This is so amazing right now, so perfect, exactly because there are no cameras. And if we carry these boundaries into everything else—if we only think about Star-Crossed when we’re doing Star-Crossed, and Logan and Devi when we’re just Logan and Devi—then we’ll be able to sustain this peace and satisfaction. Sustain us, for the long haul.
Devi’s going to love this, I think happily, pressing my lips to her shoulder as she snuggles back against me. She and her parents seem into that Eckhart Tolle mindfulness stuff, and this is basically mindfulness, right? Mindful fucking.
“What are you thinking?” Devi asks.
I answer honestly. “About writing a book called Mindful Fucking for Fun and Profit. I could do seminars and speak at corporate retreats and stuff. Make lots of money.”
She giggles. “You already make lots of money.”
“Pfft. I work hard for that money. I need a plan for when my stamina runs out.”
“As if that will ever happen.” She shifts against me, and my cock is very eager to prove her right, except we’re still supposed to film a scene today, so I tell him to wait. “Look at all the books in here,” she observes. “I never noticed them before.”
I’m far more interested in licking circles on her shoulder, tracing the line between her tank top and her skin with my lips. “I don’t have nearly as many as you do,” I say in between kisses. “Was always more of a movie guy. But I think good storytellers should appreciate all mediums.”
“Logan O’Toole: fiction nerd.”
“Hardly.” I glance up at the set of low shelves against the window. “Most of those are poetry collections.”
I hear the smile in her voice. “Poetry?”
I feel a little defensive, not because I think she’s teasing me but because it’s so hard to explain. “It was always my favorite part in English class, when we’d read the poetry. And I knew when I made the choice to do porn instead of going to UCLA like I’d planned, that there probably wouldn’t be much poetry in my future. So I started doing this thing where every month I’d buy a book of poetry. I didn’t have to like it or even read it all, but I had to try it. Because I think poets come the closest to seeing the world how I see it sometimes. Images. Tastes and sounds. Not always perfectly stitched together, but uneven and unexplainable.”
“That’s beautiful,” she says quietly.
“You’re beautiful.” And then I’m going to say it—all the stuff I planned on saying—and explain to her how we’ll keep our relationship safe and just for us, but then she turns. My cock slides out of her and I can’t help the sad groan that I make.
She smiles and bites her lip. “How about we start our scene now?” And all my other thoughts go out the window.
It feels weird to go back to making “just porn” with Devi. And maybe even go back is the wrong way to look at it, since it was never just porn with her. It was always something more; it was always blended with how deeply we felt for each other.
I wish I’d talked to Devi before we dove into the scene’s particulars; but once we started blocking and running through what we wanted to do sex-wise, there didn’t seem to be a good time to say, “Oh hey, just so you know, I think it’s best if we act strictly professional right now.”
So I don’t say anything. On one hand, it feels good, natural even, to set up the cameras and block the scene like she’s just another girl and not my girlfriend. But on the other hand, it feels jarring and bizarre, like waking up to find your house has blown sideways but everything is still perfectly in place. It’s hard to stop fiddling with the camera settings when I know exactly how glowing that bronze skin can be in just the right conditions, it’s hard to think about what sex positions will translate best on the screen when I know which positions she actually likes the best.
But I manage. It’s a mental workout for sure, and there are times before we start that I catch her looking at me quizzically, as if she can tell something is off. I’ll explain it all afterwards, I think. After we shoot the scene like this, she’ll be able to see how much easier it is. How much better.
Today’s scene is the last we’ll shoot for this season of Star-Crossed, and I decided to do something a little more intimate than normal. No separate location, no public fooling around. Marieke and I agreed that we should leave the Logan and Devi characters in a happy, loving place, just like you’d leave characters at the end of a romantic comedy. In love for perpetuity.
Of course, we’ll shake things up with the second season of Star-Crossed, and I smile to myself, remembering I still have to tell Devi about that too. Marieke and I brainstormed some serious sexy, steamy, twisted shit, and I bet my girl will love it.
“What are you smiling about?” Devi asks. She’s perched on the edge of the massively fluffy rug I’ve dragged in from my office, wearing nothing but brightly colored knee socks. The white fluff of the rug is such a stark contrast to her Persian skin that I stop what I’m doing and just stare at her for a minute.
My Cassiopeia.
My queen.
She tilts her head at me, the loose braid sliding tantalizingly over one perfect, full tit, and all I want to do is drop to my knees next to her and kiss her until the stars come out. Have I done that yet? Just kissed her for hours? Made out until we’ve both forgotten our names, our lives, our histories?
I almost do it. I even get so far as taking a step toward her until I remember, no—that’s a boyfriend thing. A boyfriend thought. Logan the porn star loves kissing and will definitely kiss the shit out of her once the camera starts rolling, but it will be kissing for the camera, kissing to make an amazing scene.