I, Porn Star (I #1)

by Zara Cox

  “I look forward to fucking them.”

  More heat pours up my neck. A sound emerges from hidden speakers. I’m not sure if it’s a groan or a grunt but it’s deep and affected.

  “I have to go.”

  Disappointment spears through me and my hands drop back to my sides. “Okay.”

  “The staff will be here at ten. They have my instructions. Work with them, please.”

  The faint buzz cuts off and I know he’s gone. I sag against the sink, a little deflated, then alternately shocked and annoyed at myself. I tell myself it’s because besides Fionnella, Q is the person I’ve spoken to the most in the last three weeks. But even more than that is the truth that I’m looking forward to what will happen tonight.

  I’m looking forward to meeting the man who’s paying me a million dollars to be his whore on camera.

  ***

  Inevitably, the staff includes a fitness trainer and chef. The latter I don’t mind at all. The former has me sweating and whining within minutes of the hundred crunches I’m required to do beside the pool. Turns out he’s a yoga instructor too, so I’m stretched through numerous positions before he finally sets me free. I limp back inside and stop in awe once again. This place is beyond words.

  I discovered the library next to the great room after breakfast. The room, complete with vaulted ceilings and a roaring fireplace reeks with history. The great room is equally breathtaking, with silk wallpaper and two grand chandeliers that illuminate three groups of seating areas, each with a relaxation theme that invites guests to linger. The full tour on this side of the property yielded a fully self-contained guest house, a spa and cabana attached to the pool, a theatre room and wine cellar.

  But a set of double doors behind the grand staircase was locked. And if the NO ENTRY sign above it wasn’t clear enough, a seriously intimidating electronic panel next to the door convinced me to stay away from what was evidently Q’s domain.

  At four, the third member of staff, Stephanie, knocks on my bedroom door. I assume she’s a cross between a housekeeper and my personal stylist, because she enters wheeling a clothes rail, a portable massage table and more grooming products.

  I’m freshly showered and once she sets up, I lie on the table. The full body scrub is heavenly and the massage that follows equally divine. But the descent of the sun over the water and the unrelenting thumping of my heart signal the approach of something that has my insides in knots.

  Finally, unable to stand the tension, I ask the question bursting on my tongue. “Is he here?”

  “Yes. The boss arrived an hour ago. He’s with his team.”

  I swallow. “Is he…is there any instruction for me?”

  Stephanie indicates I turn over, and when I do, she rubs divine smelling gel up my calf and over my thigh. Her fingers dig in with expert massage and I suppress a groan.

  “He wants you in the wing at six.”

  Two short hours from now. Hours that pass quickly as I’m primped and prepped. Once Stephanie is done covering the birthmark on my thigh with a little concealer, she informs me that the boss has chosen the russet colored lingerie, together with nude hose and garter set for tonight. I put it on without fear of messing my hair because it’s been styled in simple wavy curls that hang down my back.

  Russet and gold stilettos snugly cocoon my freshly pampered feet, and on my wrist and throat, touches of expensive perfume scent the air with each heartbeat. My ensemble is completed when Stephanie steps forward with a stunning necklace and matching earrings.

  “Are those real diamonds?” I stare at the single row of gems that circle the necklace.

  “Of course.”

  Shocked laughter bursts from my throat. Of course.

  The laughter dies when she steps back and examines me from head to toe. “You’re ready.” She hands me a floor length silk robe.

  “As I’ll ever be.” I belt the robe and follow her to the door.

  19

  XXX

  We walk in silence to a small elevator I didn’t see earlier on my tour. She inserts a key and when it slides open, she smiles at me. “You go alone. See you tomorrow.”

  I step inside, feeling like a gladiator at a Roman arena just before the steel gates rise up to spit them out to face their doom.

  Except, I’m nowhere near gladiator-strong. My limbs are weak as kittens and my legs shake so hard, I fall back against the elevator wall. Only to immediately straighten because I don’t want to risk staining the robe, or anything else that has been picked for this first meeting.

  When the car stops, I step out into a dark carpeted hallway and immediately notice this place is as different from the rest of the house as night from day.

  For one thing, there’s tons of rigging. It begins at the door and runs along the walls both at waist and overhead level. Then continues along on either side of the darkened hallway and disappears into a room on the left from where a loud hum of electricity and machines emits.

  The hallway ends before another set of double doors. They swing open before I reach them, and I step in to yet another fantasy world. The decor in this section is bolder. Red and gold blend with mahogany. Darker Italian marble stretches across polished floors and expert stone masonry provides a backdrop for more stunning works of art.

  My clicking heels draw to a stop at the counterpoint between two sweeping staircases, and I wonder just how big this place is and whether I’ll ever be found if I manage to get lost.

  I turn in a full circle. It’s only then that I notice the cameras. Small, discreet. Some are rigged onto very thin cables. Others are stationary and blended into the decor.

  But present. And numerous. And all trained on me.

  Self-conscious in the extreme, I turn back to the stairs.

  “Come upstairs, Lucky.”

  It’s absurd that an electronic voice can grant me reassurance, but it’s exactly the impetus I need to take the right set of stairs.

  The royal blue carpet muffles my footsteps, but I arrive at the top without falling on my face. There are unlit hallways to my right and left, and another shorter, illuminated hallway in front of me. I follow the lights and arrive in front of an open door.

  I step through and stop.

  The bedroom is unapologetically male. The imposing bed is made of steel and wrought iron. The sheets are black, the carpet a deep burgundy. There are several other items of furniture dotted around the room. A chaise by the window. A rocking chair that is in no way meant for an ageing man sits next to another commanding fireplace. A long, blood-red spanking bench with a matching Ottoman is set against one wall. And at the foot of the bed, a backless double scroll-sided seat with a majestic and intricate design so beautiful, my breath catches. The plump seat is made of pure black silk, but it is the bronze carvings set into the arms that have me striding forward.

  Halfway there, a scent fills my nostrils. Smoked cedar, a hint of sage and the unmistakable musk of predatory male. I lose sight of everything else, but that scent.

  My gaze darts around the room, seeking shadows where he could be waiting.

  Watching.

  I come up empty. If he means for my anticipation to ramp up, he’s succeeding. I make a full one-eighty, but I’m alone in the bedroom.

  Alone with a dozen cameras. Now that I know what they look like, it’s easy for me to pick them out, even though the ones in here aren’t lit red yet.

  Some are suspended overhead, two are fixed to the headboard. More blended with the furniture. Most of them are trained on the bed.

  A soft whining sound behind me refocuses my attention. I look over my shoulder to see the doors swing shut.

  “Your performance is about to begin. Do the cameras make you nervous?”

  Duh? “Yes.”

  “If you can manage it, try to forget they’re there.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Remove your robe. Let me see you.”

  Shaky fingers pull the ties securing my robe. The silk slides off my
shoulder with the barest movement and pools on the floor. I slowly sink down, pick it up and lay it on the bed.

  “There’s a blindfold on the table next to the bed. Go and get it and return to the end of the bed.”

  I step back from the seat and locate the blindfold. It’s set next to a huge lamp on a wide teak bedside table. My strides are slow, trepidatious, as I obey the instruction.

  The blindfold is made of heavy black silk. Although there’s a bow design attached to one string, the two sides end with a metallic clasp design that would prevent accidental loosening. I run my fingers over the soft material, which is already warming in my hand.

  With a firm hold on it, I return to the scroll seat.

  “Sit down, Lucky.”

  I take the seat, rest the blindfold on my lap. The lights in the room dim a fraction, but the one directly above me brightens, throwing me into soft spotlight.

  One camera slowly descends from the ceiling and stops a foot above my head. The blinking red light tells me its recording my every blink. Every breath. I struggle to contain my nerves and stare straight ahead.

  I remain like that for a good five minutes, before I see a shadow frame the closed frosted bedroom doors.

  He’s tall, broad shouldered, well-muscled. That’s all I can tell from the hazy silhouette. My pulse takes a turn from jumpy to frenzied.

  “Put the blindfold on. Secure it tightly. Then rest your hands beside you, palms down.”

  The thought that he’s going to deny me sight further unsettles me enough to make me hesitate. I glance down at the blindfold, then back at his shadow.

  “Do as you’re told.” A harder command that demands my obedience. It’s also dangerous enough to trigger a state of excitement. But the warmth of the spotlight reminds me that I’m on a stage. That the cameras are picking up any signs of disobedience.

  I only win this game if I play my part right. As much as I want to see the man who has been so expert at taking control of my emotions, I haven’t come all this way to fall now.

  I lift and place the blindfold over my eyes.

  Immediately, my remaining ssenses scream with awareness. His scent is sharper, the soft air filtering into the room rushes louder. The black silk comes alive, each expensive thread leaping beneath my fingertips. My only deprived sense is a taste of what’s to come. In anticipation, saliva floods my mouth.

  But with all these sensations come a heavy dose of trepidation.

  This is happening.

  In front of cameras.

  Apprehension eats away at the excitement. The trembling starts at my feet, works its way up to my knees. Seconds later, my whole body is engulfed.

  And that’s when I hear the soft parting of the doors.

  He’s here. In living flesh. Right in front of me.

  My throat moves in a nervous swallow almost of its own accord, and my head jerks as I try to hone in on him. But nerves have crossed to full-blown alarm, and he’s uncontainable. He’s all around and inside me. My rapid breathing is a whisper away from hyperventilation. Between my hands and the silk, a light coating of sweat forms.

  The rush of blood through my veins grows into a roar, and the belief that I’m about to pass out becomes real.

  “You’re trembling.” He’s right above me, large and powerful and domineering.

  “Yes.” My response is a shaky mess, the blackness behind the blindfold seeming to thicken, even though rationally that is impossible.

  “Are you afraid?”

  I swallow hard. “A little,” I lie.

  “Of what?”

  “Of the…unknown.”

  “Do you think I’ll hurt you?”

  I start to shake my head, but the naked truth slaps me in the face. “I don’t know. Will you?”

  A brief pause. “Would you like me to lie to you, Lucky?”

  “N—no.”

  “Then I’ll tell you I don’t know either.”

  There’s a note in his voice. Twisted tendrils of acceptance, regret and elation at a state of being. My breath strangles.

  Before I can form a coherent response, or think of a way to defend myself against the dark anticipation, I feel a drift of air, a shift of power from towering to enclosing.

  He’s in front of me. Like, right in front of my face.

  “But I haven’t forgotten your concerns. I may not succeed, but I’ll do my best not to breach them.”

  I suppose I should be grateful for the consideration. But the dark delight and animalistic hunger in his electric voice—how come he still sounds like that when he’s right in front of me?—warns me gratitude might turn out to be a useless commodity.

  Another unstoppable tremble races through me. My thoughts disjoint as I wait.

  Wait.

  But he’s in no hurry. His prey is caught. Hypnotized by his presence alone.

  “You’re beautiful.” A heavy, unbiased compliment. A statement of pure ownership.

  My breath is gone. I don’t need air. Not right now. Not when he’s so close I feel his body heat. Feel his breath when he speaks.

  “I…thank you,” I croak.

  “I’m going to touch you, Lucky.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  The pads of two fingers drift over my collarbone along the line where the diamond necklace nestles.

  My first connection to Q.

  I gasp at the raw, gritty sensation that simple touch yields. He slowly explores one collarbone and then moves, unhurried, to the other.

  “I’ve dreamed of touching you like this. Feeling your pulse beat beneath my fingers. I’ve wondered what your skin would feel like.”

  “Now…you know,” I whisper.

  “Now I know, I want to taste it, lick every inch of it.”

  Equal parts desire and fear quiver through me. Desire because I want to be tasted. Licked. Fear because he still sounds like a sexy automaton, a fallen angel trapped in a machine. I can also hear the tiny whirrs of the cameras, can feel the lenses moving over my skin, documenting my every breath.

  I’m a whore for his immediate pleasure, and will be a whore for his voyeuristic gratification for all eternity.

  Suddenly, I’m grateful for the blindfold. It affords me a protection I know is only in my mind, but I welcome it just the same. Whether he had me wear it for that purpose or another, I’m grateful for it now.

  I take my first whole breath since he entered the room. I focus on his fingers as they move back and forth, back and forth on my skin. Each slide sends sizzling heat to my nipples and clit.

  “I’ve waited a while for this. So I won’t stop at just tasting and licking. I’m going to devour you. Make you wet and wring you dry. And I’m going to do it many, many times, Lucky.” Power and purpose and unfettered lust pound through his voice.

  I have time to take one more breath before Q pounces.

  20

  8MM

  Strong fingers sink into my hair. His grip is firm. Unbreakable. A tug that tilts my head back, exposing my face, jaw and neck to the spotlight I feel burning into me.

  “You’re mine.”

  “Y…yes.”

  His thumbs graze gently over my cheeks as he angles my face this way and that. “Every inch of you belongs to me,” he breathes.

  The terrifying finality of the statement ratchets up my every emotion.

  I feel another shift of air and the whirr of cameras as he rises, his hands till locked in my hair. Rough fingers gently massage my scalp.

  “Open your legs.”

  My knees part. He moves between them, bringing his essence and magnificence even closer. He tilts my head further back, secures me with one hand. With the other, he sets a trail along my jaw, my throat, pauses at my pulse, before drifting over my shoulder to clasp my arm. I sense him bend forward.

  His smoky cedar wood scent intensifies. My belly quivers when his breath whispers over my face.

  “I’m ready for your lips, Lucky. Are you ready for mine?”

  The tingl
e that seizes my mouth is immediate. The russet red gloss applied on them in no way alleviating their dryness. I slick my tongue over them. “Yes.”

  A low laugh, tinged with a whisper of the sinister. “I don’t mean those lips, honey. Those can wait. The lips I crave are between those gorgeous legs.” He takes a step back. “Stand up.”

  I totter to my feet. A little disoriented and drunk with heady emotion, I sway. He doesn’t steady me. My arms flail for a second before I gain my feet. The impulse to reach forward, touch him, fires through me. But I intrinsically know touching is out of bounds until he gives me specific permission.

  Or maybe I don’t want to find out if he’s human or not? I curb the absurd thought and bring my hands to my sides.

  His hands land on my shoulders, trail down my arms to the tips of my fingers before he sets me free. I sense a huge height disparity between us. He must be thinking it too, because his next words, over a foot above my head, are, “So small. So fragile.”

  I shake my head, a spark of rebellion firing. “I’m not—”

  “Shh. Hush, my little pocket firecracker. Take off your panties.”

  Using the back of the seat as my compass, I slowly turn around. I sense him take another step back. The immediate whir of the camera makes me think they operate on motion sensors. I try to block them out as I hook my fingers into the French shorts and peel them over my hips, but the sound grows until I can’t block it out.

  My fingers stall, one corner of the panties over my hip, the other below.

  “I’m waiting, firecracker.” There’s a tense warning in his voice.

  I swallow and force myself to keep going. I lean forward to step out of the scrap of silk and the scent of warm skin fills my nostrils. I’m not sure which parts of his body I’m closest to, but I know he’s less than an inch from my face.

  The knowledge lances me with craving, hot and fierce. My panties drop. I carefully step out of them, but I don’t want to straighten. I want to lean further forward. Taste him.

  “Found something you want?” Q asks, his voice lending further fire to my heated core.

  “Maybe,” I whisper, my own voice weak.