Date: March 1997
Location: New Orleans, wrap party for *George Wallace*
Actress: Angelina Jolie
Alexander's Status: Entering the prestige drama scene via AEG Prestige;
Angelina's Status: 21 years old, just wrapped her first major role in *George Wallace*; brilliant but volatile, known more for her fire than her fame
---
The house was sagging and southern — a Belle with bourbon on her breath. Crepe-paper streamers hung limp in the humidity, string lights buzzing like mosquitoes drunk on voltage. Jazz leaked from a secondhand stereo, its brass groaning against the bayou's slow heat. Alexander Kaine stepped into the wrap party like a wolf strolling through a chapel. White linen suit, dark shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sunglasses still on despite the midnight hour. He didn't move like a guest. He moved like someone who owned the rights to the air.
Angelina spotted him before he saw her — or maybe he let her think that.
She was leaning against a chipped banister, cigarette unlit, eyeliner smudged into something just shy of war paint. The leather jacket hung loose off one shoulder. She looked like the daughter of a storm and a switchblade.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
Alexander smiled like a man who'd never once apologized for it.
"I'm always exactly on time," he replied. "You just started early."
She turned to face him then — full profile, cheekbones sharp enough to cut trailing expectations. "So. You're the money."
He tilted his head. "Some call it that. I prefer... providence."
"Providence wears Tom Ford and buys silence?"
"Providence wears what the moment calls for. And listens when the noise is interesting."
Her grin was slow and wicked. "You think I'm noise?"
"I think you're lightning in a brownout."
A beat passed. The porch sighed under their weight. Far off, someone yelled a drunken "Cut!" from the garden. Neither of them flinched.
---
Inside, the house buzzed with background actors and half-sober executives, but the energy warped around them like heat off pavement. Alexander moved through the party with Angelina orbiting, or perhaps it was the other way around. Either way, gravity had been decided.
"You don't do small talk," she said over a drink she hadn't touched.
"I do strategy. And chemistry."
"You think this is chemistry?"
"I think this is inevitability dressed as tension."
She exhaled a sound that could've been a laugh or a dare. "That's a dangerous line."
Alexander leaned in, his voice quiet enough to drown everything else. "You remind me of something dangerous I'm not afraid of anymore."
Her lips parted — just for a second. "You should be."
And there it was: the mutual recognition. Not of fame or beauty. But of heat meeting heat, both used to burning others first.
---
They ducked into the kitchen — abandoned, dimly lit, fridge humming with overwork. Angelina sat on the counter like it was a throne, legs swinging, daring him with stillness. He poured her whiskey without asking. She downed it without blinking.
"You don't belong in TV," she said. "You're too... sharp. Prestige types cut themselves on people like you."
"I'm not in TV," he said. "I'm building something that devours it."
She stared. "What kind of monster are you?"
"The kind that writes his own mythos."
"And what am I?" she asked.
Alexander set his glass down and stepped close enough for silence to stretch tight.
"You," he said, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face, "are the warning label they'll ignore until it's too late."
Her mouth tilted into something primal. She kissed him then — not a surrender, but a confrontation. All tongue and teeth and challenge.
---
They left through the back, unnoticed. Or rather, everyone noticed and looked away. She took his hand like a woman who didn't need leading, only permission. They disappeared into the swampy dark, past the flicker of dying tiki torches and the hum of crickets pretending not to care.
Whatever happened after, it wasn't love.
But it was the kind of night people write screenplays about and lie under oath to forget.
And Alexander — still wearing his sunglasses — didn't look back once.
They're in the abandoned shack, pressed against each other. Clothes are coming off in chaotic pulls. She's biting his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his flesh, drawing a sharp gasp from him. He's lifting her onto the dusty counter, his hands gripping her thighs as he pulls her closer. Her legs wrap around him, heels digging into his back, urging him closer. The only light is the broken lamp, casting a flickering, golden glow over their tangled bodies. The only sound — breathing, sharp and syncopated like jazz gone wicked, mingling with the distant moans of the saxophone outside.
Angelina's hands are everywhere, tearing at his shirt, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. Alexander's touch is rough, demanding, as he pulls her blouse over her head, exposing her to the cool night air. Her skin pebbles, and he leans in, his breath hot against her ear. "You sure about this?" he murmurs, his voice a low growl.
She responds with a defiant laugh, breathless and filled with a wild, untamed desire. "Shut up and fuck me, Alexander." Her words are a challenge, a dare, and he meets it head-on, his mouth crashing down on hers in a bruising kiss. Teeth clash, tongues duel, and the taste of alcohol and lust mingles on their lips.
He spins her around, pressing her against the wall, her back arching as he trails kisses down her neck. His hands roam, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, eliciting a gasp from her. She reaches back, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper. The world outside fades away, leaving only the two of them, lost in a maelstrom of desire and need.
Alexander's hands move lower, unbuttoning her jeans, pushing them down her thighs. She kicks them off, her feet finding purchase on the counter as he lifts her again, this time positioning himself between her legs. She can feel him, hard and ready, pressing against her. She reaches down, guiding him in, and they both moan as he fills her, stretching her, completing her.
The rhythm is fierce, almost violent, their bodies slamming together in a primal dance. The counter creaks beneath them, the sound of their flesh meeting echoing through the small room. Angelina's head falls back, her eyes closed, lost in the sensation of him moving inside her. Alexander's hands grip her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he drives deeper, harder.
The tension builds, a coil of pleasure tightening in her core. She can feel it, the edge of release, and she clings to him, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Don't stop," she gasps, her voice a ragged plea. "Don't fucking stop."
He doesn't. He can't. Not when she's like this, wild and unrestrained, her body clenching around him. He feels her tighten, her inner muscles spasming as she comes, her cry of release echoing through the room. It's enough to send him over the edge, his own orgasm tearing through him, leaving him breathless and spent.
They stay like that for a moment, bodies entwined, hearts pounding in sync. Then Alexander pulls out, setting her down gently. She turns to him, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, that was... memorable," she says, her voice husky with satisfaction.
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. "You have no idea." He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, a stark contrast to the wildness of their encounter.
Angelina leads the way back, a mischievous glint in her eye. Alexander follows, his curiosity piqued. Once inside, she turns to him, her expression a mix of challenge and desire. "Round two," she says, her voice low and sultry. "But this time, I want something different."
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, yeah? And what's that?"
She steps closer, her hands resting on his chest. "I want you to take me from behind. I want to feel you deep, deeper than before."
Alexander's breath hitches, his body already responding to her words. He nods, his hands finding her hips, pulling her against him. "Your wish is my command."
They move to the bed, a dusty, forgotten relic in the corner of the room. Angelina lies down on her stomach, her ass lifted slightly, inviting. Alexander kneels behind her, his hands roaming over her curves, tracing the lines of her body. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her lower back, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.
His fingers find her wetness, slick and ready, and he uses it to lubricate her other entrance, his touch gentle yet firm. Angelina gasps, her body tensing slightly as he prepares her. He takes his time, his fingers working her, stretching her, until she's relaxed and ready for him.
Alexander positions himself behind her, his cock hard and aching. He presses against her, slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust. Angelina pushes back against him, urging him deeper, and he complies, sliding into her inch by inch until he's fully sheathed.
The sensation is intense, a tight, hot pleasure that has him seeing stars. He starts to move, slow and steady at first, letting her adjust to the new sensation. Angelina moans, her fingers gripping the bedsheets, her body pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts.
As they find their rhythm, Alexander reaches around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. Angelina cries out, her body trembling, her orgasm building. He can feel it, the tightening of her muscles, the way her body clenches around him, and it pushes him closer to the edge.
Their bodies move together, a symphony of pleasure and need. The room fills with the sounds of their flesh meeting, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Angelina's body tenses, her back arching as she comes, her cry of release echoing through the room.
The sight and sound of her orgasm send Alexander over the edge, his own release tearing through him, leaving him breathless and spent. He collapses on top of her, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts pounding in sync.
Angelina turns her head, a wicked grin on her face. "You know, I've always wanted to do it in the shower. The water, the steam, the slippery..." She wiggles her ass against him, feeling him stir again. "What do you say, Alexander? Ready for another round?"
He groans, already hard again. "You're insatiable, you know that?"
She laughs, a low, throaty sound. "And you love it." She pushes back against him, feeling him slide into her once more. "Now, fuck me like you mean it."