But he’d been hard. Fully erect, his cock thick and heavy while it throbbed in my hands. I distinctly remember it—the weight of him in my palm—as I watch my onscreen self wrap her hands around his dick, lick up the length of him, and kiss the tip. She peers up at him, her wide brown eyes seeking approval.
The look Logan delivers in return makes me wet. Every Single Damn Time. It’s a look that suggests he’s on the edge, even this early in the scene, even before her lips part, and she slides them over his head and down the length of his cock.
If I were playing this from memory, I’d have chosen a section later in the scene to relive. When Logan lapped at my clit, most likely, his fingers buried deep in my pussy while Raven jacked him off.
But I don’t need to watch that scene to remember how it felt and pretty much anytime I close my eyes and touch myself, I’m recalling the way he fucked me with his fingers and tongue.
So this is the part I like to view again and again instead. I get crazy hot watching how turned on I made him that day, watching him buck against my jaw, his hands threaded in my hair, pulling and tugging while he used my mouth for his pleasure.
I made him react like that. Me.
Now, I watch the screen, my finger circling feather lightly over my clit. Any more pressure, I’ll explode, and I want to drag it out. I want to wait until he shoves his cock deep into the mouth of the onscreen Devi, so deep that she can barely breathe and her eyes start to water from the effort. So deep that his tip tickles against her tonsils—I can recall the sensation vividly—causing her throat to tighten around him. When she looks up at him this time, she means it to be a cue for him to relax his grip. But before he does, her eyes lock on his and for a handful of seconds, she’s caught there, so blown away by the ecstasy marked on his features that she nearly comes herself without any manual stimulation.
This is the moment I was waiting for, and I press harder on my clit, sliding the fingers of my other hand up inside me. I hook them so they’ll brush across the highly sensitive inner walls of my pussy.
Then I’m there. I’m everywhere, detonating in a massive blast of pleasure and release that causes me to curl inward and sends tremors down my spine. It’s amazing, and the amazing lingers as I fall back on to the bed, limp and relaxed.
I let out a sated sigh.
Followed by a frustrated groan as I remember seeing Logan at Vida’s party the night before. How adorable he’d been with his wet clothing clinging to his tight body. How searing his gaze had been on my skin. How he’d flirted and bantered.
How I’d gone home alone.
Damn, Logan O’Toole and his super hot hotness.
I’d truly convinced myself that I’d built the memory of him up in my head, that he couldn’t possibly be as alluring and charming and sexy as I’d remembered.
I was wrong. He was all of that and more. So Much More.
We clicked too. Last night was the first time we really had a conversation, and I know I’m not imagining the spark between us. A spark that went beyond physical attraction. He listened when I talked. He looked at my eyes and my lips instead of my breasts and ass. Well, instead of just my breasts and ass. There was even a moment—a couple of moments, actually—where I thought he might kiss me. I tilted my chin up, I parted my mouth, I ran my tongue along my lips—had he really not gotten the hint?
Considering what Logan does for a living, it’s impossible to think he missed my cues.
Which means he’s obviously not interested.
I let out another sigh, lamenting, and sit up to shut the laptop. But, if he wasn’t interested, I think, then why did he ask for my number?
That has to mean he wants to hear from me. Doesn’t it?
With a burst of optimism, I reach for my phone and start to compose a text. It takes only a handful of seconds before I realize that: (a) I have no idea what to say; and, (b) I’d be too chicken to say it even if I did. I mean, he’s Logan O’Toole. He’s a star. He can get whomever he wants, whenever he wants. He doesn’t need random ex-coworkers falling all over him, and he certainly doesn’t need me texting him in a post-orgasm haze.
Anyway, he probably only asked for my number because he was being polite. Or because I’m a good resource to have when trying to round out a cast with ethnically diverse women, something I know Logan is conscious about in his work. And I needn’t be so bummed about it because: (a) I believe in ethnic diversity in porn; and, (b) the whole reason I went to the party in the first place was to get a job.
Actually, I should be proud of how the whole evening went. I stepped out of my comfort zone and talked to a couple of producers, one of whom promised to reach out with a project soon.
So when the phone, still clutched in my hand, buzzes with an incoming text, I swipe the screen, confident that the message is from a prospective boss, ignoring the flutter of hope that it’s from Logan.
I’m sure you know that in Persia, Cassiopeia rides a two-humped camel. And I didn’t tell you this just so I could say “hump” in my first message to you.
Before I have a chance to respond, a second text comes through.
Okay, maybe that’s exactly why I told you that.
I’m still giggling when the third comes through.
Also, aren’t you proud that I spelled Cassiopeia correctly even though I obviously used spell check?
God, he’s adorable.
And Oh My God he’s texting me!
I hop out of bed, suddenly filled with a nervous energy that’s driving me to pace the room. Logan O’Toole, the guy who I dream about, the guy who wouldn’t lean down and kiss me even though he’d gone down on me on-camera three years before is texting me.