I follow the line to find the two brightest lights at the end of it. “They’re actually not stars at all. That’s Jupiter,” I point to the one higher in the sky, then at the lower one, “and that’s Venus.”
“Planets, then. Are they always that close to each other?”
“No. And they’re not really close. It’s an illusion. Venus is our closest neighbor and is about the same size as Earth. Jupiter is far away, but since it’s so big, it looks the same size at this distance. As the Earth rotates, they can look like they’re closer or farther apart depending on how the horizon lines up.”
I realize my scientific explanation probably sounds serious and bland so I add, “My father says they’re the lovers Layla and Majnun, immortalized forever in the sky. The two have been dancing nearer to each other all month. Later, they’ll get so close they’ll look like they’re kissing.”
Apparently done fiddling with the camera, he straightens and moves toward me. “Kissing’s nice,” he says. Then he leans down to kiss the inside of my knee.
Electricity shoots through my body like a bolt of lightning. “Yes.” Does my voice sound as thin to him as it does to me? “Especially because Layla and Majnun never actually touched on Earth.”
“That’s tragic.” His fingers graze the spot he kissed then begin trailing the line of my leg.
I shiver. “Very.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Well.” I take a breath, using the sky to center myself, to focus on what I’m saying instead of the blistering scorch of his touch. “The story dates back to seventh century Persia with Qays, the son of a wealthy and powerful descendent of Muhammad known as a Sayyid. When he’s just a boy, Qays meets Layla at school and they immediately fall in love.”
“As boys do.”
“As boys do.” Goose pimples skate down my arms even as I try to ignore what this boy is doing. It’s hard to think while his hands—both of them now—caress a pathway up the inside of my thighs.
But he urges me to go on, so I do. “Qays is so inspired by his love that he writes her endless letters and poems and songs and then recites them on the street corners for anyone who passes by to hear. Soon, the community starts referring to him as Majnun, which means madman, because his passion for Layla is so great it’s mistaken for insanity.”
Right now, I’m about to mistake my own passion for insanity because Logan’s journey has reached my panties and the nearness of his caress to my most wanting body part is driving me mad. His fingers wrap around the waistband, and I lift my hips so that he can draw the thin garment down my legs and over my sandals.
With a sly smirk, he stuffs my underwear into the pocket of his jeans. “He’s crazy with desire?”
“Yes,” I say on a hiss.
“I think I might know something about that.” He pushes my skirt up, and my legs spread automatically to bare my pussy for him. His stare is intense as he brushes his fingers across my trimmed bush, lust burned into his expression. “Go on,” he says, tracing up and down along my slit.
“Uh.” I’m so wet, so aroused. “Mm. Majnun gets the courage to go to Layla’s father. And he asks for her hand in marriage, but he’s denied. How could any father allow a union between his daughter and a crazy person? It would ruin the family reputation. Instead, she’s wed to an older man in a neighboring village.”
“She marries someone else? That’s terrible.” Logan dips inside my hole and pulls my wetness up to paint my clit with it.
“Devastating,” I moan.
“So what does Majnun do?”
“He’s, uh.” My body is already tightening with pleasure as Logan draws constellations on my clit with his fingertips. “He’s overcome. With grief. He spends the rest of his life mourning their love. Wandering the wilderness in solitude. Composing poems for Layla. If he hadn’t been mad before, he surely is now. Driven there by a broken heart.”
Logan is driving me crazy as well, delivering a touch so precisely gentle that it makes me wriggle and buck up against him, begging for more with my body.
He responds by reducing his pressure even further. “And what does Layla do about Majnun’s broken heart?” he asks. “Does she even care?”
“Yes, she cares,” I whisper. “She loves him. Secretly.” I’m so quiet he has to be almost still to hear me, his only movement now the rise and fall of his chest and the probing of his fingers. “So she lives ‘between the water of her tears and the fire of her love.’ She hears the songs and poems that he’s written for her because they’re everywhere now.”
His eyes lock on mine. He’s enrapt and I can tell that he’s as tortured as I am.
“One day,” my voice is low and shaky like my legs, but it still commands his attention “she meets an old man who, uh, mm,” (Jesus, I’m going to come!) “wants to help them. Help them exchange letters. Then, for one night only, he helps them meet. But they have to stay ten paces from each other.”
“He can’t even touch her from ten paces away.” Logan’s voice is as quiet as mine is, as threadbare.
“No, he can’t.” My palms are sweaty against the hood of the car, and my control is slipping. I’m so worked up that I know my release is going to be tumultuous.
“So sad.” With palms braced on my inner thighs, Logan bends down and draws my clit into his mouth.
This—this is definitely not sad.
“Oh, God, oh God, oh God.”
He licks and sucks, and I fall apart, coming in a sudden rush that is both unexpected and a relief. With a moan, I curl upward in a crunch and clutch onto his hair for support.
I’d thought I remembered what this felt like—how his mouth on my most erogenous zone turns me into pudding and short-circuits my senses.
I’d been wrong. This is so much more than I remembered. So much more incredible/arousing/overwhelming/perfect than I remembered. It’s a feeling that’s too intense to be able to commit to memory, I realize, and the fragments that I can preserve are feeble souvenirs. No wonder Majnun was so prolific where Layla was concerned—he wanted to remember everything, every bit of their time together just like I want to remember every bit of this time with Logan.
When my stomach muscles relax, when I can finally fit air in my lungs again, I lay back on the hood, sated and spent.
But Logan’s not done.
He blows a warm stream of air over my damp pussy. “What happens next, Devi?” He traces a line around my hole with his finger. “Tell me what happens with Majnun and Layla when they meet but can’t touch. What does he do instead?” He blows again, this time plunging two long digits inside me.
And, fuck, I’m already winding up again.
I start to writhe, but Logan holds me in place. “What does he do, Devi?”
“He tells her the things he wants to do to her,” I gasp. That’s not exactly how the story goes. In traditional versions, Majnun spills his heart out in poetry, and I’d never assumed it was sexual language.
But now I’m certain that was the prose he spoke to her—how could he finally be so close to her and not let her know all the ways he wanted her?
“What things?” Logan crooks his fingers, rubbing the area I like to call the Control Panel because once I’m touched there I lose all control.
In a rush of words, I say, “He tells it all—how he wants to put his hands on her, how he wants to lick her and kiss her and be inside her and twist her up and break her down. He tells her with such vivid description that she comes just from his words.”
“Yes,” Logan says before circling his tongue around my clit.
“He tells her everything, in every word, in every way. Then, at dawn, they go their separate ways.”
“And then?” He continues to tease with his finger and his mouth.
“And then Layla dies, and Majnun dies of grief beside her tomb. The legend says that they meet each other in paradise and spend eternity together.”
“That’s not where you say it ends.” Logan’s lips tickle against me as
he talks, and I shudder.
“No. It’s not. My father says that’s a foolish ending, told only as a moral lesson for those who fear worldly lust. He insists instead that the lovers remained star-crossed, even in death, and that they exist now as Venus and Jupiter, far, far apart in the night skies. But every now and then, they meet and spend a night of love and passion together before parting again at dawn. Like tonight.”
Logan stands up, but only long enough to fold my legs in toward my stomach. His eyes scan hungrily over my cunt. “Keep going.” His words are marinated in heavy desire. “You stop, I stop.”
“The story is over.” I sound desperate because I am. I don’t think I can take anymore of his torture, but I’m certain I can’t stand it if he stops.
“Then tell me another,” he says, and so I do. I tell him another and another and another, dredging up every myth I’ve ever been told about the constellations and the planets and the balls of fire that flicker and flame above us until I release again. And then again. And I can’t talk anymore, drunk on coming. Drunk on Logan and this night and the poetry he’s written in my most private parts.
Still, he doesn’t let up.
I’m limp and sweat-soaked when he straightens and tugs me up to meet him. With his fingers still buried inside of me, his mouth finds mine, his lips are smeared with my wetness and his tongue is thick with my taste, and the kiss he gives me turns me inside out.
Soon he pulls away and mumbles at my ear, so softly that I wonder if he’s forgotten that he’s filming or if he’s just gotten too caught up to care, because there’s no way the camera is picking up these words. “You’re making me so hard, Devi.” He grinds against the curve of my ass, proving his point. “My cock is fucking lead because of you.”
Unbelievably, this turns me on even more. I tighten around his finger, and he groans. “You should pay for this. For being such a tease. For making me this goddamned turned on.”
I close my eyes as yet another climax crests, but he jerks my chin up toward him.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do. His features are strained as if he’s the one close to orgasm instead of me. As if giving me pleasure is as intense for him as it is for me to receive. It’s shocking and thrilling and perfect and I can’t look away, both because he’s told me not to and because he’s too beautiful not to look at. Especially with his face framed by the night behind him, the tiny dots of stars twinkling like candles he’s lit just for me.
But the brightest lights before me are the twin sparks in his eyes as he urges, “give it to me. Give it to me.”
And then the stars are falling, shooting across his face, across my vision, and I understand why Juliet paired her thoughts of orgasm with Romeo cut up into stars and preserved forever as a constellation. Because I will now forever pair this bliss with Logan and the heavenly bodies above me now.
I’m gasping against his mouth, tears are falling from my eyes, and every muscle in my body is vibrating with this release—this orgasm so violent, so intense, that I’m sure my heart has stalled.
“Jesus, Devi! Yes! Yes.” He’s pleased. Excited by the potency of my climax. “More. Give it to me. Give it all to me.”
I shatter around him, until I’m nothing, nothing, nothing,
I’m also desperate to do to him what he’s done to me so when I’m able to move my limbs again, I sit up, into his kiss, and fumble to get into his pants. Eagerly, he gropes my breast, half climbing on top of me as he bucks against my hands, muttering for me to hurry with my task.
But before I even have his belt undone, red and blue lights streak through the now pitch black night, and the headlights of a police car land on the road beside us.
“Fuuuuck,” Logan says, sliding off of me. He turns away toward the camera and a second later I see the red record light disappear.
I sit up, and smooth my skirt over my thighs then run my fingers through my hair, so that I’m—hopefully—presentable by the time the cop gets out of his car and approaches us.
“Good evening,” he says in greeting.
“Hello, officer.” I give him my flirtiest grin. In my periphery I see Logan pull down his shirt to cover his erection.
The cop narrows his eyes, surveying the scene in front of him. “What are you two doing out here tonight?”
“Just looking at the stars,” Logan says, turning to join the conversation. He points to the sky. “That’s Jupiter and Venus over there. Do you want to see my Wilderness Pass?”
“Not necessary.” The officer never takes his eyes off us. There’s no way he’s fooled. The scent of sex is clinging heavily to me, and I’m sure my hair is even more mussed than Logan’s.
With a knowing nod of his head, the policeman says, “It’s probably best you get moving on now.”
“Yep. Going.” Logan is already loading up the camera and tripod. I clean up the remains of our dinner, and within a handful of minutes, we’re in the Mustang, driving down the highway back toward the lights of the city.
And then another minute, and we burst into laughter. I laugh so hard my eyes water and my sides hurt by the time I can speak. “Wow. That was a first.” I wipe at the tears running down my cheeks.
“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. W
hat 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.
Ten
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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 pussy, 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 fucking 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?
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