Dating a Po*nstar is Hard

28: I Deserve Him

The moment my car door closes, I burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that makes my stomach hurt and tears stream down my face. I pound the steering wheel, gasping for breath between fits of hysterics.

“Oh my God!” I wheeze, barely able to see the road through my tears. “His face! His precious little face when I said I wasn’t asking to be in a relationship!”

I accelerate down the winding driveway, my laughter echoing inside the Mercedes. The security gate opens automatically as I approach, and I’m still cackling as I merge onto the main road.

“The absolute devastation!” I gasp, wiping mascara from under my eyes. “He looked like I’d kicked his puppy! And he just told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship!”

Men are so predictable. Tell them you want them, they run. Tell them you don’t, and suddenly, they’re desperate for your approval. Adam is no different, despite his sensitive facade.

And Adam is falling beautifully.

I pull my car into a nondescript strip mall about five minutes from my house, parking in front of a door marked “Digital Solutions.” The sign is intentionally vague. I paid extra for that touch of anonymity. No one ever questions what happens behind this door, which is exactly how I want it.

The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click. As I step inside and flip the switch, the room blooms to life, dozens of monitors lining the walls, each displaying a different angle of my home. The familiar blue glow bathes my face as I settle into the ergonomic chair at the central desk, my sanctuary.

I’ve had these cameras installed for months, long before Adam ever stepped foot in my house. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

There he is.

My breath catches as I spot him on the kitchen monitor, sleeves rolled up as he meticulously trims fat from a roast. His movements are so precise, so careful. I zoom in, watching his hands work the knife with unexpected skill. He’s humming something to himself, completely unaware of my gaze.

I reach out, fingers tracing his outline on the screen.

“Look at you,” I whisper, my voice echoing in the empty room. “Playing house so beautifully.”

I switch to another camera angle, this one capturing him from above, highlighting the concentration on his face. Something warm unfurls in my chest as I watch him work. This is so much better than watching through my phone. Here, I can see everything, control everything.

I pull up the bedroom feed, rewinding to earlier to see how he looked sprawled across my sheets this morning, vulnerable and confused. The marks I left on his skin, my marks, visible even through the camera’s lens.

“You’re mine now,” I murmur, tapping commands to cycle through more camera angles. “You just don’t know it yet.”

I check the bathroom camera, the one hidden in the vent above the shower. He hasn’t discovered any of them yet. Not the one in his bedroom lamp, not the ones in the kitchen fixtures, not even the tiny one embedded in the living room bookshelf.

I laugh softly, leaning back in my chair. After last night, he’ll trust me even more. Sex is such a powerful tool for creating false intimacy. And Adam, sweet Adam, with his romantic heart and desperate need to be needed, he’s so perfect for this.

I pull up the feed with Adam in the kitchen. My fingers trace his image on the screen, and I feel that familiar warmth spreading through my chest. It’s almost funny how it all happened, how I found him after all this time.

Four years ago, Lana was just another fresh-faced newcomer to the industry. Pretty enough, I suppose, and she took direction well. We’d worked together a handful of times, and I found her tolerable compared to most of the vapid little things that cycled through the studios. She was an easy scene partner, knew her angles, hit her marks, didn’t complain about the harder positions.

God, but she could whine. Every time we had downtime between takes, she’d drone on and on about her boyfriend, Leo. How he was annoying, how he was manipulative, how he was using her to advance his own career. The usual industry drama that I’d heard a thousand times before.

Then one day, she bounced onto set practically glowing. I remember thinking she must have scored some premium pharmaceuticals, but no, she was just... happy. Genuinely happy in a way I’d never seen her.

“You seem different,” I said during our makeup session.

Her face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “I ran into my high school sweetheart! Can you believe it? After all these years!”

I nodded politely, expecting the usual vapid story about rekindled passion. But something in her voice caught my attention. The way she spoke about this man, Adam, was different from how she’d talked about Leo or her other ex-boyfriend.

“He cooks for me,” she said, her voice softening. “Real food, not takeout. He makes these little pasta dishes with all these fun little ingredients. And when I come home from shoots, he runs me a bath and doesn’t even try to fuck me. He just... takes care of me.”

I remember feeling something shift inside me as she spoke. A strange, hollow ache I couldn’t quite identify.

“And he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world,” she continued, oblivious to my growing discomfort. “Like what I do for a living doesn’t even matter.”

Something changed in me that day.

I’d been in this industry since I turned eighteen, fucked more men than I could count. Taken so many dicks I’d need a spreadsheet to keep track. And for what? Money? Fame? The hollow validation that comes from being desired by strangers?

But listening to Lana talk about this Adam, something splintered inside me. I started making excuses to hear more about him. “How’s that boyfriend of yours?” I’d ask casually between scenes, pretending I was just making conversation when really I was collecting every detail like precious gems.

The first time I tried his cooking was when Lana brought those little Tupperware containers to set. She had to much and asked if I wanted some. Nothing fancy, just homemade pasta with a simple sauce and these ridiculous chocolate chip cookies that weren’t even that spectacular. The pasta was slightly overcooked, the sauce under-seasoned. But when I opened that container, I found a stupid little smiley face drawn in the sauce on top.

A fucking smiley face. For her.

And I realized what I was tasting wasn’t just food. It was care. Actual, genuine care. The kind I’d never experienced in my entire life.

My parents were hardly around. No siblings. My relationships had always been transactional. I fuck you, you give me status. I pretend to care about your boring stories, you buy me expensive gifts. I let you parade me around like a trophy, you advance my career.

But this... this was different. This man-made food with little smiles because he loved someone. He ran baths without expecting sex in return. He looked at Lana, fucking bimbo Lana of all people like she hung the moon.

And I felt jealous.

I deserved that. I deserved someone who would look at me that way. Who would draw stupid fucking smiley faces for me. Who would care about me beyond what my body could do for them?

I deserved Adam.

So then Lana started talking about Adam’s writing. I didn’t care at first, just nodded along like I always did when she rambled. But then she mentioned how he wrote these little stories and shared them online.

“He’s actually really talented,” she gushed one day between scenes. “He writes this Pokemon fan fiction that has this small little following online.”

I nearly laughed in her face. A grown man writing Pokemon stories? It sounded pathetic. But something in the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it made me pause.

“He puts so much time and effort into stories,” she continued, completely oblivious to my internal eye-rolling. “There’s this one called ‘Trainer’s Pet’ that has thousands of views. It’s about this guy who keeps getting... well, dominated by different gym leaders.”

That caught my attention. I remember raising an eyebrow, suddenly more interested. “Dominated how?”

Lana actually blushed. “You know... sexually. Against his will, technically, but it’s fiction, so...” She shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “I know it sounds weird, but there’s something really vulnerable about it. Like he’s working through something.”

That night, I found myself

Instead I did the friendly thing, I typed: “Have you considered she might understand? Maybe even enjoy exploring this with you?”

“No way,” came his immediate response. “She’s already insecure about her job. If she knew I sometimes... get turned on by the porn of her I promised not to watch, she’d think I’m a freak.”

That’s when I knew. This beautiful, broken man needed someone who could embrace all of him, darkness and light. Someone who wouldn’t judge his fantasies but celebrate them. Someone like me.

Three months ago, I made my decision.

“I’m going to take him,” I whispered to my laptop. “I’m going to make Adam mine.”

Not just because I wanted him, though God knows I did, but because I deserved him. Because he deserved someone who could see all of him and still want him. Because Lana was too simple, too basic to appreciate the complexity of the man she’d stumbled into.

I zoom in on Adam, watching his hands work the knife with precision as he chops carrots for the roast. There’s something hypnotic about the rhythmic movement, the careful attention he pays to each slice. So ordinary, so domestic.

A delicious heat blooms between my thighs.

“Look at you,” I whisper to the screen, trailing my fingers across his digital image. “Playing house so perfectly for me.”

There’s something intensely arousing about watching him perform this mundane task in my kitchen, preparing food specifically for me. Not for Lana, not for anyone else. For me. After what we did last night after I claimed him so thoroughly on that couch and in my bed.

I shift in my chair, pressing my thighs together as the memory of his desperation floods back. The way he clutched at me, begged me, surrendered completely. His need was primal, uncontrolled, nothing like the careful restraint he shows now, methodically preparing my dinner.

My hand slides beneath my skirt almost of its own volition. I’m not wearing underwear, haven’t since this morning when I left them deliberately in the bathroom for him to find. My fingers find slick heat as I watch him through the camera.

“That’s right, make it perfect for me,” I murmur, circling my clit slowly.

A thought flickers through my mind, wicked and thrilling. I stopped taking my birth control pills a couple of weeks ago, right before our scene together. Last night, I let him finish inside me repeatedly, felt his warm release flooding my unprotected womb. The possibility that he might have impregnated me sends an unexpected jolt of pleasure through my body.

Adam, forever mine through the most primal bond possible.

On-screen, he pauses his chopping to check something on his phone. I zoom in further and see he’s watching a cooking tutorial, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to match the chef’s technique. So earnest, so dedicated to pleasing me.

“Such a good boy,” I whisper, my fingers moving faster now.

Suddenly as he focuses harder on the phone the knife cuts his index finger clean off from his hand. Blood immediately pools on the cutting board, bright crimson against the white carrots. His face looks full of fear and panic.

“What the fuck?”

Morgan when she see's it: