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 think 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.
5
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 Playdates. 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.