Porn Star(92)

She’s not quite ready, but she’s bucking back against me, raising her ass up in an attempt to get me inside her faster, and the friction is f*cking unbelievable. Tight and raw and primal. I’m grunting and thrusting hard, the zipper of my jeans scraping against the soft skin of her ass and thighs, her skirt a twisted pink mess of fabric around her waist.

And all I can think is

she wants me

she loves me

she still wants me.

“Make me come,” she says, squirming like a wild woman under me. “God, Logan, please. Make me come.”

“Anything,” I say, dropping my lips to the back of her neck. “I’ll give you f*cking anything.”

I mean it. I reach under her hips and find her swollen bud, and this is another position I rarely film in, because I’m almost completely on top of her, all of the motion hidden by her ass and my pumping hips. But who cares how it would look? It feels f*cking amazing to take her like this, it feels f*cking wonderful to impale her like this, with the rounded curves of her ass pressing back into my hips.

I’m still kissing the back of her neck, stretched out on top of her and bearing most of my weight on my left forearm and my knees, and my right hand is rubbing the throbbing bundle between her legs, and she comes abruptly, catastrophically, keening into the pillow as she shudders and quakes her way through her release.

I feel the sharp heat thrumming in my pelvis already, and the porn star in me wants to change position and slow down, draw this out. But the boyfriend in me wants to go with her, fall together, just like she said two nights ago, and so I let the frantic torrent of desperation and relief carry me over the edge. Deep currents of pleasure unfurl into jagged arcs of lightning, and then I’m pulsing inside of her—still thrusting and ramming hard and fast.

Frenzied.

Relentless.

And finally it comes: sweet relief. All of the pain and worry I’ve chewed on for the past twenty-four hours bleeds away as I slow my thrusts and my breathing returns to normal, and as she starts to make that purring sound underneath me, my chest constricts with incandescent joy.

“I love you,” I murmur.

“I love you,” she whispers back, and I want to shout with triumph. I haven’t ruined everything after all!

With our clothes still rumpled and twisted around us, I roll us onto our sides, my arms wrapping tight around her torso and my cock still buried deep in her *. It’s possibly the shortest amount of time I’ve taken to have sex in years, it’s possibly the most spontaneous sex I’ve had as an adult, but I don’t care. Because it was only about us, the two of us, no cameras and no bullshit. I hold her tight and breathe in the smell of her skin, thinking that I’m right, I’ve finally figured it out.

This is so amazing right now, so perfect, exactly because there are no cameras. And if we carry these boundaries into everything else—if we only think about Star-Crossed when we’re doing Star-Crossed, and Logan and Devi when we’re just Logan and Devi—then we’ll be able to sustain this peace and satisfaction. Sustain us, for the long haul.

Devi’s going to love this, I think happily, pressing my lips to her shoulder as she snuggles back against me. She and her parents seem into that Eckhart Tolle mindfulness stuff, and this is basically mindfulness, right? Mindful f*cking.

“What are you thinking?” Devi asks.

I answer honestly. “About writing a book called Mindful Fucking for Fun and Profit. I could do seminars and speak at corporate retreats and stuff. Make lots of money.”

She giggles. “You already make lots of money.”

“Pfft. I work hard for that money. I need a plan for when my stamina runs out.”

“As if that will ever happen.” She shifts against me, and my cock is very eager to prove her right, except we’re still supposed to film a scene today, so I tell him to wait. “Look at all the books in here,” she observes. “I never noticed them before.”

I’m far more interested in licking circles on her shoulder, tracing the line between her tank top and her skin with my lips. “I don’t have nearly as many as you do,” I say in between kisses. “Was always more of a movie guy. But I think good storytellers should appreciate all mediums.”

“Logan O’Toole: fiction nerd.”

“Hardly.” I glance up at the set of low shelves against the window. “Most of those are poetry collections.”

I hear the smile in her voice. “Poetry?”

I feel a little defensive, not because I think she’s teasing me but because it’s so hard to explain. “It was always my favorite part in English class, when we’d read the poetry. And I knew when I made the choice to do porn instead of going to UCLA like I’d planned, that there probably wouldn’t be much poetry in my future. So I started doing this thing where every month I’d buy a book of poetry. I didn’t have to like it or even read it all, but I had to try it. Because I think poets come the closest to seeing the world how I see it sometimes. Images. Tastes and sounds. Not always perfectly stitched together, but uneven and unexplainable.”

“That’s beautiful,” she says quietly.

“You’re beautiful.” And then I’m going to say it—all the stuff I planned on saying—and explain to her how we’ll keep our relationship safe and just for us, but then she turns. My cock slides out of her and I can’t help the sad groan that I make.