Even with all the windows open to tempt any trace of cross breeze, and the lights off, she couldn’t get cool. Her bedroom was worse. A blistering inferno without the benefit of a ceiling fan. Everett had neglected to mention the house’s lack of air-conditioning when he offered her free rent. She’d changed into an old cotton nightgown that evoked comforting memories of wistfully journaling in her girlhood bedroom, even if it didn’t quite fit her the same way it had when she was twelve.
She stared at the ceiling and tried to blow a long strand of damp hair off her forehead. Clara mentally recited the reasons that finding out any more information about Josh’s professional prowess would ruin her life.
One, seeing him naked would make it impossible for her to ever speak to him again without spasming into a tornado of awkwardness. Which meant, by extension, she could no longer ask him to reach things off the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets. She’d already stored several bottles of expensive shampoo up there.
Two, she might see something completely reprehensible, forcing her to confront him on the basis of her feminist morals. Those types of interventions had high price tags in terms of both time and energy.
Three, what if he had a weird penis? She supposed he probably didn’t, otherwise they likely wouldn’t have cast him. Did they have some kind of checklist for porn-ready genitalia?
Her mind crept back to unbidden curiosity, shunning all ideas of alternate entertainment, food, or sleep.
Fine. A quick, cursory search. In and out.
Like his dick.
Oh lord.
Josh had left a note on the fridge. Dinner meeting after work. Home late.
It was only seven. Plenty of time for a quick information-gathering session. By the time her roommate returned, she’d have slaked her curiosity and put on some sleep shorts.
Clara swung her legs off the sofa and padded across the carpet on bare feet, unconsciously tiptoeing. She grabbed her trusty laptop from its resting place on her desk and carried it back to the living room.
Imagining herself as a secret agent, hunting for information in enemy territory with bated breath, she flopped back down stomach-first on the sofa and tucked one ankle behind the other. Opening a private browsing window, she typed in Josh Darling.
Pretending her mission served a higher purpose, like perhaps defending national security, made it easier to click on the first link she found, an article about how Josh stood out among the fabric of the porn industry.
Is Josh Darling evolving porn? In an industry that famously caters to the male gaze, Darling has quietly stolen scenes for almost two years with his signature smolder and his reputation for prioritizing his female co-star’s pleasure. Unlike mainstream media portrayals of female desire, Josh Darling is not afraid to get up close and personal with the clitoris. Industry insiders clamor to work with him, and audiences will do the (increasingly) unthinkable to watch him: pay.
His boy-next-door looks may appear unassuming, but his magnetism defies definition, especially when he plays opposite his fiery on-again-off-again girlfriend, Naomi Grant. Executives for Black Hat Studios, who hold Darling’s exclusive contract, widely credit the smokestack duo with bringing in female audiences across age groups. While Miss Grant’s long-limbed grace rivets, to watch Josh Darling perform is to witness a master perfecting his craft. In the age of lukewarm hookups and rampant dick pics, Darling gives women a reason to believe sex is still worth getting out of bed.
Clara couldn’t help noticing that the article linked to a video.
Her fingers tingled against the keyboard, and her heartbeat kicked up like a sprinter’s before a race. How sad was it that just thinking about watching this content was more exciting than the past six months of her sex life?
For God’s sake, woman, it’s just a little porn.
With a quick glance behind her at the closed front door, she hit play.
The video opened with a pretty redhead swimming in what looked like a small community pool. Her statuesque body sported a perfect golden tan that glistened as she completed expert butterfly strokes.
Clara hadn’t expected the woman in the video to look so lovely. The camera traveled appreciatively over her body underwater, panning across her tight red suit—Clara rolled her eyes—before pulling back to reveal none other than Josh, roommate and apparent porn heartthrob, in a lifeguard’s uniform, complete with a sunscreen-covered nose and aviators, perched atop a guard’s chair high above the water.
Even though she knew what to expect, the sight of him caused a hitch in her breath. As she watched, he arranged his long limbs casually across the chair as he intently watched the swimmer’s strokes.
Clara saw immediately why women liked watching him. Unlike stereotypical male porn stars, he didn’t sport unnatural muscles. He carried his slim but toned frame with an ease that she supposed must come with having the kind of penis that qualified you as a porn star.
Her eyes snagged on his face. Even hidden behind sunglasses, she could feel the pull of his eyes, currently directed at his co-star. They dared you to jump and promised to catch you. Apparently, he could turn the smolder on and off at will.
The gorgeous girl’s swimming faltered, her pretend “drowning” a transparent play for the lifeguard’s attention.
Without missing a beat, Josh whipped off his T-shirt and glasses and dove in for a quick rescue. Once he pulled the damsel to safety and had her laid out on a nearby lounge chair, he began resuscitation efforts that looked quite different from what Clara had learned as a camp counselor.
As Josh set to work divesting the revived athlete of her swimsuit, Clara paid special attention to the way he performed—although the word performed didn’t quite fit.
Josh and his co-star didn’t look like two actors getting paid. Now that the pretense of the “plot” had ended, they seemed merely like two people who really had the hots for each other.
Clara fanned herself with her hand, having grasped why this video in particular had caught the eye of the article’s reporter.
Lifeguard Josh somehow conveyed with alarming dexterity that he found his co-star simultaneously the sexiest woman he had ever seen and also his best friend. The undercurrent of trust and intimacy made Clara want to look away almost as much as it made her want to press her thighs together.
The enthusiasm with which he explored that woman’s body seemed impossibly sexy. Like he couldn’t get enough of her. And if her wails of pleasure acted as any indication, the feeling was mutual. Clara couldn’t help but compare the on-screen enactment to her own decidedly less enthusiastic experiences.
She had a problem. Josh repositioned on screen. A huge problem.
Either Josh Darling had transcended her current definition of intercourse or someone needed to alert the Academy that he was the best actor in the world.