I, Porn Star (I #1) (13 page)

“There’s also a touch
of guilt,” he continues, “as if you don’t think you deserve what you’re not
allowing yourself to crave.”

“Wow, all that in
one picture? You do fancy yourself a clairvoyant,” I dare to tease.

I hear a clink of
ice against glass. “Tell me which part I got wrong,” he commands.

I can’t, of
course, so I don’t answer.

“There will be no
guilt when I fuck you, Lucky. No guilt, no fighting, only your complete
surrender.” The statement seethes with purpose, and I’m caught in the web of
sensation so strong I experience the tiniest of releases between my legs.

My hips twitch
again and I turn and bite the cushion. Hard.

Fuck.

“Do you
understand?” he demands.

I blink to try
and regain focus. “Y—yes.” My voice is a shamelessly turned on croak.

“Lucky?”

God
, the way that electric current vibrates
through me! “Yes?”

“Time to head to
bed.”

My gaze roves
over the room, takes in the stairs leading up to the bedroom. “I don’t think I
can move.”

“Why not?”

Because
moving will ruin what the sound of your voice is doing to my clit.
“I’m…comfortable right here.”

“I see. The sofa
is comfortable enough, but I’d prefer it if you don’t make a habit of it.
Uninterrupted rest when it’s mandated will ensure your continued health.”

I should be
pissed that he’s instructing me on where I should sleep. But the thick river of
lust moving through my body is too delicious to ruin with a fight.

I tug the folded
cashmere throw from the back of the sofa and drape it over me before I snuggle
deeper into my makeshift bed.

“Right. Noted.
Thanks for your understanding, Q.” Saying his name makes me smile.

“Goodnight,
Lucky.” I imagine I hear faint amusement in his voice, too.

I turn my head
and search for the black box. It’s still on the floor where I dropped it
earlier. The green light is still on. I stare at it as languor sweeps over me.

My sleep is
thankfully dreamless. When I wake four hours later, my eyes immediately zero in
on the box. It’s still where I left it.

But the light has
gone out.

And I’m once
again left wondering if it was all a hallucination.

13

PLACES

The fitness
instructor is done with me by nine. The intense two-hour session leaves me
weak-limbed but wide awake as I exit the Wall Street subway and make my way to
the Blackwood Tower.

Today, I’m
feeling a little less self-conscious—but no less vigilant—courtesy
of the eight Bloomingdales shopping bags that arrived on my doorstep this
morning. I opened the first one to find a note from Fionnella.

As
discussed, dress rehearsal for clothes begins today. Find enclosed first
selection
.

As discussed?
First selection?

Am I that
unsophisticated to need a
rehearsal
for clothes
? My frown stayed in place all through breakfast. I was a
little out of it last night after my epic rant in the apartment, but I’m pretty
sure I would’ve remembered a discussion about a new wardrobe. My brain may be a
seething mass of fear-induced knots, but I’m sure I would also have remembered
a planned shopping trip to Bloomingdales on my behalf. My eventual text to that
effect garnered a one-line response.

Apologies.
Instructions still stand. The Boss insists
.

End of story.

I tug at the
scarf around my neck as I hurry down the stairs to the basement and wonder if
the problems I’ve managed to alleviate on the outside of Blackwood Tower will
achieve the opposite effect inside.

Miguel’s interest
has been especially sharp the past couple of days, ever since I started working
upstairs. He blithely ignores my evasive answers and probes with more
questions.

And sure as shit,
he’s the first person I see when I walk into the rec room. There are a couple
of kitchen guys taking a break, but one walks out as I enter, and the other is
absorbed in his phone and doesn’t look up when Miguel spots me and gives a low
whistle.

“
Hola,
chiquita
.” Dark brown eyes rake me from head to toe. “Wow, looks like
someone tripped and fell out of Vogue Magazine today.”

I ignore him and
attempt to walk past him. He grabs my wrist, his hold surprisingly rigid as he
examines the label of my new black, waterfall-styled coat.

“
Valentino
…”
He frowns as his speculative gaze moves from the label to my face and back
again.

Panicked, I
snatch my wrist so hard from his grasp I know it’ll leave a mark.
Shit
.
“You don’t ever touch me without my permission, Miguel.
Ever
.” There’s
anger packed into every millimeter of that hushed sentence.

He raises his
hand and steps back. “Cool it, sweet thing. Was only trying to compliment a
lady, s’all.”

Every instinct
screams at me to walk away, but I see the questions swirling in his eyes. I
need to diffuse this new interest before it mushrooms.

I grind my teeth
against the lies I need to tell to protect myself. But I have no choice. I can
aggravate Miguel, or I can continue being laconic in the hope that he
eventually gets the hint. Although from the way his eyes drop from my face to
linger on my tits, I don’t think that day is coming soon.

“It’s…the coat…is
a fake. And I have a thing after work. That’s why I’m dressed like this.”

He nods. “Like I
said, we’re cool. You could’ve just said that.”

I notice he
doesn’t apologize for grabbing me. I choose not to inform him that the last man
who touched me without my permission ended up with a bullet in his chest. In
fact, I stash that memory firmly into the
don’t go there
box and head
for my locker. I can feel his eyes on me. When I look over my shoulder, I swear
he’s aiming his phone camera at me while pretending to be absorbed in it.
 

Jesus.

I quickly turn
back around and grab my work gear. As I peel my clothes off in the changing
room, I examine each label and my mouth drops open.
Valentino, Ferragamo,
Balenciaga, Forever 21
. My new leather boots are stylish but look fairly
standard. Until I check the label.

Manolo
Blahniks
.

My heart sinks
further.

Shit.

Shit.
Shit. Shit
.

After the fitness
instructor left this morning, I hit the shower and dressed in a hurry, knowing
I needed to hustle or be late for my shift. When a quick examination of each
bag revealed an entire ensemble, I thanked the Lord because I didn’t have to
waste time coordinating outfits. I just threw on the jeans, top and coat in the
first bag, dragged on the boots and left.

The thought that
I may have inadvertently painted a bullseye on my back through carelessness
steadily claws through me for the next two hours as I finish laying tables and
sorting condiment baskets in the Executive Restaurant. Once that’s done, I take
a quick break, then return to wait on the side of the counter for the chef to
finish preparing Quinn Blackwood’s lunch.

Even the thought
of seeing him again doesn’t erase the naked flame of terror at what my
carelessness could cost me. I listen with diminished attention as the chef
rumbles through the intricacies of serving the CEO’s meal. I nod through it but
have forgotten most of it by the time I wheel the trolley through Quinn’s
frosted double doors.

He’s seated at
his desk, as usual.

His gaze snaps to
me the moment the door shuts, and stays riveted on me. As usual.

By the fourth or
fifth step, my legs threaten to give way beneath the gravitational power of his
stare. Nothing new there either. I arrive at the dining table without mishap,
but still a little lost in my head.

“I thought we
agreed on the general etiquette surrounding entering a room?”

My
God. His voice
.

It’s deep,
cultured, oiled with class and money and power and glory. The kind of voice
that stops you in your tracks, that makes you want to throw your softness at
his hardness, bruise yourself on his attention.

The complete
compulsion of his voice and stare swivels me round to face him.

“I’m sorry. Good
afternoon, Mr. Blackwood.”

He recaps his
black ball pen and sets it down with a precise action. His eyes never leave my
face. “Good afternoon, Elly.”

I turn around and
start laying his table. I know the moment he rises and walks to the front of
his desk because the air thickens with awareness.

“Have you had
lunch yet?” The same question as before.

A different
answer today, courtesy of a text from Fionnella during my break to say she
won’t be feeding me this afternoon. “No. Not yet.”

“Set a place for
yourself.”

I freeze for a
moment, then curb the turbulent rush of emotion. “Ah, no thanks. I’m good.”

I’m so attuned to
him, I know the moment he straightens and heads toward me. His aura slams into
me long before the spicy sandalwood of his aftershave wraps around me. “I hate
to disagree with you, but no, you’re not good.”

I’m dying to look
up into those piercing silver blue eyes, but I fear it’ll be my undoing. So I
transfer dishes from trolley to table and check that the requisite distances
are achieved. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you been
ill recently, Elly?”

The question surprises
me enough to make me abandon my vow not to look at him. I meet electric eyes
that trap mine for a second before raking over me. “No…I haven’t.”

“You don’t like
food, is that it?” he drawls. “Is that why you look so…breakable?”

“No, I love
food.”

He nods. “So, it
must be me then?”

“You…what?”

“The idea of
eating with me fills you with horror?”

My eyes widen.
“I…no.”

“Then set a place
for yourself.”

Sitting opposite
him while he eats, waiting to collect his dishes is one thing. Despite the
alarming intensity of it, it’s what I’m paid to do. Eating with him, tasting
the same food he’s putting into his mouth…

I shake my head.
“I can’t.”

He takes a single
step toward me and I’m drenched in his substance. Today, he’s wearing a navy
suit with a navy shirt one shade deeper. A black pinstriped tie, black belt and
polished dress shoes complete the stunning ensemble. On his wrist, a
streamlined silver watch gleams. We’re still outside arms length of each other,
but he may as well be binding me in ropes. Such is the power of Quinn
Blackwood’s force field.

He rests a hand
flat on the table, next to his plate. “Whose name is at the top of the
building, Elly?”

“Yours?”

“Then I believe
that buys me a little sway in what goes on around here, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, yes, if
you want to play that card.”

“I don’t want to
play that card. But I will. Unless you tell me why you won’t eat with me.” His
voice is conversational, but there’s steel in there. Steel wrapped around six
foot two of live electricity.

“I don’t think
it’s appropriate. That’s all.”

Another step, and
I can see the silver flares sparking the blues in his eyes.

“Look at the
dining table, Elly, there are twelve places. Do you think I use all twelve
places at once, all the time?”

“Of course not.”

One more step. I
lose the ability to breathe.

“What do you
imagine I use it for then, if not to play musical chairs when no one’s
looking?”

My mouth twitches
before amusement drops dead in his presence. “Business lunches.”

He lifts the last
dish from the trolley and places it on the table. Then he picks up a spare
plate, cutlery and strides to the opposite end of the dining table.

When he’s done
laying it out, he pulls out a seat, just like he’s done the last two times I’ve
been here. “So, let’s you and I have one.”

“A business
lunch? Why?”

“To air any
grievance you might have.”

“I don’t have
any.”

“Either I’m doing
something very right, or you’re lying. I believe it’s the latter.”

I’m lying about a
lot of things, but I don’t like it pointed out. “You don’t know me well enough
to make that assessment, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Don’t I?” He
whispers the two words in a way that sends a shiver over me. That deathly
stillness that excited and frightened me the first time I laid eyes on him
slides through the air, freezes us both in place.

We watch each
other, his gaze never straying from its rigid focus on my face. Although his
eyes…

God. There’s
something in there, something deep and dark and mercilessly horrifying. But
whereas before it felt like an all-encompassing outlook, this time it’s
spotlighted on one thing.

Me.

“No.” I use the
word, but even I doubt the veracity of it. With each second in his presence I
feel his stare like a paring knife beneath my skin, opening me up from the
inside out.

“Then give me a
chance to,” he says. His large fingers glide slowly across the top of the
dining chair. Then he grips the sides until his knuckles whiten. “Sit down,
Elly.”

***

Something happens
between the moment I sit in the chair and when he places my food in front of
me. It’s almost like a switch has gone off inside him.

Conversation
dries up and he’s no longer interested in pursuing the imagined grievance he
wanted to discuss.

The seared Wagyu
beef strips on a bed of Cesar salad is cooked to perfection, but I barely taste
it as I struggle to chew and swallow each mouthful.

All the simple
but engaging conversation pieces I used on clients at The Villa to get them to
talk dries up as I look up halfway through the silent meal to find his gaze
locked on my wrist. Specifically, the courtesy-of-Miguel finger-marked bruise
circling my left wrist.

His gaze moves
from the bruise to my face.

His eyes are a
thousand white-hot blades spiking into me.

I swallow wrong.
My fingers fly toward my water glass.

He calmly sets
his cutlery down, his meal abandoned.

I gulp more
water. I chose water for the simple reason that I need a sharper than ever
handle on my mental faculties. The consumption of alcohol was encouraged at The
Villa during work hours, but I witnessed its ill effects on both clients and
girls often enough to stay away from it.

But now I wonder
if I should’ve asked for a glass of the Bordeaux Quinn poured for himself. The
Bordeaux he’s sipping now as he watches me.

“Grievances.
Let’s hear them.” The question is clearly not one he wants to discuss. His gaze
keeps moving back to my wrist. Each time the looks in his eyes tips the
volatility scale further towards what I imagine insanity looks like.