I, Porn Star (I #1) (32 page)

My shrug doesn’t
fire on all cylinders because my mind is busy churning out worst case scenarios
of what this could mean for me in terms of Clay finding me. I shudder.

What the fuck have I done?

Quinn frowns.
“Elyse, are you okay?”

I meet his gaze,
take a breath and go with the truth. “There’s someone looking for me. Someone
I’m hoping won’t find me until I’m ready to be found.” I wave a shaky hand
outside. “Those paps—”

I stop speaking
when he steps toward me and takes my face in his hands. “I’ll take care of it.
I promise.”

My eyes widen.
“How?”

His thumbs brush
down my cheeks. “I won’t bore you with the details, but I want you to trust me.
Can you do that?”

Nodding is stupidly
simple, if seriously unwise.

I taste his
approval in the kiss he seals on my lips. And when he links his fingers with
mine and leads me into the nightclub, my fear is reduced to dregs.

He takes me to
his personal roped off VIP area, and we order burgers and fries. I’m sipping a
glass of champagne and checking out the glitterati on the dance floor when
we’re joined by a dark-haired, drop dead gorgeous hunk of beefcake. With his
gelled back hair, carefully cropped stubble and sharp designer suit, he looks
like he’s just finished a photo shoot for GQ magazine. Except the deadly look
in his eyes and the granite-set jaw tells me he would chew up and spit out
anyone who dares come near him with a camera.

He nods and
rumbles a response when we’re introduced. I catch his name as Axel Rutherford,
owner of the club, but not much else. He conducts a low, terse conversation
with Quinn, then leaves.

From across the
lounge, Quinn stares at me.

Something about
the way his head cocks to the side tweaks a brain wave. But then he starts
moving and I’m lost in the animal grace of him, the sheer sexiness of the man who
seems as absorbed in me as I am in him. He reaches me, cups my shoulders and
leans down to whisper in my ear.

“Tell me what
song you like.”

My smile is a
little shy. “Why?”

“I want you to
dance for me.”

Not with me.
For
me
. Way to throw a self-conscious vibe on a girl. “I don’t really—”

“Please.”

My eyes goggle at
the intensity behind the plea. I blurt out something like
Maroon 5
.
He beckons the bouncer and relays the
information. Two songs later, the club mix of
Animals
pounds through the speakers. I
recall the lyrics and inwardly grimace.

But he’s looking
at me, expectant.

And I start to
sway. He takes my glass from me, steps back and gives me a little room. I
should be cringing with embarrassment.

The look in his eyes
won’t let me. It’s like he
needs
me to dance. He slowly circles me as I move, throw myself into the throbbing
beat. I feel his eyes everywhere. On my throat, my arms, my ass, my breasts.
Halfway through, he lifts my glass and gulps down half my champagne. The sight
of him drinking from my glass is so intimate, my breath catches. On his next
rotation, he drifts his fingers down my arm.

The touch singes
me right to my pussy.

Fuck. I bite my
lip and circle my hips to the beat. He’s behind me when the music blends into
another tune. Firm fingers plunge into my hair, and he kisses his way from my neck
to my jaw to the corner of my mouth.

“You take my
fucking breath away,” he croons into my ear.

Flushed with
horny vibes, I turn and throw my arms around his neck. Our kiss is what force
ten gales are made of. Mouth-fucking at its most intense, we go at it until a
throat clears loudly from the lounge doorway.

I hide my face in
Quinn’s jacket and let him deal with the intrusion. His chest rumbles with
whatever he’s saying. After a minute, he whispers in my ear. “Our food’s here.”

Food. Okay. I can
do food. He leads me to a small bar area where our plates are waiting. I can’t
quite look him in the eye after attacking his mouth like it was my favorite
toy, so I concentrate on sating my other hunger. I polish off the burger and
fries in minutes, then look up when I hear his dark chuckle.

“Always knew you
were a voracious little thing.”

I glance at his
plate. He’s barely taken more than a few bites. Such a waste. “I have a great
relationship with food.”

He picks up a
fry, dunks it in ketchup and holds it to my lips. I take the food and give an
exaggerated little moan. I’m rewarded with something that vaguely resembles a
half smile. He shares the rest of his food with me, feeding it to me like he
fed me in his office what feels like a lifetime ago. God, was that only last
week?

When we’re done,
we head back to the edge of the lounge. I work off some of the calories over
the next few songs. Quinn doesn’t join me in dancing, but he stays close, eyes
always on me. More drinks are served. We take a break an hour later, and head
to the sofa, where we mouth-fuck a whole lot more.

At some point, I
end up in his lap. His big hands cup my ass and he grinds me into the thick rod
of his hard on. But by mutual agreement we don’t take it beyond that, although
I know deep down, if fate and circumstances allow, it’s only a matter of time
before I fuck him.

We leave the club
in the early hours. Outside, we get into the back of a limo, Quinn having drunk
too much to drive his DB9. In the back seat, I find myself once again in his
lap. His hands are on my ass, but we’re not kissing. His piercing blue eyes
survey me from where he’s leaning against the headrest.

“I have a thing
tomorrow during the day.”

“A thing?”

A sliver of ice
crawls over his features. “With Maxwell.”

“Your father?”

A curt nod. “It
finishes in the afternoon. I’ll come to you after.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” The
pressure on my ass increases. “Kiss me.”

We make out all
the way back to Hell’s Kitchen.

When he leaves me
at the door, I’m disappointed, but a little grateful.

Because I know
I’m falling in love with two men. And my head feels like it’s going to explode
from the pressure.

***

QUINN

I’m in the
shower, jacking off—yes, I’m fucking masturbating for the first time in
years, to the memory of Elyse’s ass in my hands, her tits, her pussy grinding
into me at the back of my limo—when my phone rings.

I turn off the
spray. “Answer.” When the voice activation kicks in, “Yes?” I growl

“We have a
problem.”

My back knots in
tension. “What is it, Nella?”

“Clayton Getty.
We’ve lost his trail.”

“Where?”

“Private airport
in Reno. He hired a plane. Flight plan said he was headed to Tallahassee. He
never landed there.”

My wood dies a
quick, merciless death.

36

NOIR

One
Week Later

For the first
time in forever, I wake up with a smile on my face. I’ve seen Quinn every night
for the past week.

Last night was
the best night of all. He took me to dinner at a posh restaurant on top of some
tower whose name I can’t recall. Our table was the only one on the terrace. And
after dinner, we danced under the stars. We ended up at
XYNYC
after
that, of course. He confessed he was part owner and enjoyed going there to
relax, which isn’t a bad thing considering I like the music and food there,
too. There were fewer paps this time, for which I was grateful.

I replay the
previous magical seven days in my head as I bask in my warm bed. Among the many
little pockets of awesome, the one I find most precious is the fact that Quinn
is willing to give me time, to take things at my own pace.

I’ve never had
that. Every significant encounter I’ve ever had to date was on someone else’s
terms. What makes it even more special is that I know he wants to fuck the hell
out of me. The anticipation alone has my hands moving down my body, wondering
how it will feel to have him inside me when the time comes.

My brain rolls
through a clutch of superlatives, some of which have me laughing out loud. Until
that happens, I intend to enjoy his world class kissing.

Hunger eventually
drives me from bed, after which I laze around, watch a movie. The phone stays
silent and I breathe an inward sigh of relief as the hours tick by without
summons from Fionnella or Q. I don’t know how to take Q’s ominous silence, but
by two, I know I probably won’t hear from either of them, so I’m free to spend
the afternoon with Quinn as we planned.

Perversely, that
acknowledgement slows time right down. I amble listlessly from bedroom to
kitchen to living room. Eventually I turn the TV back on, channel surf
aimlessly and stop at an entertainment channel. Some celebrity or other is
skydiving naked off a mountain in South America. I roll my eyes and am about to
flick to another channel when I freeze.

Quinn.

On TV.

My breath rushes
out for two reasons.

One,
dear God
, the man is beautiful. Almost
impossibly so. It hurts just to look at him full on.

Two, the look on
his face chills my blood. It’s the same look he wore the first time I saw him.
The deathly stillness, the soulless stare. But behind it, I see ravaging
anguish. He’s standing at a podium of some sort with a group of people. My gaze
moves to the man giving the speech, and I note the uncanny resemblance between
father and son. I stare at Maxwell Blackwood for a moment before Quinn once
again absorbs my attention.

When his father
finishes speaking, he claps, but his expression doesn’t change. Amid the smiles
and handshakes, his face remains a rigid mask. He leans sideways as the person
next to him, a stunningly beautiful woman with straight black hair and piercing
grey eyes, whispers in his ear. He straightens without answering or looking at
her, but as they turn to leave the stage, Quinn’s hand slides around her waist.

Then, I watch,
stunned, as his hand moves lower to her ass. The squeeze is lightning quick,
over before it even begins, but my insides congeal.

I launch off the
sofa, my hand fumbling with the control. I hit rewind, hoping,
praying
that I saw wrong. But yes,
there it is. His hand. On her ass.
Squeeze
.

Oh God!

I stagger
backward, force myself to listen to the rest of the newscast. Maxwell Blackwood
intends to run for a second term as governor, blah blah blah….support of his
second wife, Delilah Blackwood, and his son, Quinn Blackwood.

My heart drops to
my feet.

He
was copping a feel of his stepmother’s ass on live TV?

The remote drops
from my numb fingers as I’m hurled once again into Twilight Zone.

What
the fuck?

Nausea rolls
through my stomach. I return to the sofa before my legs give way.

I try to control
my breathing.
Calm the fuck down
. There must be an explanation. But what,
though? How do you explain something like that away?

I look back at
the TV. The segment has moved on, but it’s still about Quinn. The caption
Chameleon
Blackwood
is now slapped across the screen. Next to his normal clean cut,
suit wearing picture is another one in which he’s sporting a lighter hair color,
a chilling frown, and giving the picture taker—most likely a pap—a
finger. The background in the second picture looks like the outside of
XYNYC
.
There’s no sound so I can’t hear what
the segment’s about. The mute button must have activated when the remote fell.
I frown at the two pictures.

My brain is
firing warnings at me, but my mind is too fixated on that image of his hand on
his stepmother’s ass to accommodate anything else.

The program moves
onto another celebrity. I lie back and spike my fingers into my hair. I want to
grab my phone, call him and demand an explanation.

But when it comes
down to it, what rights do I have? We fell into this…
thing
…without rhyme
or reason. And Quinn has been aware from the beginning that I have something
else going on. Something
he
has accommodated. So really, I don’t have a
leg to stand on.

That bracing
reality drags spikes of pain through me. I’m still sitting on the sofa, staring
into space, when he buzzes the door.

He’s wearing the
dark grey suit from TV, minus the tie.

I try to smile
when he walks in. I fail. I try to throw myself into the long, beautiful make
out session he stages with my mouth. I succeed. But only just.

Silver blue eyes
pierce me when he lifts his head. “Something’s wrong.”

No shit.

“I saw you on
TV.”

That deathly
stillness engulfs his whole body. “And?”

What could I say?
You had your hand on your stepmother’s ass and besides the actively eww
factor of it, I don’t know what to do with this insane jealousy riding me
?

“Quinn, are you
seeing someone else?”

The only reaction
I get is a slight flare of his nostrils. “What sort of question is that?”

“A normal one
that I should’ve asked before this…whatever
this
is, started.”

“I’m seeing you.
Am I fucking someone else? Not right now. But I love to fuck, Elyse. I won’t
deny it. I fuck when the urge takes me. I’m hoping to fuck the shit out of you
when you’re done with your
thing
.
When that happens, I intend for you to be the only one I fuck. Does that answer
your question?”

Not even close.
But I nod, because I can’t bring myself to ask the other question.

“Good, then let’s
go.”

I glance down at
my jeans and cream cashmere sweater. “Do I need to change?”

His eyes, still
containing jagged shadows, fly over me. “No, come as you are. Maybe bring a
scarf.”

“Where are we
going?”

“For a drive. I
need to clear my head. Do you mind?”

“No.” I could do
with some head-clearing myself.

I hurry upstairs,
slip my feet into new tan knee-high boots. I loop a long blue and silver scarf
around my neck, glide on some lip gloss and leave my hair loose. I shove some
money and my phone into one of my new cross-body purses and check myself out in
the mirror one last time.

His jacket is off
and he’s pacing the living room when I return. The moment he catches sight of
me, he holds out his hand. A tight knot inside me eases. When I reach him, he
takes my hand, pulls me close and kisses me long and hard before he walks us
out the door.

He’s not driving
the DB9 today. Sitting on the curb is another low slung sports car. A silver
Mercedes-AMG. It looks scarily powerful.

He helps me into
it, tosses his jacket into the back, and walks round to his side with stilted
movements. The throaty engine roars to life and he burns rubber as he leaves
the curb. He doesn’t talk as we endure the late afternoon traffic out of
Manhattan, but he catches my hand, kisses my knuckles a few times before
resting it on his thigh. Jazz and rock anthems blast from the speakers.

It’s not until we
hit the outskirts of Jersey that he lowers the volume.

“Whatever you saw
on TV…it’s complicated.” His voice is low, coarse as gravel.

The nausea
threatens again. “There’s complicated and then there’s
complicated
. Which
kind are we talking about?”

He doesn’t even
blink. “The second kind.”

My heart drops.
“I don’t know what to do with that, Quinn.”

He stays silent
for a mile or two. Then he glances at me. “That relief you offered. I’m asking
for it now.”

God
.

“Tell me I didn’t
see what I think I saw on TV?” I press.

His eyes leave
the road for a second. The black shadows have multiplied. “I’m not into anyone
else, Elyse. Right now, you’re the only thing I want.”

Right now. What
about last week? What about
next
week?

The words stick
in my throat. I remind myself I don’t have any rights here.

“You can’t live
like this, Quinn.” Whatever’s going on, it’s taking a dangerous toll on him.

I’m surprised
when he nods. “It’ll be over soon.” They’re more than just words. They’re a
dark, solemn pledge that vibrates through the car.

My breath
shudders out and I nod in return. “Okay. Then, whatever you need, I’m here.”

His chest rises
and falls in a deep exhale. He turns the music back up and shoves his foot on
the gas. We fly down interstate highways and eventually merge into the
countryside. In the late afternoon sun, spring colors bloom. The roads are
relatively traffic-free, and Quinn’s smooth driving lulls us both into calmer
states.

An age later, I
see signs for the Catskills. We stop for an early dinner at a local pub.
Conversation is light and limited, but Quinn remains attentive, his gaze
running over me several times as we eat.

After we’re done,
we head back to the car. He kisses me before I get back in, and my hand returns
to his thigh as we drive deeper into the Catskills.

Alpine
countryside and historic B&Bs whizz by as the Mercedes eats up the miles.

Eventually, he
pulls to a stop in Catskills Park. When he leaves the car, I follow. We hike a
short distance to a still lake. Quinn shoves his hands into his pockets, walks
off by himself, his shoulders hunched as he stares into the water.

I want to hug
him, but the vibes he’s throwing off make me keep my distance. After about ten
minutes, he retraces his steps to me.

“My mother loved
it here,” he says without looking up from the lake. “When she wanted to get out
of the city, we would drive up here, spend the night at a B&B and return
home in the morning. Just me and her.”

My heart squeezes
at the raw anguish in his voice. “That must have been special for you.”

“Yes. I thought
so.”

I frown at the
odd note. “You don’t think it was for her?”

He shrugs. “I
wish she would’ve trusted me.”

“With what?”

He looks at me
and his eyes are terrifying again. “Enough to tell me why she needed to escape.
Enough to let me save her.”

“How…from what?”

“From him. From
Maxwell.”

Shock stabs me.
“Your
father
?”

He doesn’t
respond. His face turns desolately bleak and he stares back at the water. After
five harrowing minutes pass, I give in to the urge and hug him.

He stiffens and
pushes away from me so violently, I stumble.

He immediately curses
and lunges toward me. “Elyse, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”

I hold out my
hands and dive out of his reach, my heart hammering. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

His hands ball
into fists, and his chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. We stare at each other
for a fistful of heartbeats, then I slowly hold out my hand.

He takes it,
clenches his fingers tight around mine, and we walk back to the car. We drive
around a little more and end up outside a quaint, centuries-old white and blue
clapboard house with a B&B sign on the outside.

Quinn parks on
the curb and looks broodily at the property.

“This is where
you used to stay?” I venture.

He nods and
points to the tiny turret jutting out from the roof. “Right at the top. It was
my own personal castle for a night.”

 
On impulse, I step out of the car, go
round to his side and hold out my hand. “I’d like to see it,” I say with a
smile.