I return the favor and move to her neck, biting and sucking until she’s grinding on my cock so hard that I know I’ll have friction burns later, although I would pay that price and so much more to have her pinned up against a door again. She’s saying my name over and over, Logan, Logan, Logan, and for the briefest second, I wish she knew my real name (and then I’m glad she doesn’t because it’s a stupid, terrible name.)
I find her mouth again, and I take my time with this kiss, etching every detail and sensation into my memory. The softness of her lips, the wet satin of her tongue, the way she gasps for air when we part. Her fingers in my hair and her heels digging into my back, and everywhere, all around me, is her cinnamon smell and the feeling of her hair brushing my skin. I’ve fucked hundreds of women, literally hundreds, and never, ever have I shared a kiss like this, never have I felt like a woman was pulling my soul out of my body through my mouth, like a woman could know my entire mind just by pressing her lips to mine.
But that’s what I feel now, like Devi has magnetized something inside of me, and now every atom in my body is pulling itself to her, an ionized attraction that can’t be fought, can’t be helped, can only be witnessed.
And so I witness myself right now, my hand palming one perfect breast, my shirt rucked up to my chest while her fingertips run eager, desperate trails up my abs. And that’s when I realize that she’s just as caught up as I am in this. That’s when I realize that she’s as hungry, as needy, as turned on, and the thought drags the caveman out from hiding. I rock my hips against her again and her thighs tighten and she cries out, her eyes fluttering shut.
I could make her come like this. Hell, I could come like this, like a teenage boy, rutting into her fully clothed, grunting and panting. And I’m so far gone that I almost give in, my balls throbbing for release, my mind aching to see her face when she comes.
I don’t know where I summon the control to stop, to gently lower her to her feet and to plant one last, lingering kiss on her mouth, but I know it comes first and foremost from my reluctance to use her, to push her. This kiss was already so outside the bounds of what’s okay, professionally and emotionally, and even though I finally feel like I can touch her without Raven’s vengeful ghost haunting my thoughts, I don’t want to go from zero to sixty in one night. That’s the problem with my job sometimes. I’m so used to quotidian, workaday sex that I’ve forgotten how to take it slow. Yes, in a scene I may take my time...for a couple of hours. But I haven’t taken days or weeks to build up to sex since—well, since high school.
I want to make sure Devi is comfortable with this—with us—before we go any further. And I want to make sure that, if she is okay with it, I make every second of this thing as mind-blowing and delicious as possible.
We slowly pull apart and her eyes gradually open, though they’re still half-hooded with arousal and unsatisfied need.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathes. “You really know how to kiss a girl.”
I try not to preen, but I do a little. “I know,” I say, flashing her a grin.
“I mean it. I could die now and be happy. Here Lies Devi Dare, Murdered by a Kiss.”
I honestly think I could die right now too and be just as happy, and I tell her that. And then I add, “But mine would say: Here Lies Logan O’Toole, and then there’d be like seven eggplant emojis underneath it.”
She laughs, a floating, happy sound that does nothing to help the squeezing in my chest or the ache in my groin. I am so wrecked by this girl, which means I’m so very thoroughly fucked right now.
Totally fucked.
I lean forward and brace my hands against her door, one hand on either side of her head so that she’s trapped without me even touching her, and then I bring my face down to hers and give her the smallest, lightest kiss possible—just a brush of lips really.
She shivers, her breathing quickening.
“I’ll see you soon,” I murmur against her lips. “I promise.”
“Okay,” she murmurs back, and I straighten, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as I do. “Goodnight, Logan.”
“Goodnight, Devi.”
And even though it’s physically painful to do it, I turn away and leave her on her front porch. It’s only when I get back into the Shelby and start the car that I notice the camera’s record light still flashing, and also realize that it was aimed at the rear window, which would have given it a direct view of Devi’s porch.
I pick up the camera and rewind through the footage, a huge smile splitting my face as I realize that the entire moment—the first chaste kiss and then me chasing after her—were perfectly captured on camera. A little distant maybe, a little out-of-focus through the window, but it just adds to the reality of the moment, cinema verité style.
The smile doesn’t leave my face the entire drive home. I kissed a girl I really like and I filmed an awesome scene. What could be better than that?
Nine
I can still feel the power of that kiss the next day. And the next night too.
The day after that, I swear my lips are still swollen, and my legs feel like they’re going to give out every time I think about Logan’s mouth invading mine while his body pressed against me with such obvious, raw desire. I would have invited him up—hell, I would have let him fuck me against my door—and I almost did.
But. The show.
There’s a contract, and while it doesn’t say anything that would prohibit fucking against my door after filming the first episode, there are stipulations that suggest that it wouldn’t be in the best interest of the project. And this project is so important to Logan. He spent several days hammering out the details via my agent, and I’m happy with the resulting arrangement. There will be seven episodes in total, each roughly forty to sixty minutes in length, and progressing in sexual and romantic activity. The story of a young L.A. couple will be unscripted and improvised, but the director/screenwriter/cameraman (aka Logan) will explain briefly where and how far he’d like each scene to go at the beginning of each shoot. And if I have any objections, I am to bring them up then.
The series, which is to be filmed in its entirety before airing on Vida Gine’s website, will eventually earn the label of hardcore porn—unless the scenes don’t naturally reach that. And they will, if Logan or I have anything to say about it. There will be little to no kink or fetish, and all sexual activity is to be exclusively between the two of us. The usual safety clauses were written in to protect both of us (but mostly me—women in the industry are generally the victims of nonconsensual assault), and we each submitted and approved each other’s limit lists. Mine detailed the fluids I considered acceptable, his specified no tickling, particularly of his feet. Apparently when tickled, Logan O’Toole cries.
When I read that last bit of information, I immediately had to text him. I never fantasized about tickling you. And now it’s all I can think about.
His response had been, At least you’re thinking about me.
Was I ever not?
So, with the flirting and the texting, and the way he looked at me throughout our date with hungry eyes, I was already pretty certain he wanted me. Even when he’d almost let me walk away, I’d known it was only himself getting in the way.
And then that kiss…
Damn, that kiss. It was unreal because it was so real. It wasn’t acting or performing. It wasn’t a show of any sort, even though the rest of the night had been all about the series, all about the camera. Our dynamics and dialogue at the park dictated by that little red light. But then I’d gotten out of the car and left, and he chased after me without the camera in his hand. The scene was over, but he’d wanted my lips just as much as I’d wanted his, and so he’d left the camera behind and claimed me for his own. Not for Vida or Lelie or for art, but for Logan.
Fuck, it makes me wet just thinking about it.
Maybe I could have asked him to stay. Maybe it wouldn’t have hindered the show’s storyline. We could have spent the night together off-
screen, and then simply pretended it hadn’t happened when we filmed the next episode. After all, that’s what would have to happen with this kiss; since it wasn’t filmed, we would need to film a fake first kiss for the project still.
But despite the hiccup of this first kiss, which would need to be repeated, we’d agreed the show would be best if we let the relationship progress in front of the audience. And I’m head over heels with the concept. I’m head over heels with Logan’s desire to create something authentic.
I am even, possibly—probably—a little head over heels with Logan himself. Or a lot.
Which is why I let him say goodnight. I let him walk away. I let him leave me with the promise that we’d see each other again soon, and I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.
So when he sends over a rough edit of the footage two days after he left me on my doorstep, I don’t need to see it to remember how amazing he is and how incredible our date was, but I rush to play it all the same.
And wow. It’s fantastic. More than fantastic—it’s breathtaking. It’s art.
Too eager to wait until I’m at my computer to watch it, I stare transfixed at the screen of my iPhone and swoon all over again. It’s good. So, so good. I know I’m biased because I personally experienced what he’s captured, but it’s more than that. The angles he chose to shoot from, the way he cut the footage together—it’s beautiful and captivating and different than anything I’ve seen both in and out of the industry. I’d known it was going to be good, but I’m surprised by how good.
I’m also surprised how well he captured the sexual tension between us. It’s so thick it’s palpable, and I’m certain that if I were a stranger watching these two people on the screen, I’d be dying for them to bang. Just like I’m dying for us to bang. I’m dying for it so bad I’m in agony.
But I’m excited too—about how good the footage has turned out, about being a part of this incredible and innovative art, about what’s happening between Logan and me on a personal level. So excited that my cheeks hurt from grinning by the time I reach the part of the video where I get out of the car.
The part that’s supposed to be the end.
But it doesn’t end there. It goes on, and soon I’m watching Logan run after me—not once, but twice—and then he’s ravishing me on my doorstep in what I’m certain has to be the hottest kiss ever captured by a camera.
My heart sinks with disappointment—not with the speed of a comet or a falling star, but with the slow descent of a hot air balloon. It takes me a minute to process that the most utterly thrilling moment of my life so far has been tainted by its preservation. Because now I’m uncertain whether he ran after me for me, or for this.
I slump onto a dining room chair. He couldn’t have faked that kiss. It’s impossible. Isn’t it? He was definitely aroused—I know that for a fact. His cock was a steel rod through his clothes.
But this is his job. He knows how to deliver a kiss. He has his dick trained to respond, too.
And what does it matter if it wasn’t real? It looked real. That’s what’s important. Nothing else.
Logan must have assumed I’d watch the clip as soon as he sent it over, and he must have kept an eye on the clock, because not two minutes after I’ve finished, he’s texting me. Well????
I haven’t quite pulled myself together, and all I can think is to answer honestly. I hadn’t realized you’d filmed the kiss.
I’d left the camera running in the car. It could have turned out like shit recording through the window, but doesn’t it fucking rock?
He’s happy with the outcome—and he should be. It’s good! I’d just forgotten for a moment that this isn’t a relationship; it’s a show. Anything else I thought it might be was just a misunderstanding on my part.
I text him what I should have said to begin with. It’s incredible, Logan. All of it. You’re so talented. Even I was convinced by the storyline.
Then I pull up Halsey on Spotify, turn my speakers on so the music will play via Bluetooth, and flip my phone upside down so the screen is facing the table and I can’t see it light up with calls or texts. It’s possible Logan will want more feedback or will want to chat, but he’ll have to wait. There’s laundry to put away and dishes to be done and a whole slew of “real” things that need my attention.
* * *
Tonight, let’s try to aim for oral.
I reread the text several times as I get ready for my next date with Logan. My stomach flutters like I’m in an airplane that’s taking off, and I have goosebumps in anticipation. I probably shouldn’t be this excited, but I’ve been looking forward to giving Logan head again since, well, since the last time I gave him head. Despite my disappointment over the last date’s footage, I’m psyched.
As I step out of the shower and towel off my hair, though, a voice inside asks, Are you sure getting excited is a good idea?
I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection. “There’s nothing wrong with looking forward to going to work,” I tell myself. Especially when work is sex. “You just have to manage your expectations.”
Tonight, I expect that everything will be filmed, everything that happens will be for the show, and as long as I remember that, it’s going to be fun.
Satisfied with my pep talk, I use the night’s agenda to plan my wardrobe. Since it’s too hot for pants, I choose a short black skater skirt to wear paired with a loose blouse with spaghetti straps and a low neckline. My cleavage will look awesome when Logan looks down at me bowed before him. My knees are likely going to get scuffed or else my thighs are going to strain from squatting, but that’s fine—it’s part of the job.
It’s not until I start applying my makeup, and realize I’ve been grinning for almost an hour, that I start to reevaluate my anticipation. The thing is, it’s not just the sex I’m looking forward to. And it’s not just the job. It’s Logan—I’m looking forward to seeing him. I’m looking forward to seeing him a lot.
And maybe that’s a problem after all.
“This is fine,” I tell the Devi in the mirror. “It’s probably completely normal to have a crush on the first guy you had sex with on camera.” The only guy. And perhaps that’s the problem—I need more het porn experience.
Logan’s project paid me a decent advance, but it’s a good idea to have something else lined up.
So when my agent happens to call a few minutes later with details about a lesbian shoot I have, I tell her I’m ready to book more. I’m ready to take the next step and commit to a hetero scene with Hagen. “Can you please make sure he’s aware of all my limits and restrictions?”
“Do you want me to give him the same guidelines you gave Logan?”
The honest answer is no. I want things with him that I want with no one. Which is why I tell her, “Yes.” Because I need to treat Logan’s job like any other, and that means treating every other job just like it’s a scene with Logan.
* * *
Logan already has the camera on when I open his car door twenty minutes later. It’s propped on his dashboard, and the minute I slide in, he slips his hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him. His kiss is fire and salt, and I’m dizzy when he eases up.
“Hello,” he says, his mouth still against mine. “I think I’ll be needing to do that a lot tonight.”
It’s for the show, but I melt. “Say hello?”
He grins and nods and then presses his lips around my lower one.
“Hello,” I say, breathless when we part again, and I suddenly don’t care if it is just for the camera because it has the same effect on me either way. And damn, the effect is amazing.
“I brought a picnic again.” He sounds apologetic. “It’s just so hard to obtain permits for most public places. Especially when I don’t have any intention of behaving.”
“Sounds good to me.” He’s the only thing I’m interested in putting in my mouth anyway.
He pulls out into traffic and then reaches over to lace his fingers in mine. “
The picnic? Or not behaving?”
I shrug and smile coyly, partly for the camera, but mostly because I’m afraid if I speak, the only thing I’ll want to say is hello a few more times, or a thousand.
Logan doesn’t tell me where we’re going, but he drives north and east, and two hours later we’re pulling off Templin Highway outside Angeles National Forest onto a wide gravel shoulder.
“Good. We’re alone.” He gives me a quick peck before turning off the engine and gesturing for me to get out of the car.
Logan sets up our picnic on the hood of his car, and even with his handheld a distinct presence, our meal of sushi and tsukemono paired with plum wine is absolute perfection. Between popping California rolls in our mouths, we kiss and make-out like any two normal people who are attracted to each other and are newly going out.
Is that what we are—normal people? When I’m with him like this, and he’s touching me, and my blood is boiling in my veins, I actually believe we might be.
When the sun has set and we’ve finished both dinner and the bottle of wine, I realize why he’s brought me to this spot. “The stars,” I gasp. “They’re so clear here.”
“Impressed? Hint—you should say yes.”
My smile is so wide, I’m sure I look like a dork. “Yes.” I lose myself in the sky above me, searching out the patterns I know best, identifying their pinpoints silently in my head. Polaris, Orion, Rigel, Betelgeuse, Antares…
“Stay here.” Logan slides off the hood and disappears behind the car. I hear the trunk pop and a minute later he returns with a tripod. After extending the legs, he sets it on the ground, facing toward the hood of the car, and I swear my temperature rises a whole degree in anticipation of what he’s planning to film next.
I sit up, propping myself on my elbows, and watch him.
He can feel my gaze. I’m sure of it. But he doesn’t react to it, and as he begins to fasten the camera to the tripod, he glances behind him at the horizon and nods. “What stars are those?”
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