“Devi, look at me,” I urge, and she finally does, her eyes wide and desperate looking. “That’s it,” I coax her. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”
“I don’t think I can,” she says, a little wildly, but I keep going, crooning words of encouragement to her, you’re gonna feel so good and such a good, brave girl and I’m so deep, baby, so fucking deep and then I see her hands clawing at the sheets and the cords in her neck strain.
And then it happens. Devi’s stomach starts visibly tensing and every muscle in her body tremors and her back arches clear off the bed, her face contorted in the throes of ecstasy. She can’t speak, can barely make any noise other than the soft keening that comes from somewhere in her throat, and she’s on another plane, in another world, her body convulsing in long, deep, slow contractions that consume her, swallow her, transform her.
Cervical orgasms, ladies. They’re a thing, and they are intense. Devi has completely fallen apart underneath me, oblivious to everything but the deep waves of release rolling out from her womb to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her feet. And unlike her clitoral orgasms, this lasts an eternity. Seconds and minutes and what feels like hours that I get to watch (and feel) the most beautiful woman in the world quiver and fracture into billions of glowing pieces. No man can last feeling that around his cock, watching that happen underneath him, and I’m no exception, because it’s never been this good, it’s never felt this good, and God fucking damn it if I haven’t completely lost myself in her.
“Do it,” she pants. “Come inside me.”
“I’m gonna,” I grunt, letting her legs fall back to the bed and driving into her fast and hard. “Gonna come so good for you, Cass.”
Her hands find my ass, her fingers digging into my cheeks and urging me to go harder, faster, and she feels so good and she looks so good, all soft and sated underneath me. Her cunt is so fucking tight, squeezing me and squeezing me, and holy fuck, I want to marry this woman, and then with a juddering groan, my balls contract and I explode.
I rut into her hard, pumping hot jets of cum deep inside her, our eyes locked and the air heavy with magic. My whole torso is spasming, my entire pelvis a fiery, burning sun of release, unleashing waves and waves of deep, roiling pleasure. I pump and thrust and fuck my way through the climax, feeling high and drunk and dizzy, intoxicated by Devi, empowered by her, totally alive and exhilarated because of her. I feel the wet heat of my orgasm inside of her, I see the dark points of her erect nipples and the scorching lust on her face, and it draws it out. And the pulses keeping coming, again and again and again, and I empty myself inside of her, drain my balls until she’s filled with me. Until she’s dripping around us both.
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 fuck, 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 fucking 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 pussy?”
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 fucking other people.” A pause. “And that you were always fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck Bruce Madden. I’m jealous of every minute she spends writhing under somebody else’s touch.
And I am guilty. Whenever I fuck 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 fucking, 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 fuck 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?
I pus
Devi looks uncertain, sad. I tug on her shoulder until she rolls onto her back and I can cup her face with one hand.
“We need to make some boundaries, Cass. What are we okay with and what are we not okay with? What will we keep special just for each other?”
She gives a small, fragile shrug and she looks so young and defenseless right now. My heart aches. “I’ve never done this before, Logan,” she says. “I’ve never been with a porn star. And I’ve certainly never been with one of the most famous porn stars in the world.”
“You don’t have to decide right now,” I reassure her, stroking her hair back from her face. “We have so much time, Devi. We’ll get it figured out.”
“Yeah,” she says, but her voice is full of doubt.
“Want to hear a joke?” I ask, trying to cheer her up, cajole her back to her normal sunny self.
“I guess.”
“Why does Santa Claus have such a big sack?”
She shrugs again.
I grin. “He only comes once a year!”
No reaction.
“Okay, okay, not my best work. How about this: what’s the difference between a lentil and a chick pea?”
“What?”
I wait a beat to let the punch line fall with maximum effect. “I wouldn’t pay a hundred dollars to have a lentil on my chest.”
Devi’s eyes widen and then she starts snort-laughing, slapping my bare chest hard. “You’re disgusting!”
But she’s smiling again. I resist the urge to preen.
She’s still giggling a little. “Okay, I have one for you. What’s the difference between jam and jelly?”
I play along. “What?”
“I can’t jelly my cock up your ass.”
I burst out laughing. “Why, Devi Dare, you dirty woman.”
“You have no idea.”
She grabs for my ass, and we start wrestling and laughing, both of us naked and still a little emotional, and then the wrestling turns to grinding and the laughing turns to kissing, and you know what?
Suddenly my cock isn’t so drowsy anymore.
17
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains, a rough thumb brushing across my nipple, and soft kisses on my shoulder. I’m immediately wet—or I’m still wet from all the sex we had the night before—and I could easily part my legs and make room for his already hard cock to slip inside me. But I don’t.
Instead, I pretend I’m still asleep. Because even though I’m the type of person to usually roll out of bed with a smile on my face, today I need a few minutes. I need to wake up enough to be sure none of this was a dream. I need a moment to process what we did, what we said. How we feel.
He loves me.
He told me he loved me, and I don’t even question it. I know he does. I felt it in the way he ravaged me. I felt it in his lips and with his tongue and in the orgasms he drew from the deepest parts of my body, orgasms that ripped and tore through every muscle, every cell, every bit of energy that makes up my soul.
He loves me. And though that love can’t undo or erase the incident that occurred on Hagen’s set, it does make surviving it better. Easier.
Logan moves his mouth up my neck to my ear. He nips my lobe—hard—and I squeal.
His arms fold around me, and he pulls my backside into his body. “I knew you were awake. Were you faking because you’re too tired for me?”
“Never,” I mumble, turning into him to press my mouth along the curve of his jaw. “I was just thinking.”
“About how much I love you?” He buries his face in my bosom and does something with his tongue along the skin between my breasts and oh my God I had no idea that was such an erogenous zone for me.
“Actually…” I gasp as he pinches a nipple between his fingers. “Yeah, I was.”
He lifts his gaze back to mine, and it’s serious now. “I do, you know. Love you.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And you really do love me. Don’t you? So much.” He’s teasing, pulling the words from me for fun, but I catch a glimpse of something in his eyes that says he really wants to hear it too. Like, maybe he’s as much in awe of the newly discovered shared emotion as I am.
So I’m serious when I answer him. “So much.”
And then, when the way he looks at me becomes so hot I begin to melt underneath him, I tease him back. “Do I need to prove it?” I wiggle my hips, rubbing against his hard-on, working us both up.
“Yeah, I think that’s what you’re going to have to do.” There’s a hint of mischief in his tone that disappears when he adds, “Hold on just a sec.” He stretches past me, reaching for something, so I peer over my shoulder to see what it is and spot his camera on the nightstand.
I sigh audibly with disappointment. I’d hoped last night would linger into this morning, that we’d still be “Logan and Devi” instead of “the show.”
But instead of grabbing the handheld, Logan hits a button on his bedside clock.
I’m relieved, and I quickly school my features to hide my initial reaction. Unfortunately, I’m too late.
“I’d set my alarm,” he explains. “What did you think…?” He looks from me to the nightstand, trying to determine what had upset me. His eyes land on the only other item on the table. “You thought I was going for my camera.”
My silence is his answer.
“Ah, I see.” He pulls away, suddenly distant.
“I just…I haven’t showered. Or anything.” I know I sound like I’m making excuses, because I am, and I’m one of those people that’s too transparent to lie. So I shake off the pretext and admit the truth. “I wanted it to be just us.”
He tenses, and I know I’ve upset him. He sits up to lean against the headboard before running a hand through his hair, struggling with some battle he’s not ready to share.
Finally, he speaks. “I can want to be with you genuinely, and still want to capture it. You get that, right? I told you this before, and I thought you understood.”
I sit up too, ignoring the impulse to pull the sheet up over my breasts. That would be hiding, and I want desperately to be open with him, which is part of the reason I was so eager to not have an audience this morning. “I do understand, Logan. I really do. It means so much to me that you are so into us that you want to share it with the whole world. I’m flattered, and I support it.
“But sometimes I want to be completely unguarded with you. I want to be able to bring down all my walls and let you into all the secret parts of me—granted, I don’t have many because I’m an open book—but there are things I’d prefer to share only with you.” I lower my voice and my eyes. “There are parts of you I wish you’d only share with me.”
“There are parts of me I only share with you. I talk to you about movies and art. I slept with you in a sleeping bag. I’ve never done that with another person. I share things with only you. Things not related to sex.”
“Sometimes I need them to be sex too.” I swallow then raise my gaze to his, tentatively. “Can you understand that?”
He holds my stare for several seconds. Then he scratches the back of his neck. “I wasn’t reaching for the camera.” He says it in a way that says he does understand, says he feels exactly the same.
“I know that. Now. I’m sorry I assumed otherwise.” I’m especially sorry that I’ve ruined the good mood he was in. And that he’s no longer touching me. I crawl toward him. “Are you mad?”
He raises his brow and starts to say something, but, after catching the view of me on all fours, seems to change his mind. His eyes narrow. “Yes. Very mad.” He uses a tone I’ve only heard him use in his movies—his dominant tone—and I know he’s playing with me in a different way. “Maybe I need to punish you.”
I sit back on my knees and bite my lip coyly. “Do you? I’m not sure if I’d like that.”
In a flash, he has me on my back, pinned underneath him. “You aren’t supposed to like it. I’m supposed to like it.”
His eyes are dark, his lids hooded, but he’s thinking. Assessing.
I’m certain I know what he’s trying to figure out. We haven’t ventured into kink on or off camera. While I’d marked a willingness to try some kinkier things on the limits section of my contract for Star-Crossed, I’d also specified that I preferred not to until later in the show’s timeline. It was a comfort issue for me. I’m not new to the more base forms of kink—bondage and spanking and the like—but I’ve certainly never done anything like that with an expert.
And Logan’s an expert. I’ve seen all of his work—trust me, I know.
So it makes sense that he’s cautious now. Because the list of things I’d do for the show doesn’t necessarily match the list of things I’d do for Logan. He just doesn’t know that.
“You can do it for real,” I tell him, giving him permission to play how I think he wants to. “You can punish me.”
He raises one brow. “Oh, can I?” but I can see he’s finally taking me seriously. He’s no longer just deciding if but how.
The anticipation makes me twitchy and eager and my head bobs when I mean for it to simply nod. I want him so fiercely, want him to take me, to unleash on me, unbridled and tumultuous.
He rocks over me, his expression on fire with lust and I re-utter my consent, giving it even more surely. “You can. I want you to. My safe word is Donald Trump.”
Logan freezes. “What?”
I smile, trying not to giggle. “It’s a really good safe word, isn’t it? I’m proud of it.”
“It definitely puts a damper on any thoughts of sex.”
And I can see how it’s put a damper on his thoughts because the mask of pure desire he’d worn a moment ago is now laced with horror.
I wiggle beneath him, purposefully rubbing against his pelvis in an attempt to raise his cock from half-mast to full-mast. “Did I kill your mojo? Bad, Devi. Bad. Maybe I need to be punished for that too.”
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