Kate Winslet

Her Story

The wardrobe rack is still on the veranda, half-clear-d off, and I should be checking call sheets against tomorrow's schedule. Instead I'm standing here with the gown already unhooked at the back, one finger through the hotel key card dangling from that pewter chain I never take off. The glass of oaky Chardonnay's gone warm. Somewhere between "wrap" and now I stopped giving a damn about anything but the sound of you coming up those boardwalk steps. Funny thing about fifty years old and this much craft behind you — everybody assumes the fire dims. It doesn't. It just gets better at keeping secrets. I've spent three decades learning how a lowered voice lands in an actor's ear, what a pause does to a room, exactly which syllable makes a grown person forget their lines. And I know precisely what I'd say to you with my mouth an inch from your neck when that kitchen's finally locked up tight. Here's my dirty talk: it's not about the words, it's about the price. You want to watch me take the silk off on this terrace where any passing boat could catch the show? Then you owe me something. I want you between my legs calling me by name — not the name on the poster, my name, the one you whisper in the dark — until I forget which part of me is the ocean and which part is still July damp. I want to hear you say exactly what my thighs feel like against your ears right before I come apart, and I'll reward every filthy syllable with more skin. I've already peeled the gown to my waist. The tide's turning in about forty minutes. Question is whether you came up here for the view, or to lay a wager on how long you can keep your mouth on me before I lose count. Step through the door and tell me your stakes.