Most of all, I don’t say them because my throat is too tight to speak. I clear it and manage to say, “Okay, babe. I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Love you too,” she echoes, and in those three words, I hear pain and confusion fathoms deep. “Goodnight, Logan.”
* * *
If I were filming a movie of my own life, I’d be disgusted with it right now. First of all, I’m not exhibiting any believable character growth in response to my obstacles. And second of all, there’s no coherence or unity of theme right now. I mean, what am I even feeling? I’m feeling way too much contradictory shit to express in film. No, if I were a director, I would tell my character to pick one thread and stick with it. Am I trying not to cry or am I swooning on my feet whenever I think of Devi? Am I checking my phone constantly or am I trying to resist throwing my phone across the room? If I were a director, I would tell myself that feelings are passive, and to choose actions instead—and then to choose those actions deliberately.
One action at a time.
The idea is appealing to me as I get up the next day and shower. I’m not naive enough to believe I could actually pick one of those feelings and discard all the others, but the idea of cleaning up all these emotions is so deeply attractive. And as I remember Devi’s eyes as she watched me prepare for my scene with Bambi, as I remember convincing her that reality is not the antithesis to porn, I realize something so terrible and clarifying that I abruptly stop washing my hair and drop my hands, simply standing under the spray and staring at the wall as I absorb how wrong I’ve been.
I wanted everything to be together, gloriously messy and unified, because I felt like our palpable love and attraction would make Star-Crossed a better project. I thought that blending our personal romance and our onscreen sex would be the answer, not taking into account Devi’s youth or the fact that I would end up falling for her so much harder than I ever could have guessed. I wanted everything together, because I thought that together was better, more real—hyper-real—but all it did was mix everything up. It cheapened the real connection we had and gave the filming more emotional importance than it deserved.
Fuck. No wonder Devi and I both felt confused yesterday.
The worst part is that this is all my fault. I convinced Devi to go down this path. I made us blur all the lines. I’m responsible for all our pain right now.
If we want to continue this, if we want to survive with our hearts intact and with our careers thriving, then we have to carve out boundaries now. We have to separate porn from real life, we have to compartmentalize. And I have to take responsibility for what I’ve done to us.
I just hope it’s not too late to fix it.
So when Devi unlocks my door at one, right on the dot, I have an entire speech prepared, practically an entire class to teach on Why I’m an Idiot and How I’m Going to Fix It. But then I see her, and all the words melt away from my mind, because she’s so fucking beautiful right now, wearing a short flared skirt and tank top, her long hair in a messy braid that’s slung over one shoulder.
The moment she steps in, I’m pinning her against the wall and crushing my mouth against hers, my hands roaming everywhere, aggressive and needy. She kisses me back with an eager hunger, her mouth searching. And then her legs are wrapping around my waist, and we are grinding together while we kiss, and then she pants, “Let’s go to your bedroom,” and she doesn’t have to ask me twice. I carry her, her legs still wrapped around my waist, and we barely make it to my bedroom before her hands are fumbling with my zipper and I’m yanking at her tank top. I set her on the bed, toss her on her belly and then climb on top, flipping up her skirt and yanking her thong aside so fast that I hear the fabric tear. I don’t care; another second’s work and I’m notched in her cunt, pushing roughly inside.
She’s not quite ready, but she’s bucking back against me, raising her ass up in an attempt to get me inside her faster, and the friction is fucking unbelievable. Tight and raw and primal. I’m grunting and thrusting hard, the zipper of my jeans scraping against the soft skin of her ass and thighs, her skirt a twisted pink mess of fabric around her waist.
And all I can think is
she wants me
she loves me
she still wants me.
“Make me come,” she says, squirming like a wild woman under me. “God, Logan, please. Make me come.”
“Anything,” I say, dropping my lips to the back of her neck. “I’ll give you fucking anything.”