“I’ve never met a performer who’s told me anything like that,” I say. And it’s true. Not once have I been around another adult film star and had them confess a purely impractical fascination. A call toward something that makes them feel like life is magical.
She blinks, and the way her long, thick eyelashes brush against her wet cheeks is arresting. “Really?”
“Really. Devi Dare, I do believe you are my first.”
“I don’t think any guy has ever said that to me before,” she teases, as I take a step closer to her. I’m not sure why I do it; we’re already so close. But the water is so pretty and clear, and the world is so soft from the scotch, and all I want on this earth right now is to count the water drops on her eyelashes.
Devi moves a little and her shirt pulls almost completely open, exposing those sweet breasts and even sweeter nipples. I’m suddenly very grateful for the pool, which hides my aching erection. It does not, however, hide the way I’m now staring at her tits, nor the way I bite my lip to keep from leaning forward and sucking one perfect tip into my mouth.
Her lips part, and she doesn’t bother pulling her shirt closed. We are so close now, and I feel her bare toes brush against the front of my shoes. Her eyes are pure amber, liquid gold and warm, and they search mine now. Something has shifted with my step closer, and I feel like I’m going to combust, a pillar of flame in the middle of this sparkling pool.
I want to kiss her.
I want it like I’ve wanted nothing else in my life.
See, here’s the problem. I know how soft and wet her tongue is, how warm and plush her lips feel, and I can recall every breathy pant she gave me when we kissed on set all those years ago. I know precisely how delicious and rewarding kissing her will be. And now her face is tilted completely towards mine, and her expression is open and inviting, and her hands slide up my chest, fisting in my soaking wet T-shirt. I let the corked, mostly empty scotch bottle bob away from us in the water.
“Logan,” she whispers, eyes still searching, fingers clenched tight in my shirt.
Kiss her, you asshole! What are you waiting for?
But everything is smashed together inside of me—my anger at Raven, my determination to move on, my desire for Devi, Vida’s offer—all of it is tangled and twisting, and I can’t get my thoughts straight, I can’t peel apart where my urge for revenge against Raven ends and my need to kiss Devi begins. Business is mixing with pleasure, pleasure is mingling with pain, and for just an instant, I wish Raven were right here, right now. I wish she were watching us. I wish she could see Devi and me and feel even a tithe of the jealousy and rage I felt when I found her. And God, I want to see her fucking face when she sees us…
I’m such a dickhead. How can I kiss this girl that I’ve liked for years, this girl I’ve idolized and fantasized about, how can I touch her with even a hint of Raven in my mind? More so, do I really want Raven to taint something I have wanted for so long? Give her ownership of the first off-screen kiss Devi and I will ever share?
No. When—or if, I think glumly—I kiss Devi, it will be without the ghost of Raven’s betrayal hovering over us. And besides, if I kiss Devi now, everything will change. We might fool around or we might fuck, and then this won’t be the night I stood in a pool and she showed me the stars, it will be the night that we did what everyone else does at these parties. It will be the night we turned the chemistry between us into something merely physical, and even the thought of that transformation is enough to wound me.
I want this to be our star night. And maybe, if I’m lucky and if I can get a fucking handle on myself, there will be a kissing night later.
Soon, my dick demands.
“Logan?” Devi repeats, and it’s more naked now, pleading almost, and I reach up and cradle her elbows in my hands. I don’t want to tell her about the Raven stuff—I don’t want her to feel used or think that I’ve been mentally comparing her all night. And I can’t articulate my fear about kissing without revealing my giant, epic crush on her and sounding like a creepy stalker.
So I say, “I think I should go now.”
Her forehead wrinkles adorably. “You should?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, pulling away and making for the edge of the pool. The loss of her skin, of those wide gold-brown eyes, makes me feel emptier than anything else that’s happened tonight, and I almost turn back and do it. I almost turn and grab her and slant my mouth over hers and let all of the dark, tangled shit in my heart go.
But I don’t.
I rescue the scotch from the water and hoist myself out of the pool, and then I turn and offer my hand to her, which she ignores, the lithe muscles in her arms easily working to pull her body onto the concrete. Her cheeks are red again, and she won’t meet my eyes, and then when I say, “Devi…” not knowing what I mean or what I want or how to explain anything, she shakes her head. But I blunder on. “I—can I have your number?”
Fuck. Now, where did that come from?