Page 1 of Eat Slay Love

Sex Choreography

Rae

Tension buzzed throughout the movie set as we all prepared for the film’s first sex scene.

Okay. Let’s make sure everything is on point.

The set was an absolute masterpiece, designed to mirror the opulent and dangerous world of Blood and Vows —the viral mafia romance novel that had captivated millions of women and sparked fanfics, memes, and even custom playlists.

Expecting this to be a blockbuster hit, the production team had spared no expense, pouring what felt like half the movie’s enormous budget into this one room to ensure it would look as breathtakingly seductive as fans had imagined.

Just another day making two impossibly gorgeous humans pretend to have the kind of sex regular people can only dream about.

I grinned.

Totally normal.

The bedroom was drenched in decadence.

Rich, dark velvet covered the walls.

The centerpiece of the space was this massive bed, draped in blood-red silk sheets that shimmered under this massive chandelier.

A fireplace dominated one wall, its flames simulated for safety but no less mesmerizing.

Above it hung a painting of a dark, stormy ocean, the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a villain’s lair. On the mantle, gold chalices and an antique pistol sat side by side, little touches that felt ripped straight from the book.

To the left of the bed was a small table set for two, complete with crystal glasses and a decanter of what looked like whiskey.

And not just any whiskey—there was a label I couldn’t quite make out, but I’d overheard the props team gushing about it being some insanely rare vintage that had cost a ridiculous amount of money, even though no one would ever actually drink it.

But it was the little details that really made the set sing. A knife glinted on the bedside table, encrusted with tiny rubies. Next to it was a single, wilting white rose, its petals blackened at the edges.

This scene is going to be insane.

I didn’t even want to know how much they spent to make the room smell perfect, but it worked. It felt like stepping into the pages of the book itself—a place where passion and violence intertwined.

“Let’s see.” I walked around, checking everything one last time. “Anything else?”

My assistant, Gisselle followed behind me. “I believe we have everything double checked, Rae.”

“Perfect.”

She looked at me. “What time do you leave for your trip?”

I checked my watch. “I’m out of here in four hours.”

“Rae, I hope you have an amazing time.”

“Me too.” My eyes landed on the ropes coiled neatly on the side table.

They looked innocuous enough—soft, silk-blend ropes dyed a deep crimson to match the set’s color palette—but I knew better than to trust appearances. This wasn’t my first time working on a scene that involved restraints, and I’d learned early in my career that safety always had to come first.

The last thing anyone needed was for Ava Laurent, the biggest star on the planet, to pass out—or worse—because someone didn’t test the equipment properly.

Picking up the ropes, I ran my fingers along their length, and gave them a few experimental tugs, testing their strength and flexibility.

Next, I tied a simple loop around my wrist, snug but not tight, to see how it felt.

No pinching.

No constriction.

Good.

I undid the knot. “Gisselle, do we have a pair of scissors in my kit for just in case?”

“We do, and I added another pair just in case.”

“Excellent.”

Having my career-defining project remembered as "Actress Dies Filming Mafia Romance Sex Scene" wasn't exactly what I had in mind for today.

I scanned the space, super excited.

We were about to film the infamous scene where the hero had just killed the heroine’s kidnappers and carried her—still trembling and bloody—back to this very room.

The scene fans had dissected a thousand times, theorizing over every line, every breath.

This wasn’t just a scene.

This was the moment .

And if we didn’t nail it, the internet was going to tear us apart.

I took my coffee from Gisselle. “Let Marco know that we’re ready.”

With a nod from Gisselle, the director Marco rose from his chair with the script clutched tightly in his hand.

Gripping my coffee, I headed off to the side.

The cameras hummed steadily.

The main camera guy, Santana rolled the dolly into position with a soft creak, muttering something about the “magic angle” for the perfect shot.

I took a sip of my coffee, wishing I’d told Gissele to add an extra pump of caramel syrup.

And right on cue, Ava Laurent strolled in.

The moment I spotted Ava, I was reminded of how impossibly perfect she looked. The kind of perfect that didn’t just come from youth but from being crafted by the European gods themselves.

Even though the make-up artist had splattered her with fake drops of blood and a few strategic smudges on her face, her long, platinum-blond hair cascaded down her back like liquid sunlight, and those icy blue eyes were so sharp they could probably cut glass.

She moved with a natural grace, her tall, slender frame gliding across the set like she owned the space.

Well. . .she kind of. . .did.

At just twenty-three, she was the new It Girl of Hollywood, and everyone knew it, including her.

I, on the other hand, was. . .well, let’s just say, not the kind of woman who turned heads in a room.

My dark brown skin naturally shimmered and. . .I thought, was downright stunning, even if the rest of the world rarely noticed.

Today, my medium-length kinky hair was twisted into a simple updo, practical for the long hours on set but with just enough flair to make me feel, dare I say, cute.

It wasn’t the kind of beauty that stopped people in their tracks, not the kind that graced magazine covers or had men stumbling over themselves to hold open doors.

But it was mine, and in my quieter moments, I took pride in it.

But where Ava was all angles and sleek lines, I was curves—full, unapologetic, holy hell, that’s a lot of CURVES .

I was working on loving those curves, though.

Had even started therapy about that and more.

Either way, my big bust was a lot, even on a good day, and my hips?

Well, let’s just say that finding jeans that fit properly was a workout in itself.

My ex used to love those curves—at least until he didn’t. And for the past ten years, since the divorce, I’d been wondering if anyone else ever would love my curves again.

But the thing was. . .I was also getting to a place where maybe. . .finding love didn’t matter so much anymore.

Ava’s melodic chuckle rose in the air, tying around Marco like a velvet ribbon. As usual, the director was completely enthralled, gesturing animatedly, clearly enjoying her attention.

She had him—and, honestly, every other man on set—wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.

But how could I blame her?

In an industry like this, a woman either learned to use the tools she had, or got chewed up and spat out.

And Ava?

She wasn’t just surviving.

She was thriving.

Swallowing, I adjusted my blazer, shielding my tummy as it pushed against my dress’s fabric.

You are worthy. You are deserving.

My therapist—bless her determined soul—had given me that mantra to say to myself anytime insecurity snaked up into my heart.

She’d also given me homework for Valentine’s Day this year.

“Take yourself out,” Her tone left no room for debate. “Love yourself the way you want to be loved, Rae. That’s where it starts.”

I hadn’t argued, though I’d rolled my eyes at her suggestion of dressing up and taking myself out on a romantic fancy trip.

I checked my watch.

Soon.

I barely had time to refocus before Liam Grayson strolled in, wearing only a robe loosely tied around his waist.

My first thought—same as always—was that it truly wasn’t fair for one man to look like that.

Sculpted like a god, Liam was the kind of man who didn’t just turn heads; he left entire rooms gaping. Broad shoulders, chiseled jawline, deep-set hazel eyes that looked like they held secrets—everything about him screamed leading man .

But what set him apart—what made him stand out in an industry overrun by self-obsessed, narcissistic pretty boys—was his personality.

He was sweet .

Genuine, even.

He was the only person besides my assistant who asked me how my day was and actually waited for the answer.

At thirty-eight, Liam was still very much in his prime.

I, on the other hand, was forty-seven.

A decade older than him and worlds apart from the early-twenties models and starlets he was always photographed with. His type was women with flawless skin and tiny waists, who looked like they’d just stepped out of a fashion campaign.

It was probably why I hadn’t had sex in ten years, pretty much giving up with competing with those types of women in California.

I wasn’t bitter about it.

I knew my place—both in life and on this set.

I was the behind-the-scenes woman, the one who made sure everything ran smoothly so that men like Liam could shine.

You are worthy. You are deserving.

I put my view back on the set and sipped more of my coffee.

The studio lights blazed down on that massive bed.

I hope everything goes smoothly today.

A second later, Marco barked through his megaphone, "Rae! We need you on Liam’s patch!"

What?

I froze mid-sip, coffee hovering dangerously close to my mouth.

Liam, what did you and your cock do today?

For women, the modesty patch was straightforward enough—a discreet thong-like covering, flesh-colored and adhesive, designed to cling to the actress’s treasure like a second layer.

It stayed secure even during the most vigorous choreography.

Simple, functional, and, dare I say, almost boring.

But men’s patches?

Oh, those were an entirely different beast.

They weren’t just discreet.

They weren’t sleek.

No, they were. . . inventive .