I can still feel the power of that kiss the next day. And the next night too.

The day after that, I swear my lips are still swollen, and my legs feel like they’re going to give out every time I think about Logan’s mouth invading mine while his body pressed against me with such obvious, raw desire. I would have invited him up—hell, I would have let him fuck me against my door—and I almost did.

But. The show.

There’s a contract, and while it doesn’t say anything that would prohibit fucking against my door after filming the first episode, there are stipulations that suggest that it wouldn’t be in the best interest of the project. And this project is so important to Logan. He spent several days hammering out the details via my agent, and I’m happy with the resulting arrangement. There will be seven episodes in total, each roughly forty to sixty minutes in length, and progressing in sexual and romantic activity. The story of a young L.A. couple will be unscripted and improvised, but the director/screenwriter/cameraman (aka Logan) will explain briefly where and how far he’d like each scene to go at the beginning of each shoot. And if I have any objections, I am to bring them up then.

The series, which is to be filmed in its entirety before airing on Vida Gine’s website, will eventually earn the label of hardcore porn—unless the scenes don’t naturally reach that. And they will, if Logan or I have anything to say about it. There will be little to no kink or fetish, and all sexual activity is to be exclusively between the two of us. The usual safety clauses were written in to protect both of us (but mostly me—women in the industry are generally the victims of nonconsensual assault), and we each submitted and approved each other’s limit lists. Mine detailed the fluids I considered acceptable, his specified no tickling, particularly of his feet. Apparently when tickled, Logan O’Toole cries.

When I read that last bit of information, I immediately had to text him. I never fantasized about tickling you. And now it’s all I can think about.

His response had been, At least you’re thinking about me.

Was I ever not?

So, with the flirting and the texting, and the way he looked at me throughout our date with hungry eyes, I was already pretty certain he wanted me. Even when he almost let me walk away, I knew it was only himself getting in the way.

And then that kiss…

Damn, that kiss. It was unreal because it was so real. It wasn’t acting or performing. It wasn’t a show of any sort, even though the rest of the night had been all about the series, all about the camera.  Our dynamics and dialogue at the park dictated by that little red light.  But then I’d gotten out of the car and left, and he chased after me without the camera in his hand. The scene was over, but he wanted my lips just as much as I wanted his, and so he’d left the camera behind and claimed me for his own.  Not for Vida or Lelie or for art, but for Logan.

Fuck, it makes me wet just thinking about it.

Maybe I could have asked him to stay. Maybe it wouldn’t have hindered the show’s storyline. We could have spent the night together off-screen, and then simply pretended it hadn’t happened when we filmed the next episode.  After all, that’s what would have to happen with this kiss; since it wasn’t filmed, we would need to film a fake first kiss for the project still.

But despite the hiccup of this first kiss, we agreed the show would be best if we let the relationship progress in front of the audience. And I’m head over heels with the concept. I’m head over heels with Logan’s desire to create something authentic.

I am even, possibly—probably—a little head over heels with Logan himself. Or a lot.

Which is why I let him say goodnight. I let him walk away. I let him leave me with the promise that we’d see each other again soon, and I haven’t stopped thinking about him since.  

So when he sends over a rough edit of the footage two days after he left me on my doorstep, I don’t need to see it to remember how amazing he is and how incredible our date was, but I rush to play it all the same.

And wow. It’s fantastic. More than fantastic—it’s breathtaking. It’s art.

Too eager to wait until I’m at my computer to watch it, I stare transfixed at the screen of my iPhone and swoon all over again. It’s good. So, so good. I know I’m biased because I personally experienced what he’s captured, but it’s more than that. The angles he chose to shoot from, the way he cut the footage together—it’s beautiful and captivating and different than anything I’ve seen both in and out of the industry. I knew it was going to be good, but I’m surprised by how good.

I’m also surprised how well he captured the sexual tension between us. It’s so thick it’s palpable, and I’m certain that if I were a stranger watching these two people on the screen, I’d be dying for them to bang. Just like I’m dying for us to bang. I’m dying for it so badly I’m in agony.

But I’m excited too—about how good the footage has turned out, about being a part of this incredible and innovative art, about what’s happening between Logan and me on a personal level. So excited that my cheeks hurt from grinning by the time I reach the part of the video where I get out of the car.

The part that’s supposed to be the end.

But it doesn’t end there. It goes on, and soon I’m watching Logan run after me—not once, but twice—and then he’s ravishing me on my doorstep in what I’m certain has to be the hottest kiss ever captured by a camera.

My heart sinks with disappointment—not with the speed of a comet or a falling star, but with the slow descent of a hot air balloon. It takes me a minute to process that the most utterly thrilling moment of my life so far has been tainted by its preservation. Because now I’m uncertain whether he ran after me for me…or for this.

I slump onto a dining room chair. He couldn’t have faked that kiss. It’s impossible. Isn’t it? He was definitely aroused—I know that for a fact. His cock was a steel rod through his clothes.

But this is his job. He knows how to deliver a kiss. He has his dick trained to respond, too.

And what does it matter if it wasn’t real? It looked real. That’s what’s important. Nothing else.

Logan must have assumed I’d watch the clip as soon as he sent it over, and he must have kept an eye on the clock, because not two minutes after I’ve finished, he’s texting me. Well????

I haven’t quite pulled myself together, and all I can think is to answer honestly. I didn’t realize you filmed the kiss.

I left the camera running in the car. It could have turned out like shit recording through the window, but doesn’t it fucking rock?

He’s happy with the outcome—and he should be. It’s good! I just forgot for a moment that this isn’t a relationship; it’s a show. Anything else I thought it might be was just a misunderstanding on my part.

I text him what I should have said to begin with. It’s incredible, Logan. All of it. You’re so talented. Even I was convinced by the storyline.

Then I pull up Halsey on Spotify, turn my speakers on so the music will play via Bluetooth, and flip my phone upside down so the screen is facing the table and I can’t see it light up with calls or texts. It’s possible Logan will want more feedback or will want to chat, but he’ll have to wait. There’s laundry to put away and dishes to be done and a whole slew of “real” things that need my attention.

---

Tonight, let’s try to aim for oral.

I reread the text several times as I get ready for my next date with Logan. My stomach flutters like I’m in an airplane that’s taking off, and I have goose bumps in anticipation. I probably shouldn’t be this excited, but I’ve been looking forward to giving Logan head again since, well, since the last time I gave him head. Despite my disappointment over the last date’s footage, I’m psyched.

As I step out of the shower and towel off my hair, though, a voice inside asks, Are you sure getting excited is a good idea?

I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection. “There’s nothing wrong with looking forward to going to work,” I tell myself.  Especially when work is sex. “You just have to manage your expectations.”

Tonight, I expect that everything will be filmed, everything that happens will be for the show, and as long as I remember that, it’s going to be fun.

Satisfied with my pep talk, I use the night’s agenda to plan my wardrobe. Since it’s too hot for pants, I choose a short black skater skirt to wear paired with a loose blouse with spaghetti straps and a low neckline. My cleavage will look awesome when Logan looks down at me bowed before him. My knees are likely going to get scuffed or else my thighs are going to strain from squatting, but that’s fine—it’s part of the job.

It’s not until I start applying my makeup, and realize I’ve been grinning for almost an hour, that I start to reevaluate my anticipation. The thing is, it’s not just the sex I’m looking forward to. And it’s not just the job. It’s Logan—I’m looking forward to seeing him. I’m looking forward to seeing him a lot.

And maybe that’s a problem after all.

“This is fine,” I tell the Devi in the mirror. “It’s probably completely normal to have a crush on the first guy you had sex with on camera.” The only guy. And perhaps that’s the problem—I need more mainstream porn experience.

Logan’s project paid me a decent advance, but it’s a good idea to have something else lined up.

So when my agent happens to call a few minutes later with details about a lesbian shoot I have, I tell her I’m ready to book more.  I’m ready to take the next step and commit to a hetero scene with Hagen. “Can you please make sure he’s aware of all my limits and restrictions?”

“Do you want me to give him the same guidelines you gave Logan?”

The honest answer is no. I want things with him that I want with no one else. Which is why I tell her, “Yes.” Because I need to treat Logan’s job like any other, and that means treating every other job just like it’s a scene with Logan.

---

Logan already has the camera on when I open his car door twenty minutes later. It’s propped on his dashboard, and the minute I slide in, he slips his hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him. His kiss is fire and salt, and I’m dizzy when he eases up.

“Hello,” he says, his mouth still against mine. “I think I’ll be needing to do that a lot tonight.”

It’s for the show, but I melt. “Say hello?”

He grins and nods and then presses his lips around my lower one.

“Hello,” I say, breathless when we part again, and I suddenly don’t care if it is just for the camera because it has the same effect on me either way. And damn, the effect is amazing.

“I brought a picnic again.” He sounds apologetic. “It’s just so hard to obtain permits for most public places. Especially when I don’t have any intention of behaving.”

“Sounds good to me.” He’s the only thing I’m interested in putting in my mouth anyway.

He pulls out into traffic and then reaches over to lace his fingers in mine. “The picnic? Or not behaving?”

I shrug and smile coyly, partly for the camera, but mostly because I’m afraid if I speak, the only thing I’ll want to say is hello a few more times, or a thousand.

Logan doesn’t tell me where we’re going, save that it’s a ways out of town but totally worth it; he drives north and east, and two hours later we’re pulling off Templin Highway outside Angeles National Forest onto a wide gravel shoulder.

“Good. We’re alone.” He gives me a quick peck before turning off the engine and gesturing for me to get out of the car.

Logan sets up our picnic on the hood of his car, and even with his handheld a distinct presence, our meal of sushi and tsukemono paired with plum wine is absolute perfection. Between popping California rolls in our mouths, we kiss and make out like any two normal people who are attracted to each other and are newly going out.

Is that what we are—normal people? When I’m with him like this, and he’s touching me, and my blood is boiling in my veins, I actually believe we might be.

When the sun has set and we’ve finished both dinner and the bottle of wine, I realize why he’s brought me to this spot. “The stars,” I gasp. “They’re so clear here.”

“Impressed? Hint—you should say yes.”

My smile is so wide, I’m sure I look like a dork. “Yes.” I lose myself in the sky above me, searching out the patterns I know best, identifying their pinpoints silently in my head. Polaris, Orion, Rigel, Betelgeuse, Antares…

“Stay here.” Logan slides off the hood and disappears behind the car. I hear the trunk pop and a minute later he returns with a tripod. After extending the legs, he sets it on the ground, facing toward the hood of the car, and I swear my temperature rises a whole degree in anticipation of what he’s planning to film next.

I sit up, propping myself on my elbows, and watch him.

He can feel my gaze. I’m sure of it. But he doesn’t react to it, and as he begins to fasten the camera to the tripod, he glances behind him at the horizon and nods. “What stars are those?”

I follow the line to find the two brightest lights at the end of it. “They’re actually not stars at all. That’s Jupiter,” I point to the one higher in the sky, then at the lower one, “and that’s Venus.”

“Planets, then. Are they always that close to each other?”

“No. And they’re not really close. It’s an illusion. Venus is our closest neighbor and is about the same size as Earth. Jupiter is far away, but since it’s so big, it looks the same size at this distance. As the Earth rotates, they can look like they’re closer or farther apart depending on how the horizon lines up.”

I realize my scientific explanation probably sounds serious and bland so I add, “My father says they’re the lovers Layla and Majnun, immortalized forever in the sky. The two have been dancing nearer to each other all month. Later, they’ll get so close they’ll look like they’re kissing.”

Apparently done fiddling with the camera, he straightens and moves toward me. “Kissing’s nice,” he says. Then he leans down to kiss the inside of my knee.

Electricity shoots through my body like a bolt of lightning. “Yes.” Does my voice sound as thin to him as it does to me? “Especially because Layla and Majnun never actually touched on Earth.”

“That’s tragic.” His fingers graze the spot he kissed then begin trailing the line of my leg.

I shiver. “Very.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Well.” I take a breath, using the sky to center myself, to focus on what I’m saying instead of the blistering scorch of his touch. “The story dates back to seventh century Persia with Qays, the son of a wealthy and powerful descendent of Muhammad known as a Sayyid. When he’s just a boy, Qays meets Layla at school and they immediately fall in love.”

“As boys do.”

“As boys do.” Goose pimples skate down my arms even as I try to ignore what this boy is doing. It’s hard to think while his hands—both of them now—caress a pathway up the inside of my thighs.

But he urges me to go on, so I do. “Qays is so inspired by his love that he writes her endless letters and poems and songs and then recites them on the street corners for anyone who passes by to hear. Soon, the community starts referring to him as Majnun, which means madman, because his passion for Layla is so great it’s mistaken for insanity.”

Right now, I’m about to mistake my own passion for insanity because Logan’s journey has reached my panties and the nearness of his caress to my most wanting body part is driving me mad. His fingers wrap around the waistband, and I lift my hips so that he can draw the thin garment down my legs and over my sandals.

With a sly smirk, he stuffs my underwear into the pocket of his jeans. “He’s crazy with desire?”

“Yes,” I say on a hiss.

“I think I might know something about that.” He pushes my skirt up, and my legs spread automatically to bare my pussy for him. His stare is intense as he brushes his fingers across my trimmed curls, lust burned into his expression. “Go on,” he says, tracing up and down along my slit.  

“Uh.” I’m so wet, so aroused. “Mm. Majnun gets the courage to go to Layla’s father. And he asks for her hand in marriage, but he’s denied. How could any father allow a union between his daughter and a crazy person? It would ruin the family reputation. Instead, she’s wed to an older man in a neighboring village.”

“She marries someone else? That’s terrible.” Logan dips inside my hole and pulls my wetness up to paint my clit with it.

“Devastating,” I moan.

“So what does Majnun do?”

“He’s, uh.” My body is already tightening with pleasure as Logan draws constellations on my clit with his fingertips. “He’s overcome. With grief. He spends the rest of his life mourning their love. Wandering the wilderness in solitude. Composing poems for Layla. If he hadn’t been mad before, he surely is now. Driven there by a broken heart.”

Logan is driving me crazy as well, delivering a touch so precisely gentle that it makes me wriggle and buck up against him, begging for more with my body.

He responds by reducing his pressure even further. “And what does Layla do about Majnun’s broken heart?” he asks. “Does she even care?”

“Yes, she cares,” I whisper. “She loves him. Secretly.” I’m so quiet he has to be almost still to hear me, his only movement now the rise and fall of his chest and the probing of his fingers. “So she lives ‘between the water of her tears and the fire of her love.’ She hears the songs and poems that he’s written for her because they’re everywhere now.”

His eyes lock on mine. He’s enrapt and I can tell that he’s as tortured as I am.

“One day,” my voice is low and shaky like my legs, but it still commands his attention, “she meets an old man who, uh, mm,” (Jesus, I’m going to come!) “wants to help them. Help them exchange letters. Then, for one night only, he helps them meet. But they have to stay ten paces from each other.”

“He can’t even touch her from ten paces away.” Logan’s voice is as quiet as mine is, as threadbare.

“No, he can’t.” My palms are sweaty against the hood of the car, and my control is slipping. I’m so worked up that I know my release is going to be tumultuous.

“So sad.” With palms braced on my inner thighs, Logan bends down and draws my clit into his mouth.

This—this is definitely not sad.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

He licks and sucks, and I fall apart, coming in a sudden rush that is both unexpected and a relief.  With a moan, I curl upward in a crunch and clutch onto his hair for support.

I thought I remembered what this felt like—how his mouth on my most erogenous zone turns me into pudding and short-circuits my senses.

I was wrong. This is so much more than I remember. So much more incredible/arousing/overwhelming/perfect than I remember. It’s a feeling that’s too intense to be able to commit to memory, I realize, and the fragments that I can preserve are feeble souvenirs. No wonder Majnun was so prolific where Layla was concerned—he wanted to remember everything, every bit of their time together just like I want to remember every bit of this time with Logan.

When my stomach muscles relax, when I can finally fit air in my lungs again, I lay back on the hood, sated and spent.

But Logan’s not done.

He blows a warm stream of air over my damp pussy. “What happens next, Devi?” He traces a line around my hole with his finger. “Tell me what happens with Majnun and Layla when they meet but can’t touch. What does he do instead?” He blows again, this time plunging two long digits inside me.

And, fuck, I’m already winding up again.

I start to writhe, but Logan holds me in place. “What does he do, Devi?”

“He tells her the things he wants to do to her,” I gasp. That’s not exactly how the story goes. In traditional versions, Majnun spills his heart out in poetry, and I’d never assumed it was sexual language.

But now I’m certain that was what he spoke to her—how could he finally be so close to her and not let her know all the ways he wanted her?

“What things?” Logan crooks his fingers, rubbing the area I like to call the Control Panel because once I’m touched there, I lose all control.

In a rush of words, I say, “He tells it all—how he wants to put his hands on her, how he wants to lick her and kiss her and be inside her and twist her up and break her down. He tells her with such vivid description that she comes just from his words.”

“Yes,” Logan says before circling his tongue around my clit.

“He tells her everything, in every word, in every way. Then, at dawn, they go their separate ways.”

“And then?” He continues to tease with his finger and his mouth.

“And then Layla dies, and Majnun dies of grief beside her tomb. The legend says that they meet each other in paradise and spend eternity together.”

“That’s not where you say it ends.” Logan’s lips tickle against me as he talks, and I shudder.

“No. It’s not. My father says that’s a foolish ending, told only as a moral lesson for those who fear worldly lust. He insists instead that the lovers remained star-crossed, even in death, and that they exist now as Venus and Jupiter, far, far apart in the night skies. But every now and then, they meet and spend a night of love and passion together before parting again at dawn. Like tonight.”

Logan stands up, but only long enough to fold my legs in toward my stomach. His eyes scan hungrily over my cunt. “Keep going.” His words are marinated in heavy desire. “You stop, I stop.”

“The story is over.” I sound desperate because I am. I don’t think I can take any more of his torture, but I’m certain I can’t stand it if he stops.

“Then tell me another,” he says, and so I do. I tell him another and another and another, dredging up every myth I’ve ever been told about the constellations and the planets and the balls of fire that flicker and flame above us until I release again. And then again. And I can’t talk anymore, drunk on coming. Drunk on Logan and this night and the poetry he’s written in my most private parts.

Still, he doesn’t let up.

I’m limp and sweat-soaked when he straightens and tugs me up to meet him. With his fingers still buried inside of me, his mouth finds mine, his lips are smeared with my wetness and his tongue is thick with my taste, and the kiss he gives me turns me inside out.

Soon he pulls away and mumbles at my ear, so softly that I wonder if he’s forgotten that he’s filming or if he’s just gotten too caught up to care, because there’s no way the camera is picking up these words. “You’re making me so hard, Devi.” He grinds against the curve of my ass, proving his point. “My cock is fucking lead because of you.”

Unbelievably, this turns me on even more. I tighten around his finger, and he groans. “You should pay for this. For being such a tease. For making me this goddamned turned on.”

I close my eyes as yet another climax crests, but he jerks my chin up toward him.

“Look at me,” he says, and I do. His features are strained as if he’s the one close to orgasm instead of me. As if giving me pleasure is as intense for him as it is for me to receive. It’s shocking and thrilling and perfect and I can’t look away, both because he’s told me not to and because he’s too beautiful not to look at. Especially with his face framed by the night behind him, the tiny dots of stars twinkling like candles he’s lit just for me.

But the brightest lights before me are the twin sparks in his eyes as he urges, “give it to me. Give it to me.”

And then the stars are falling, shooting across his face, across my vision, and I understand why Juliet paired her thoughts of orgasm with Romeo cut up into stars and preserved forever as a constellation. Because I will now forever pair this bliss with Logan and the heavenly bodies above me now.

I’m gasping against his mouth, tears are falling from my eyes, and every muscle in my body is vibrating with this release—this orgasm so violent, so intense, that I’m sure my heart has stalled.

“Jesus, Devi! Yes! Yes.” He’s pleased. Excited by the potency of my climax. “More. Give it to me. Give it all to me.”

I shatter around him, until I’m nothing, nothing, nothing,

I’m also desperate to do to him what he’s done to me, so when I’m able to move my limbs again, I sit up, into his kiss, and fumble to get into his pants. Eagerly, he gropes my breast, half climbing on top of me as he bucks against my hands, muttering for me to hurry with my task.

But before I even have his belt undone, red and blue lights streak through the now pitch black night, and the headlights of a police car land on the road beside us.

“Fuuuuck,” Logan says, sliding off of me. He turns away toward the camera and a second later I see the red record light disappear.

I sit up, and smooth my skirt over my thighs then run my fingers through my hair, so that I’m—hopefully—presentable by the time the cop gets out of his car and approaches us.

“Good evening,” he says in greeting.

“Hello, officer.” I give him my flirtiest grin. In my periphery, I see Logan pull down his shirt to cover his erection.

The cop narrows his eyes, surveying the scene in front of him. “What are you two doing out here tonight?”

“Just looking at the stars,” Logan says, turning to join the conversation. He points to the sky. “That’s Jupiter and Venus over there. Do you want to see my Wilderness Pass?”

“Not necessary.” The officer never takes his eyes off us. There’s no way he’s fooled. The scent of sex is clinging heavily to me, and I’m sure my hair is even more mussed than Logan’s.

With a knowing shake of his head, the policeman says, “It’s probably best you get moving on now.”

“Yep. Going.” Logan is already loading up the camera and tripod. I clean up the remains of our dinner, and within a handful of minutes, we’re in the Mustang, driving down the highway back toward the lights of the city.

And then another minute, and we burst into laughter. I laugh so hard my eyes water and my sides hurt by the time I can speak. “Wow. That was a first.” I wipe at the tears running down my cheeks.

“I’ve had cops shoo me away from locations before, but always because I have a hard time remembering to carry a permit. Or to get one in the first place.”

Another fit of giggles rips through me.

“Pretty sure this is the first time my dick didn’t go limp the minute I saw the lights though.” He lifts his hips to adjust himself, and a pang of guilt runs through me, silencing my laughs. He got me off so many times, and he’s still stone hard.

The guilt is gone in a flash and replaced with a yearning so deep, so intense, I’ve never felt anything like it. My mouth waters, and suddenly I have to have him in my mouth. Not because I feel sorry for the blue balls he’s sporting, but because I need to please him. I need to stroke his cock and suck him off and watch him fall to pieces in front of me.

Or, perhaps, not quite that far. He’s driving, after all.

Without any preamble, I undo my seatbelt and lean across the console to work on his pants. His cock leaps as my palm grazes his granite erection. Damn, he’s hard. My chest flutters with anticipation.

But even though Logan groans at my touch, he says, “You don’t have to do that, Devi.”

“I want to.” Translation: I’m greedy for it. “I can’t leave you like this.” Translation: I can’t leave me like this.

“Don’t worry about me.” Then, when I’m still fumbling with his zipper, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gently nudges me off. Nudges me away.

Slowly, I sit up. Confusion follows surprise, and I study him with disbelief.

He glances toward me, and my expression must be transparent, because he says, “I think this episode will have more of an impact if you don’t reciprocate this time. You know, it’s more of a romantic gesture this way. It’s better. For the show.”

“Right. The show.” That sinking feeling from the day before returns, but then I glance at Logan’s profile, and it hits me—he’s as mixed up about all this as I am. It’s written all over his face. He’s longing. He’s conflicted. He’s nobler than he realizes.

It’s possible that I’m making it all up, that I’m seeing things that aren’t there. But the camera’s off. That look on his face is genuine, and I know that expression. It’s the same one that met me in the mirror when I got ready tonight.

I settle back into my seat, and with my elbow propped on the door, I chew on my knuckle and try to dissect the strange discontentment that has crept over me. Yes, I like the guy. There’s no dancing around that fact. But what’s going on with him? Why is he pushing me away when his body language and his body parts are telling me he wants, wants, wants?

Is it me? Is it my age? Is he still hung up on his ex? Has the industry jaded him against relationships in general?

The truth is, I don’t know him well enough to begin to form any real answer. What I do know is that no matter how real this chemistry is between us, he’s a closed set. No matter what he reveals on camera, he’s not letting me in any further than that.

“Star-crossed,” I say, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us. “I think that’s what you should call the show.”

“Star-crossed?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s good. I like it.”

I don’t have to wonder why he accepts my suggestion so readily. I’m sure it’s because he realizes as well as I do how fitting of a title it is to describe us—two lovers never meant to be together who meet occasionally in the night.