I, Porn Star(65)

Although…he might be watching. And what, he’ll come save me? What if watching me drown in the bath is part of this bizarre deal?

The macabre thought and the full knowledge that Q has me twisting in a quagmire of confusion sends me out of the bath.

My eye on the prize is what I need to concentrate on. I’ve made it through performance one.

Only nine more to go.

Despite that thought planted firmly in my mind, I still stagger to a stop when I re-enter the bedroom.

Because sitting on the bed is a small open case.

Inside it, ten stacks of ten thousand dollars arranged neatly in the case.

Performance one.

One hundred thousand dollars.

For sex with a man whose face I still haven’t seen.



***

Q



I watch her sleep from one of the large monitors gracing my living room. I wonder if she always sleeps in the nude or if she’s choosing to do so tonight because she’s sore. I resisted the temptation to turn on the monitor in her bedroom until the need got too strong to deny. The reason for resisting in the first place escaped me the moment I flipped the switch. Wait. No. It was because I was torn between either watching her, or waking her up and summoning her back to the bedroom in the south wing.

Tonight was…

I take a sip of whiskey as I contemplate, but an accurate description fails to yield to me.

I can’t describe how tonight went.

One thing is painfully evident though. I’ll be repeating the experience tomorrow, whether she’s sore or not. Because, fuck it, she’s as addictive as the black hole I’ve spent the last ten years feeding.

I relax in the armchair, wrap my hand around the raging hard on that shows no signs of abating and squeeze myself.

What the fuck? The volcanic arousal that engulfs me is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Hell, the last time I staged a performance, I was forced to resort to a little blue pill halfway through the week, such was my lack of pleasure in the whole thing. I get the distinct feeling I won’t be needing any such enhancer this time around. Unless it is to ensure the pleasure already fully present achieves its maximum benefit.#p#分页标题#e#

Twenty-four hours buried fully inside her. The idea isn’t without its enticing merits.

I toss the idea in my mind as I watch her toss and turn.

She’s not resting comfortably. I want to think it’s because she still feels my presence between her legs—Jesus, she was ridiculously small—but I caught her expression when she walked out of the bathroom and saw the first installment of her payment.

Like the confirmation of the one million dollar pay out during her second interview, she didn’t react predictably to the sight of the money. Her predecessor had leapt with joy, tossed a handful of the bills in the air and then quickly darted around, scrambling them up before, God forbid, they disappeared.

Lucky merely shut the case, looked around the room for a secure place and ended up shoving it on the high shelf in her dressing room. She totally missed the typed note on top of the first stack, recommending she put the money in the bedroom safe and instructions for using the safe.

Whatever she needs the money for, it isn’t for personal satisfaction. Or perhaps it is deeply personal?

I step away from examining that unpredictable reaction and return to what happened in the south wing bedroom. To certain facets that need analysis.

Purely on a pleasure scale—because there’s no other parameter for me to measure—fucking her was a singularly gratifying experience. She’s reminded me again how much I like to fuck. How much I enjoy that sweet place between a woman’s legs. And that’s a tick in her favor. Hell for a minute, I might even manage to let myself indulge.

The next few weeks will be bearable because of it. The reminder of why I’m doing this does very little to cool my jets. I’m still as hard as fuck, growing harder with each passing second. She turns again, murmurs in her sleep. She tucks one hand beneath her cheek and other between her thighs. The one part innocent, one part filthy action sends me to my feet. I toss back the rest of the drink and slam the glass down.

I should turn the monitor off.

Same as I should’ve stopped myself from issuing that ultimatum back in my office about her coming back to me.

But the compulsion now, as it was then, is total.

I want to storm through the dozen rooms separating us. I want to wake her up. I want to pound into her until I’m drowning in her cum, then come inside her over and over until we’re eyeball deep in filth.

Then I want to start all over again.

The possibility that I’ll damage her irreparably is high—Q has already decided against taking his shrink’s advice—there will be no saving Lucky from him. As for Quinn… I mentally shrug. My cracks have gaped wider in the forty-eight hours since I talked to Adriana Nathanson, so the risk to Lucky is greater.