressed flush. Osiah’s hands dropped to her ass, gripping the soft, full flesh through her dress and pulling her tighter against him. She moaned quietly into the kiss, grinding her hips forward, already feeling the heat building between her legs.

“We’ve been good for two weeks,” she breathed against his lips, nipping at the bottom one. “No sneaking off, no distractions, just professional the whole time. I need you to fuck me. Hard. Right now.”

Osiah squeezed her ass harder, kneading the cheeks and spreading them slightly through the fabric. “Then turn around.”

Emilia turned quickly, bracing her hands on the low wall and arching her back. She pushed her ass out toward him, the dress riding up her thighs. Osiah yanked the hem up over her hips, revealing her bare ass and the thin black thong already soaked through. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled it down her legs, letting it drop to her ankles. The cool night air hit her wet pussy and she shivered, a soft gasp escaping her.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, running a hand up the back of her thigh. He spread her open with his fingers, feeling how dripping wet she already was, her slick folds glistening. He rubbed the thick head of his cock along her pussy, teasing her entrance, coating himself in her wetness before pushing in with one smooth, steady thrust.

Emilia gasped sharply, her pussy stretching around his thickness. “Shit… so full already.” Her voice was low and breathy. She pushed back to take him deeper, her ass cheeks pressing firmly against his hips. “God, you feel huge tonight. I’ve been aching for this.”

Osiah gripped her hips and started fucking her steady and deep, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the distant party noise. Her pussy was hot and tight, gripping him with every thrust, slick sounds filling the alcove. He reached around and cupped one of her tits through the dress, mauling the soft, heavy flesh, pinching her nipple until she moaned louder.

“God yes—fuck me like that,” she panted, pushing back to meet every thrust. Her ass rippled with each impact, the soft flesh jiggling as his hips slapped against her. “Deeper. I want to feel every inch stretching me.”

He gave it to her, pounding harder. The wet, filthy sounds of her pussy taking his cock filled the small alcove—slick squelching mixed with the rhythmic PLAP-PLAP-PLAP of flesh meeting flesh. Emilia’s face twisted in pleasure, mouth open, eyes half-lidded as she looked back at him over her shoulder. Sweat already beaded on her skin, her breath coming in short, needy gasps.

She came fast the first time, her pussy clamping down hard around him, pulsing and fluttering as fresh wetness gushed down her thighs. “Fuck—I’m cumming—” Her voice broke into a shaky moan, thighs trembling hard. Osiah didn’t slow down. He fucked her through it, grinding deep, drawing out every spasm until she was whimpering, her walls still fluttering around him.

He pulled out, spun her around, and lifted her onto the wide ledge of the wall. Emilia wrapped her legs around his waist as he slid back inside in one smooth stroke. This angle let him hit even deeper. He cupped both her tits, pushing the dress down so he could suck on one nipple while he fucked her, mauling the soft flesh with his hands. Her tits swayed and bounced heavily with every thrust, nipples hard against his tongue.

“Fuck, your pussy is gripping me so tight,” he groaned, thrusting up into her. “So wet for me already.”

Emilia’s head fell back, a low moan escaping as she rocked her hips to meet him. “Harder—give it to me harder. I’ve been thinking about this the whole shoot.” Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in as pleasure built again. “Your cock feels so good stretching me open like this. Don’t stop.”

Osiah thrust harder, the wet slap louder now. He kissed her messily, tongues sliding as he pounded into her. Emilia came again, harder this time, her pussy squeezing him like a vice, a broken moan spilling into his mouth. He followed right after, burying himself deep and pumping thick ropes of cum into her. Pulse after pulse flooded her pussy until it started leaking out around his cock, warm and messy.

They barely caught their breath. Emilia slid down on shaky legs, turned around again, and bent over the ledge once more, ass up and dripping. “Again. Don’t stop. I need more.”

Osiah gripped her hips and slammed back in. This time he was rougher, one hand tangling in her hair and pulling just enough to arch her back more. Her ass rippled and jiggled with every powerful thrust, the wet sounds even filthier now that she was full of his cum. He reached around and rubbed her clit in tight circles. Emilia’s moans got louder, more desperate. Her face showed pure bliss—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry, cheeks flushed dark red.

“Fuck—right there—don’t stop rubbing my clit,” she begged, pushing back to meet him. “Your fingers feel so good on my pussy while you fuck me. Harder, Osiah. Make me cum again.”

She came a third time, thighs shaking violently, pussy gushing around his cock. Osiah kept fucking her through it, then pulled out and turned her to face him again.

He sat on the low ledge and pulled her onto his lap, facing him. Emilia sank down onto his cock with a long, satisfied moan, taking every inch until her ass rested on his thighs. She started riding him, rolling her hips in deep, grinding circles. Her tits bounced heavily in his face. Osiah caught one in his mouth, sucking hard while his hands gripped and spread her ass cheeks.

“That’s it—ride that cock,” he growled against her skin. “Your pussy feels so fucking good. So wet and full of my cum already.”

Emilia rode him faster, ass slapping down onto his thighs with wet, rhythmic sounds. Sweat slicked their bodies. Her face was wrecked with pleasure—eyes rolling back, mouth open, soft needy whimpers escaping with every bounce. “I love how deep you get like this. I can feel you hitting so far inside me. Fuck, I’m gonna cum again just from riding you.”

She came again like that, grinding down hard, her pussy fluttering and squeezing as she soaked his lap. Osiah stood up, still buried inside her, and turned her around. He bent her over the ledge one last time, hooking one of her legs up higher so he could drive in at a new angle. The position let him hit even deeper. Emilia’s moans turned into broken cries as he fucked her hard and fast, one hand mauling her swinging tit, the other rubbing her swollen clit.

“Cum inside me again,” she gasped, voice hoarse. “Fill this pussy up. I want it dripping down my legs when we go back to the party.”

He did. With a low groan he buried himself to the hilt and pumped another thick load deep inside her. Emilia shuddered through another smaller orgasm, milking every drop from him. Cum leaked out around his cock, running down her thighs in warm, messy trails.

They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. Osiah finally pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from her swollen pussy. Emilia turned around on shaky legs and kissed him deep and slow, smiling against his mouth.

“Fuck… we needed that,” she whispered, still catching her breath. “Two weeks of being good was way too long.”

Osiah chuckled, helping her fix her dress. “You started it.”

She grinned, pressing one last kiss to his lips. “And I’d do it again. Come on—let’s get back before someone notices we disappeared.”

They slipped back toward the party, flushed and satisfied, the distant city lights of Rome glowing below them.