I, Porn Star (I #1) (29 page)

I try to control
my breathing, but the imagery he’s projecting is messing with my ability to
think. Hell, it’s messing with my everything. I’m aware my nipples have turned
into tight, painful points and my hairless pussy is growing damp. My mouth
dries, then surges with saliva as decadent thoughts flood my brain.

“Does it turn you
on, Lucky?”

A short, torn
moan is my answer.

“Shall I make it
happen, firecracker?”

I want to say no.
I’m dying to say yes. On the one hand, I’m certain I won’t survive the
experience. On the other, I can’t wait to get started. My head shake lasts two
seconds before it bobs into a nod.

He laughs. “I’m
not sure how to take that. We’ll reassess in a minute. Get rid of that towel
and lie back for me now, baby.”

 
Refusing doesn’t cross my mind. It’s what
I want, too. I lie back and spread my legs like he taught me to.

His hiss of
approval flows through the room. I get the sense that the camera is either
above me or directly in front of me. But the loft ceiling is too high, with
thick beams where he can hide a camera. So I stop looking.

“You know how
much I wanted to fuck you again before I left?”

My breasts are
heavy. I cup and squeeze them. He groans. “Why didn’t you? Your body, your
pussy, right?” I half tease.

“You were
sleeping like an angel. Against my better judgment, I chose to leave you alone.”

 
“Why against your better judgment?”

“Because now I’m
aching for that tight pussy. Touch it, Lucky. Open yourself wider and show me
what I’m missing.”

One hand glides
down and into my folds. My back arches as sensation buckets down on me.

“You’re so
fucking beautiful,” he growls, low and hoarse. “Work that clit for me. I want
to see you come.”

I go to town on
my body. The fact that he’s watching me ceases to disturb me. I revel in his
low hisses and thick groans, use it to shamelessly ramp up my own arousal until
I’m past the point of no return. I scream as my release tears through me. I
hear Q’s harsh breathing as I settle back into sinus rhythm. Sublime lethargy
drifts over me and I want to surrender to it.

“Lucky.”

I groan in
response.

“We have something
else to discuss.”

My eyes drift
shut. “What?” I slur.

“The subject of
your
friend
?”

I become
instantly alert. “Uh…yeah?” I sift through the cadence of his voice. Is he
pissed off? Indifferent? “You okay with me having him over?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you like
him?”

I frown. “Why do
you care?”

“Because I care
if you intend to fuck him.”

“Does liking
automatically equal fucking?”

“Don’t women
think so?”

“What about men?
What about you?”

“I like fucking
you. A lot. Enough for me to wonder if you’re planning on giving that body I
own to this friend who’s coming over.”

“No, I don’t plan
on fucking him.”

“Tonight or at
all?”

I shrug. His tone
suggests he’s not pissed. But there’s something there. Q is fucking with my
mind again. “Not while I’m yours.

“So you do like
him then?”

“I don’t know how
I feel about him. He’s…it’s complicated.”

“In what way is
it complicated?”

“Wow, you’re full
of questions. Are you bored, Q?”

“You want me to
give you permission for some guy to come sniffing around what’s mine. He may be
a mind-fuck artist for all you know. Give me satisfactory answers and I’ll
consider it.”

My frown deepens
as my confusion escalates. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

“What?”

“The mind fuck
part.”

“Your friend and
I have that in common?” he drawls.

Shocked laughter
erupts from me. “I see you’re not denying it.”

“You’ve proven
yourself adequate to the challenge of being mind-fucked.”

“Seeing and
calling your bullshit doesn’t mean I enjoy the aggravation, Q.”

“Then why are you
smiling?”

I wipe the smile
off my face and glare around the room. “Where is the camera?”

“Cameras, plural.
Headboard and floor lamp.”

“I’m going to rip
them out. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

I raise an
eyebrow. “You won’t get pissed off with me?”

“They were meant
to be temporary. I’ve put in place a more robust protection detail.”

I surge upright.
“What sort of protection detail?” The last thing I need are more people digging
into my business.

“None that will
compromise your privacy. Or put you on any radar you wish to avoid.”

I’m a little
reassured, but all the same. “Q—”

“You won’t come
to any physical harm, Lucky. Not while you’re with me.”

Something about
that statement bothers me. Badly. Enough to make my heart lurch and my stomach
hollow out. Before I can think of an adequate response, he speaks.

“You have my
permission to see your friend.”

Umm…right
. I’m a little put out that he’s not
jealous. I expected more resistance from him, what with the,
my body, my
pussy
,
edict he’s so fond
of throwing down.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.
But, Lucky?”

“Hmm?”

“Make sure you
get enough rest. You come to me at midnight. And Viagra Night is happening.”

33

REEL

Lucky

After Q hangs up,
I go in search of the cameras. I realize I’m not as upset by their presence,
but I act on principle alone. They’re both wireless and connected via
blue-tooth. There are no switches on the high tech looking gadgets, so I throw
them into a drawer and slam it shut.

Then I fall back
into bed and pull the covers over my head. My nap lasts two hours and I wake up
refreshed.

Languishing in
bed, I think back over the conversation with Q. The man has a way with words.
And a formidable iron will. To say I’ve never met anyone like him is an
understatement.

To say my
feelings for him are a little murkier than whore and client? Also an
understatement. The only person who ever looked out for me was my mother. And
that was when she wasn’t off her head on cheap liquor to drown out Clayton’s
cruel monopoly of her life. But it hadn’t all been bad. The nine months she
stayed sober while she was pregnant with Petra were the happiest of my life.

I still don’t
know how she managed to hide the pregnancy from Clayton, but I guess it was a
combination of deliberately putting on weight so he’d keep his hands off her,
and the very genuine illness and subsequent death of her mother, the
grandmother I never met, necessitating my first out-of-state trip to Nevada.
Petra was born while we were there, arriving a month early. Ma must have laid
plans beforehand, because one minute, she had a baby in her arms, the next we
were on the bus back to Getty Falls, minus said baby.

The raw anguish
and tears in her eyes when she swore me to secrecy made me take the pledge
seriously. I kept up my end of the bargain. But Ma, unbeknownst to me, kept a
picture of Petra the day she was born, along with Petra’s hospital bracelet.
Items that eventually fell into Clayton’s hands.

And now here I
am…

I jump when the
cell phone rings. Plucking it off the table, I check the screen.

Quinn. My epic
mind-fuck impresario.

“Hello.”

“You were
supposed to call. Early.”

I pull the phone
from my ear and check the time. 2:10pm. “I was…”
Getting myself off on
camera for my faceless lover
. “Asleep.”

“Dinner.” The
command is tight.

“Yes,” I answer
simply.

He exhales. “I’ll
pick you up at seven.”

I open my mouth
to suggest that we have dinner here. I can’t go out. I
shouldn’t
go out.
But Q’s voice is in my head.
You
belong to me. I’ve put in place a more robust protection detail
.

For some reason I
trust the offer of protection. He and I are not done. And I believe him when he
says he won’t let anything happen to me while I’m his. I may be being epically
stupid, but I clutch the phone closer to my ear. And I say, “Yes.”

“Give me your
address.”

I experience
another twinge of uncertainty, then I tell him.

“Good,” is all
Quinn says, before he hangs up.

I drop the phone
on the bed and cover my face with my hands. The sensation of having fallen into
the Twilight Zone builds. I calm myself and think things through rationally.

Before I quit
working at Blackwood Tower, I was using public transport and exposing myself
daily to street cameras that Clay could track. My disguise was good, but he has
the might of a whole law enforcement precinct behind him.

Quinn’s picking
me up and we’re going to dinner in a restaurant. Surely, that’s safer?

My mind bares its
teeth in a cynical sneer.

I drag my hands
down my face, then I pick up the phone and dial.

Fionnella answers
on the first ring.

“I…uh, I’ve
decided to go out after all. Dinner tonight. With my friend.”

“Good for you. As
long as you’re back by eleven to get yourself ready, we’re good. I’ll have the
stylist come early to help you out. Saves preparation time later.”

“Okay.” I
hesitate for a second. “Umm, Q said something about protection?”

She doesn’t miss
a beat, or ask questions. She’s already moved on from our exchange this
morning. I love her for that. “Text me the details of where you’re going before
you leave the loft. I’ll take care of it.”

“Fionnella?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.

She exhales
softly. “You’re welcome.”

I spend the rest
of the afternoon lazing about. I watch TV, play a little music. And try not to
be craptastically nervous about what is essentially my first ever date.

When the stylist arrives
at six, I’m already showered. She checks out the smoky grey halter neck dress
and black
Blahniks
I’ve laid out and
applies matching make up. My green eyes look huge and mysterious when she’s
finished, and my hair is blow-dried and styled in layered waves down my back.

The confidence
boost of looking good helps with the nerves as I wait, cute clutch in hand, for
Quinn to arrive.

The security
buzzer goes five minutes early.

My lack of dating
etiquette bites hard. Should I go down? Should he come up? I press the intercom
to release the door and watch him enter.

I pick up my
fur-lined black leather jacket and open the front door.

Quinn enters the
hallway, sees me and freezes to a halt. I have very little idea how much I’ve
missed seeing him until that moment. He’s dressed head to toe in custom-made
black with his shirt open at the throat. His dark hair gleams under the hallway
light, and broad shoulders fill my vision. When those almost inhuman silver
blue eyes meet mine, everything inside me clenches tight.

“Elly.” His
voice, like sandpaper on velvet, sets me alight.

“Hi.”

He stares at me
for an age, drinks me in, returns for seconds, thirds. Then, still standing in
the hallway, a good dozen feet from me, he holds out one hand.

For some reason
I’m terrified to step over my threshold.

“You don’t want
to come in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you look
like that.” His gaze devours me from head to toe. Then he beckons me with his
hand. “We need to leave, Elly. Now.”

I nod, retain
enough brain matter to enter the alarm code before I shut the door behind me.
He’s still holding out his hand. When I reach him, I take it.

His sharp puff of
breath echoes my silent gasp. Touching him is like touching an electric
current. There’s no other description. He feels it too, and he stares down at
me for another minute.

“How exactly do I
look?” I ask to fill the tight silence.

“You look…” he stops.
Then turns and leads me down the hall.

I laugh
nervously. “Are you going to finish that sentence?”

He glances back
at me as we exit the building. “Whatever you’ve been doing since I last saw you
agrees with you. I thought you were beautiful before. Now you’re…perfect.”

My blush stains
my cheeks. He sees it and the corner of his mouth twitches. “If you blush at
that, then I’m glad I didn’t tell you what I
really
thought.”

“Try me,” I
return with a daring I find from somewhere. I don’t want him to try me. Not
really. Time played tricks and lessened the magnitude of Quinn’s dominating
presence in my mind. Seeing him again, I’m reminded that I’m dealing with a man
whose power and glory seeps from his pores, explodes through the air with every
breath.

His hand tightens
almost painfully around mine as we round the corner to where a low slung sports
car is parked on the street. He reaches for the passenger door handle, but he
stops at the last minute and turns to me, still holding my hand.

Again he stares
down at me for a long time, before his free hand lifts to my face. He brushes a
finger down my cheek. “I’m tempted, Elly. So very tempted to try you. But maybe
later.”

He opens the
door, and I slide into the buttery soft seat. Heart jumping, I watch his long,
sexy stride as he comes round to take the wheel.

He doesn’t look
at me as he guns the engine and hits the road. Our conversation from last night
replays in my head and I swallow. I don’t want to be mind-fucked again by
asking him how he’s feeling. But the silence is eating away at me. I watch his
finger tap on the steering wheel and something twinges through my brain. Before
it forms properly, I remember I need to text Fionnella.

“Where are you
taking me?”

Piercing eyes
slice into me. “Why, do you regret this date already?”

“Is that what
this is? A date? Only I thought that involved talking.”

“Aren’t we
talking? Aren’t we already saying the things that need to be said?”

“I don’t know,
Quinn. I’m not as fluent as you in cryptic-speak.”

“You understand
me, Elly. More than you want to admit.”

I grimace. “Can
we at least pretend I don’t, and speak like normal human beings? And about
where you’re taking me, I need an answer.”

He speeds through
an amber light, then rattles out an address. I catch some of it and quickly
text Fionnella. She responds seconds later with a ‘got it’.

“Refresh my
memory. Normal speak is where we ask each other about our backgrounds, try
desperately to find what we have in common. Do you really want to waste time
doing that?”

“Yes. I need…a
little normal.” When the words fall from my lips I realize how true they are.
My life the past several weeks has been a mixture of fear induced flight,
followed by almost mind-bending surrealism. Even Miguel and Sully seem like
hallucinations I dreamt up.

“Fine. You first.
Tell me your last name.”

Shit. I walked
into that one. I toy with withholding it for a few seconds, then blurt out,
“Gilbert.”

He looks over at
me, and the gleam in his eyes spikes the hairs on my nape. “Elly Gilbert.”

“Elyse. My first
name is Elyse.”

Eyes on the road,
he slowly reaches out with his right hand and captures mine. He brings it to
his mouth, and kisses the back of it. “Elyse Gilbert.” He tests my name on his
tongue, his voice sexily coarse. “A pleasure to meet you.”

I shiver at the
darkness in his tone as he says that. All around us, civilization pulses
through the heart of the most vibrant city in the world. Inside the powerful
car, I’m caught in something savagely primitive. And I don’t know if I want to
escape.

“Your turn. I
know the top layer stuff, so don’t give me those.”

“Are you sure
you’re ready for me to go deep?” he asks, eyes still on the road, my hand
inches from his mouth.

I clear my
throat. “Maybe it’s better if I ask the questions?”

A tic appears in
his temple, but he nods. “Shoot.”

“Where did you
grow up?”

“All over.
Summers in the south, winters abroad. But mainly New York.”

“Were you born
here?”

“No. I was born
in my mother’s ancestral home on Kiawah Island.”

I make a face. “Don’t
know where that is. I’m not great with geography. But it sounds exotic.”

He lowers my hand
to his thigh, but keeps his hand on it. “It sounds more exotic than it is.”

“Are
your—?” I stop and laugh. “You know I don’t even know how old you are?”

He glances
sharply at me. “Does it matter?”

I shrug. “Not
really. I can roughly guess your age, but I was just about to ask you about
your parents and it occurred to me I didn’t know how old you are. Not that I
naturally assume your parents are—” My words dry up when a viciously
arctic look crosses his face. Beneath my hand, his thigh bunches in rigid
reaction. I’ve stepped on a huge, throbbing nerve. “I’m sorry, we can skip the
family history if you prefer.”

He remains silent
for a few blocks. I can tell he’s reeling himself back from wherever he’s at.
“My mother died when I was fifteen.” The answer is completely devoid of
emotion. “My father…” he glances at me. “You don’t know who my father is?”

I shake my head.

He pulls the car
to a stop in front of a building in Gramercy Park. Black and gold double doors
front the restaurant and the sign etched in gold on the wide black awning reads
Juniere’s
.

A valet jogs over
to the car, but Quinn’s focus stays on me. “My father is Maxwell Blackwood.”

I stare back
blankly. “Sorry, no clue who he is, although I think I may have seen his
picture on a magazine that first day I served you.”

Another gleam
weaves through his eyes, but it doesn’t stay for very long. “Maxwell Blackwood
is the incumbent governor of New York.”

My eyes widen and
my mouth drops open. I try to adjust both quickly before I make a complete
idiot of myself. “I. Wow. You must be proud.” The second the words leave my
lips, I want to take them back. My clanging instincts scream
no
, he’s
not proud. Far, far from it. “Or not?”