Hot Cop Boxed Set

by Paige, Laurelin

  “You’re not very good at swimming,” she points out as I make my way closer.

  “Never liked it much,” I say, swimming past her and moving to where my feet can touch. With a sigh of relief, I set my feet down, examine the scotch bottle to make sure no pool water leaked in, and then take a long drink. I’m on my way to being drunk, but I’m intent on sealing the deal. What can I say? I’m a finisher.

  Devi drifts up next to me, holding something in her hand. It takes me a minute to realize that it’s my phone, the entire reason we spontaneously jumped into the pool in the first place. And somehow, miraculously, the pricey case the Apple Store girl talked me into buying has saved the phone. The screen still glows with my unwritten text message.

  Somehow, between the pool and the scotch and Devi Dare with no pants on, I’ve lost the urge to talk to Raven. I take the phone and toss it carelessly onto the concrete and then turn back to Devi.

  “You, on the other hand, seem like quite the swimmer,” I say with a smile, offering her the scotch. She takes it and raises the bottle to her lips.

  “I was raised in California, you know,” she says and then takes a drink.

  “Well, so was I. But my parents are Boston transplants, so I guess they never saw swimming as a priority for me.”

  She hands the bottle back to me. “I think I had floaties before I had a bicycle. My parents are very, uh…” She searches for the right words. “Natural people. They think it’s important to be periodically cleansed of negative energy, and flowing water is one of the best ways to do that. So we went swimming at least once a week.”

  I can see the faintest blush coloring the apples of her cheeks, as if she’s embarrassed by what her parents believe. And then I wonder if she’s embarrassed because she believes it a little too.

  God, that blush is so sexy. I want to lick it right off her face. And then pin her down and lick her everywhere.

  She tilts her head to the sky. “You can see Cassiopeia tonight.”

  I look up, following her gaze, but I see nothing other than the golden glow hovering above the city and a smattering of faint, twinkling stars. “Is Cassiopeia a constellation?” I venture.

  She laughs and nods, and then she reaches over and takes my head in her hands. My pulse thrums, that warmth in my chest explodes into flames, and I want her to kiss me kiss me kiss me, but before I can turn my head to her, she trains my face to the sky, facing the right direction this time.

  “Do you see it?” she asks. Her mouth is close to my neck, and I wonder what it would feel like if she bit me there. “It looks like a letter M.” She traces the shape of it with her fingers, until finally I see it—an underwhelming handful of tired stars.

  “You can’t see it this far into the city sometimes,” she continues.

  “Cassiopeia sounds like a porn name,” I say frankly and she laughs again.

  “Ptolemy named it.”

  I give her a blank look. I got pretty good grades in school, but it’s been more than ten years since graduation, and anything not intimately related to film or the kind of math I need to run my business has been filtered out of my brain.

  “Ptolemy was a Greek astronomer,” she explains, giving me an amused glance. “He named it after a famous queen in Greek mythology. She was so beautiful and vain and boastful that she brought the wrath of Poseidon down on her kingdom.”

  Beautiful, vain, boastful. My mind swerves back to Raven, possibly still in this very house, possibly still being screwed with that evil smile on her face. Where is Poseidon when you need him?

  No.

  No, I won’t let Raven crowd into my happy, drunk moment with Devi and the scotch. I speak as much to drive away thoughts of my ex as to comment on Devi’s astronomy knowledge. “You know a lot about this shit,” I tell her, turning my eyes back to her face completely.

  And now she really blushes. “I really like astronomy. Stars and galaxies and stuff. It makes life feel so...big...you know?”

  The thing is, I do know. That big feeling, I mean. I get it every time I watch an amazing film, every time I imagine my own films with just the right setting and just the right cinematography and just the right score.

  “I’ve never met a performer who’s told me anything like that,” I say. And it’s true. Not once have I been around another adult film star and had them confess a purely impractical fascination. A call toward something that makes them feel like life is magical.

  She blinks, and the way her long, thick eyelashes brush against her wet cheeks is arresting. “Really?”

  “Really. Devi Dare, I do believe you are my first.”

  “I don’t think any guy has ever said that to me before,” she teases, as I take a step closer to her. I’m not sure why I do it; we’re already so close. But the water is so pretty and clear, and the world is so soft from the scotch, and all I want on this earth right now is to count the water drops on her eyelashes.

  Devi moves a little and her shirt pulls almost completely open, exposing those sweet breasts and even sweeter nipples. I’m suddenly very grateful for the pool, which hides my aching erection. It does not, however, hide the way I’m now staring at her tits, nor the way I bite my lip to keep from leaning forward and sucking one perfect tip into my mouth.

  Her lips part, and she doesn’t bother pulling her shirt closed. We are so close now, and I feel her bare toes brush against the front of my shoes. Her eyes are pure amber, liquid gold and warm, and they search mine now. Something has shifted with my step closer, and I feel like I’m going to combust, a pillar of flame in the middle of this sparkling pool.

  I want to kiss her.

  I want it like I’ve wanted nothing else in my life.

  See, here’s the problem. I know how soft and wet her tongue is, how warm and plush her lips feel, and I can recall every breathy pant she gave me when we kissed on set all those years ago. I know precisely how delicious and rewarding kissing her will be. And now her face is tilted completely towards mine, and her expression is open and inviting, and her hands slide up my chest, fisting in my soaking wet T-shirt. I let the corked, mostly empty scotch bottle bob away from us in the water.

  “Logan,” she whispers, eyes still searching, fingers clenched tight in my shirt.

  Kiss her, you asshole! What are you waiting for?

  But everything is smashed together inside of me—my anger at Raven, my determination to move on, my desire for Devi, Vida’s offer—all of it is tangled and twisting, and I can’t get my thoughts straight, I can’t peel apart where my urge for revenge against Raven ends and my need to kiss Devi begins. Business is mixing with pleasure, pleasure is mingling with pain, and for just an instant, I wish Raven were right here, right now. I wish she were watching us. I wish she could see Devi and me and feel even a tithe of the jealousy and rage I felt when I found her. And God, I want to see her fucking face when she sees us…

  I’m such a dickhead. How can I kiss this girl that I’ve liked for years, this girl I’ve idolized and fantasized about, how can I touch her with even a hint of Raven in my mind? More so, do I really want Raven to taint something I have wanted for so long? Give her ownership of the first off-screen kiss Devi and I will ever share?

  No. When—or if, I think glumly—I kiss Devi, it will be without the ghost of Raven’s betrayal hovering over us. And besides, if I kiss Devi now, everything will change. We might fool around or we might fuck, and then this won’t be the night I stood in a pool and she showed me the stars, it will be the night that we did what everyone else does at these parties. It will be the night we turned the chemistry between us into something merely physical, and even the thought of that transformation is enough to wound me.

  I want this to be our star night. And maybe, if I’m lucky and if I can get a fucking handle on myself, there will be a kissing night later.

  Soon, my dick demands.

  “Logan?” Devi repeats, and it’s more naked now, pleading almost, and I reach up and cradle her elbows in my hands. I don�
�t want to tell her about the Raven stuff—I don’t want her to feel used or that I’ve been mentally comparing her all night. And I can’t articulate my fear about kissing without revealing my giant, epic crush on her and sounding like a creepy stalker.

  So I say, “I think I should go now.”

  Her forehead wrinkles adorably. “You should?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, pulling away and making for the edge of the pool. The loss of her skin, of those wide gold-brown eyes, makes me feel emptier than anything else that’s happened tonight, and I almost turn back and do it. I almost turn and grab her and slant my mouth over hers and let all of the dark, tangled shit in my heart go.

  But I don’t.

  I rescue the scotch from the water and hoist myself out of the pool, and then I turn and offer my hand to her, which she ignores, the lithe muscles in her arms easily working to pull her body onto the concrete. Her cheeks are red again, and she won’t meet my eyes, and then when I say, “Devi…” not knowing what I mean or what I want or how to explain anything, she shakes her head. But I blunder on. “I—can I have your number?”

  Fuck. Now, where did that come from?

  She hesitates, still not meeting my eyes. After a moment, she bends down and grabs my phone from the side of the pool, and sends a blank text message to herself.

  “There,” she says, and there’s so much in her voice that claws at my conscience; I hear her pride and thwarted lust and confusion. But how can I explain it all to her when I can’t even explain it to myself?

  God, I’m such a fucking mess.

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly, and she gives me a curt nod, again without looking at me.

  “Goodnight, Logan,” she says and scoops up her shoes and shorts. Without bothering to tug them back on, she walks wet-footed and visibly upset into the house.

  Shit.

  Five

  I wake up with longing on my lips and an ache between my legs, both aftereffects from Vida’s party. With a hand thrown over my eyes, I press my thighs together and try to fall back into slumber, but the burn of desire is far too great.

  Resigned and aroused, I roll over and grab my laptop from the side of my bed. I open it and within a couple of minutes I have it pulled up—Raven’s Real Playmates, Episode #203. I hit play on the bookmarked scene and set the computer at the bottom of the bed, facing me. Then I push down my panties, lay back, prop my head up with pillows, and part my knees so I can see the screen while I relive the shoot—my favorite fantasy, my go-to masturbation material, guaranteed to deliver at least one self-administered “O.”

  The scene jolts into motion, picking up after the initial foreplay, after the characters have already kissed and sucked and fondled. Authoritative and controlling, Raven is directing the action, narrating what she wants to see happen, and what she wants to see next is the second woman—me—go down on the guy. Onscreen Devi is already naked, and though I’ve watched this a million times, I’m transfixed as she kneels before Logan O’Toole, unfastens his jeans, and tugs his briefs down far enough to unleash his dick. I hadn’t done other shoots with men, but I’d been on enough sets to know what to expect. I hadn’t expected him to already be hard. I’d expected he’d need a fluffer or that I’d need to prime him for a bit, either on camera or off.

  But he’d been hard. Fully erect, his cock thick and heavy while it throbbed in my hands. I distinctly remember it—the weight of him in my palm—as I watch my onscreen self wrap her hands around his dick, lick up the length of him, and kiss the tip. She peers up at him, her wide brown eyes seeking approval.

  The look Logan delivers in return makes me wet. Every Single Damn Time. It’s a look that suggests he’s on the edge, even this early in the scene, even before her lips part, and she slides them over his head and down the length of his cock.

  If I were playing this from memory, I’d have chosen a section later in the scene to relive. When Logan lapped at my clit, most likely, his fingers buried deep in my pussy while Raven jacked him off.

  But I don’t need to watch that scene to remember how it felt and pretty much anytime I close my eyes and touch myself, I’m recalling the way he fucked me with his fingers and tongue.

  So this is the part I like to view again and again instead. I get crazy hot watching how turned on I made him that day, watching him buck against my jaw, his hands threaded in my hair, pulling and tugging while he used my mouth for his pleasure.

  I made him react like that. Me.

  Now, I watch the screen, my finger circling feather lightly over my clit. Any more pressure, I’ll explode, and I want to drag it out. I want to wait until he shoves his cock deep into the mouth of the onscreen Devi, so deep that she can barely breathe and her eyes start to water from the effort. So deep that his tip tickles against her tonsils—I can recall the sensation vividly—causing her throat to tighten around him. When she looks up at him this time, she means it to be a cue for him to relax his grip. But before he does, her eyes lock on his and for a handful of seconds, she’s caught there, so blown away by the ecstasy marked on his features that she nearly comes herself without any manual stimulation.

  This is the moment I was waiting for, and I press harder on my clit, sliding the fingers of my other hand up inside me. I hook them so they’ll brush across the highly sensitive inner walls of my pussy.

  Then I’m there. I’m everywhere, detonating in a massive blast of pleasure and release that causes me to curl inward and sends tremors down my spine. It’s amazing, and the amazing lingers as I fall back on to the bed, limp and relaxed.

  I let out a sated sigh.

  Followed by a frustrated groan as I remember seeing Logan at Vida’s party the night before. How adorable he’d been with his wet clothing clinging to his tight body. How searing his gaze had been on my skin. How he’d flirted and bantered.

  How I’d gone home alone.

  Damn, Logan O’Toole and his super hot hotness.

  I’d truly convinced myself that I’d built the memory of him up in my head, that he couldn’t possibly be as alluring and charming and sexy as I’d remembered.

  I was wrong. He was all of that and more. So Much More.

  We’d clicked too. Last night had been the first time we’d really had a conversation, and I know I’m not imagining the spark between us. A spark that went beyond physical attraction. He’d listened when I’d talked. He’d looked at my eyes and my lips instead of my breasts and ass. Well, instead of just my breasts and ass. There’d even been a moment—a couple of moments, actually—where I’d thought he might kiss me. I’d tilted my chin up, I’d opened my mouth, I’d run my tongue along my lips—had he really not gotten the hint?

  Considering what Logan does for a living, it’s impossible to think he’d missed my cues.

  Which means he’s obviously not interested.

  I let out another sigh, lamenting, and sit up to shut the laptop. But, if he wasn’t interested, I think, then why did he ask for my number?

  That has to mean he wants to hear from me. Doesn’t it?

  With a burst of optimism, I reach for my phone and start to compose a text. It takes only a handful of seconds before I realize that: A. I have no idea what to say; and, B. I’d be too chicken to say it even if I did. I mean, he’s Logan O’Toole. He’s a star. He can get whomever he wants, whenever he wants. He doesn’t need random ex-coworkers falling all over him, and he certainly doesn’t need me texting him in a post-orgasm haze.

  Anyway, he probably only asked for my number because he was being polite. Or because I’m a good resource to have when trying to round out a cast with ethnically diverse women, something I know Logan is conscious about in his work. And I needn’t be so bummed about it because: A. I believe in ethnic diversity in porn; and, B. the whole reason I went to the party in the first place was to get a job.

  Actually, I should be proud of how the whole evening went. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone and talked to a couple of producers, one of whom promised to reach out with a proj
ect soon.

  So when the phone, still clutched in my hand, buzzes with an incoming text, I swipe the screen, confident that the message is from a prospective boss, ignoring the flutter of hope that it’s from Logan.

  I’m sure you know that in Persia, Cassiopeia rides a two-humped camel. And I didn’t tell you this just so I could say “hump” in my first message to you.

  Before I have a chance to respond, a second text comes through.

  Okay, maybe that’s exactly why I told you that.

  I’m still giggling when the third comes through.

  Also, aren’t you proud that I spelled Cassiopeia correctly even though I obviously used spell check?

  God, he’s adorable.

  And Oh My God he’s texting me!

  I hop out of bed, suddenly filled with nervous energy that’s driving me to pace the room. Logan O’Toole, the guy who I dream about, the guy who wouldn’t lean down and kiss me even though he’d gone down on me on-camera three years before is texting me.

  I don’t know what to think. Or feel.

  Is he interested after all? His tone seems flirty, but maybe I’m misreading. He’s always a bit flirty. It’s part of his job.

  But he remembered Cassiopeia.

  I made enough of an impression for him to still be thinking about it the next day. Enough for him to research it and then send a message about it. That has to mean something. What, I don’t know.

  What I do know is that now I have to think of a response, and I have zero clue what it should be.

  What to say, what to say?

  I pace and compose several responses in my head before attempting to type out a reply, and even with the mental prep, I’m anxious when I respond: You said “hump.” I add a blushing emoticon because it feels appropriate.