Porn Star(38)

“I’ve had cops shoo me away from locations before, but always because I have a hard time remembering to carry a permit. Or to get one in the first place.”

Another fit of giggles rips through me.

“Pretty sure this is the first time my dick didn’t go limp the minute I saw the lights though.” He lifts his hips to adjust himself, and a pang of guilt runs through me, silencing my laughs. He got me off so many times, and he’s still stone hard.

The guilt is gone in a flash and replaced with a yearning so deep, so intense, I’ve never felt anything like it. My mouth waters, and suddenly I have to have him in my mouth. Not because I feel sorry for the blue balls he’s sporting, but because I need to please him. I need to stroke his cock and suck him off and watch him fall to pieces in front of me.

Or, perhaps, not quite that far. He’s driving, after all.

Without any preamble, I undo my seatbelt and lean across the console to work on his pants. His cock leaps as my palm grazes his granite erection. Damn, he’s hard. My chest flutters with anticipation.

But even though Logan groans at my touch, he says, “You don’t have to do that, Devi.”

“I want to.” Translation: I’m greedy for it. “I can’t leave you like this.” Translation: I can’t leave me like this.

“Don’t worry about me.” Then, when I’m still fumbling with his zipper, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gently nudges me off. Nudges me away.

Slowly, I sit up. Confusion follows surprise, and I study him with disbelief.

He glances toward me, and my expression must be transparent, because he says, “I think this episode will have more of an impact if you don’t reciprocate this time. You know, it’s more of a romantic gesture this way. It’s better. For the show.”

“Right. The show.” That sinking feeling from the day before returns, but then I glance at Logan’s profile, and it hits me—he’s as mixed up about all this as I am. It’s written all over his face. He’s longing. He’s conflicted. He’s nobler than he realizes.

It’s possible that I’m making it all up, that I’m seeing things that aren’t there. But the camera’s off. That look on his face is genuine, and I know that expression. It’s the same one that met me in the mirror when I got ready tonight.

I settle back into my seat, and with my elbow propped on the door, I chew on my knuckle and try to dissect the strange discontentment that has crept over me. Yes, I like the guy. There’s no dancing around that fact. But what’s going on with him? Why is he pushing me away when his body language and his body parts are telling me he wants, wants, wants?

Is it me? Is it my age? Is he still hung up on his ex? Has the industry jaded him against relationships in general?

The truth is, I don’t know him well enough to begin to form any real answer. What I do know is that no matter how real this chemistry is between us, he’s a closed set. No matter what he reveals on camera, he’s not letting me in any further than that.

“Star-crossed,” I say, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us. “I think that’s what you should call the show.”

“Star-crossed?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s good. I like it.”

I don’t have to wonder why he accepts my suggestion so readily. I’m sure it’s because he realizes as well as I do how fitting of a title it is to describe us—two lovers never meant to be together who meet occasionally in the night.





10





Devi’s quiet when we approach her apartment, and I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure I can say anything, because I’m still hard as a rock, and every time I breathe, I breathe in the smell of her. It lingers everywhere—my hands, her thighs, my lips—and it’s driving me f*cking crazy. When she reached for me earlier, her hands fumbling eagerly with my zipper, I had almost climaxed right then and there. I may be a man renowned for his control, and my scenes usually highlight this about me, but with Devi, I have nothing. Nothing. No shred of patience or restraint, and going down on her on the hood of my Mustang had already driven me into a f*cking frenzy. (Because what man doesn’t fantasize about that at some point—a beautiful woman spread open on the hood of a muscle car, cunt exposed, hair like tousled cascades on the sleek metal?)

And f*ck if getting caught hadn’t made me harder, sent my mind spiraling into the filthiest, most depraved fantasies possible—watching Devi try to “convince” the officers to let us go, first with her mouth and then with her *, the kind of fantasies I would never admit to anyone else. And then we got on the highway and she dove for my dick like a madwoman, and I hope God was watching what a f*cking gentleman I was, because it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life to push her away.

Except now I’m in her driveway saying goodbye and I’m throbbing with misery and I can tell she’s a little hurt, and shit. Why did I push her away?

I wasn’t lying when I told her that I thought it would be better for the show for her not to reciprocate tonight. I do think that, and also I’d like to plan another visually dynamic venue for the blowjob, not just the interior of my goddamn car (even though it’s the best car in the world.)

But that’s not the real reason, and the real reason is so fragile even in my own mind that I know I have no hope of explaining it to her. Because those thirty minutes with her on my hood, when I tongued her to orgasm over and over again while she told me Persian and Greek fables in that breathy, faltering voice, the big feeling had come, and I was drunk on it. It came with my mouth on Devi’s silken skin, with her words drifting into the desert, and it was more powerful than I’d ever felt with anyone, ever. More than my first scene, my favorite films, or my most elaborate and creative ideas.