Porn Star(47)
“It’s not the only thing that’s full service. Come on inside.”
Without bothering to scoop up her clothes, she follows me, and while I talk, I try to drown out the voice in my mind that’s screaming she’s almost naked she’s almost naked, under that towel she’s naked. I’m around naked women every day; it shouldn’t be something that affects me. But it’s Devi, and so it does. Not only because her body is delicious and perfect, but because this marks the first time I’ve seen her completely naked in person since Real Playdates all those years ago.
Somehow, I manage to keep it together—at least on the surface. “So, I have a little something special planned for our oral scene tonight. Do you have any plans late tonight or early tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” she asks, and her cheeks darken. “Um, no. I’m pretty much completely free until morning.”
“Excellent,” I say, walking backward into my room. I re-emerge with a bag stuffed full of shit—film equipment but also clothes and toiletries and a giant-ass sleeping bag hanging off the side. “Our scene might be filmed late at night. Is that okay?”
She swallows. And nods. “More than okay,” she gets out.
God, I want to f*ck her right now. Watch that delicate throat move as I take a nipple into my mouth. Watch that mouth part when I finally push inside of her.
Patience, patience, I coax myself. All good things come in time.
* * *
“I don’t think you can handle it,” I say doubtfully an hour later. After Devi dressed and I packed the car, I decided that I needed hangover food—stat—so I took her to a bar on the edge of the suburbs. Ungentrified, unglamorous, without even the cozy, warm feeling of a dive hangout. Nope, this place is as cheap as it is soulless, and that’s why I like it. No lawyer bros on lunch break, no hipsters basking in a “genuine vibe.” Russell’s caters to one clientele and one clientele only—people willing to put up with surly service and scuffed drywall for cold beer and the best wings in the city.
Right now, Devi Dare, in her naive innocence, thinks she can handle a dozen wings on her own.
“Why don’t you start with a half dozen?” I suggest diplomatically.
She looks up from the laminated menu. “This is not my first wings rodeo, son.”
“Devi, I only like to tell women what to do in bed. But I’m telling you, a dozen is too many.”
She smirks at me. “Want to put money on it?”
“I can think of things more interesting than money.”
“Like what?” Her eyes are sparkling.
“Okay, if you can’t eat all the wings, then I get to take you to the most arthouse, painfully subtitled movie playing right now.”
“And if I can eat them all?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. What’s something that would be totally new to me?”
She thinks for a moment, looking at the ceiling and slowly tapping her mouth with one, slender finger...
….And that is how I end up on Venice Beach two hours later walking towards a small psychic’s shop.
* * *
Devi leads the way down the boardwalk, her fingers laced loosely through mine as she half pulls me forward. “I can’t believe you doubted my ability to eat wings,” she huffs, the breath catching in her throat the precise same way I’d like it to when I’m f*cking her.
Even her scoffing is sexy. Jesus, I have it bad.
“You just seem so healthy,” I argue. “Like the kind of girl who only eats chia seeds and that kind of shit.”
She giggles as a gust of wind blows her hair around her face, and f*ck, she’s so young. I know eight years isn’t the biggest difference in the grand scheme of things, but it feels big right now. It feels important.
Worse, it feels exciting.
“I eat pretty healthy most of the time,” she admits. “Mostly because my parents are always dropping stuff by. A fresh batch of kombucha or leftover kale from their co-op or whatever. But at least once or twice a week, I eat something terrible and amazing. Like a triple cheeseburger. Or a dozen wings. After all, this ass won’t stay thick on its own.”
She gives her ass a playful smack. I almost perish on the spot.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I think balance is important, right? A little bad sprinkled into good makes everything so much more interesting.”
“You have to stop talking like this or I’m not going to be fit to meet the psychic.”
She laughs again, and then we’re at the bead-covered door of Madam Psuka’s, Psychic Extraordinaire. Neon moons and stars vainly attempt to compete with the bright beach sunlight.
“We’re really lucky,” Devi says in a hushed voice. “She spends half the year in Michigan. Whenever she comes back to L.A., she’s usually too swamped with her repeat customers to see anyone.”
A ray of hope blossoms inside me. “So maybe she won’t be able to see us today?” I ask, trying not to sound too relieved.
Devi just points to the sign hanging in the window. WalkIns Welcome Today.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Devi swats at my arm. “You lost fair and square. Be a good sport.”
“You can’t really believe all this stuff, right? It’s so silly. And you’re so...science-y.”