If I was hoping this explanation would distract her away from the I wish this were a real date, I was wrong. It doesn’t satisfy her questions, I can see it in her eyes, in the way she gives me another nod as she presses her lips together.
She gives me a thin smile as she turns back to the movie. “I’m happy to be filming with you, too,” she says, facing the screen and not looking at me. There’s a solid six inches of empty blanket between us and she hugs her knees to her chest, as closed off as a person can possibly be to another.
She looks so young again, young and vulnerable. It only makes me more miserable.
“Good,” I say faintly, pointlessly, and try to turn my attention back to the movie too. Except there’s this new distance between us, this new strangeness, and I can’t tell if she’s angry with me for so obviously being dishonest with her or angry with me for being so unprofessional. For all I know, despite her sweet flirtatiousness, she may look at this as just another job and I’ve just made her extremely uncomfortable by confessing my feelings. I’m like the 1950’s boss ogling his secretary to her.
Shit.
I turn the camera on and occupy myself with filming for the rest of the evening. And even though she’s obviously upset and distant, she turns it on for the camera, smiling and bantering in all the right places. I film her jumping at the movie’s scary parts, toasting champagne with me, lying on her back while I rub her bare feet with one hand. Night of the Living Dead ends and Shaun of the Dead starts, and I get several great shots of her laughing, of her watching the movie with her head in my lap.
But it’s all with the camera on, all for the project.
When I’d plotted out this project, I’d planned tonight to be our first kiss, but I can’t imagine it will happen tonight. I don’t even want it to happen when there’s this weird tension between us...it will have to be later. Another day, when she’s forgotten how I creepily came on to her when we were supposed to be working.
Around midnight, the movie ends and huge floodlights come on, illuminating every blade of grass and tree trunk in sharp, harsh relief. Together, Devi and I pack up our things and I carry them back to the Shelby, making sure I open the door for her when we get to the car.
The drive back to El Segundo is quiet. Devi finds some Halsey on my phone and plays it through the car stereo. The freeway is wide and easy, white light pooling on the concrete, the sky a gentle purple above us. We drive through the city and down to her neighborhood, which is still fairly awake at this time of night.
We don’t talk.
I back into her driveway, putting the car in park, and the ensuing silence has the kind of weight that can collapse bridges.
“I, um.” My voice is loud in the quiet car. “I need to film us saying goodbye.”
“Of course,” she says softly.
I get out the camera and turn it on. “I wish I knew what you were thinking,” I say suddenly, my finger hovering over the record button. “I feel like I’ve made an ass out of myself tonight, and I want to fix it, but I’m not sure how to do that. Can I say I’m sorry again?”
She turns to face me. Her eyes are inscrutable in the dark. “Logan, you told me you think I’m so sexy that you’ve been wanting to work with me for three years. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I feel like maybe it was unprofessional, and I don’t want to be the creepy guy hitting on you while we’re supposed to be doing a job, and if you don’t feel comfortable doing the kiss tonight or even continuing--”
“Logan.” Her voice gives me pause, it’s so grave and serious and unlike her. “Please stop. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I don’t want to leave the project.”
“Okay,” I say, heaving a relieved breath. “I still think that maybe we should wait for the kiss. I don’t want it to feel...contrived. Maybe just a goodbye for tonight?”
“Whatever you like,” she murmurs. Is that disappointment in her voice?
I know that it’s disappointment I feel, even though I know it’s for the best. But this is our second aborted kiss, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself from kissing her.
I hit record and put the handheld on the dash, aimed so that both of us are in the frame. “Devi, I’m so glad you came out with me tonight. Do you feel like an expert in zombie movies now?”
She gives a little laugh. “I guess you could say that, although biologically I find the entire scenario a joke. Zombies are corpses and their decomposing stomachs wouldn’t be able to metabolize nutrients...and you need nutrients for muscle function. Even if something did reanimate a corpse, it wouldn’t be able to have directed, long-term movement.”
I blink at her. “Wow.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal that she just knows all this stuff about metabolic function and reanimation.
“You know, you didn’t mention any of this during the movie.”
“Well...during the movie, I was actually a little scared,” she admits.
“I hope that doesn’t mean I’ve scared you off of another date, though.” I look at her from under my eyelashes (I have damn good eyelashes for a man.) “I really had a good time tonight, and I’d like to see you again, if you’d let me?”
For just a moment, I try to pour everything into my gaze, to show her that I actually mean these words, that I’m not just saying them for the show. If things were different and this was our real first date...
Her eyes are gold-dark and soft as she returns my gaze. “I’d like that,” she replies shyly, and my heart leaps once before it remembers that she’s acting too.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” she says back with a smile. She breaks our gaze, reaching down to unbuckle her seatbelt. She puts her hand on the door handle and then looks back at me. The light from her porch is soft and yellow, filling parts of the Shelby with a subdued glow that burnishes her caramel skin into a dark bronze. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “I would’ve still wanted to do the kiss tonight.”
And then the door opens and she’s gone, and I’m staring blankly ahead, the red record light of the camera blinking at the edge of my vision like a silent recrimination, a glaring marker of every second I let Devi walk away from my car with those as the last words spoken.
Because when she said it, she wasn’t using the jaded voice of an experienced porn model, she wasn’t using the affectionate voice of a friend. She was telling me something real, something personal.
Of course she is, you idiot. She wanted to kiss you that night at Vida’s, remember?
I bring the flat of my hand down hard on my steering wheel, frustration surging in me. I wanted to kiss her that night too, and I want to kiss her right now, and there’s no reason that I shouldn’t run after her and show her exactly how I feel, except maybe there is every reason that I shouldn’t do it—
I slam my hand against the steering wheel three more times, a low growl building in my chest. Fuck it. Fuck trying to do the right thing, because there’s only one thing I want to do right now and Devi just told me that she wants it too.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and open my car door in record time, calling Devi’s name as I close the door and walk forward. She is almost to her front porch but stops and turns to face me. “What is it?” she asks, taking a step toward me.
I take a step of my own, not sure what to say, so I just hold out my hand. She looks at it and then up to my face, which I know must be a mess—lust and hesitation and worry and raw attraction. But I see the pulse pounding in her neck, the way her lips part just from looking at me, and she comes forward and slides her hand in mine.
I use it to tug her a little closer to me, playfully, carefully, and then I say, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night.” And I press my lips to hers.
I feel her hand trembling in mine, feel her lips yield to my kiss, and for one perfect, suspended moment, we are kissing the chaste kind of kiss you see on PBS historical shows, the Disney Channel kind of kiss, where it’s just our lips to
uching, just our hands joined together. It’s pure romance, and I feel very genteel and distinguished as I pull away and she blinks up at me with a dazed smile.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you,” she says, a little breathlessly, and I rejoin with a really articulate, “Yeah,” and then she squeezes my hand and walks back to her door.
And then I’m standing there by the trunk of my car like an idiot, because my lips are still hungry for hers, my body is still clamoring for her touch, and my mind is this churning loop of our date and her amber eyes and our scene from three years ago, and that kiss wasn’t enough, it couldn’t possibly be enough. And then I’m eating up the distance to her front door in long, quick strides; she’s facing the door trying to sort through her jangling mass of keys; I grab her shoulder and spin her around, slamming her back into the door and bringing my mouth down on hers with the kind of ferocity that would terrify most women.
Devi Dare gasps into my mouth, and I step into her, my hands roaming aggressively from her neck to her tits and then finally down to her ass, where I scoop her up effortlessly. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I push her hard against the door, both of us groaning the moment my erection finally presses against the spot where she wants me the most. And then I part her lips with mine and finally, finally taste her, her kiss the same sweet flavor I remember from three years ago, with just a dash of champagne added in.
Her hands are in my hair, pulling hard, and the next thing I know, she’s yanking my head to the side and biting my neck like a vampire, leaving a trail of deep fire from my collarbone to my jaw, and if I was hard before, I’m like granite now, my cock trying to bore a hole through my jeans.
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?
9
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 b
e 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.
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