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  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 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?

  She hesitates, still not meeting my eyes. After a moment, she bends down and grabs my phone from the side of the pool, and sends a blank text message to herself.

  “There,” she says, and there’s so much in her voice that claws at my conscience; I hear her pride and thwarted lust and confusion. But how can I explain it all to her when I can’t even explain it to myself?

  God, I’m such a fucking mess.

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly, and she gives me a curt nod, again without looking at me.

  “Goodnight, Logan,” she says and scoops up her shoes and shorts. Without bothering to tug them back on, she walks wet-footed and visibly upset into the house.

  Shit.

  5

  I wake up with longing on my lips and an ache between my legs, both aftereffects from Vida’s party. With a hand thrown over my eyes, I press my thighs together and try to fall back into slumber, but the burn of desire is far too great.

  Resigned and aroused, I roll over and grab my laptop from the side of my bed. I open it and within a couple of minutes I have it pulled up—Raven’s Real Playmates, Episode #203. I hit play on the bookmarked scene and set the computer at the bottom of the bed, facing me. Then I push down my panties, lay back, prop my head up with pillows, and part my knees so I can see the screen while I relive the shoot—my favorite fantasy, my go-to masturbation material, guaranteed to deliver at least one self-administered “O.”

  The scene jolts into motion, picking up after the initial foreplay, after the characters have already kissed and sucked and fondled. Authoritative and controlling, Raven is directing the action, narrating what she wants to see happen, and what she wants to see next is the second woman—me—go down on the guy. Onscreen Devi is already naked, and though I’ve watched this a million times, I’m transfixed as she kneels before Logan O’Toole, unfastens his jeans, and tugs his briefs down far enough to unleash his dick. I hadn’t done other shoots with men, but I’d been on enough sets to know what to expect. I hadn’t expected him to already be hard. I’d expected he’d need a fluffer or that I’d need to prime him for a bit, either on camera or off.

  But he’d been hard. Fully erect, his cock thick and heavy while it throbbed in my hands. I distinctly remember it—the weight of him in my palm—as I watch my onscreen self wrap her hands around his dick, lick up the length of him, and kiss the tip. She peers up at him, her wide brown eyes seeking approval.

  The look Logan delivers in return makes me wet. Every Single Damn Time. It’s a look that suggests he’s on the edge, even this early in the scene, even before her lips part, and she slides them over his head and down the length of his cock.

  If I were playing this from memory, I’d have chosen a section later in the scene to relive. When Logan lapped at my clit, most likely, his fingers buried deep in my pussy while Raven jacked him off.

  But I don’t need to watch that scene to remember how it felt and pretty much anytime I close my eyes and touch myself, I’m recalling the way he fucked me with his fingers and tongue.

  So this is the part I like to view again and again instead. I get crazy hot watching how turned on I made him that day, watching him buck against my jaw, his hands threaded in my hair, pulling and tugging while he used my mouth for his pleasure.

  I made him react like that. Me.

  Now, I watch the screen, my finger circling feather lightly over my clit. Any more pressure, I’ll explode, and I want to drag it out. I want to wait until he shoves his cock deep into the mouth of the onscreen Devi, so deep that she can barely breathe and her eyes start to water from the effort. So deep that his tip tickles against her tonsils—I can recall the sensation vividly—causing her throat to tighten around him. When she looks up at him this time, she means it to be a cue for him to relax his grip. But before he does, her eyes lock on his and for a handful of seconds, she’s caught there, so blown away by the ecstasy marked on his features that she nearly comes herself without any manual stimulation.

  This is the moment I was waiting for, and I press harder on my clit, sliding the fingers of my other hand up inside me. I hook them so they’ll brush across the highly sensitive inner walls of my pussy.

  Then I’m there. I’m everywhere, detonating in a massive blast of pleasure and release that causes me to curl inward and sends tremors down my spine. It’s amazing, and the amazing lingers as I fall back on to the bed, limp and relaxed.

  I let out a sated sigh.

  Followed by a frustrated groan as I remember seeing Logan at Vida’s party the night before. How adorable he’d been with his wet clothing clinging to his tight body. How searing his gaze had been on my skin. How he’d flirted and bantered.

  How I’d gone home alone.

  Damn, Logan O’Toole and his super hot hotness.

  I’d truly convinced myself that I’d built the memory of him up in my head, that he couldn’t possibly be as alluring and charming and sexy as I’d remembered.

  I was wrong. He was all of that and more. So Much More.

  We’d clicked too. Last night had been the first time we’d really had a conversation, and I know I’m not imagining the spark between us. A spark that went beyond physical attraction. He’d listened when I’d talked. He’d looked at my eyes and my lips instead of my breasts and ass. Well, instead of just my breasts and ass. There’d even been a moment—a couple of moments, actually—where I’d thought he might kiss me. I’d tilted my chin up, I’d opened my mouth, I’d run my tongue along my lips—had he really not gotten the hint?

  Considering what Logan does for a living, it’s impossible to think he’d missed my cues.

  Which means he’s obviously not interested.

  I let out another sigh, lamenting, and sit up to shut the laptop. But, if he wasn’t interested, I think, then why did he ask for my number?

  That has to mean he wants to hear from me. Doesn’t it?

  With a burst of optimism, I reach for my phone and start to compose a text. It takes only a handful of seconds before I realize that: A. I have no idea what to say; and, B. I’d be too chicken to say it even if I did. I mean, he’s Logan O’Toole. He’s a star. He can get whomever he wants, whenever he wants. He doesn’t need random ex-coworkers falling all over him, and he certainly doesn’t need me texting him in a post-orgasm haze.

  Anyway, he probably only asked for my number because he was being polite. Or because I’m a good resource to have when trying to round out a cast with ethnically diverse women, something I know Logan is conscious about in his work. And I needn’t be so bummed about it because: A. I believe in ethnic diversity in porn; and, B. the whole reason I went to the party in the first place was to get a job.

>   Actually, I should be proud of how the whole evening went. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone and talked to a couple of producers, one of whom promised to reach out with a project soon.

  So when the phone, still clutched in my hand, buzzes with an incoming text, I swipe the screen, confident that the message is from a prospective boss, ignoring the flutter of hope that it’s from Logan.

  I’m sure you know that in Persia, Cassiopeia rides a two-humped camel. And I didn’t tell you this just so I could say “hump” in my first message to you.

  Before I have a chance to respond, a second text comes through.

  Okay, maybe that’s exactly why I told you that.

  I’m still giggling when the third comes through.

  Also, aren’t you proud that I spelled Cassiopeia correctly even though I obviously used spell check?

  God, he’s adorable.

  And Oh My God he’s texting me!

  I hop out of bed, suddenly filled with nervous energy that’s driving me to pace the room. Logan O’Toole, the guy who I dream about, the guy who wouldn’t lean down and kiss me even though he’d gone down on me on-camera three years before is texting me.

  I don’t know what to think. Or feel.

  Is he interested after all? His tone seems flirty, but maybe I’m misreading. He’s always a bit flirty. It’s part of his job.

  But he remembered Cassiopeia.

  I made enough of an impression for him to still be thinking about it the next day. Enough for him to research it and then send a message about it. That has to mean something. What, I don’t know.

  What I do know is that now I have to think of a response, and I have zero clue what it should be.

  What to say, what to say?

  I pace and compose several responses in my head before attempting to type out a reply, and even with the mental prep, I’m anxious when I respond: You said “hump.” I add a blushing emoticon because it feels appropriate.

  I said it twice. You know why, right?

  I’m too excited to even bother with a guess. No. Why?

  Because that’s how many times I thought about humping while I typed out that message.

  I choke on a giggle. His response is juvenile and ridiculous, but what does it mean? Does it mean he was thinking about humping in general or thinking about humping me?

  Then I come to my senses. Of course he wasn’t thinking about humping me. If he’d had any interest, he would have made a move last night. And because I’m so certain he didn’t really intend any innuendo, I type back: It’s because there are two humps on the constellation that Cassiopeia rides on. You thought about it once for each hump.

  There’s a delay before he responds, and I bite my lip while I wait, my legs still jelly from the orgasm I’d had fantasizing about him just a few minutes before. I grow hot again thinking about it and when my phone buzzes with his latest message, my heart is hammering in my chest before I even read the first word.

  Yes. That’s right. Though, if there was a camel last night, I don’t remember it. I only saw Cassiopeia.

  For half a second I consider letting my fantasies bloom, letting the things I wish twist into things that are, and I imagine that he means I’m as beautiful as the mythological Cassiopeia, and that he only had eyes for me.

  But of course he means he only saw the stars, and he’s as far away from me as the Persian Queen on her two-humped camel in the sky.

  * * *

  The text he sends that night takes a much different tone.

  After Stanley Tucci gives Captain America that shot of power and he gets all muscley and even more Captain America than before, do you think he could still have sex with a regular person? Or is his dick too powerful for mere mortals?

  I’m already in bed because it’s late. A glance at the time says it’s just after one. It’s the middle of the night and he’s thinking of me.

  Nope. Stop. I have to remind myself not to get giddy. He’s probably drunk texting all the girls on his contact list. I should shut my phone off and banish him from my mind like I did all day long.

  Except I didn’t banish him from my mind at all.

  I’d refrained from responding after his final confusing text that morning, and threw myself wholeheartedly into trying not to think about him. Which meant I thought about him quite a lot. While I scrubbed my bathtub. During my rollerblading workout on Santa Monica Pier. Through my photo shoot for Tommy’s Toys, an erotic image website I pose for on a regular basis.

  “You’re on tonight, Devi, baby,” Tommy had said as he’d clicked shot after shot. “Radiant and fuck-hot. Are you knocked up or something?”

  “Uh, no. It’s probably my new face cleanser.” I wasn't using a new cleanser, but I’d spouted the lie anyway, not wanting to put voice to the real reason I was glowing: Logan O’Toole.

  Later, in the shower, I’d rubbed myself to orgasm thinking about him again. Then spent the next twenty minutes promising myself that tomorrow I wouldn’t think about him at all.

  Now I’m tired and vulnerable, and when his Captain America text arrives, I surrender to his game, whatever it may be. Can a dick really be TOO hard? It’s his stamina I’d be more concerned about. The power behind his thrusts. He’d need to restrain himself if he were going to indulge in sexual activity.

  But what about when he blows his load? See, I think he’d come too hard for her to take it. His sperm would shoot through her like a bullet.

  Smiling from ear-to-ear, I roll over to my stomach to type my reply. Nah. You men always think that your cum is more impressive than it is. It’s really just a tiny little splurt. Even with increased force, that’s not hurting anyone.

  We aren’t talking about my cum—which IS impressive, by the way. We’re talking about Captain Fucking America.

  I grow warm all over at the mention of his cum, and I have to take a series of deep breaths before responding. Does the idea of that turn you on? Coming inside a woman so hard that it kills her?

  Well. Sort of. Yeah.

  I laugh out loud. You’re sick.

  Guilty. Another text immediately follows. Goodnight, Cass.

  And for the second night in a row, I go to bed with an ache between my thighs because of Logan O’Toole.

  * * *

  For the next several days, Logan continues to send random texts. I’ve given up trying to interpret his motivations and instead have just enjoyed the banter. The fun conversation has put me in a surprisingly good mood, despite my money woes, and on Wednesday morning, I even get the nerve to open up the UCLA website for the first time in months.

  “You can do this,” I say to out loud to myself. “Just go through the list and pick something. Anything. One thing that interests you.” There are so many things that appeal to me. This shouldn’t be that hard.

  But after only a couple of clicks around the site, I end up on a page that shows the five colleges on campus: The College of Letters and Science, The School of the Arts and Architecture, School of Engineering and Applied Science, School of Nursing, School of Theater, Film, and Television.

  And then I freeze because I’m equally drawn to each of the schools listed. Science? Love it. Architecture? I’m game. Nursing? My parents are doulas—I’ve been raised to be a caretaker. Film? That’s totally what I’m working in now, if porn counts, that is, and it does in my book. So how the hell am I supposed to pick just one career path when I can’t even narrow it down to a single college of study?

  I shut my laptop in a panic, but perk up when I hear my phone buzzing on the kitchen counter where I left it after dinner. Hoping the message is from Logan, I hurry over to check and respond.

  But it’s not Logan, and it’s not a text. It’s a phone call and the caller ID says it’s one of the producers I’d met at Vida’s party—LaRue Hagen.

  LaRue Hagen isn’t someone I’d usually take a call from. He works for Sinner’s Playpen, a hardcore heterosexual porn site, not my scene. Since my parents’ Tarot reading suggested I be more open
to new opportunities, however, I gave him my number.

  As I answer, I pray that I’m not wasting my time.

  “Devi Dare. I’m so glad to finally get you on the phone,” LaRue says, as though he’s been trying to reach me for days and not for just three rings. “Got a minute to talk?”

  “I have exactly that,” I say, though I have no plans for the evening. “So I hope you have your pitch prepared.”

  “Damn. A woman who plays hardball. I like it.” LaRue hasn’t been around as long as some of the old-school producers, but he’s not a newbie either. He’s an astute businessman who has also managed to stay innovative and politically correct. If I did decide to venture further into the world of porn, he’s one of the few producers I’d trust.

  “Fortunately,” he says smoothly, “I do have my pitch prepared because it’s not a pitch, but fact. We at Sinner’s Playpen have watched your career in girl-girl porn take off over the last several months. If you think no one was noticing, you’re wrong. We sincerely believe that if you crossed over into traditional heterosexual porn, ‘P in V’ so to speak, you’d take the world by storm.”

  I stifle a stunned laugh. I’d been pleased with my rise in the industry over the last year, but this guy was blowing things out of proportion. My paychecks certainly don’t reflect someone whose career has “taken off.”

  Though models and lesbian porn stars don’t make much money even when they are successful.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think, Mr. Hagen?”

  “It’s LaRue. And not presumptuous—perceptive. I’ve been in this biz for a decade, Devi. I’ve watched many a star rise and fall, and, trust me, I know what kind of trajectory your career is going to take from here.”

  I lean against the doorframe of my galley kitchen. “I’m flattered, LaRue. I’ve also got to be honest with you—though I’m currently entertaining the possibility of doing some light heterosexual porn, I’d still like the majority of my work to be girl-on-girl. I’m definitely not looking to be a star.”