I, Porn Star (I #1) (14 page)

I glance at the
door, wondering if I’ll make it out in one piece. I haven’t had a drink, and
yet I’m tipsy with the sheer volume of high-octane emotions racing through me.
“I don’t have any. Honestly.”

His hand closes
around his wine glass. He picks it up. Sets it back down. He lays his palms
flat on the table. “Hmm. And what about your co-workers? Are they
grievance-free too?”

I try to shrug.
My shoulder refuses to cooperate. “I don’t know. I haven’t been here that
long.”

“Perhaps a visit is
required then, to stare into the whites of their eyes, as it were. Judge their
contentment, or lack thereof, for myself.”

“Surely you have
people to do that for you?”

“A team of them.”

I push a piece of
beef around, before I spear it with my fork. “There you go. You can get them to
put together an anonymous poll for you.”

He considers my
response for a second. “There are things I don’t mind delegating. This isn’t
one of them,” he breathes.

His gaze hooks
into me again. Then my wrist.

God. He’s
serious.

My mind flies
through the possible outcomes of the CEO visiting the basement three days after
I start working for him. None of them are good. Aside from the personal
attention it’ll spotlight on me, there’s Sully. I’m not sure how he’s squaring
away paying me in cash, but the last thing I want is scrutiny on him.

“Please. Can you
not do that?”

His left
forefinger taps on the table. I wonder if it’s a grounding mechanism of some
sort. “You don’t want me to find out whether or not my employees are happy?”

“You can do
that…without making a personal trip down there. When was the last time you went
down there, anyway?”

“I’ve never had
the privilege.”

“But suddenly you
want to? I’ve been serving you for three days. There’s no way your visit won’t
make them think I’m some sort of…snitch.”

“And the idea of
being labeled as such distresses you?”

“Of course it
does. Wouldn’t it, you?”

A single tic
flicks past one cheek, a ghostly sliver of a smile. “Are you asking me for a
favor, Elly? Are you asking me to care about your comfort?”

The question is
weird. Quinn Blackwood is, hands down, the strangest person I’ve ever met. He’s
also electrifyingly handsome and frightening enough to make me wonder how I’m
still in one piece.

“I know I have no
right to—”

“On the contrary,
you have rights. Perhaps more than you know.” Again softly spoken words, as if
he doesn’t want to spook me with whatever he’s suppressing.

“Thanks. So, you
won’t come down there?”

His gaze
refocuses from the middle distance of wherever he retreated to. Then it finds
mine. And my leaping heart tells me I’m about to become intimate with the
abyss.

I watch him rise
from his seat, move toward me with measured, predatory strides that reminds me of
a sleek jungle cat. He stops next to my chair, and I have to raise my head to
meet his eyes. My racing pulse is now screaming and I have to stop myself from
full out panting. Or bolting out the door.

He reaches out in
slow motion, as if whatever his intentions are, he wants to draw it out for as
long as possible.

His fingers find
the back of my unbruised right hand. I flinch and gasp from the sizzling
sensation. Something shifts in his eyes. A confirmation. Acceptance. Then his
lids drop. He stares at his flesh touching mine. Tracing a tiny vein to my
wrist and back again. His nostrils flare slightly before he closes his hand on
mine and turns it palm up. Again, he traces his fingers over my palm. The
sensation is a thousand times more potent. Lust and fire and the need to be
fucked hard rushes through my blood. My pussy clenches so hard I feel my juices
wetting my panties.

He makes a sound
and it jerks right through me. One finger rests on my wrist pulse as he raises
his gaze and stares at me with stark, devastating hunger.

“I won’t come
down there, Elly. But, you’ll owe me.”

14

HIATUS

Quinn Blackwood
refuses to tell me exactly what I owe him. And I’m too chicken to ask. I leave
his office in a deeper daze than ever before and lock myself in the bathroom as
soon as I get a chance. For the first time in my life, the temptation to
masturbate is borne out of frenzied frustration rather than the adolescent
curiosity that briefly gripped me before Mom died and my life went to shit.

I sit on the
close-lidded toilet, rest my head against the cool tile, and, eyes closed,
drift my fingers over my palm where he touched me.

I shudder, and
the ball of fire between my legs threatens to rage out of control.

God
.

My body is being
prepped to fuck another man starting next week, and yet, I’m lusting after Quinn
with a need that is beyond insane.

His face slides
into my mind’s eye and a moan slips free. Slowly, I open my legs and slide my
hand underneath my panties. The force of need nearly sends me shooting off the
toilet seat the moment my finger touches my engorged clit. Gasping, I glide my
hand lower, to my blazing center. I’m hotter than a furnace and wet enough to
feel my slickness on the inside of my thigh.

Getting myself
off will be as easy and satisfying as jumping off a cliff. But a part of me
resists. An innate knowledge that it won’t be as satisfying as I imagine
prevents me from succumbing to the need. I resort to massaging the outer lips
of my pussy while trying to breathe through the terrible hunger tearing me
apart. My brain finally relents and transmits the message to my cunt. Hunger
recedes far enough for me to tear my eyes open, adjust my clothes and stumble
out of the stall.

The rest of the
afternoon passes without incident, and I make it back to Hell’s Kitchen in one
still-dazed piece.

At seven, Bruce,
my fitness trainer, returns to put me through another ninety minutes of hell.
When he leaves, I strip and take a shower, luxuriating in the endless hot water
and thankful that I’m too exhausted to tend to the dull ache still throbbing
between my legs.

I dress in a
brand new set of lounge pants, and I’m on my way to the kitchen when the
doorbell goes.

Before alarm
takes full hold, I cross to the security screen and turn on the outside camera.

Fionnella.

I release the
lock and wait for her to walk through the double set of security doors. Once
the last one closes behind her, I open the front door.

Her hobo purse is
slung over one shoulder, and she’s clutching a large brown bag with a logo I
don’t recognize.

“Have you eaten?”

“No, but I was
just about to make myself a sandwich.” I can cook a few basic meals, but I’m no
culinary expert by any stretch of the imagination, so having a fridge stocked
full of food is a blessing but also a curse. Although I planned to make
something other than grilled cheese or pasta this weekend, using a cookbook I
discovered among the plethora of reading material in the loft.

She holds out the
takeout bag. The aromas that waft from it are heavenly enough to make my mouth
water. “To make up for the confusion over the clothes,” she says.

I open the door
wider with my right hand and reach out to take the bag with my left. Her gaze
falls to my wrist. It hasn’t gone purple as I feared, but the distinctive
yellowing is clearly visible. Her gaze sharpens.

“It’s nothing,” I
blurt, but my heart sinks at the resigned look on her face. “Please don’t tell
him.”

She enters, shuts
the door behind her and regards me with a touch of sympathy. “It doesn’t work
that way, Lucky. If there’s a situation we need to know about—”

“There isn’t, I
swear.”

She reaches into
her bag and pulls out her clipboard. “Give me the cliff notes. I can’t promise
one way or the other how this will go. But I have a job to do, same as you.”

“And that includes
bothering him with something this minor?” I gripe.

A flicker of
something hard in her gaze reminds me of Q’s warning that not everyone’s as
they seem. “Cliff notes, Lucky. Who. How. When.”

“Today, at work.”
I stop and grimace. “My new clothes attracted a little more attention than I
expected. That’s all.”

She nods in
understanding, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m waiting for the who.”

“It’s a guy I
work with. Miguel. He’s pretty harmless,” I toss in hurriedly.

She finishes her
notes and pulls out her phone. “Go eat.”

“Fionnella…”

“The food’s
getting cold, Lucky. It’s your favorite. You’ll want to enjoy it while it’s
still hot.”

She waits until I
make my way to the kitchen before she retreats to the glass and brick wall at
the far end of the living room. I plate the burger and fries and watch from the
corner of my eye as she dials and presses the phone to her ear. Her voice is
too low for me to catch her end of the conversation, but I don’t need to. The
slight ding in The Boss’s one million dollar body has been duly reported.

The sanguine
smile is back on her face when she joins me in the kitchen. We go through the
next few days’ schedule while I eat. Then she makes me stand on a scale in the
bathroom for my weighing. She catalogues my five-pound weight gain with another
bright smile, after which she promises to be in touch soon, and leaves.

He’s going to
call. But I don’t know when, so I distract myself by trying to work out the
elaborate TV/entertainment center controls.

I finally figure
it out and I’m watching reruns of
The Big
Bang Theory
, when the black box flashes green.

My heart climbs
into my throat. I debate ignoring it. On top of the subject I don’t want to
discuss, I recall our conversation last night. My body is strung up on the
attraction I feel for another man. I don’t know if I want to add Q’s brand of
electronic hotness to my crazy right now.

But what choice
do I have?

I slowly reach for
the box. Before I can touch it, it flashes off. I jump back, relief and
disappointment mingling through me. Five seconds later, the flashing resumes.

I pick it up and
press the ‘on’ button.

“Were you
thinking of not answering me, Lucky?” His voice flows around the room, like a
living entity. “Think carefully before you answer.”

My fingers curl
around the box. “Yes, I was.”

“Thank you for
being truthful. Why?”

“The bruise is
nothing. I didn’t want it to become something.”

“That’s not for
you to decide.”

My shocked laugh
is tinged with more than a touch of exasperation. “Excuse me?”

“Small fact you
should know about me. Everything I own is precious to me. Everything I own is
unequivocally mine, until such time as I choose to dispose of it. Everything I
own I maintain in pristine condition. Do I own you, Lucky?”

My exasperation
stands no chance beneath his obsidian power and the inevitability of my answer.
“Yes,” I whisper.

“Once again. With
conviction. I need to know you’re convinced that I own you.”

“Yes,” I repeat.
I toss the box on the sofa and take childish pleasure in glaring at it. “Yes,
you own me
!
”

Silence seethes
for several heartbeats. “Are you in pain?”

I’m not expecting
that, nor the different cadence attached to the voice. He’s just callously labeled
me an object. A possession to dispose of eventually. Rich people don’t care
about the suffering of mere mortals.

And
yet, he ensured you didn’t end up in the shelter…or worse.

While my emotions
sigh with gratitude for that, my brain holds back, cautioning me that
everything happening to me could still be a twisted game in some rich man’s
fantasy.

The man I’ve labeled
Q is a stranger. Until we come face to face and I’m able to assess him
otherwise, he needs to remain that way, no matter how he makes me feel.

I tuck my feet
beneath me on the sofa, noting absently that somehow the TV has been muted. “In
the grand scale of things, compared to what your fitness instructor put me
through today, I’d say the pain in my wrist is a piece of cake.”

“You think it’s
the same? Pain deliberately inflicted and pain endured for the purposes of
honing your body?”

I frown. “Of
course not. You just…I was trying to explain…okay, I get it. No, it’s a touch
uncomfortable when I touch it, but I’m not in pain. Can we get off the subject
now, please?”

“We can. I have a
prior engagement to attend to. If you would be so kind as to ensure I don’t
have to make another call like this, I would appreciate it.”

The box turns
black before I have a chance to respond. Or thank him for the clothes. Or
just…enjoy the sound of his electronic voice.

I’m completely
deflated.

When the TV
miraculously un-mutes again, my enjoyment in my favorite show is nil. I
flounder on the sofa for another hour before I drag myself to the double
bookshelf at the opposite end of the room. I half-heartedly settle for a
psychological thriller that promises high jinx on a pirate ship and take it up
to the bedroom.

Although I try to
blank my mind and absorb myself in the story, I lose interest by the second
chapter.

Two streams of
conversation play through my mind, each with its own unique brand of mind-fuckery
that sends my thoughts spinning.

I jumped out of
the frying pan because my very survival depended on it.

But the fire
licking at my heels might just consume me because the craving inside me, one
that has grown without me even realizing it, has me locked in its terrible
hold.