Dark-haired Dylan Emmett—named after my father and Pop—snuggles in tight to my chest and makes a sleepy fuss of protest at his sister’s continued wailing. And Angela Marie—named after my mother and my gran—shoves a chunky fist into her mouth and starts noisily sucking on it, alternating her screams with fist-sucks, as if to say, see? See what you’ve reduced me to by starving me so cruelly?
I croon to her wordlessly as I hitch Dylan up a little higher and we go to find Mommy. Once Angie sees her, she starts kicking frantically in my arms, reaching for Livia like Livia is the only thing in the world that matters. And hey, I know the feeling—
aside from these two squishes, Livia is my entire world too.
I set Dylan down in a bouncy chair, turn the vibrations and songs on with the edge of my foot against the switch, and then set Angie on the bed facing Livia, who’s got enough give in her restraints that she can mostly lie on her side.
Angie’s screams turn into angry grunts as she roots for Liv’s nipple and latches on. A pudgy hand comes up and starts flexing possessively over Livia’s breast, and Angie looks up at me with narrowed eyes as she starts nursing in earnest, as if I’m to blame for the delay in her getting fed.
Which I kind of am.
“Sorry, girly,” I tell her as I start uncuffing Liv. “Daddy really needed to fuck Mommy.”
“Chase,” Liv scolds, but she’s smiling. I rub her wrists where the cuffs have turned them red and then move to her ankles. Soon, I’ve got her completely free and covered up with a soft blanket, Angie tucked into her arms and still nursing with the occasional grunt.
Now I rescue Dylan from his bouncy chair. He’s wide awake now but totally calm, and he stares at me with deep blue eyes as I change his diaper and then sit with him in the glider, cuddling him close. He’s just as squishy as his sister but less demanding, happy to wait his turn in my arms.
Liv looks across the room at me, her eyes warm. “You’re so sexy when you’re holding a baby. Especially all shirtless like that.”
I grin at her. “You’re so sexy all the fucking time. No matter what.”
She rolls her eyes and drops her gaze to our daughter, who is finally starting to slow down on the milk. “Liar.”
But it’s true. She was a bombshell wearing leggings and a T-shirt when we first met. Even more of a bombshell on our wedding day, five months pregnant and glowing in a tight lace gown that showed off every gorgeous curve. She was even more beautiful on the day the twins were born, sweet and nervous and stubborn on the operating table, dark tendrils of hair escaping her puffy blue cap.
And now she’s the sexiest of all to me. I know she doesn’t believe me when I tell her that, but I’ve never gotten harder for her than I do now, never been as obsessed with her body, never needed to have her so close to me and never needed so much to lavish her with kisses and caresses. She’s softer now, her belly streaked with stretch marks and carved with a low dark scar, and even though she’s shy about her tummy, I’m in awe of her every time I see it. In awe of her strength, of her body growing and carrying two entire lives inside it. And okay, yes, there’s some fucked up male pride involved. She carried my babies, and every reminder of that makes me want to tackle her and get her pregnant again.
It’s not all that abstract, though. She smells different, intoxicating. Her skin itself is addictingly soft. Her tits are full and ripe and spill over my hands when I try to hold them. Seeing her curled around one of our babies as she nurses sends bolts of pure elemental lust through me. It’s all caveman, the urge to protect her and our babies and also to plant more babies inside her.
Add to that the fact that I’m totally fucking in love with her, and it’s a heady mix.
I can tell by the deep baby snores coming from the bed that Angie has finally filled her little belly, and I stand up and help Liv swap out babies. She rolls over to give Dylan a fresh breast and snorts at the Angie lump in my arms, who is now passed out harder than any drunk I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, I forgot to ask,” Liv says as I change the sleeping Angie’s diaper. “Wasn’t today the first day with the body cameras on the streets?”
I smile. Our plan from last year had worked, and we had almost a thousand signatures on the petition, almost double what we needed to convince the chief. The money took a little longer to scare up, but with a couple of federal grants and a bulk discount from the local supplier, it finally happened. “Yeah. It was totally uneventful and therefore perfect.”
Liv smiles back at me. “Good. The fair worked.”
“The fair worked for more than that,” I say, shooting her a hot look. She flushes, and I don’t have to be a mind-reader to know she’s thinking of our heated rendezvous in the stacks...the rendezvous that triggered so much. Heartbreak and honesty and need.
When I think of that day, the way my chest had been filled with what felt like a mixture of broken glass and hope as I picked out an engagement ring, I can’t help but think that I wouldn’t change any of it. And I don’t mean just that day—I mean all of it: the contract and the longing and the uncertainty. How could I want to change even the tiniest thing when it led to this? Two fat, adorable babies and a smart sexy woman in my bed?
“Chase,” Liv whispers softly. “I think Dylan might be asleep too.”
Thank you, patron saint of hungry twins and also the patron saint of alone time for Mommy and Daddy.
Within a few moments, I’ve got both babies snoozing in their cribs, and I’m back in bed with my wife, pajama pants off and long forgotten.
“You know…” I tease, as I run a hand over Liv’s body. “You turned thirty a couple of months ago, and I haven’t heard you once talk about how you’re turning into a living zombie. I think you might have gotten over your fear of dying.”
Liv arches underneath my touch, a naughty smile on her face as she reaches down for my cock and pumps it until it’s stone-hard again. “I found the cure for my fear.”
I grab her hips and pull her on top of me, jabbing into her soft cunt and savoring her gentle moan as she sinks down to the hilt. “Is the cure my dick? Or my super, Captain America sperm that gives you squishy soon-to-be avengers for justice?”
She laughs, leaning down to kiss me. “No, Mr. Officer Blue Eyes. The cure for fear of dying is living. You taught me that.”
Her words cut me in the best of ways, warm me until I think my entire body might melt from loving this woman.
“Fuck, I love you, Livia,” I breathe, my eyes pinned on hers.
“I love you, hot cop. And I swear to God if you don’t finish what you started earlier tonight, I’m going to die for real.” She scratches her nails down my abs to underscore her point.
And then I’m out of jokes, out of playfulness.
And there’s only sweat and kisses and adoration as we live late, late, late into the night.
* * *
Want more Chase and Livia? There’s a bonus wedding night scene at the back of this book. Check it out. Then make sure you come back and read Porn Star.
Acknowledgments
Hot Cop was a fun, delightful romp to write, but it still wouldn't be possible without lots of love and support from our community.
First of all, giant hugs and kisses to our agent, Rebecca Friedman, who is there to hold our hands when we're wailing, dispense wisdom when we're stumped, and just overall be our writing guardian angel.
Also, our foreign agents, Flavia Viotti and Meire Dias of Bookcase Literary, for being our champions across the world!
Second, our publicist Jenn Watson of Social Butterfly PR. Somehow you manage to coax us, soothe us, advise us, and all while keeping a thousand plates spinning. You're the bee's knees, baby! And all the other gorgeous faces at Social Butterfly--Candi Kane, Nina Grinstead, Kathy Snead Williams, Autumn Davis, Sarah Ferguson, Hilary Suppes, Emily Smith-Kidman, Mary Yeomans, Shannon Passmore, and Jenn Beach (we love our graphics!) —we would not be able to do this without your constant dedication to promotion, scheduling,
networking and inventiveness. Thank you!
Thirdly, to Sara Eirew for another brilliant, sexy cover, and to Nancy Smay of Evident Ink for being our sharp eye, our voice of reason, and the ever-constant cheerleader.
Fourthly, to our team--Ashley Lindemann, Candi Kane, Melissa Gaston, and Serena McDonald. Ladies. You are the only reason we have time and energy to write. Thank you for eternity for working hard to keep the real world at bay while we disappear to write.
Fifthly, our CPs and betas and people who listen to us fuss and whine and pat us on the head. Kayti McGee and Melanie Harlow--you two are always there for our every squall and every minor victory. Soon we will be at the lake squalling together! C.D. Reiss, Lauren Blakely, TG, NCP, and JM--you all are in the front lines of our messiest, neediest selves. Thank you for all the advice, hard words, and encouragement.
Sixthly, to our beta readers who met Chase and Liv early on and guided and cheerleaded us: Roxie Madar, Liz Berry, JM, and Melanie Harlow, your enthusiasm made these characters so much fun to write. Who knew writing didn’t have to be miserable?
And to our readers--all the people in Laurelin's Sky Launch, Sierra Simone's Lambs and to all the blogs who continue to support us (we see you!) and countless others. Without your cheering, fangirling and fantastic gifs, we'd be lost. Thank you!
And also to our husbands and families! To Sierra's husband, an actual hot cop (who only rolled his eyes a little at being constantly inundated with trivial questions) and to Laurelin's husband, a constant source of encouragement and nurturing. To our kids, who forgive their mommies for disappearing to write books. We love and adore you, and we do it all for you!
And finally, to our God. We thrive under your greening power, and we're constantly in awe of the lives of wonder and joy you've given us. Thanks and worship and peace. We can't wait to see your viriditas at work in the future. Amen.
Prologue
You know me.
Come on, you know you do.
Maybe you pretend you don’t. Maybe you clear your browser history religiously. Maybe you pretend to be aghast whenever someone even mentions the word porn in your presence. Maybe you even wish you didn’t know my name, just like you wish you didn’t have that drawer with the lotion or the toy.
Yeah, I know about the drawer.
But the truth is you do know me. You know the shape of my hands when they’re curled around a woman’s hips, you know the way my eyes dance when I glance up at a woman from between her legs. You know the shape of my cock, the length of it, the thickness of it. You know my sandy brown hair and my bright green eyes, and you know the noises I make when I come.
I’ve won all the awards, racked up hundreds of thousands of social media followers, and get name-dropped everywhere, from Cosmopolitan to NPR to that hour on the Today show where those two ladies get drunk at nine in the morning.
Everybody knows Logan O’Toole, world famous porn star.
At least, everybody thinks they know me. For a country with the highest per capita porn consumption on the planet, a surprising number of people assume that I’m living like Mark Wahlberg’s character in Boogie Nights, or like Hugh Hefner, or some weird amalgamation of the two. That every day it’s nothing but sex and glamour and money, like I walk around in a Studio 54-esque bubble all the time, wearing a silk robe and dripping with gold jewelry, being followed by vacuous, fuck-me blondes.
But it’s just not the truth.
Yes, I fuck women for money, and yes, I fucking love my job. Who wouldn’t? I’m good at making women come, and for whatever reason, people like to watch me do it. I’m the luckiest guy in the world in that respect. But there are no Scarface-like piles of cocaine lying around, no train of needy women desperate to be fucked. No magic well of money either, courtesy of internet-fed piracy and the rise of amateur porn.
The truth is I work seven days a week for narrow profit margins, with a huge array of complicated, intelligent, sometimes damaged and sometimes delightful people. The truth is that I unabashedly love this business, and I love to fuck, even though I sometimes wish for more, for something bigger and realer and deeper.
The truth is that being a porn star is sometimes fucking awesome and sometimes fucking terrible, and sometimes just boring and sometimes so magical I want to cry. But despite the money headaches, the industry drama, and a state government hell-bent on driving our livelihood into the ground, I’m in love with my job. I’m in love with being Logan O’Toole, with being a porn star, and I plan on doing it until my pubes turn gray, no matter what happens.
So go ahead and pretend you don’t know me, but the truth is, I’m not going anywhere.
One
The light is all wrong.
Normally, this wouldn’t bother me. I am not bothered easily, especially not on a set and especially not on a day like today, when my day’s work involves fucking two beautiful women.
But the problem is that this is my set. And the two beautiful women are my friends, who are admittedly getting paid to be here. But still. They could be off doing anything else and probably getting paid better, but instead they chose to give me their time. Which means, as a director and as a friend, I feel a lot of responsibility right now.
I want this scene to look good.
Don’t get me wrong, the set already looks good because it’s my house, and my house is amazing. High up in the Hills, lots of windows, lots of open space. It was the first thing I bought myself when I started making decent money, and even though I could probably upgrade to Bel-Air or North of Montana, I’ve stayed put. I like Laurel Canyon and I fucking love this house. But right now, light is pouring in like God himself is outside, and it’s making everything over lit and high-key, and like a fucking Christian Singles ad, all bright and hopeful.
No Christian Singles here today, although I give myself a little grin at the mental joke and then glance over at Tanner, the twenty-four-year-old camera genius I’ve somehow tricked into working for my company. “What’s it look like?”
Tanner shrugs, not looking away from the camera, where he’s toying with a few settings. Ginger and Lexi are in the frame, both still in lingerie and both scrolling through their phones, looking like bored customers in line at the post office—save for the see-through bras and hickeys already blooming on their necks.
“We can fix some of this in post,” Tanner says, eyes still on the girls, “but right now, it’s kind of got a laundry commercial vibe.”
I chew on my lip for half a second. The essence of this business is speed and quantity, specifically the speed at which you can create quantity. Which often means sacrificing quality. Most directors wouldn’t give the lighting a second thought—in fact, there is a certain sense of tradition to the harshly lit scenes. What began as an accidental convergence of cheapness and lack of equipment had turned into an industry aesthetic. After all, who gives a shit what the mood of the scene is? The mood is fucking. The mood is always fucking. And if you can jack off to it, then mood achieved.
But that wasn’t what I wanted O’Toole Films to be when I started it. I wanted to find a place between the high-end vanilla stuff that suburban couples rented on anniversaries and dirty dungeon porn. And there has to be a place in between, right? A place for the depraved porn junkie who also happens to have taste?
I make a snap decision. “We’ll finish the kissing here. Then I’ll pull them both into my bedroom. The windows in there are north-facing, so maybe the light will be less…”
“…1970’s sitcom?” Tanner finishes for me.
“I was going to say aggressive.”
“Ah.”
With a sigh, I trot back over to the girls. “So I was thinking after we get done with the kissing—the part where I make you two kiss each other—we’ll move to my bedroom.”
“You should drag us by the hair,” Ginger suggests, lowering her phone and narrowing her eyes past my shoulder at the door to the bedroom, as if blocking the scene in her mind. “That’d be hot.”
“So hot,
” Lexi echoes, not bothering to look up from her Instagram.
That is one thing about this business. In about an hour, I’ll have my dick up both their asses, but right now neither of them will look me in the eye. Not like they’re ashamed to be here. But like I almost don’t exist to them unless we’re fucking.
Which is kind of a lonely thought.
Kind of a really lonely thought.
And I want to slap myself for that. I’m about to fuck two women who I love to fuck, and we’re all going to make money doing it. When did I get so goddamn broody about everything?
Raven. That’s when.
Today is a good day. It is also going to be a sober day. So I refuse to let Raven infect my thoughts, moving them instead to the pleasant way Lexi’s ass curves into her girlish hips, the way her sleek blond hair begs to be tangled and tugged.
Tanner gives us a thumbs up and we move to my sofa. The phones vanish, Ginger’s thigh-highs are adjusted, and then we’re back to the kissing, which is one of my favorite parts of my line of work.
Well, all the parts are my favorite part, but this especially. Ginger—red-headed, tattooed, a ten-year industry veteran like me—crawls up to me on all fours, her full tits threatening to spill out of her bra, her pretty, overly made-up face schooled into a convincing pout. Lexi, small and slender, has nestled against my other side, petting my dick through my jeans, coaxing it to full-length as I impatiently grab for Ginger and pull her to me.
“Come here,” I growl, delighted at the little squeal she gives as I yank her onto my lap. Ginger’s a hardened pro, and so I’ve made it a private goal of mine to shock genuine reactions out her whenever I can. I like genuine. I like raw.
Hot Cop Boxed Set Page 29
