#preston lacy

The day on set moves in its usual chaotic rhythm. Cameras whir, crew members shout directions, and Johnny moves through it all with that unshakable energy that draws everyone’s attention. You stick close, pretending to help with props or handing him water, but really, you’re watching his hands, how they grip the pole before a stunt, the way he adjusts his gloves, the casual flick of a wrist as he jokes with someone.

Every small touch sets your nerves alight. When he laughs and slaps your hand lightly in a playful reprimand for holding a prop wrong, you can feel the heat pooling low in your stomach. You bite your lip to keep from reacting too obviously, but it’s hard when every motion, every glance from him, seems to tease something deeper inside you.

During a break, he sits beside you on a crate, stretching his legs out lazily. You can’t resist letting your eyes linger on his hands as they rest on his knees, fingers curling slightly. He notices, of course. Johnny always notices.

“You like looking at these, don’t you?” he asks softly, tilting his hand so you can see the knuckles and scars more clearly. The teasing in his tone makes your pulse quicken.

“I… maybe,” you whisper, trying to sound casual but failing.

He grins, leaning closer, letting his hand hover near yours, just close enough to make your skin tingle. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, and you can feel it—not just the thrill of his proximity, but the slow, simmering heat that builds whenever his hands are near yours.

As the crew calls everyone back to set, he grabs your hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in your mind like fire. All day, you catch yourself sneaking glances, imagining those strong, familiar hands tracing over you when no one is looking.

By the end of the shoot, your thoughts are entirely consumed by him. His hands. How they move, how they feel, and the way he seems to know exactly how much to tease without crossing the line—except in your imagination, where the line doesn’t exist.

You catch him watching you as you walk back to the trailer. His eyes glint with mischief, and you know he’s already aware of the effect he has on you. A small, private thrill rushes through you at the thought. One day soon, you’re pretty sure he’ll do more than just tease. And just the idea makes your pulse race as you picture what might happen when those hands finally get your full attention.

The next morning you’re back on set, and it’s the same chaos you’ve come to expect—props scattered, cameras being adjusted, everyone buzzing with energy. Johnny’s already in the middle of it all, cracking jokes, hyping everyone up, that familiar reckless smile plastered across his face.

You try to focus on the stunt board in your hands, but your eyes betray you the second you see him pulling on his gloves. The leather creaks under the strength of his grip, and the veins along his forearms stand out as he flexes his hands, stretching them before another wild idea takes shape.

You swallow hard.

Johnny catches you. Of course he does. His dark sunglasses slide down just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re not even pretending to hide it anymore,” he calls out, loud enough for a couple of crew members to glance over in confusion.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face in the clipboard.

He laughs, the kind of laugh that makes everyone else around him grin, but his attention doesn’t leave you. As the crew disperses to set up the next shot, Johnny wanders over, leaning his weight on the crate beside you.

“You know, most girlfriends stare at their boyfriend’s ass or chest,” he teases. He holds his hands out deliberately, wiggling his fingers in front of your face. “But not you. You’ve got a thing for these beat-up paws, huh?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but your pulse betrays you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re busted.” His voice drops lower, just for you, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I swear, every time I catch you looking, it makes me wanna—” He cuts himself off, grin widening. “Well. Maybe I shouldn’t finish that sentence out here.”

Your stomach knots at the way he says it, casual but heavy with suggestion.

The day moves on, but Johnny doesn’t let it drop. Every chance he gets, he teases you with those hands. Passing you a bottle of water, he lets his fingers graze over yours a beat too long. During a break, he stretches, making a show of cracking his knuckles. When you hand him a helmet, he deliberately brushes his thumb across your palm as he takes it.

By the time the last stunt wraps, you’re wound tight with tension.

Later, when the crew clears out for the evening, you find yourself lingering in the quiet. Johnny is leaning against the hood of a beat-up production van, his hands shoved in his pockets, hair messy, sunglasses gone now that the sun’s dipped lower. He looks relaxed, but you know better—he’s waiting.

“You gonna come over here, or you gonna keep pretending you don’t want to?” he asks, voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. He smirks as you step closer, until you’re standing between his knees. His hands slip free from his pockets, and your breath catches automatically.

“God, you’re predictable,” he says, watching the way your gaze drops instantly. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Say it.”

Your voice shakes. “I like your hands.”

His grin is wicked. “I know you do.” He trails the back of his knuckles slowly down your cheek, and the simple touch is enough to make your knees wobble. “You’ve been staring at them like they’re the only thing holding you together.”

You bite your lip, your breath quickening as his fingers trace your jaw, feather-light, before brushing down the side of your neck.

“Maybe I should put them to better use,” Johnny murmurs.

The words hang between you, thick with promise. His hand slips behind your neck, tugging you closer until your foreheads touch. You can feel the warmth of his breath, the slow drag of his thumb across your pulse point, the tension strung so tight it feels like a wire about to snap.

And just before he kisses you, he pulls back with that infuriating grin. “But not out here. Gotta give the crew something to wonder about.”

He lets go, slipping his hand back into his pocket as he walks off toward the trailer, leaving you breathless, buzzing, and already imagining what’s going to happen when he finally stops teasing and gives you exactly what you’ve been craving.

By the time you make it back to the trailer, your chest is tight with anticipation. Johnny has that effect on you—leaving you wound up, flustered, desperate, but still laughing through it all. It’s infuriating, and addictive.

The trailer door creaks open, and you step inside, the faint scent of cigarettes and leather lingering in the air. Johnny’s already there, sprawled across the couch like he owns the world. He glances up from whatever he’s fiddling with, that slow grin spreading across his face when he sees you.

“Knew you’d follow me,” he drawls. His voice is lazy, cocky, but the spark in his eyes says he’s been waiting.

You shut the door behind you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You didn’t exactly give me a choice.”

Johnny pats the spot beside him. “Come here, darlin’.”

You move toward him, but before you can sit, his hand shoots out and catches your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful, and the simple feel of his fingers curling around you makes your breath stutter. He watches your reaction with that same mischievous glint.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, tugging you closer until you’re standing between his knees. His thumb brushes lazily against the inside of your wrist, dragging across your skin like he’s testing how far he can push. “You’re shaking already. Just from this?”

You swallow hard. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.” He chuckles, low and warm. “You’ve been eye-fucking my hands for weeks, and now you can’t even stand still when I touch you. You’re so easy, baby.”

Your cheeks burn, but the heat in your stomach only coils tighter.

Johnny leans back, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands settle on your hips, heavy and commanding. You bite your lip as his fingers dig in, dragging you closer against him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “All this over a pair of busted knuckles and calluses.” He lifts one hand, holding it up between you like evidence. The skin is rough, a faint scar cutting across his index knuckle, veins rising as he flexes. “This what you’ve been drooling over?”

Your eyes lock on it before you can stop yourself, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. You’re hopeless.”

But instead of teasing more, he presses that same hand to your cheek. The contrast of rough skin against soft makes your whole body tremble. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, tugging it down just slightly.

“Open.”

The command is soft, but you obey instantly. His thumb slips past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, and your eyes flutter shut as the taste of salt and skin fills your mouth. You suck gently without even thinking, and the groan that rumbles from Johnny’s chest makes your thighs clench around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s what you want, huh? You wanna suck on my fingers like a good little slut?”

You nod, cheeks heating, your lips wrapped tighter around his thumb. His grin is wicked, approving. He slides another finger into your mouth, stretching your lips around them both, and you moan at the sensation.

“That’s it,” he says, voice roughening. “Look at you. So fucking needy for my hands.”

His other hand slides down your spine, pressing you firmly against his lap. You can feel him hard beneath you, the heat radiating through his jeans. Every shift of his fingers in your mouth, every subtle scrape of calloused skin against your tongue, only makes the ache between your legs sharper.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, a strand of saliva connects them to your lips. He smears it across your cheek with a grin. “Messy girl.”

You can barely catch your breath before his hand closes around your throat. Not tight—just enough to hold, to remind you who’s in control. His thumb rests against your pulse, and you swear he can feel how fast it’s racing.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he whispers, leaning in close. “Every time I touched you, every time I passed you something on set. You were practically shaking with it. I’ve been dying to see you like this.”

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond. The kiss is rough, hungry, all teeth and tongue, his hands framing your face, holding you still like you’re something precious and breakable. Your fingers claw at his shirt, desperate to anchor yourself.

Then those hands are everywhere—on your jaw, sliding down your throat, gripping your waist, sneaking under your shirt. Each touch is deliberate, worshipful in its own filthy way, and you can’t decide if you want to melt or explode.

“Take this off,” he growls, tugging at your shirt. You yank it over your head, and his palms are instantly on your bare skin, dragging over your ribs, cupping your breasts through your bra. His thumbs flick against your nipples, and you gasp into his mouth.

“God, I love how responsive you are,” he mutters. “I barely touch you, and you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod breathlessly, grinding down against him.

“Prove it.”

Before you can ask how, his hand is between your thighs, palming you through your jeans. The pressure makes you whimper, and Johnny smirks. “Thought so.”

His fingers make quick work of your button and zipper, sliding into your waistband. You arch into his touch, desperate, as he drags his rough fingertips over your panties. The friction is unbearable, perfect.

“Johnny—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let me take care of you.”

His hand slips inside, finally pressing against your wet heat. You moan, clinging to his shoulders as he teases you, circling your clit with maddening precision. His fingers are so much bigger than yours, thicker, stronger, and every stroke feels like it’s pulling you apart piece by piece.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your ear. “That’s what you’ve been waiting for. My hands all over you, exactly where you need them.”

When he slides two fingers inside, the stretch makes you cry out. He groans at the sound, pumping them steadily, curling just right to make your whole body tremble. His palm grinds against your clit with every thrust, and you can’t hold back the shameless moans spilling from your lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “You’re gripping me so tight. Bet I could make you come just like this, huh? Just from my fingers.”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes—please, Johnny—don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. His pace quickens, the wet sounds filling the trailer as he fucks you with his hand. He keeps his eyes locked on your face, watching every reaction like it’s the best show he’s ever seen.

“That’s it, darlin’. Take it. Take my fingers like the desperate little slut you are.”

The filthy words make your walls clamp down harder, and you’re spiraling, your body strung so tight it’s about to snap. His thumb circles your clit with ruthless precision, and you break—crying out his name as you come, shaking around his fingers.

Johnny growls, dragging it out, fucking you through it until you collapse against his chest, panting and trembling.

He pulls his hand free slowly, deliberately, and holds it up between you. His fingers glisten with your release, and his grin is feral.

“Look at that,” he says. “All from these hands you’re so obsessed with.”

Before you can recover, he pushes those same slick fingers into your mouth. Your eyes roll back as you taste yourself, sucking greedily. Johnny watches, groaning low in his throat.

“Fuck, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

When he finally pulls his hand away, he cups your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His kiss is softer this time, almost reverent, but his words are anything but.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “These hands? They’ll ruin you if you let me.”