A drip of lime juice trails down from her lip, down her chin—she sets her lime in the shot glass and reaches up to wipe it away.
“May I?” I ask huskily, unable to hold myself back from what I’m about to do, moving forward in my seat toward her.
She nods her consent, and I can see it there; the hunger in her eyes is matching mine. I cup her jaw with my left hand, and she tilts her head into my palm. Bringing my lips closer to hers, I see her eyes widen–with shock or delight, I’m not sure—but she leans into me slightly and that’s all I need.
Flicking my tongue out against the soft skin of her face, I slowly lick up the trail of lime juice. She whimpers softly, then gasps as I slowly trail my tongue over the juice until I reach her lips. I pull away, still cupping her jaw.
Bex inhales sharply, panting—I feel my heart beating about the same as hers.
“Holy fuck,” I growl.
“Same,” Bex says, catching her breath. We stare at each other for a beat before I drop my hand, and she takes a sip of her beer.
I know what I was thinking, that I didn’t want to fuck her tonight, but the second she let out that whimper, I could sense my plans changing. Our plans are changing, because I see it in her eyes too.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Back to the questions. Where are you from?”
Bex stares at me for a moment, then laughs. Her laugh is gorgeous, just like her, and as she puts a hand to her chest, I feel a wave of warmth roll over me. A matching smile spreads across my face and, as she stops laughing and lowers her hand, she says, “I’ve been all over. Came from Chicago by way of California, but I’ve been living in Vegas for the last few years.” She tilts her head at me. “What about you?”
“Somewhat the same,” I say. “Grew up in Montana, joined the Marines for a bit, then settled out in Los Angeles.”
“Marines, huh? I didn’t realize former Marines could be porn stars,” she says, smirking.
Leaning in, I lower my voice and say, “I’m not actually sure there are rules about it, to be honest.”
“Mmmm,” she responds, and I can see the wheels in her head turning again.
We talk for another hour, back and forth with questions. The questions are mostly basic, but it’s far from boring. Hearing about her favorite book or why she misses Autumn in Chicago has me captivated.
As Janie is sliding us another round, a voice booms to my right, followed by a strong thump on my back. I turn sharply, ready to snap at a drunk asshole, but I break out into a grin as I see one of my favorite scene partners sidling up.
“Well, if it isn’t Frank-fucking-Moro!”
Ritchie Goode is towering next to me, motioning for me to stand so he can give me a hug. He’s an industry friend I made when I first started out and have kept in semi-touch with over the last few decades. Ritchie has the classic adult film star look—short, dark hair with a handlebar mustache; he doesn’t give a shit about being discreet.
“Jesus, Ritchie, a little warning next time?” I ask, laughing as I stand up, the two of us embracing. “I was about to throw a punch.”
“Ah, you always liked it a bit rough, eh?” He laughs as we part, but he keeps his arm swung around my shoulder. “How you been? Ready for your big ‘I’m old as fuck’ award in a few months?”
Glancing quickly over at Bex, I see she’s trying to give me time for this private convo. She’s got her phone out and is scrolling through social media.
“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be good times,” I say, patting his chest, but he still doesn’t release me. He’s staring at Bex now.
“And who is this gorgeous doll?” Ritchie says, removing his hand from my shoulders and reaching a hand out toward Bex.
She politely sets her phone down and gives him a small smile. I can sense she’s nervous or uncomfortable, especially since everything about Ritchie—from his mustache to his bulky frame—screams porn star, but she extends her hand, anyway. “I’m Bex,” she says in a small voice that I haven’t yet heard—and I kind of hate it, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
Ritchie takes her hand and drops a kiss to the same spot where Bex just licked salt off. For some reason, I feel my blood pressure ticking up.
“Lovely to meet you, Bex. I’m Ritchie, and since this guy probably won’t tell you, he and I used to be the best tag team in the business,” Ritchie says, releasing her hand and jerking his thumb toward me. I’m thankful he doesn’t ask how we know each other—he probably just assumes she’s another woman I’ve picked up somewhere, and quite honestly, she is. But this feels like more than that, and I don’t feel like trying to explain, mostly because I can’t explain it myself yet.
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Fucking ages ago, man. Not even sure you should still be bragging about that.”
“Bitch, of course I’m gonna brag about that! I can count on one hand the number of awards I’ve won at this thing, and three of those were team awards with you, you fucker!” Ritchie slaps my chest, laughing again.
“‘Tag team?” Bex asks quietly. She looks innocent as fuck when she asks this, and I feel a smack of reality slap me hard. Bexisinnocent and, as much as that’s a turn on for me, it’s also so far outside of my sphere of “normal” that our incompatibility seems laughable.
Wait, compatibility? When did my subconscious start plotting out anything longer than a night or two with this woman?
