Porn Star(78)

When the pulses finally subside, the room smells of earthy sex and cinnamon, and we are messy everywhere. Sweat on our stomachs, and cum and arousal smearing our thighs. Devi’s long hair is tangled as f*ck, my bed looks like a hurricane tore it apart, and I can feel scratches blooming into light, teasing pain on my back and ass cheeks.

I’m so f*cking in love.

I lean down to kiss her, a deep, soul-felt kiss, without the urgency of earlier. I take my time exploring her mouth, lavishing attention onto every crease of her lips, every silky slide of her tongue. She’s making a humming noise in her chest, a happy, contented noise, and I pull back with a smile.

“Are you…purring?”

She giggles. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

My chest puffs a little. I’ve given many women many orgasms, but I think this is the first time that I’ve actually made a woman purr with satisfaction.

“Let’s see how long I can make that purring last, kitten. Flip over.”



* * *



After Round Two, dinner, and a shower (which turned into Round Three), we are back in bed. It’s nighttime now, and we’re cuddling, Devi’s back pressed against my chest and my arms around her. We’re both drowsy, even my cock, which is content to be semi-hard and nestled against Devi’s luscious ass. I think she’s finally drifted off when she asks, “Do you have an EpiPen in here?”

“Yeah, somewhere,” I say sleepily. “There’s one in my medicine cabinet, I think.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t you have it with you at all times?”

“I’m allergic to bees, Cass. It’s not something I worry about happening in my bedroom.”

“But do you carry one on set? Shouldn’t you have had one in the desert the night we went out there?”

More awake now, I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at her. She doesn’t turn to look at me. “I was planning on eating you out, not foraging for honey. At least not that kind of honey,” I say with a smirk.

She doesn’t smile.

“Why are you asking me this?” I poke her shoulder gently. “Are you planning to introduce bees into our sex play? Do you secretly keep bees in your *?”

Still no smile.

I sigh. “If it really worries you, I always keep one in my glove box. And why did this come up, anyway? Did I mention the bee thing to you?” Because it’s not something I normally talk about, not because it’s some sort of painful secret, but because it’s really not a big deal. Honestly, sometimes even I forget about it.

She doesn’t answer right away, and when she does, her voice is measured. “Raven mentioned it today on the set.”

Her name drops like an anvil, thudding and lifeless.

Raven.

Ugh.

And the moment my personal distaste fades, a sense of protective anger flares up. How dare she talk to Devi? How dare she bring me up to Devi, in what I can only assume amounted to a sick sort of power play?

“What else did she say to you?” I ask, not bothering to hide my anger. “Did she upset you?”

Devi starts to shake her head but then stops. Then she gives a little nod. “Yeah,” she admits. “I guess it did upset me. And she didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, Logan, that was the hard part. She said that I was doing het porn to make you jealous, and that it would never make you jealous, it would just make you feel better about f*cking other people.” A pause. “And that you were always f*cking other people.”

I have to close my eyes against the white-hot anger that boils inside me. I know, cerebrally, that Raven’s not evil, that she’s just honest and probably hurting right now. But I don’t feel that way. Instead, I feel like I want to build the highest, thickest wall around me and Devi and hold her tight and protect her from all the fears and insecurities that Raven forced her to look at.

And if I’m being totally honest with myself, Raven wasn’t entirely wrong. I was using Devi doing even lesbian porn as an excuse not to feel bad for continuing to shoot scenes. And more—as an excuse not to feel guilty for enjoying shooting them. It’s our lifestyle, right? And as long as it’s our lifestyle, not just mine, then there’s no need for guilt or jealousy.

Except.

Except I am f*cking jealous. I was jealous when Kendi licked her to orgasm this morning and jealous a few hours ago when she told me that she went to a set planning to f*ck Bruce Madden. I’m jealous of every minute she spends writhing under somebody else’s touch.

And I am guilty. Whenever I f*ck someone else, I think of Devi. But it’s almost like my guilt makes me hornier, fiercer, and I use it as fuel for my f*cking, each pump and jab of my cock layered with lust and longing and the kind of shame that burns under my skin and makes me restless for release. Since that shame only rears its head while I’m balls-deep in another girl, it’s so easy to give in to its restlessness and try to f*ck it out.

And all of this is just bringing up those questions from before and I can’t answer them. I can’t, because if I actually answer them, I might have to face that my entire life has to change, and suddenly I remember Madam Psuka’s tarot card still shoved in an unwashed pair of jeans. The Hanged Man, the card of suffering and sacrifice.

But what do I have to sacrifice?

And what do I have to suffer for?