I, Porn Star (I #1) (21 page)

I come so hard I
feel my juices saturate my pussy and flow down my thighs. I can’t find my
breath and my already black vision dims further. I lose strength in my arms and
legs, and I sag and flop around like a useless creature.

The arm around me
tightens as Q takes control of me. He carries me round the side of the bed, and
tosses me down before he climbs over me. My wrists are caught and trapped in
one hand, my legs are parted once more and he’s seated fully inside me between
one frenzied heartbeat and the next.

My back arches
off the bed as he fucks me with renewed vigor. Dirty, decadent sounds of wet
flesh slapping against flesh forms the background music to this lewd coupling.
I hear the cameras. The wash of shame builds. But so does the onslaught of
sensation.

Above me, Q’s
breathing turns even harsher. His cock thickens inside me. I’m stretched to my
absolute fullest and strung as tight as a bow.

Thick, mechanical
words flow over me as he falls into his own pleasure trance. “
Fuck you for
days
…
you milk me so good
…
mine
…
fucking mine
…
motherfucker!
”

The words are
like torch paper to my fire.

I shouldn’t be
enjoying this. I am literally under a spotlight, staging a performance for an
audience of one or an audience of a million. The words falling from his lips
could be words practiced in front of a mirror in a room somewhere in this
strange place.

I shouldn’t be
enjoying this.

But I
am
.

24

FRENCH HOURS

My body has a
mind of its own. It revels in the power it has over the mysterious man taking
such thorough and expert possession of it.

It prepares to
fall apart again, crash with mindless frenzy on the shores of bliss.

“Come for me, firecracker.
Kill me with that pussy.”

Convince
me you’re worth
dying
for.

The words from
our first meeting slam into my head. It triggers a strange sensation inside me.
Suddenly, I don’t want this to be a forgettable fuck he tosses over his
shoulder the moment he leaves the room.

I may be selling
my body to save my life. That doesn’t mean my pride is dead too.

My hands are
shackled in his, but I have my hips. My legs.

I throw them
around his waist. He’s lean, superbly honed. Perfect to lock my legs around.
Thanks to my recent fitness regime, my thighs are stronger. I use the purchase
to lift myself, meet his thrust mid-air. I almost black out from the overload
of sensation that hits me.

“
Fuck!
”

The roar blisters
my ears. This one is for me. Not the cameras recording our every move. Shame is
still a live wire twisting inside me. But alongside it, there’s also pride.
This
one is for me
.

His next thrust
drives me back into the bed. But I’ve unleashed something within myself. An
animal that needs to be fed.

I execute the
move again, and a strangled moan leaves his chest.

Between the
pressure building inside my body and the pleasure-pain high of meeting his
relentless thrusts, I know I won’t last long.

Sweat drips off
his body onto mine. The heat between us is combustible. I’m about to perish in
the inferno. I’m not sure where the words come from. They must have been
building from that single memory.

His rough keening
growls from his chest. His free hand digs into my hips, guides me into his
final thrust.

And I murmur into
his ear, “Am I worth
dying
for?”

Q tenses as if
he’s been shot. Then he’s coming like mad, flooding my insides with thick, hot
semen. His release triggers mine. My body jerks and twists beneath his and we
fight for air. Several minutes later, he’s still twitching inside me.

My mind staggers
beneath the lessons my body has thrown at me. I’ve never known anything like
this. I want to hate it, but it feels good. I battle with myself for a full
minute, then abandon the fight. I breathe out, and let myself revel in the
moment.

His head falls on
my chest.

The touch of cold
metal freezes everything inside me. From one instant to the next I’m reminded
of everything that is wrong about this situation.

As if he senses
my withdrawal, he tenses. Then rises off me.

My wrists are
released from his hold. Before I can lower them, he growls, “Stay.”

The bed dips for
a second, then levels when he steps away. As quickly as he entered, I hear him
leave.

A minute ticks
by. Two. I’m frozen in a twisted tableau of shame and satiation. The blood
still roaring in my ears means I can’t tell if the cameras have stopped
rolling. My senses won’t calm and I can’t stop the onslaught of emotions that
batter me. I’m not sure how long I lie there, before his voice flares into the
room.

“The cameras are
off now. Take the blindfold off.”

My hands shake as
I free myself. The lights are low enough not to cause my eyes discomfort. I’m
alone in a sea of silk pillows and indignity. I raise my gaze, and thank God,
the cameras have receded. I throw the blindfold to the side and stare down at
my body. The evidence of his rough possession is everywhere. My thighs, my
breasts, my wrists. I look around the room and spot a door to one side.

“The bathroom.
Use it if you have to, but don’t clean yourself up.”

My eyes widen.
“Why not?”

“I want you
dirty. When I come back, I want you smelling of me.” The primitive possession
in that statement holds no apology.

I feel the stamp
of it all over my body. “When will you be back?”

“In a few hours.
Don’t leave the suite. Are you hungry?”

I’m ravenous. For
more than just food. Although how that could be when he’s commanded such
powerful orgasms from me, I can’t fathom. A flush creeps up my neck as I nod.
“Yes.”

His laugh holds a
tinge of cruelty. “You’ll have me again soon, Lucky. Rest for now. Your food
will be brought to you shortly.”

That he can read
me so easily when I don’t know the first thing about him irritates me. “Thanks.
You’re far too kind.”

“No. I’m not.”
There’s a deadly ring to the three words that immediately chill my spine. They
also tweak a part of my brain, attempt to make a connection that flounders for
a brief moment, then fizzles and dies.

I catch a corner
of the heavy coverlet and draw it over me. Whether he takes that as conversation
over or he has nothing else to say, I sense the instant he clicks off.

Tiredness seeps
into my bones. I’m the kind of sore that draws a moan each time I move, but not
ones of distressing pain. I sink into the bed and surrender to the conflict
raging inside me. When it exhausts itself without my help, it releases me long
enough for me to fall asleep.

Stephanie wakes
me gently what seems like five minutes later. Without windows, I can’t tell how
much time has passed. She tells me I’ve been asleep for four hours.

The large tray
she sets on my lap contains a steaming bowl of linguine in a creamy sauce. The
cutlets of Parma ham melt in my mouth and I polish off the meal in minutes,
soaking up the remaining cream with thick
focaccia
bread. I leave the wine alone, and settle for a club soda. Once she takes the
tray away, I slide out of bed and make my way gingerly to the bathroom. Like
everything else Q-related, the bathroom is huge, every luxury and amenity
within reach. I stare with a little longing at the multi-headed shower before I
shake my head.

I return to the
room after I take care of business, but I don’t get back into bed. There’s an
entertainment center with a sleek looking MP4 player sitting on a glass
surface. This remote, unlike the one I used in the Hell’s Kitchen loft, looks
simple. I press the power button and strings of an Italian operetta fill the
room. I grimace and hit the next button.

Imagine Dragons’
Demons
slowly pounds into life. My eyes widen and my shocked gasp ends in laughter. A
tiny part of me is thrilled that I like the first thing I’ve learned about Q.
No, not my first thing. This is the second. The first thing I like about him is
stamped inside and outside my body. Q is extremely skilled when it comes to a
woman’s body.

The song is
halfway through when I sense him again. My skin grows feverish and my belly
rolls with trepidation and excitement.

God, is this how
kidnappers feel? Was this some form of early onset Stockholm Syndrome? The
remote slips from my hand onto the floor and I don’t bother to pick it up.

“Lucky.” He’s
outside the door.

I return to the
bed and put the blindfold back on. I’m not sure where he wants me so I remain
standing by the side of the bed and place my hands on top of the rumbled
sheets. I don’t need sight to confirm his purposeful stride toward me. The very
air seethes with thick, sexual intent.

He reaches me,
pulls me back against him and runs his hands all over my body. Each powerful
caress pulls a shiver from me. He bends his head and sniffs the curve of my
shoulder. “Was that amusement at my choice of music I heard a few minutes ago?”

“Ah…no. It was
unexpected, that’s all.”

“Why unexpected?”

“They’re my
favorite band.” I let out a self-conscious laugh. “I was just surprised that…I
don’t know what you look or really sound like but we like the same music.”

He slides his
hands beneath my breasts. “And that pleases you?” he rasps.

I shrug. “It
helps make this a little less…weird.”

He pauses for a
second. “What else would help?”

Instinctively, I
know a request to take the blindfold off will be denied. That courtesy,
if
it happens, will come from him. “I would like to touch you. With my hands.
Maybe see you?” I throw in there anyway.

My breath hitches
when he picks me up. Since I haven’t been given permission to touch, my hands
hang down by my sides as he strides away from the bed.

A few seconds
later, he settles on a seat that I remember looks like a leather-studded
La-Z-Boy recliner next to the fireplace, and he arranges me over his lap so my
feet are on the floor either side of him. The thick rod of his cock lies snug
between my pussy lips, but he doesn’t penetrate me. He lies back and grabs my
hips, slowly grinds me into his hardness. I’m slick and wet and he groans at
the delicious friction.

After about a
minute, his hands caress up my sides. I jerk a little and he chuckles.

“You’re ticklish
just there.”

“Yeah…” My hips
move over him, the desire to pump almost unconscious.

“I’m going to let
you touch me now.”

My breath expels
in a burst of excitement. “Okay.”

His hands trail
up and over my breasts. For a long moment, he just plays with my mounds. Then
he cups my shoulders, draws his hands down my arms and captures my hands.

I stop breathing
altogether when he brings our entwined hands to his abdomen and lays my palms
flat against his skin. I can’t help my soft gasp at the hard, hot sleekness of
him, the tight muscles shifting beneath my touch. His hands stay on mine for a
minute before he lifts them away. I tentatively explore him, hear his sharp
intake of breath when my short nails scrape over his skin. Between my legs, his
cock thickens, extends a little more. My hips continue their slow grind as I
trail my hands up over his ribcage. Flat nipples harden at my touch, drawing
another sharp breath from him.

When I reach his
pecs, he settles his hands over mine. “Stay,” he commands.

I’ve had my fun.
But already it’s over. Disappointment tears through me, but the feeling doesn’t
last for long. His hands leave mine, grasp my hips and elevate me long enough
to position himself at my entrance. Between one breath and the other, I’m
impaled. I scream as
Ready, Aim, Fire
blasts through the speakers. And even though I’m on top, Q
totally tops me with relentless drives into my pussy from below.

“Love hearing you
scream…”

My nails dig into
his skin as I try to hold on. But it’s no use. I stop screaming long enough to
ask the question that’ll fling me into nirvana. Permission is granted. I throw
my head back and surrender to the fireball exploding between my legs.

When I collapse
forward, he allows me to rest on his chest. But the thrusts never diminish. He
draws another mind-bending orgasm from me before he roars his own release.

I’m a useless,
boneless mess on top of him, when he murmurs, “Tomorrow, Lucky. I’ll let you
see me.”

25

OUT TAKE

On Monday, I wake
up mid-morning to the news that I’m to have my first colon cleanse. What I
expect will be an unforgettable experience has been scheduled for four in the afternoon,
according to Stephanie, to allow my body a little time to recuperate from last
night’s activities.

I wasn’t carried
back to my suite until gone 3am. But unlike the night before, Q left me in the
care of Stephanie, who supervised my bath and helped my weary body into bed. I
snuffed out in seconds, my mind shutting down from sheer exhaustion, which
thankfully left my dreams undisturbed.

I’m wide awake
now though, and to stop myself from thinking about what awaits me this
afternoon, I decide to go for a swim since I’ve been given a pass from fitness
training today. The white bikini set is part of the new wardrobe. As I put it
on, I glance at myself in the mirror. Stephanie has taken over Fionnella’s
health tracking duties, and reported this morning that I’ve put on eight pounds
so far. I can see where my hips and butt are a little plumper and other bones a
little less jutting. There’s also a vibrancy to my skin that could be
attributed to the lotions and potions that’s become a part of my pre-sex regime.

Thoughts of sex
predictably steers my mind to Q’s near-frenzied ravishing of my body long into
the night. He didn’t leave after returning the second time. Nor did his stamina
dim even a little bit.

He swore to
defile my pussy. And he stuck to his word.

And
tonight, he’s moving to other parts of your body
.

I push the
thought away, turn away from the mirror and pause when I see the other thing
that awaited me this morning. The stack of money on my bedside table.

The means to my
freedom.

So why does the sight
of it sicken me?

Ignoring the
question, I pick up the money, return to the dressing room and place it with
the stack from yesterday.

I stare at the
crisp bills. Two hundred thousand dollars. Probably more than enough to buy
myself a deep enough hole to hide in. Except I’ll never be able to stay hidden.
Not with the knowledge that Clayton is hunting me.

Certainly not
without a means of ensuring that the other secret he’s hunting stays a secret.
To do that I, ironically, need to stay in the open.

Going into hiding
means I can’t keep an eye on her.

My sister.

Petra.

The daughter
Clayton suspects is his. The fifteen-year-old I
know
is his.

The deathbed promise
I made to my mother to protect her from Clayton at all costs still burns fierce
in my heart. I hadn’t planned on
at all costs
involving murder and
arson, of course. But I had no choice.

I killed for
Petra.

I don’t want to
do it again, but there’s no way I’m letting Clay get his hands on her. Petra
escaped the fates my mother and I couldn’t. I don’t have a single doubt that
should Clay lay his hands on her, he will drag her into his vile world. I don’t
intend for that to happen. She’s the reason I had less than a hundred dollars
to my name when I fled The Villa. Most of the money I painfully scraped
together went into helping her stay in hiding.

The rest bought
me a hacker’s services to alter records and forge documents to throw Clay off
her scent.

I knew he
wouldn’t lose the scent for long. Clay is too clever to be fooled indefinitely.
But my efforts bought me three months, until Ridge dropped his bombshell.