I, Porn Star (I #1)(2)

By: Zara Cox


Missy’s lips purse, then part, as if she’s about to plead her case. The burly guard who enters the room and taps her on the shoulder convinces her words have lost their meaning at this point.

I turn to the last screen.

Her eyes are downcast. Her lashes are long enough to make me wonder if I have another fake on my hands. I sigh, then take in the rest of her face. No makeup, or barely any if she made the effort. Her lips are plump, lightly glossed. I use the controls on the remote to zoom in. There’s a tiny mole on the left side of her face, right above her upper lip. Not fake.

I zoom out, examine the rest of her that I can see. Her grey T-shirt is worn to the point of threadbare, and her collarbones are a little too pronounced. Malnourishment wouldn’t be a crowd-pleaser, but that problem can be easily taken care of.

Beneath the T-shirt, her chest rises and falls in steady breathing, although the pulse hammering at her throat gives her away. I zoom in on the pulse. The skin overlaying it is smooth, almost silky, with the faintest wisps of caramel blonde hair feathering it.

Something about her draws me forward to the edge of my seat. I like her pretended composure. Most people fidget under the glare of a camera.

My gaze flicks to her skeleton bio. “Lucky.”

Slowly, she raises her head. Her eyelids flick up. Her eyes are a cross between green and hazel with a natural dark rim that pronounces its vividness. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but something about that look in her eye sparks my interest.

Hell, if I had a heart, I’d swear it just missed a beat.

“Is that your real name?”

She shrugs. “It might as well be,” she murmurs.

Fuck, I have another liar on my hands. “Cryptic may be sexy if you’re auditioning to be the next Bond Girl. It’s not going to work here. Tell me your real name. Or leave.”

“No.” Her voice is a sexy husk, enough to distract me for a second before her answer sinks in.

“No?”

“With respect, you’re tucked away behind a camera issuing orders. I get that you hold the cards in this little shindig. But I’m not going to show you all of mine right from the start. My name, for the purposes of this interview, is Lucky. It may not officially be on my birth certificate, but I’ve responded to it since I was fifteen years old. That’s all you need to know.”

Well…fuck. I note with detached surprise that I’m almost within a whisker of cracking a smile.

I rub my gloved finger over my mouth, torn between letting her get away with mouthing off to me this way, and sending her packing.

Sure, she intrigues me. And whatever relevant truth I need would be dug out before she signs on the dotted line, should it come to that. But for this to work, she needs to obey my commands, no questions asked.

“Stand up. Move away from the camera until you reach the wall.”

She rises without question, restoring a little goodwill in her favor. Moving the chair out of her way, she backs up slowly. The hem of her loose T-shirt rests on top of faded jeans. Even before she’s fully exposed to the camera, I catch my first glimpse of the hourglass figure wrapped in the petite frame. She’s a fifties pinup girl dressed in cheap clothes. Her breasts are full but not quite double Ds, her thighs and calves shapely enough to stop traffic, with a naturally golden skin tone denoting a possible mid-west upbringing.

She’s knock-out potential—subject to several nourishing meals. But I’ve seen enough and done enough in this twisted life of mine to know her body isn’t what would draw attention. It’s the look in her eyes. The secrets and shadows she is trying hard to batten down. They’re almost eating her alive.

I don’t really give a shit what those secrets are. But the chance to fuck them…to fuck with them, expose them to my cameras, sparks a sinister flame inside me.

“Turn around, let your hair down.”

Her fingers twitch at her sides for a second before she faces the wall. One hand reaches up and pulls the band securing the loose knot on top of her head.

Caramel and gold tresses cascade down her back. Thick enough to swallow my hands, her wavy hair reaches past her waist, the tapered ends brushing the top of her perfectly rounded ass.

I watch her for a few minutes, then speak into the mic distorting my voice. “Do you have any distinguishing birth marks I should know about, Lucky?”

The question sinks in. Her back goes rigid for a second before she forces herself to relax. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“At the top of my thigh,” she responds.

“Show me,” I reply, although I don’t really need to see it. My carefully selected stylists can disguise any unseemly marks.

Hot Read

Last Updated

Recommend

Top Books