It’s not reasonable to feel this way, or even realistic. He’s a professional pornographic performer. And yet, I’m a girl who believes she might be something more.
No, not believes—hopes.
He takes me while I’m lost in this yearning, drives into me with a bold, frenetic passion that’s determined to grind and thrust and fuck, wildly. Mindlessly.
Damn, Logan O’Toole can shatter a girl. I wrap my thighs higher around him, perfecting the way he fits inside me. “Yes. Right there. Right there.”
“Squeeze me, Devi. Make your cunt tight and grip my cock.”
I clamp around him, clenching as hard as I can then relaxing for just a second before repeating the motion. He groans, his thrusts growing even more frantic. “Jesus, just like that. Do it again. Fuuuck.”
He’s about to lose himself when he grabs onto the scarf at my wrists and tugs me toward him, bending me in half. He seizes my mouth with his as I cry out, the new position causing him to strike me in the most amazing spot. My vision goes blinding white with the pleasure, and I’m gasping when he breaks the kiss, clawing at consciousness, trying to find something to hold on to so I don’t get lost in oblivion. I focus on his face, on his lips, on his eyes, on the crease of his forehead, on the sharp contortion of his features.
I recognize this expression from his movies. It’s this crazed, hungry, primal expression that, whenever I’ve seen it, I’ve nearly gone mad wishing it were a look I could see in real life.
And now I am seeing it in real life, and while it’s thrilling and hot beyond belief, I’m keenly aware of how many other people have seen this look on his face. Aware that it’s not a look that’s special or private or reserved just for me.
That realization pricks at some place inside my chest, pinches and twists it, and when I come this time, my orgasm is accompanied by tears that I’m pretty sure aren’t just a component of release.
Oh, God.
I’m so in love with Logan. In deep, deep love.
We lock eyes, and even though I haven’t said it out loud, I think he can tell I’m thinking it because his face suddenly turns warm and intense, and then it’s not only me falling apart, but both of us. Crashing together like two stars exploding in a blaze of heat and fire and pure light.
The way he looks at me, with eyes that seem to see something heavenly in my appearance, I know—I know—he meant it when he said he loved me, and I know he’s just as surprised and awed by it as I am.
And I can’t help but wonder if he’s scared too. Can’t help but wonder if the violent way he shudders into me with his release, sputtering and rutting almost like he’s angry, is an indication that he senses the same undercurrent of terrible within that love that I do.
“I have to work today.” Logan traces a finger along my jaw. “I wish I didn’t, but I’ll have to get ready soon.”
And just like that, the morning is no longer perfect.
It’s funny how Logan makes me feel more visible than anyone ever has—like I’m present and seen—and yet he also has the ability to make the rest of the world completely disappear. Waking with him, fucking him, lingering in his arms, I’d practically forgotten that we both had jobs and lives and Things besides each other.
I’d forgotten that my boyfriend makes porn. With women that aren’t me.
“Editing or…?” I don’t know if I want to know what type of work he has to do today, but I can’t stop myself from asking.
“I’m filming a scene with Bambi Roo.” He looks past me to the bedside clock to check the time. “She’ll be here in about half an hour.”
My stomach drops like a lead anchor. The intensity of my reaction surprises me, makes my mouth taste sour. Makes everything sour. “Okay. I can leave.”
I start to roll out of bed, but Logan tugs me closer. “I was going to invite you to stay.”
My smile can’t be contained. “You were? You’re not sick of me yet?” His invitation doesn’t completely erase my apprehension, but it certainly helps.
“So entirely not sick of you.” He captures my mouth in a blistering kiss. “In fact, for the first time in my career, I wish I could call in sick.”
“But you’re a professional. You’d never do that.” I don’t know if I’m testing him or me—trying to feel out whether (a) he’d really ever call off a scene on my count, and/or (b) I’m bothered by the fact that he probably never will.
He tucks a hair behind my ear. “No. I wouldn’t call in sick. And that’s why I’m inviting you to stay.”
I knew he wouldn’t cancel. Asking me to stay is a decent compromise, though, one that earns him a decent grade on my test. I, on the other hand, am pretty certain I’ve earned an F because I am for sure bothered by the idea of him having sex with another woman right now.
And what the fuck is that about?
In my head, I hear Raven’s voice repeating her accusation from the day before. “He’s always fucking someone else.” She’d called it advice, but she meant it to be hurtful. And it was.
And I hate that.
I hate that she knew it would get to me. I hate that she hit her target. And, most of all, I hate that she’s right—that Logan will always be fucking someone else.
And I hate that it bothers me so much. This isn’t me. I don’t like who this is.
A voice that sounds an awful lot like my mother quoting Maya Angelou, says, “What you're supposed to do when you don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it.”