My life was a masterclass in "almost." I had the face of a god, the bank account of a beggar, and a past that felt like a slow-motion car crash. College wasn't an option; my tuition fund had been spent on survival before I even hit puberty.
But I had one gift: I was a natural-born sybarite. I learned early on that while I couldn't buy a meal, I could certainly trade a few hours of sweat for one. By twenty, I wasn't just good in bed—I was a weapon.
"You're wasted on me, Andrew," my favorite regular, Bridget, had whispered while tracing idle circles on my chest after a three-hour marathon. "You perform like a pro. You should be getting paid to ruin lives, not just mine."
That was the spark. I thought the adult industry would be my golden ticket.
Fifty scenes later, I was still a 'mid-tier' stallion.
I made enough to keep the lights on and the fridge stocked with cheap beer, but I wasn't a star. I was a "workhorse"—the guy they called when the lead actor flaked. A reliable, well-hung body that stayed hard on command but never got the top billing.
Then came the call from Bruce. The big one. A feature with Jessie Reagan.
The Queen Mother of MILF porn. The woman who had been the lead architect of my teenage fantasies. I'd gooned to her clips so many times I could probably map the curve of her labia from memory. This wasn't just a shoot; this was my coronation.
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I stood by the edge of the king-sized prop bed, buck naked and throbbing. My cock was already a steel rod, straining toward the ceiling before the lighting cues were even set. Around me, the crew moved like shadows. I could hear the muffled snickers of the cameramen—they knew.
They saw the "mid-tier" kid vibrating with enough nervous energy to power the whole studio.
My heart was slamming against my ribs like a caged animal.
"Relax, Dre," Director Bruce called out, his eyes glued to the monitor. He noticed the beads of sweat rolling down my abs. "Your heart is visible through your damn chest. Breathe, kid. We need a performance, not a cardiac event. We start rolling in sixty seconds."
In. Out. I tried to channel that cold, professional detachment I'd cultivated over fifty shoots. I told myself she was just another actress. Just another body.
Then the door opened.
The smell hit me first—a suffocating mix of expensive vanilla, bourbon, and the scent of a woman who knew she owned every man in the room. Jessie Reagan didn't just walk in; she reclaimed the air. She was draped in a silk robe that looked like it was holding back a goddamn explosion.
Her eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto mine. She didn't look at my face; she looked straight down at my trembling, vein-split erection and smirked.
"So," she purred, her voice a low vibration that made my vision blur. "This is the new toy Bruce promised me? I hope he doesn't break easily."
"He's good, didn't you watch the videos I sent you?"Bruce said.
"I don't watch other people's videos," Jessie said, her voice cutting through the studio hum like a silk blade. "I only watch the ones I'm in. You sure this 'Dre' is as good as the hype, Bruce? He looks like he's about to vibrate out of his skin."
Fuck. Focus, Andrew. Don't be a fanboy. Be a professional.
"He's just spooked," Bruce countered, though I could hear the doubt creeping into his tone. "Once the red light hits, he's a machine. Best stamina in the mid-tier circuit."
A few muffled snickers erupted from the lighting crew. "He looks green as hell. Look at him sweat. Is he leaking or is that the gym?"
"Someone get Dre a towel!" Bruce barked. "God, what is wrong with you today? You're ruining the matte finish on your chest."
A PA scurried over and jammed a rough towel into my hands. I wiped my face, my hands trembling so hard I almost dropped it. The fabric felt like sandpaper against my hyper-sensitized skin.
"You good, bro?" Bruce asked, leaning in close.
"Never better," I lied. My voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
"Can we shoot now?" Jessie sighed, sounding bored. "I have a flight to Vegas in four hours."
I managed a stiff nod. "Yes, ma'am. Ready."
Bruce stepped back, gripping the megaphone. "Positions! Lighting is set. Sound is rolling... and... ACTION!"
The air in the room died. Jessie walked towards me. She moved toward in a slow catwalk, her eyes never leaving my face. Then, with a flick of her wrists, the silk robe pooled at her feet like a discarded skin.
There she was.
The legend in the flesh. Her breasts were masterpieces of soft, heavy curves, topped with dark, pebble-hard nipples that seemed to point directly at my soul. Below, her waist tapered into the kind of hips that were built for wreckage, leading down to a manicured, dark thicket of hair that pulsed with the musk of a woman in her prime. She was a goddamn sun, and I was flying too close.
My heart began to stutter.
Thump-thump... skip. Thump... skip.
I've done this fifty times. I've fucked models and starlets. Why now? Why her?
Then she was in my space. The heat radiating off her skin felt like a furnace. The vanilla-bourbon scent of her perfume clogged my throat, making every breath a struggle.
"I want to feel you stretching me out, Dre," she whispered, her lips brushing against the shell of my ear. Her warm breath sent a violent shiver down my spine that ended right in my straining cock. "Do you think you can actually handle a woman like me? Or are you all talk?"
Then, she reached out. Her hand—cool, soft, and terrifying—wrapped around the base of my shaft.
It was the trigger.
The electrical surge of her touch collided with the frantic, irregular rhythm of my heart. A blinding flash of white light exploded behind my eyes. It felt like a tectonic plate had just shifted in my chest, crushing my lungs under a thousand tons of rock.
"Bruce..." I tried to gasp, but my throat was a desert.
The world tilted. Jessie's smirk turned into a look of confusion, then horror, as my eyes rolled back. I wasn't going to be a star. I was going to be a headline.