I, Porn Star (I #1)

by Zara Cox

  His hand leaves my nipple, drags over my skin to capture the one between my legs. He stares at my glistening fingers for a second before he draws them into his mouth.

  Between one breath and the next, he’s licking my essence, groaning as his mouth pulls hungrily at my digits. His long legs part, and he draws me in between them. Before I can give in to the burgeoning wish to touch him, he circles my wrists, draws them behind my back and imprisons them with one hand.

  Disappointment blossoms through me, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. His mouth and tongue are working insane magic on my skin. Teeth nip the sensitive skin above my navel. Hot kisses, rough teeth, jagged breath. The smoky cedar scent of him. Everything about Q is a heady enough experience that I’m not left wanting for long. His wicked tongue licks up the slope of my breast and flicks incessantly over one nipple. When my knees start to buckle, he flicks the vibrator to a higher setting and grabs a hold of my hip.

  Then he keeps me there, trapped between his legs, trapped on the precipice of bliss as my body catches fire.

  My vision loses focus and I burn inside and out. My legs give out, but he’s there, propping me up with effortless strength, never for a second letting up on what he’s doing to me.

  “It’s too much, Q! Please…Oh God, I’m coming!” Did he give me blanket permission to come? I can’t remember. But I know I won’t be able to stop myself this time. “I’m coming!” I warn and plead again.

  He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t berate me. His guttural groan wraps hot around my nipple, and he pulls hard and relentlessly at my flesh.

  I surrender to the explosive force ripping up from my toes. White-hot convulsions rip through me, clenching deep in my pussy and around the plug in my ass. I’m vaguely aware I’m falling. I’m going to crash hard, but I don’t care. This feeling is too incredible to worry about where I land.

  I bump against something hard. His body. He grunts but doesn’t let go. The hand on my hip releases me and I hear a hurried fumbling. My vision is still shot to shit and I’m still caught under waves of pleasure. I gasp when the vibrator is tugged out of my pussy. He releases my wrists and tugs me forward to place my hands on the armchair on either side of his head. Rough hands lift me over his lap and his thick head breaches my core. Dark eyes stare up at me, absorb my every breath as he forces my hips down to receive him.

  Another scream rips through the room.

  The plug in my ass leaves very little room for him. I’m full. Crammed tighter than I’ve ever been, sending the pleasure pain dichotomy to optimum levels. My eyes water and I can’t breathe.

  My senses reel in silent, stunned wonder. Suddenly, I’m conflicted by how much I like being fucked by him. I’m a whore. I’m not supposed to enjoy this.

  But I love it. Oh God, how much to do I love what’s happening to me right now?

  Q, attuned to me with frighteningly sharp acuity, probes me deeper with his eyes.

  “Good?”

  “Yes!” My response ends in another scream as he withdraws and crams me full again.

  “More?” he demands with his electric voice.

  “Uh huh.”

  The grip on my hips tightens. I’m sure I’ll have a few bruises to show in the morning.

  He gives me more. And somewhere in between being fucked to death and pure ecstasy, I become aware that something is missing. Something vital, that pertains to my whole reason for being here.

  The whine of the cameras.

  We’re in near total darkness. He’s not filming this.

  So this is for him alone?

  The thought pleases me way more than it should. It makes me grip the chair tighter, clench my pussy and slam harder into him.

  “Motherfucker,” he growls. His voice is so thick it’s barely coherent.

  A smile curves my lips, almost of its own accord. I feel him shudder beneath me, and I grind into him, harder than before. The move resonates deep inside me, the thickness of him hitting me in a spot that makes color explode across my vision.

  “Pleased with yourself, are you, my little firecracker?” he drawls after another deep groan.

  The sound draws my gaze to his throat, then up to his lips. I want to kiss him. The need pounds me so bad my lips tingle. I lick my tongue across my mouth. “Hmm.” I lower my head, desperate for a taste.

  He draws back from me. The move is subtle, but definitive. It causes actual pain to resonate inside me.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I push the sensation away, close my eyes and concentrate on other pleasures.

  “You don’t want to see me anymore, Lucky?” he taunts. “You don’t like what you see?”

  On the contrary, I like it too much. I shake my head. “It’s not that.”

  “Open your eyes,” he commands. “You may not want to see me, but I want to see you.”

  There’s an odd timbre to his words. A thin layer of cruelty underpinned by…vulnerability. My eyes pop open. His stare is bold and carnal, his dark eyes at odds with his tone.

  “I want to see you,” I murmur. My gaze drops to his hard torso. “Touch you.”

  “Fuck me?”

  My head jerks up and down. “Yes.”

  His hands release my hips, fall to his sides. “Fuck me,” he commands. His eyes have taken on a different gleam. “Earn your money. Make me glad I picked you.”

  My breath catches at the savage cruelty behind his words. The pain that lances me is deeper, sharper. I don’t know why his words have this power over me, but tears sting my eyes. I blink them away, struggle to regain common sense.

  Because he’s right, after all. I’m here to fuck him for a million dollars. Just because the camera isn’t recording us doesn’t mean anything about this is different. I belong to him until I’ve earned my money.

  So I fuck him. Stroke his hard, thick length with increasing pumps until I’m bouncing in a frenzied, relentless rhythm. I don’t stop when lust and pain rip through me. I don’t stop when he bares gritted teeth like a shark ready to devour me.

  I don’t stop when he reaches around and tugs on the plug, drawing a tortured scream from me. Even when I start to come hard, harder than before…even when he shouts and digs his fingers into my hips once more and his cock ripples along my clenching channel, I don’t stop.

  Not until I’m wrung completely dry.

  Not until my vision churns through an ocean of color then flames out in a sea of glistening black.

  Then everything falls away.

  I wake up in a different room. Face down on a bed.

  The blindfold is back on my face and my ass is in the air, supported by pillows.

  The plug is still in place.

  The cameras are back.

  Q is hunched over me.

  My heart lurches.

  His fingers tug intermittently at the plug. Every few seconds, he licks my pussy, my taint, the puckered skin of my hole.

  I imagined I had nothing left to give. Unbelievably, I grow wet. When I moan, he pauses.

  “You’re awake.” His voice throbs with dark anticipation.

  I remember how our last session ended, and I fight the hurt that scrambles up towards my heart.

  He reminded me that I was a whore. Big deal. I’d fuck an army of Qs to save Petra.

  “Yes,” I reply, bleeding my voice dry of emotion.

  I sense a shift in the air. He’s displeased. Big fucking deal. I refuse to be an emotional mess for him to play with. He wants a whore, he’s getting one.

  “Are you going to fuck my ass, Q?” I purr. “I want you to so bad, baby.”

  The grip on my ass tightens. I choose not to heed the warning. I push back against his hand. “Take it, big man. You own it.”

  The hard smack comes out of the blue. The sound ricocheting around the room adds to the sting on my flaming ass. Behind the blindfold my eyes water. I bite my lip and turn my gasp into a moan. “Hmm…more. Your naughty little firecracker wants more.”

  He spanks me
again, harder than before. Twice on both cheeks. My ass hurts like a bitch. But the good thing is the hurt in my ass has overshadowed the foolish hurt in my heart.

  So I continue. I throw every filthy, evocative sexual cliché I can at him. The smacks keep coming. I get wetter. His exhalations grow darker with fury.

  “Yes, Big Daddy. Make me scream for it.”

  With a vicious growl, he pulls the plug from my ass. A dribble of warm oil lands on my stinging flesh, between my legs. His fingers caress lube into my hole.

  Then he’s there.

  One fist plants next to my head as he looms over me.

  His hot, whiskey and mint breath washes over my face. “Shut the fuck up. Now. Or this won’t go well for you,” he blazes in my ear, low enough that I know he doesn’t want the camera to pick up his words.

  “Why, Q? I thought you wanted a whore? Am I doing it wrong?” I whisper back.

  His breath hisses as he pushes against me. His control is on the edge.

  I’m dancing with fire. But I can’t seem to pull back. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll be your good little whore. It’s my true area of expertise.”

  He freezes for a flaming second. I’m forever grateful I don’t have my sight.

  When he pushes inside my ass, my scream is for the pleasure, the pain, and the colossal admission of what I am that I’ve just detonated at his feet.

  His low, long grunt is filled with fury, lust and a red-hot retribution. I barely have time to absorb the impact of his full, rough invasion before he’s coming back at me. The lube helps ease his way, but he’s huge. And he’s locked in his own all-consuming vortex, his strokes harder, his hips pumping mercilessly into me.

  “This what you want, Lucky?” I hear the dark relish in his voice. And my sphincter clenches shamelessly around him. “It is, isn’t it, you filthy little thing?”

  Oh God! Despite the blindfold, I squeeze my eyes tight, praying it will block out the greed and shame flaying me. My mouth drops open on breathless pants, my hips rising of their own accord to meet his terrible invasion.

  A series of epithets fly from his lips. “Jesus…Oh, fuck. Motherfucker!”

  My empty pussy creams shamelessly with each helpless curse. I raise myself onto my elbows and his masked face slips into the crook of my neck. Q fucks me deep and long and hard. He slows down long enough for me to slide into a screaming orgasm, then picks up the punishing pace.

  I lie beneath him and take every greedy second of it.

  Time ceases to matter. We’re caught in a cycle of wrath and cruelty and sex.

  He’s unleashed his darkness, and I’m the sex-hypnotized recipient of all of it. Even after he roars his climax, he keeps going, keeps flaying me.

  I probably pass out again. At some point my mind ceases to be my own. Like my body, my brain waves are absorbed by him…into him.

  When I collapse, he catches my head and turns it sideways so I don’t suffocate. But he doesn’t stop. He never stops. Not until my vision turns black again.

  The second time I wake up, I’m in my own bed in my wing of the mansion.

  Bright light filters through the gap in the curtains. I blink for a few dazed seconds, then raise the covers to glance down at myself.

  My hips, thighs and breasts are covered in dark pink bruises. My ass feels like it’s gone ten rounds with Godzilla, and I can barely lift my legs.

  But I’m filled with a deep sense of satisfaction. Almost as if…as if I’ve never been more sated in my life.

  I’m absorbing the disturbing revelation when Stephanie knocks and enters the room, carrying a breakfast tray. It’s heaped with all my favorites—bacon, eggs, waffles heaped with whipped cream and strawberries, and a bowl of diced fruit.

  She sets it down on my lap with a smile. “Did you sleep well? You were pretty out of it last night.”

  My face flames and I pretend to be absorbed in pouring a glass of orange juice. “Yeah,” I murmur.

  She crosses to the curtains and throws them open. Then returns to me.

  “The boss mentioned you might be a little stiff. Would you like a light massage when you’re done with breakfast?”

  My cheeks burn hotter, and I shake my head. “I’m okay.”

  She nods. “I’ll go and run you a bath.”

  I force the food down a throat clogged with embarrassment and when she returns to take the tray away, I catch her eye. There’s no point beating about the bush.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” Sodomy? Deep throating? A soupçon of Shibari, perhaps? I find myself holding my breath.

  Stephanie smiles. “Nothing.”

  “I…what?”

  “Nothing. The boss has left.”

  I’m totally unprepared for the breath stealing pummeling that attacks my insides. “He’s left?”

  She nods. “Fionnella will be in touch at some point today with further instructions. Until then, you’re free to just chill.”

  She sails out with another smile.

  I pull the sheet up to my chest, acutely aware that the light has just gone out of my day.

  And bracingly aware too, that this feeling is totally, fucking, wrong.

  ***

  The soothing bath turns out to be anything but. I’m on tenterhooks, wondering why Q has left. Wondering if I crossed a line last night with my over-the-top porn star narrative. Wondering why, if that was the case, he left twenty stacks of ten thousand dollars instead of ten. Would he pay me double if I displeased him? Why would he pay me double at all? Was it his way of telling me to fuck off?

  My mind churns relentlessly until it propels me out of the bath. I dry myself and throw on the first thing that comes to hand—a cream, butter soft pantsuit that feels heavenly against my still sensitive skin.

  I leave my suite and as I walk down the hallway, my gaze locks on the cameras above my head. No blinking red lights.

  Downstairs, I pace restlessly through the living room, kitchen, out to the terrace and back again. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t used my phone since I got here. Haven’t needed to. I press the home button. Nothing happens. I race back upstairs and plug it onto the charger.

  Excruciating minutes pass before the wheels stops spinning and it powers on. I startle as three pings announce emails.

  My finger trembles as I slide it across the screen.

  I haven’t missed a call from Fionnella.

  But I’ve missed three calls from Quinn Blackwood.

  Each one sent at some point in the middle of every night since last Friday.

  Each call is followed by a text one minute later.

  Each text bears the same message.

  You’re in my head.

  30

  THE MARTINI SHOT

  “Is it done?”

  “Yes. She’s on her way back. The plane lands at Teterboro in half an hour.”

  “Good. And the apartment?”

  “The tech guys are setting up as we speak. They’ll have to work through the night.”

  “I want it done by morning, Fionnella. Double their pay if you have to.”

  “I already did. And added a little sweetener on top because of the back-to-back work on the other project.”

  I tuck the phone against my neck and do up the buttons of my black shirt. “You have my undying gratitude. You know that, of course.”

  She sighs. “I would prefer waking up without more grey hairs than I go to sleep with. And please don’t tell me it suits me. No woman likes to hear that,” she says crisply.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Not that I don’t think it though.”

  She chuckles. “You were always too smooth for your own good. Knew it right from the moment I met you.”

  We both pause a couple of beats, the circumstances of our meeting temporarily stalling conversation. I have no doubt my life would be on the same course without meeting Fionnella Smith. But I’m aware the path I’ve taken has been less…lonely with her on board.

  “We’re almost
there, Nella,” I murmur.

  Her breath catches on a hook of suppressed pain. Then she clears her throat briskly. “Yes. Okay.”

  I snap out my sleeve before I start to fold it back onto my forearm. “So, did you meet any resistance?”

  “You mean was she full of her usual twenty questions?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Of course, she was. You just had to confuse the hell out of the girl by paying her double for one night, didn’t you? Why the hell would you do that?”

  Because I was rough with her. Because I loved every second of taking her ass. Because she was so fucking tight my cock still bears strangle marks.

  “Was it not well received?”

  “Was the bubonic plague well received? You’d think you’d sent her a case of anthrax instead of an extra hundred grand. She wants to know why, and I don’t think she’ll let it go. I spent the better part of an hour yesterday fielding her questions. So you better find a damn good reason for going off script.”

  My blood thrums through my veins at the thought of going head to head with my firecracker. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Fionnella exhales. “Thanks.” The response is a touch weary. She’s been waiting as long as I have for this to end. If I had a functioning heart, it would go out to her. All I can promise is the retribution that has been over a decade in coming. “I’ll be in touch when the place is all set.”

  I hang up and finish dressing. The all-black attire cements my mood, and I firmly place the past weekend’s activities in a compartmentalized box by the time I gun the engine of my rarely used, nondescript Ford Mustang out of the underground garage and onto the street.

  The brownstone in Brooklyn is another one I own, along with the identical unoccupied properties on either side of it. But these ones don’t come under the Blackwood umbrella. They’re untraceable purchases, procured through two-dozen shell companies. I drive past the houses and park at the end of the street. I would’ve preferred to park on another block altogether but I can’t risk being recognized.

  I wait until I’m sure there’s no one around, and climb the steps to the brownstone. I let myself in and lock the door behind me. Unlike most of my other properties, this house is fully decorated. Artistic Tiffany floor lamps light the wide hallway, but the custom designed living room and kitchen are dark.