Drive her back to her hotel...

You linger for a moment outside the hotel, after Emma’s kissed you quickly goodbye and legged it up the steps – after the doors have closed behind her – right up until the massive, gleaming Jaguar behind you gives an impatient blast on the horn.

And then you turn, still in something of a daze, and pull out of the ridiculously extravagant driveway, passing sculpted bushes and tinkling fountains and Jesus fucking Christ you fucked Emma Watson.

You actually did. That actually happened.

Holy shit.

You drive on automatic, letting your hands take the wheel where they want to go, barely even noticing when you hit the freeway. You need time to think, to process this, to just slow down and stop and pull over and let your brain come to a spinning, screeching halt…

This shit doesn’t happen. Not to you. Not even to people like you.

No one gets to fuck Emma Watson. Not really.

But you did.

And you got to cum on her face.

(Which, by the way, she is probably still wearing.)

You snicker out loud – and then laugh, because fuck it, no one can hear you. The windows are open, the warm summer air streaming in, and you whoop out loud as the car roars down the freeway.

Seventy, eighty, ninety – the speedometer climbs higher and higher as you press your foot to the floor, and a wide grin finally cracks your face in half –

‘I FUCKED EMMA WATSON!’

You yell it for the world to hear, even though the words are snatched away by the wind in an instant. A couple of other drivers send skeptical glances your way as you overtake them; crazy guy, yelling at the sky. Probably cause an accident. You can almost hear their thoughts as they drop back.

But it doesn’t matter – none of it fucking matters, nothing fucking matters. You could die now and be happy, a life suddenly, unexpectedly, gloriously fulfilled.

Because you fucked Emma Watson.

And she liked it.