Chapter 31 – London Lights

The call came on a Tuesday afternoon, while Adeyemi was lounging by the pool in her Jumeirah apartment, skin still slick from sunscreen, a half-read novel open on her lap. Her agent’s voice crackled through the phone—excited, almost breathless.

“Amina, darling, you’re not going to believe this. London shoot. High-end production. They want you specifically—your presence, your chemistry. Partner’s a Brit-Nigerian guy, mid-thirties, built like he lifts cars for fun. Script’s got that slow-burn edge you love. Flight’s booked for Friday. You in?”

She paused, letting the idea settle. London—cooler than Dubai, grittier, a city she hadn’t touched since a quick layover years ago. A change from the desert heat might be good. And the script? She’d skimmed the outline they sent—intimate, power-play elements, but with her in control. Sounded intriguing.

“Green,” she said simply.

Her agent laughed. “That’s my girl. Pack light. They’ll have wardrobe there.”

She flew business class—window seat, champagne untouched, mind drifting back to her old life in Lagos as the plane cut through clouds. The boys would be in their thirties now—Khalid probably running some media empire, Chidi saving lives in a hospital somewhere, Tobi designing buildings that touched the sky, Yusuf engineering solutions in the cold north. She wondered if they ever thought of her. Then she pushed the thought away. That chapter was closed. This one was all hers.

London greeted her with grey skies and a chill that made her pull her jacket tighter. The production company sent a car—sleek black Mercedes—to whisk her to a boutique hotel in Shoreditch. Her co-star, Deji, was waiting in the lobby: tall, broad, dark skin glowing under the soft lights, a warm smile that didn’t hide the hunger in his eyes.

“Amina,” he said, voice deep with a hint of Lagos accent. “Pleasure.”

They shook hands—his grip firm, lingering just a second too long. Chemistry check passed.

The director, a sharp British woman named Elena, met them for dinner at a quiet spot nearby. Over steak and red wine she outlined the shoot: two days, one location—a converted warehouse turned luxury loft. Theme: forbidden reunion between ex-lovers. Slow build, real tension, multiple climaxes (pun intended). “I want it authentic,” Elena said. “No faking. If it feels right, go with it.”

Deji leaned back, eyes on Adeyemi. “Sounds perfect.”

The first day started early—makeup, wardrobe (her in a silk slip and robe, him in tailored trousers and an open shirt). The set was dimly lit: king bed with crisp white sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames, soft jazz playing low.

They ran through blocking first—no clothes off yet. Elena watched from behind the camera. “Build the eye contact. Make us believe you’ve waited years for this.”

Adeyemi stood by the window; Deji approached from behind. He brushed her hair aside, kissed her neck—slow, breath hot against her skin. She turned into him, hands sliding up his chest, pulling him close. The kiss started tentative—testing—then deepened, tongues meeting, her back arching as his hands gripped her waist.

Elena called cut. “Good. Now let’s make it real.”

Clothes came off. Adeyemi slipped out of the robe first—standing bare under the lights, no shyness, just ownership. Deji followed—trousers dropping to reveal him already hard, thick and dark, curving slightly upward. She felt that familiar heat bloom low in her belly.

Action.

He backed her against the window—cold glass on her back, his warm body pressing in. Kissed her deep while his hands roamed—cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened. She moaned into his mouth, reached down to stroke him—slow pumps that made him groan low in his throat.

He dropped to his knees, hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, and put his mouth on her—long licks, sucking her clit gently then harder. Fingers slid inside—two, curling just right. She threaded her fingers through his hair, hips rocking against his face, already close from the buildup.

She came with a sharp gasp—thighs trembling, wetness coating his chin. He stood, kissed her so she could taste herself, then turned her to face the window—hands braced on the glass, city lights blurring below.

He rubbed his cock along her slit—teasing—then pushed in slow. She gasped at the stretch—thick, filling her completely. He paused when he bottomed out, let her adjust, then started moving—long, deep thrusts that dragged every ridge along her walls.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “Deeper.”

He gave it to her—harder now, one hand on her hip, the other reaching around to rub her clit. The wet slap of skin echoed in the room. She came again—walls pulsing around him, a raw cry slipping out. He followed—burying deep, groaning as he spilled inside her, hot and thick.

Cut.

They broke for lunch—wrapped in robes, laughing about the cold glass fogging up. Deji leaned close while they ate salads. “That felt real,” he whispered.

She smiled. “It was.”

Afternoon scene: the bed. Elena wanted variety—positions that showed control shifting. They started with her on top—straddling him, sinking down slow, letting the camera catch every inch disappearing inside her. She rode him deliberate—hips rolling, hands on his chest, eyes locked on his.

He sat up halfway, pulled her close for a deep kiss, then flipped her underneath him. Spread her legs wide, hooked them over his shoulders, and fucked her deep—thrusts that made her gasp every time. Fingers found her clit again—fast circles. She came hard—back arching, nails digging into his arms. He pulled out at the last second, stroked himself twice, and came across her thighs—thick ropes painting her skin white under the lights.

Cut.

Day two: shower scene. Steam filling the bathroom, water running hot. They started under the spray—kissing slow, hands soapy and slick. He pressed her against the tile, lifted one leg, and slid inside—fucking her standing, deep and steady. She came whispering his name, then dropped to her knees—water cascading over them—took him in her mouth, sucking slow and deep until he groaned and spilled across her chest.

Final scene: afterglow on the bed—soft touches, lazy kisses, fingers tracing patterns on skin. No rush. Just lingering.

Wrap.

That night the crew celebrated at a rooftop bar—champagne, laughter, Elena toasting “to chemistry that can’t be faked.” Deji pulled Adeyemi aside near the edge, city lights sprawling below.

“Stay a few extra days?” he asked. “No cameras. Just us.”

She looked at him—really looked. The way his eyes held hers. The way he touched her wrist like he already knew her answer.

“Green,” she said.

They spent the next three days in his London flat—lazy mornings in bed, afternoons wandering markets, nights exploring each other without an audience. Slow sex on the couch one evening—her riding him reverse, his hands on her hips guiding the rhythm. Hard and fast against the kitchen counter another—him bending her over, thrusting deep while she gripped the edge and moaned his name.

On the last night he cooked jollof rice—his mum’s recipe—and they ate on the balcony, legs tangled.

“You ever think about settling?” he asked quietly.

She sipped her wine.

“Settling means stopping. I’m not ready to stop.”

He nodded, no hurt in his eyes—just understanding.

“Then don’t. But if you ever want company on the road…”

She smiled—small, real.

“I’ll call.”

The flight back to Dubai felt lighter. No regrets. Just another chapter—hot, vivid, written in sweat and whispers.

Lagos was far behind.

Dubai waited ahead.

And somewhere in between, Adeyemi kept moving—free, desired, always choosing the next horizon.

To be continued…