But it’s not.
It’s not okay.
Because I’m holding this woman in my arms, and I want to be the only one to hold her, fucking ever, and you know what? That goes for the female performers who get to fuck her too, because I want it just to be me me me, and have her all to myself.
I try to remind myself that it’s just sex, it’s just fucking, and it doesn’t mean anything, but if it doesn’t mean anything, then why didn’t she tell me about it? Why would she keep it a secret?
And then the twin sister to jealousy shows up.
Suspicion.
I hate it. I hate every inch of that emotion, I hate feeling it crawl over my heart and rifle through my thoughts, wondering if there’s some reason Devi kept it a secret, wondering if I’m going to wake up one day soon to find Devi posting pictures of herself with some Italian. I hate wondering if I care about her more than she cares about me, if she’s been fucking other guys all this time, if I’m about to have my heart broken again.
And then I shut it down—all of it. The jealousy and the suspicion and the rage. I don’t have a right to care if she’s fucking other guys because I’ve been fucking other girls, and even if I hadn’t, “sort-of boyfriend” isn’t a term that has to mean explicit monogamy. We never talked about being exclusive.
We’re porn stars. We shoot porn. We fuck other people. That’s just how it is.
And right now the woman I love is hurting, and that’s where all my attention needs to be. I can figure out the rest later.
After a few minutes, I feel her begin to relax in my arms, her tears slowing and her breathing returning to normal. She wipes at her face with her hand, and it comes back black with mascara. She pulls back to look at my shoulder and chest, which are smeared with the same.
She barks out the kind of laughter that only comes in the midst of tears. “I got your chest all messy.”
“We can fix that,” I say as cheerfully as I can while I’m still trying to contain all of the residual bitter pangs of jealousy and the over-protective boyfriend instincts that are telling me to go burn shit down. I stand up and carry her into my bathroom and set her down on the wide bench in my shower.
My shower is big—the size of most people’s entire bathrooms big—and has a million showerheads and jets and nozzles that I don’t normally use, because, as you may have heard, we don’t have water in California anymore. But today is an extenuating circumstance, and I turn everything on, hot as it will go.
Devi blinks at me from the bench, suddenly very young and forlorn-looking. And then all of my jealousy and suspicion melt completely away, washed down the drain. Instead, I feel an overwhelming need to shelter her and protect her, to erase whatever bad thing has happened, but it’s too late for that. I can only hope to atone for not being there, for not being able to help her.
I approach her slowly through the water, ignoring the way my jeans are getting soaked. You’ve probably already guessed this, but I don’t mind getting my clothes wet—a porn habit, I guess. But I leave my jeans on for another reason: I don’t want Devi to think that I brought her in here to fuck her. I don’t want her to think that this is about sex or about me, or about anything other than helping her feel better.
She watches me with curious, tired eyes as I get closer, until I’m over to the bench. “Can I undress you?” I ask.
She bites her bottom lip and then nods. “Yes, please.” Her voice is barely audible over the hiss of the water.
Steam billows around us as I work her damp T-shirt off of her body. My dick jolts as I see she’s not wearing anything underneath and those delicious tits are just hanging out, ripe and plump, but I move my focus elsewhere, helping her out of her flip-flops and then her denim cutoffs, tossing everything to the edge of the shower.
Once she’s naked, I take her elbows in my hands and guide her to the waterfall showerhead, where I make her stand while I go get a washcloth and body wash.
“You’re going to smell like a dude, I’m sorry,” I apologize as I start washing her.
“No,” she corrects me. “I’ll smell like you.”
The way she says it, like it’s the best possible thing I could give her, twists my heart. I quickly look back down to the washcloth so she doesn’t see how much this affects me, paying extra attention to non-sexual places like her hands and feet. Even so, being this close to her body, watching the water pour over her breasts and hips and ass, is doing uncomfortable things to my jeans. I wait until I go get shampoo and conditioner to surreptitiously adjust myself—not easy in soaking wet denim, but I manage.
I take my time washing her hair, massaging her scalp and rubbing the tresses clean between my fingertips. I love you, I think, wishing she could feel the words radiating off my body. I love you so much.
But of course I don’t say them, knowing now is not the time, not with whatever is hanging over her like a dark cloud. I rinse her off, wrap her in a giant fluffy towel and carry her to my bed.
I go to shuck my wet jeans and grab another pair when she finally speaks again. “No, don’t put another pair on. Come here.”
“Cass, it doesn’t have to—”
“I know,” she says firmly. “I know what you’re trying not to do, but it’s what I want.”
Somewhere inside of me, I know I should protest more, but I can’t. Not only because of how aroused I am after washing her body, but because the warm confidence in her voice is undeniable. I strip off the wet jeans and walk towards the bed, crawling up next to her. She reaches immediately for my cock but I grab her hand.