I, Porn Star (I #1)(6)

By: Zara Cox


“Quinn—”

“Are we done, Doctor?”

“I need you to start opening up a bit more—”

“Are. We. Done?”

“For today, yes.”

“Thank fuck. Do me a favor? Please stop pretending you know everything about me. You only know what I share with you in this room.” I crack my knuckles again, a disgusting habit I’ve never been able to quit. I wait for her to close her leather-bound notebook and set it down on the table next to her. When her blue eyes return to me, I sit back and eye her. “Stand up.” She does as instructed. “Turn around, face the door. Is it locked?”

She shakes her head. “No.” Her professionalism is gone and her voice shakes with excitement. For a second, I yearn for a slice of that excitement, but what the hell. I’m about to pass a decent ten minutes.

“Good. Take off your clothes.”

The prim black suit comes off, followed by her cream silk blouse. She folds the clothes away and straightens. I take in her tightly knotted hair, the gold clasp of the pearls resting at her nape, the dove-grey lace underwear, the garters, the heels.

My ennui intensifies.

“Turn around.”

She obeys. Her front is marginally improved by a decent rack. I stare objectively. She’s beautiful, if a little on the too-thin side. Her legs are shapely, hips and thighs lean and toned. My gaze rises to her face and I read the myriad of emotions fleeting over her features. None of them touch me. The black poison seeping through me deadens me from the inside. I lay my head against the chair and shut my eyes.

“Take the rest off and come here,” I say.

Her approach halts two feet from me.

I smell her pungent arousal. She’s as wet as fuck, and I wish I were in the mood to fuck her. My hands drop palms down beside my thighs on the sofa.

It’s the tacit permission she needs to drop to her knees. She tugs at my belt and unbuttons my pants. Cool hands reach into my briefs and she pulls me out. I hear her excited gasp a second before her greedy mouth closes over my flaccid head. Saliva lands on my dick and eager hands rub me up and down. Muscle memory kicks in.

The spark is there, but it’s pathetically negligible.

I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling. In my periphery, I see her head bob up and down, faster and faster to keep me interested. I count the sconces, then drop my gaze lower to examine the genuine masterpieces and numerous accolades draping the walls. Absently, I count them. Twelve impressive citations.

Adriana Nathanson is accomplished.

But clearly she’s getting progressively worse at sucking cock.

I sigh loudly. She bobs faster. One hand creeps over my abs and up my chest.

“No.”

She returns it to my cock.

I sigh again.

I’m being blown by my thousand-dollars-an-hour shrink, one of the most acclaimed in New York City. She’s bare-assed naked and on her knees with her office door unlocked. Depending on who walks in, she could lose her license. I should be excited.

Instead, I’m losing my barely-awakened wood.

Just as I’m about to push her off me, a face slides into my mind.

Lucky.

My cock twitches back to life. Adriana moans and gags with happiness as I thicken in her mouth. My eyes drift shut and the image sharpens. Tumbling caramel hair replaces ice blonde. Worn T-shirt replaces pearls. A full, soft pink mouth wraps around my cock, tongue swirling. A teasing graze of teeth along my thick vein. I roll my hips. She takes more of me into her mouth. I hit the back of her throat. She growls low and long, her membrane vibrating against my cock head.

Air expels in a half gasp. The veil shrouding my ennui ripples, attempts to lift. Sea green eyes rest on me as she devours me.

Her hand creeps over my abs and up my chest.

My eyes blink open.

Adriana.

“No,” I snarl again. Disappointment blackens my mood.

Her hand returns to my cock and she attempts to deep throat me. I’m too big for her. Her gag sickens me.

“Stop.”

Shock hits her eyes. My deflating dick pops out of her mouth, wet and heavy.

“Quinn? Is something w—?”

“Get the fuck off me.”

She has the nerve to appear hurt. Rapid blinks designed to imitate held-back tears makes my mouth twist. To her credit, she retreats without protest.

I tuck myself back in and zip up. She’s hurrying into her clothes as I stand and buckle my belt.

“Next week, same time?” I drawl sarcastically.

She pauses mid-dress. “I can fit you in later this week, if you want?”

I know why she’s offering. My father is back in town. And perhaps the rare chance that I might fuck her. “I don’t want.”

Concern attempts to shift her Botoxed forehead. “Quinn, I’m really worried about you,” she murmurs.

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