I, Porn Star (I #1)

by Zara Cox

  The living room becomes our dirty little playground long after the horizon tinges grey and orange.

  She’s almost comatose when I slide into her pussy once more. Her back to my front, I wrap both arms around her shoulders and waist. Trap her to me. I revel in her shudders as I rock in and out of her slick channel.

  Words fill my head, rattle around, gather speed. Before I know it, they’re spilling out.

  “I would keep you, Lucky. If I didn’t need to do this. If my life wasn’t a fucked up wasteland, I would keep you. Make you mine forever.”

  She trembles at my words. I fuck her some more, absorb her weary little cries. She begins to unravel. Her inner clenches are as potent as her first orgasm, milk me just as firmly.

  “I’m coming for you, firecracker. Coming so fucking hard…”

  Her breath hitches, like she’s catching back a sob.

  As release grips me in its relentless talons, I touch my fingers to the blindfold, over her gorgeous eyes. They come away damp. She’s crying.

  My own eyes sting with the torment of suddenly, for the first time in my life, wanting something I can’t have. Something I’m not worthy of.

  And I don’t know what to do with all these fucking feelings.

  PART FOUR

  ELYSE

  35

  WALK & TALK

  I would keep you.

  Make you mine forever.

  The words pound through my head. The anguish, the bewilderment lacing in his tone continues to haunt me two days later. I haven’t heard from Q since the early hours of Friday, when I awoke in the penthouse alone. Fionnella tells me he’s tied up with other matters and that until I hear from him, my time is my own. To be honest, I’m grateful for the reprieve. The combination of marathon sex and ragged emotions has left me in a state of shock.

  Thursday night was the most intense night of my life. Every single moment was overwhelming. And deeply personal. So much so, I barely noticed the cameras. And when I remembered they existed, I didn’t care. In hindsight I realize what’s happened.

  Sex with Q has stopped being a transaction and turned into something else. Something more. I’m falling for him. Probably already have.

  The enormity of that revelation has turned me into a half-zombie. I haven’t left the loft. I miss him, want that damned black box to light up. At the same time, I’m scared that he will get in touch. Because on Friday, after I managed to find the energy to walk and leave the apartment, I came home to find three hundred thousand dollars on my dresser. I’m now two hundred thousand shy of my goal. Two more ‘normal’ sessions. Or one intense fuck away from never seeing Q again.

  The anguish that knowledge brings terrifies the shit out of me.

  To take my mind off my terror, I do something equally terrifying.

  I begin to make plans on how to contact Clay once I have the money.

  I can’t just show up back at Getty Falls and expect him to forgive and forget. I also need to find a way to make him accept that the million dollars is better than attempting to wrestle Petra’s whereabouts from me.

  Handling Clay Getty will be a delicate task. He didn’t rise to his position of power by letting people like me get away with wronging him. And by destroying his prized possession, I’ve placed myself in the prime position of number one enemy.

  I pace the loft for a couple of hours before I summon the courage to flip on the wi-fi to connect to the Internet.

  A quick search of the Fresno newspapers tells me very little about what’s happening in Getty Falls. I don’t refine my search because I once heard Lolita mention something about a geo-locator on websites that track searches. I have no clue how many people search Getty Falls, but I don’t want to take the risk of shining a spotlight on myself.

  What I do is hit Twitter and search for the Getty Falls Sheriff’s Office page. On the main page is a short bio and picture of the sheriff with his shit-eating smile. I scroll down and read through the feed.

  Acting Sheriff Daniels responds to a burglar alarm…suspect apprehended.

  Two days prior to that…Acting Sheriff Daniels and Officer Pratt respond to reports of a domestic altercation.

  I go back as far as I can to when the sheriff was last on duty. I hold my breath when I find what I’m looking for.

  Sheriff Clayton Getty on a temporary leave of absence to deal with private matters. Deputy Rick Daniels will act as Sheriff.

  Officers attend the funeral of Ridge Mathews. My breath catches and I click on the attached link. …Sheriff Getty confirmed his death was a tragic accident.

  God, Clay covered it up. My heart continues to race as I scroll back up and stare at Clayton Getty’s picture in the bio.

  Yes, my biological father isn’t just a third-generation brothel landlord, he’s also a corrupt sheriff in charge of law enforcement at Getty Falls. And he took a leave of absence the day after I burned his whorehouse down and skipped town.

  I’m staring at his picture when a retweet pops into the feed.

  Person of interest sought in Getty Falls fire. Elyse Gilbert, 5”4’ has been missing since the fire. If seen, contact Sheriffs Dept. There’s a link beneath the message along with my picture. The phone clatters to the ground as ice drenches me from head to toe. My heart bangs against my ribs and I struggle to breathe.

  I scramble for the phone again. I turn off the wi-fi and jump up from the sofa. But the truth is inescapable. If I needed confirmation that Clayton was coming after me, I have it.

  But would he have put my name and picture up on social media if he knew where I was? Does the fishing expedition mean he’s lost my trail? I force the fear aside and try to think things through properly. Since quitting my job at Blackwood Tower, I’ve been off the radar for a week. Even if he knows I’m in New York, my not using public transportation right now may be working to keep him from finding me.

  All the same, I need to bring this to a head sooner rather than later. Every day he wastes time trying to find me and doesn’t means his attention might shift to locating Petra.

  I glance at the phone, debate whether to call Fionnella to tease out a more specific date for when I’ll next see Q.

  The phone vibrates just then, making me jump.

  Quinn.

  My heart leaps for a different reason. Hands shaking, I answer the phone.

  “Hi.”

  “What’s wrong?” The coarse rasp of his voice holds a layer of concern.

  I suck in a deep breath. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Elyse.” Steel layers over concern.

  I rub my forehead in agitation. “I did something. And it’s catching up to me.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “I’m trying my best not to be.”

  “And how are you doing that?” he fires back.

  How can I tell him that I’m selling my body to pay off the pimp whose empire I destroyed? “I’m still trying to work that out.”

  Quinn stays silent for a minute. “Would you consider my help?”

  My heart flutters like mad. “Thanks, but no.”

  “You would offer me relief, but won’t take help in return?” he rasps.

  The differences between us charges up like an invisible wall. I’m not sure exactly what his issues are, but mine will land me murder and arson charges should they ever get out. “This…it’s not the same. You advised me to run not too long ago. I think it’s only fair that I tell you to do the same.”

  “Why?”

  I rub harder. “I’d hate for you to be caught up in my shit, Quinn.”

  “Too late.” The way he says it, soft, deadly, like a coiled, poisonous snake fat with venom, just itching to sink its lethal fangs into something.

  I shiver despite the ambient temperature. “It’s not—”

  “We can table this discussion for another time, but don’t waste more words on this. I want to see you today.”

  I should say no. I should. I
should stay inside, hide from Clay.

  A broken piece of me picks itself up off the floor, stabs at the fear. “Okay. I’m not sure what kind of company I’ll be though.”

  “Leave your mood to me. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  He hangs up, leaving me with yet another head full of questions.

  I don’t call Fionnella. And I slap a to be continued sticker on my puzzling feelings about Q and shove it to the back of my mind.

  But there’s one call I’ve been putting off. I dig out my backpack, pull out the picture of Ma and I and turn over the frame. The alphanumeric code I wrote translates to a phone number, and I dial it with shaking hands.

  “Hello?” A tentative voice answers.

  “It’s me. Elyse.”

  “Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. We’ve been so worried! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Ringwald.”

  Her laughter is tinged with relief. “I told you, call me Doris.”

  “Doris…is she there?”

  “Of course. Hold on.”

  The phone clatters softly, then it’s picked up again.

  “Elyse?”

  My heart leaps and tears burn. “Petra. How…how’s things?”

  “Good. Well, good with a heavy dose of boring,” she amends.

  I laugh. And it feels so good. “The farm not keeping you busy?”

  “I love the horses. The home-schooling, not so much.” She lowers her voice. “Doris likes to repeat the same lesson over and over, like I’m thick or something.”

  I grin at the eye roll in her words, then I sober up.

  “Don’t give her a hard time, okay? This is all new to her, too.”

  Petra sighs. “I know. I think her and Paul are thinking of swapping. Hopefully he’s better at the teaching thing.” She pauses for a few heartbeats. “Am I going to see you soon?”

  My heart lurches. “I won’t lie to you, Petra. I don’t know. For now, it’s best I stay away.”

  I’ve met my beautiful baby sister only once. A year ago when Clayton started asking questions, I took steps to track her down and warn her adoptive parents about the threat he posed. Paul and Doris Ringwald took the warning seriously and relocated from Nevada to Idaho. My second warning call two months ago forced them to head north to a farmhouse outside Vancouver. It helps me sleep better at night to know they’re as invested in her safety as I am.

  “Are you sure we can come back when I turn eighteen?” Petra presses.

  “Yes.” Clayton would no longer have any rights to claim her then. “So please hold on a little longer, okay?”

  Another sigh. “Okay.”

  “I’ll call when I can. I promise.”

  She passes me back to her adoptive parents and I reassure them that everything’s okay before I hang up.

  Once my heart resettles, my thoughts return to Quinn.

  What exactly does leave your mood to me, mean? And where is he taking me this time?

  I take a long scented bath, puzzle over the questions a little more, then abandon them. Quinn is electrifying cryptic. And autocratically hard-headed.

  Almost as much as—

  The sponge I’m running over my arm pauses. I frown.

  Am I in danger of blurring the lines by comparing the two men in my life? They aren’t that alike. Both are seriously alpha, sure. But Q doesn’t ask. He takes. Whereas Quinn asks persistently until he gets what he wants.

  My frown clears for a minute, then returns.

  But they both set me on fire, and I fear more exposure will only make things worse. Except I’m not in a hurry to walk away from either.

  I try to shut my thoughts off as I zip up my sleeveless black jumpsuit and strappy heels. On a self-comforting whim, I dig into my backpack and bring out a small jewelry box. Inside nestles a delicate silver chain with a heart locket given to Ma by her father for her sweet sixteenth. It’s the only thing I kept from Ma’s belongings beside the picture and I intend to give it to Petra. But I can’t resist wearing it now, to feel closer to the mother I lost and the sister I’ve turned my life inside out to protect.

  Quinn rings the buzzer at eight. This time, he comes to the door.

  Those eyes dig into me, and I make sure to keep my smile carefully pinned into place. I make no effort to resist when he cups my nape and tilts my head up to kiss me. Somewhere between the bath and getting dressed, I decided to take this evening as it comes. I’ll give him as much of my truth as I can without endangering my sister. What he does with that information will be his problem.

  For now…the kiss. God, I love the way he kisses.

  I’m moaning like a whore in church by the time he lifts his head.

  “I’ve fucking missed doing that.”

  I laugh. “Me too.”

  He doesn’t smile exactly, but I can tell my response pleases him. “You ready?”

  I nod. The weather has turned warmer in the last couple of days, so I bring a wrap with my clutch.

  We head to a nightclub—XYNYC—in SoHo. Even before we reach the valet parking area, the paparazzi are upon us. They shout Quinn’s name, fire questions about who I am and what we are to each other. Lights blind me and I stumble when I get out of the car.

  Quinn tries to protect me from the more aggressive of the paps and that sparks an even greater frenzy. By the time we stumble through the VIP entrance, I’ve swung from easygoing about our date to regret.

  “Sorry about that.” Quinn’s jaw tightens and he gauges my reaction carefully once we’re inside. “They normally keep their distance.”

  My shrug doesn’t fire on all cylinders because my mind is busy churning out worst case scenarios of what this could mean for me in terms of Clay finding me. I shudder.

  What the fuck have I done?

  Quinn frowns. “Elyse, are you okay?”

  I meet his gaze, take a breath and go with the truth. “There’s someone looking for me. Someone I’m hoping won’t find me until I’m ready to be found.” I wave a shaky hand outside. “Those paps—”

  I stop speaking when he steps toward me and takes my face in his hands. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”

  My eyes widen. “How?”

  His thumbs brush down my cheeks. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I want you to trust me. Can you do that?”

  Nodding is stupidly simple, if seriously unwise.

  I taste his approval in the kiss he seals on my lips. And when he links his fingers with mine and leads me into the nightclub, my fear is reduced to dregs.

  He takes me to his personal roped off VIP area, and we order burgers and fries. I’m sipping a glass of champagne and checking out the glitterati on the dance floor when we’re joined by a dark-haired, drop dead gorgeous hunk of beefcake. With his gelled back hair, carefully cropped stubble and sharp designer suit, he looks like he’s just finished a photo shoot for GQ magazine. Except the deadly look in his eyes and the granite-set jaw tells me he would chew up and spit out anyone who dares come near him with a camera.

  He nods and rumbles a response when we’re introduced. I catch his name as Axel Rutherford, owner of the club, but not much else. He conducts a low, terse conversation with Quinn, then leaves.

  From across the lounge, Quinn stares at me.

  Something about the way his head cocks to the side tweaks a brain wave. But then he starts moving and I’m lost in the animal grace of him, the sheer sexiness of the man who seems as absorbed in me as I am in him. He reaches me, cups my shoulders and leans down to whisper in my ear.

  “Tell me what song you like.”

  My smile is a little shy. “Why?”

  “I want you to dance for me.”

  Not with me. For me. Way to throw a self-conscious vibe on a girl. “I don’t really—”

  “Please.”

  My eyes goggle at the intensity behind the plea. I blurt out something like Maroon 5. He beckons the bouncer and relays the information. Two songs later, the club mix of Animals pounds through t
he speakers. I recall the lyrics and inwardly grimace.

  But he’s looking at me, expectant.

  And I start to sway. He takes my glass from me, steps back and gives me a little room. I should be cringing with embarrassment.

  The look in his eyes won’t let me. It’s like he needs me to dance. He slowly circles me as I move, throw myself into the throbbing beat. I feel his eyes everywhere. On my throat, my arms, my ass, my breasts. Halfway through, he lifts my glass and gulps down half my champagne. The sight of him drinking from my glass is so intimate, my breath catches. On his next rotation, he drifts his fingers down my arm.

  The touch singes me right to my pussy.

  Fuck. I bite my lip and circle my hips to the beat. He’s behind me when the music blends into another tune. Firm fingers plunge into my hair, and he kisses his way from my neck to my jaw to the corner of my mouth.

  “You take my fucking breath away,” he croons into my ear.

  Flushed with horny vibes, I turn and throw my arms around his neck. Our kiss is what force ten gales are made of. Mouth-fucking at its most intense, we go at it until a throat clears loudly from the lounge doorway.

  I hide my face in Quinn’s jacket and let him deal with the intrusion. His chest rumbles with whatever he’s saying. After a minute, he whispers in my ear. “Our food’s here.”

  Food. Okay. I can do food. He leads me to a small bar area where our plates are waiting. I can’t quite look him in the eye after attacking his mouth like it was my favorite toy, so I concentrate on sating my other hunger. I polish off the burger and fries in minutes, then look up when I hear his dark chuckle.

  “Always knew you were a voracious little thing.”

  I glance at his plate. He’s barely taken more than a few bites. Such a waste. “I have a great relationship with food.”

  He picks up a fry, dunks it in ketchup and holds it to my lips. I take the food and give an exaggerated little moan. I’m rewarded with something that vaguely resembles a half smile. He shares the rest of his food with me, feeding it to me like he fed me in his office what feels like a lifetime ago. God, was that only last week?

  When we’re done, we head back to the edge of the lounge. I work off some of the calories over the next few songs. Quinn doesn’t join me in dancing, but he stays close, eyes always on me. More drinks are served. We take a break an hour later, and head to the sofa, where we mouth-fuck a whole lot more.