Ugh.
And the moment my personal distaste fades, a sense of protective anger flares up. How dare she talk to Devi? How dare she bring me up to Devi, in what I can only assume amounted to a sick sort of power play?
“What else did she say to you?” I ask, not bothering to hide my anger. “Did she upset you?”
Devi starts to shake her head but then stops. Then she gives a little nod. “Yeah,” she admits. “I guess it did upset me. And she didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, Logan, that was the hard part. She said that I was doing het porn to make you jealous, and that it would never make you jealous, it would just make you feel better about fucking other people.” A pause. “And that you were always fucking other people.”
I have to close my eyes against the white-hot anger that boils inside me. I know, cerebrally, that Raven’s not evil, that she’s just honest and probably hurting right now. But I don’t feel that way. Instead, I feel like I want to build the highest, thickest wall around me and Devi and hold her tight and protect her from all the fears and insecurities that Raven forced her to look at.
And if I’m being totally honest with myself, Raven wasn’t entirely wrong. I was using Devi doing even lesbian porn as an excuse not to feel bad for continuing to shoot scenes. And more—as an excuse not to feel guilty for enjoying shooting them. It’s our lifestyle, right? And as long as it’s our lifestyle, not just mine, then there’s no need for guilt or jealousy.
Except.
Except I am fucking jealous. I was jealous when Kendi licked her to orgasm this morning and jealous a few hours ago when she told me that she went to a set planning to fuck Bruce Madden. I’m jealous of every minute she spends writhing under somebody else’s touch.
And I am guilty. Whenever I fuck someone else, I think of Devi. But it’s almost like my guilt makes me hornier, fiercer, and I use it as fuel for my fucking, each pump and jab of my cock layered with lust and longing and the kind of shame that burns under my skin and makes me restless for release. Since that shame only rears its head while I’m balls-deep in another girl, it’s so easy to give in to its restlessness and try to fuck it out.
And all of this is just bringing up those questions from before and I can’t answer them. I can’t, because if I actually answer them, I might have to face that my entire life has to change, and suddenly I remember Madam Psuka’s tarot card still shoved in an unwashed pair of jeans. The Hanged Man, the card of suffering and sacrifice.
But what do I have to sacrifice?
And what do I have to suffer for?
I push those questions to the side and lean down to kiss Devi’s cheek. “She’s wrong, Devi. I’m not always fucking other women, and I’m not happy to see you fucking other people. But I respect our jobs, and I respect your right to make decisions about your body and who you fuck.”
Devi looks uncertain, sad. I tug on her shoulder until she rolls onto her back and I can cup her face with one hand.
“We need to make some boundaries, Cass. What are we okay with and what are we not okay with? What will we keep special just for each other?”
She gives a small, fragile shrug and my heart aches. “I’ve never done this before, Logan,” she says. “I’ve never been with a porn star. And I’ve certainly never been with one of the most famous porn stars in the world.”
“You don’t have to decide right now,” I reassure her, stroking her hair back from her face. “We have so much time, Devi. We’ll get it figured out.”
“Yeah,” she says, but her voice is full of doubt.
“Want to hear a joke?” I ask, trying to cheer her up, cajole her back to her normal sunny self.
“I guess.”
“Why does Santa Claus have such a big sack?”
She shrugs again.
I grin. “He only comes once a year!”
No reaction.
“Okay, okay, not my best work. How about this: what’s the difference between a lentil and a chick pea?”
“What?”
I wait a beat to let the punch line fall with maximum effect. “I wouldn’t pay a hundred dollars to have a lentil on my chest.”
Devi’s eyes widen and then she starts snort-laughing, slapping my bare chest hard. “You’re disgusting!”
But she’s smiling again. I resist the urge to preen.
She’s still giggling a little. “Okay, I have one for you. What’s the difference between jam and jelly?”
I play along. “What?”
“I can’t jelly my cock up your ass.”
I burst out laughing. “Why, Devi Dare, you dirty woman.”
“You have no idea.”
She grabs for my ass, and we start wrestling and laughing, both of us naked and still a little emotional, and then the wrestling turns to grinding and the laughing turns to kissing, and you know what?
Suddenly my cock isn’t so drowsy anymore.
17