Home > Porn Star (P*rn Star #1)(10)

Porn Star (P*rn Star #1)(10)
Author: Laurelin Paige, Sierra Simone

She waves a hand, those nails like streaks of pink light through the air. “You don’t need to know now. Just promise me you’ll think about it. And when you’re ready,” she reaches for her smartphone and taps at the screen a few times, “contact Marieke de Vries. She’s the head of Lelie, and she will get you whatever you need.”

My phone lights up with Vida’s text.

“Thanks, Vida.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she says. “Now get upstairs and drink my liquor.”

In that way that certain parties will, the mood has shifted and only half of the people here know it. When I make it upstairs, the unknowing half still laughs and drinks and dances, but the crowd in the common area of the house has noticeably thinned. I see the cluster of people in the upstairs hallway—crowding around the orgy that’s undoubtedly happening in one of Vida’s many bedrooms—I take in the unmistakable smell of pot and sex, and I know it’s time for me to go home.

And that’s okay, because all I want to do is think about Vida’s offer. I’m excited about it, I’m nervous about it, I’m obsessed with it already, and so there’s no room for an impersonal and drug-fueled orgy in my mind.

But then I hear her voice.

Not Vida’s voice. Not Devi’s voice.

Hers. My own personal Voldemort.

You know when you have a bruise and you can’t stop pressing on it? Or a cut on your lip that you lick over and over again, even though you know it makes it worse? It’s this impulse, this sick fascination, like you want to feel the ache, you want to hurt yourself, you want to be both the recipient and the giver of the pain all at the same time. And that is the only explanation I can find right now for why I’m walking toward the hallway, pushing through the crowd and standing in the doorway of one of Vida’s bedrooms.

I’m not shocked at what I see in front of me. I’ve seen it hundreds, maybe thousands of times, both on set and off. There are five people on the bed and scattered couples around the room, all in various stages of fucking. Dicks, cunts, mouths. Legs spread, sweat glistening. Tonight there are more tattoos and piercings than normal, hair in blue or bright red victory rolls rather than sleek highlights, but it’s all still the same.

But I’m not looking at them. I’m looking at the pale, dark-haired woman in the middle of the bed, who’s riding one man while another fucks her in the ass, no condoms in sight. Her head is thrown back, her eyes are closed and she’s moaning and panting as her stomach tenses up with her impending climax.

Raven always did like double penetration.

I don’t need to see this. If I wanted to see my ex-girlfriend get fucked by another man—or two—all I have to do is crack open my laptop. I don’t have to witness it like this, in this dark, smoke-wreathed room with Lana Del Rey droning in the background.

But I can’t seem to make myself move. My traitorous dick jolts as she cries out and comes hard, her smooth thighs tensing and fingernails digging into the shoulders of the guy she’s riding. God, she’s a wonder to watch fucking, all those lithe muscles and that pale skin. Was it only three months ago that it was my cock inside her pussy? Only three months ago that I was the one to pull on that hair, kiss that neck, fight her for the blankets at night? Only three months since she broke my fucking heart?

She comes down from her orgasm with a breathy moan, looking coyly over her shoulder at the guy fucking her from behind, giving him the fluttering eyelashes and curled smile that I recognize all too well. It’s her scene-smile, her I’m-going-to-make-you-feel-like-a-big-strong-man smile, and it’s definitely not an expression she ever bothers to trot out when she’s having real, off-screen sex.

She’s performing, I realize. She’s performing even though there are no cameras here, even though most of the people in the room are preoccupied with drugs or their own fucking. It hits me the minute those dark eyes flutter up to meet mine, and that curling smile grows bigger.

She’s performing for me.


I stumble backwards, the weight of her dark eyes so much heavier than anything else—than the two guys screwing her or her nakedness or her smile—it’s those eyes. Weighted with...what? Revenge? Contrition? Scornfulness?

And then I recognize it.

Satisfaction. She wanted me to see this and now I have, and she’s pleased about that for whatever twisted reason.

I’m pushing backward into people now, spilling their drinks and breaking apart kisses, but I don’t care. Those eyes sear into my flesh, peeling away the shell I’ve maintained for the last three months and revealing the empty, shredded mess inside, and I can’t stand it. I tear my eyes away, but the image of her is still burned into my retinas, and I press against the crowd, needing to make it out of here, needing to leave, needing to find a drink.

Needing to forget.


I can still feel Raven’s stare on me as I finally break through the crowd at the door and emerge into the hallway, my pulse pounding as if I just witnessed a grisly murder. As if I just came face to face with my own personal super-villain.

I walk numbly down the hallway, my mind racing. She must have known I’d be here tonight. And she wanted me to see her there, fucking in the raw, and I played right into her hands.

I grab an open bottle of scotch without even really looking at it, moving through the living room without seeing it, and going straight outside, un-stoppering my bottle as I do.

Though the pool is off the main floor, Vida’s mansion is built on a steep slope, meaning that the pool terrace can extend into a ledge overlooking the city. I walk across the wide, white terrace with its sparkling water and curtained cabana—all of it currently devoid of party guests—and make my way to the chest-high wall rimming the edge of the balcony. I take a swig from the bottle as I survey the city—my city—and then wince.

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