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Chelsea White	By : Chris Category: Individual Celebrities > Ewan McGregor Views: 2380 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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TITLE: Chelsea White

AUTHOR: BlackDiamondGrrl

EMAIL: cherrybaby1@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, damn it. I could only dream of that. So none of this happened. But we can dream. This is so AU, it ain't funny. The two main characters belong to themselves- evryone else are figments of my imagination- and all the places and streets mentioned in the story are real- the situations are not (of course :))- so keep that in mind as you read. Thanks.

DISTRIBUTION:Fandomination; AFF;PBU. Ask me for any other places.

SPOILERS: none

PAIRING: Ewan McGregor/?

SUMMARY: A 'has-been' artist, once again on the rise, finds a treasure on the sidestreets of Miami Beach after dark.....

FEEDBACK: Always accepted! Feel free. :-)

RATING: NC-17

AUTHOR’S NOTE: NONE of this happened. Last notice on that. :-)
This was a true labour of love, and believe me- this was written on a lot of lost nights of sleep. Tanks to all my girls on Urbanites for feeding my muse on a daily basis, and special kudos to Ava (webmistress) for plan the these seeds of smut in my brain. Don't worry- that Orli fic will be written soon. ;)

CHAPTER ONE

The wood was cool and smooth against his face, he noted. Right cheek pressed against it, mouth slightly open, eyes in half silts. A voice- smoky and rough- whispering into his left ear. Teeth nipping at the lobe, wet tongue flicking at it.

He moans, licking his lips, hands pressed flat in front of him on either side of his head, another pair of hands covering his, interlaced with his. A body- solid, unyielding, hard, fluid all at once- pressed against his. Hips pinning him to the surface, hardness pressing into the curve of his rear. Gasping, he tries to breathe. He can’t.

A chuckle. “You must like this,” it rasped to him. “Kinky bugger. I knew it when I saw you.” Hungry lips move down to suck at his neck. He hisses, heart fluttering madly, pushing back against the body behind him. He feels the lips smile on his he ski skin.

“You want me to fuck you,” they asked. “Don’t you?”

When he landed in Miami, it was for a round of meetings. Of meeting people that he wouldn’t recall come the next day anyways, but something that still had to be done.

He sighed as he collected his carry-on from over his seat, swinging onto his shoulder as he slid out of the seat into the crowdedle. le. The flight- like most flights always were these days- was full from the front to the back. Even in business class, one step below the coveted first class, where it used to be that he could at t gut guarantee a couple of seats to himself, he was pinned into the seat, a young couple taking up the aisle and middle seats, and spent most of the flight from New York either chattering aimlessly or loudly proclaiming how bad traveling was- how just anyone could get a seat on the plane these days, what was all that security for?

He had turned to look at them when the man made that obviously biased ent,ent, because he knew that he was referring to him directly. How could he not be? Next to them, he supposed he looked rather like some skater punk, or Village kid. But though he wore battered khakis, steel rimmed glasses, scuffed black biker boots (that of course he was forced to take off at LaGuardia’s security checkpoint), a faded blue and black oversized pullover, and sported two earrings in one ear and past shoulder length reddish-blonde hair pulled back in a makeshift queue, he was most certainly no kid and had quite possibly made and blown more green than they had ever seen or would see in their sheltered Long Island lives. He stared pointedly at them, green eyes like lasers, until the man had the common sense to let his ‘argument’ die a painful death.

It almost made him grin, the look on his face. He wouldn’t have harmed a perfectly coiffed hair on his head, but the look- which he had cultivated over the years- usually was enough to scare off most idiots.

He let the thoughts slip away as the crush of bodies began to move towards the exit of the plane, and certain freedom.

For them at least.

“Where to, sir?”

The cab driver was a young Latin male, perhaps 25 or 26 years of age. Definitely a handsome young man. He gave him a small smile as he slipped into the cab and closed the door.

“The Hotel Chelsea, Miami Beach,” he replied.

The driver nodded and pulled from the curb, heading for thet. Ht. He reached into his pants pocket and flipped his phone open, checking to see if he had missed any messages. He was sure he had, but if it wasn’t world ending, they could wait. As the scenery slipped from industrial to residential and then into downtown, the Biscayne Bay fast approaching, he listened. Nothing major, he was glad to note. Checked his messages and then clicked those off. But the cell soon rang shrilly and he pressed a button.

‘Hello?’

‘’Bout damn fucking time you picked up, McGregor.’ The dulcet tones of his publicist Mike Anders singed his ears. ‘How long have you been in Miami?’

‘A grand total of thirty minutes, Mike,’ he said with a smile, a soft burr to his voice. ‘For fuck’s sake, what was so important that ya could nae wait till I got settled, man?’

‘You know you have a meeting in an hour at The Shore Club.’

‘Christ, Mike- I am almost to the hotel. Get the bramble out of your britches, already. I know what time I am supposed to be there.’

He heard him sigh loudly. ‘If you somehow manage to not fuck this up, I will be amazed.’

‘Nice to know me own man trusts me,” he replied, glancing at the driver again. //Dead handsome for sure…// ‘Try drinking a scotch or something and relax. I’ll be there, mate.’

‘You had better be, McGregor.’

‘On my honour, mate.’

‘You still have some of that?’

‘Piss off,’ he chuckled and then hung up, turning off his phone. Mike hated when he did that, and he did it just to irk him. He’d have a venomous message when he checked it again, but for the moment, he would pretend that it didn’t exist.

The Hotel Chelsea was a refurbished three story Art Deco style building located in the heart of South Beach area, right off Washington. It had been recommended to him by a close friend from NYC, and as he paid the cabbie and walked through the smallish courtyard into the bright and pastel coloured lobby, he tha that it would do just nicely. He headed to the reception desk, where two females were working the desk, and gave them his name. One was a blonde, the other a redhead, both not unattractive by any means.

The redhead handed him a key and said, ‘Third floor, Mr. McGregor. Facing the street. Hope you have a pleasant stay.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, love,” he replied with a smile. “Thank you.” He turned and headed for the stairs he had seen when he came in, starting his trek uprs. rs. He passed up the lift, being used to taking the stairs for the last 5 years in the Village walkup he lived in- he had a loft on the fourth floor in the NYU area, and it did come with a lift straight to the loft, but the exercise did him a world of good, and only used the lift to carry up his supplies and the like.

He reached his room and slipped the key in the lock, waiting for the click, and then opening it. He stepped in and closed the door behind himself- he had to give Mike credit, he knew what he liked. The room was a ‘large’, with a king size black wood frame bed, hardwood floor, bamboo window treatments and a black slate bathroom. The duvet on the bed was snow white, and more than likely made of down feathers. He put down his bag on the floor and grinned.

‘Mike, I am gonna fucking kiss you for this one, mate,” he said out loud. He picked up the bag again and put it on the bed, then unzipped it and reached in, looking for a pair of jeans to slip on. He at least owed Mike the courtesy of being on time and looking less broke than he really was.
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