Hard (3 page)

4

Holland

“You took these?” I ask.

Several seconds pass silently. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “Yes. These are all mine.”

Photo after photo aligns three of the four walls. Landscapes. Odd objects. Portraits. Abstract. Surreal. Candid. Close up. Far away. Color. Black and white. Blurred. Focused. On and on and on.

And then there are the women. Never the same woman twice. Women smiling. Women crying. All nude. All red-haired. Women in sexual positions. In the midst of ecstasy. Bound. Gagged. Blindfolded. They’re all different, yet all the same.

And every single one of them looks like me.

Something flutters inside my stomach—something small and unfamiliar. Something similar to nerves or excitement or fear. It’s been so long, I can’t quite identify it. But
it’s been so long
, I welcome it, whatever it is.

I can’t stare at any one picture for too long, but I can’t seem to stop looking at them. I drift from one photo to the next.

There’s an image of a woman, taken from behind, her skin pale and lightly freckled. Her arms are secured with what appears to be leather cuffs. Hands resting gracefully on the curve of her ass. I can’t see her face, so I cannot be certain, but the way her back arches, pushing her forward, I get the feeling she’s leaning toward someone. Looking for someone.
Wanting
someone. The photographer is behind her, so I wonder who or what she’s inclining toward. Then I see it; in the upper left corner is the rounded frame of a mirror. So subtle, as if it’s almost a secret. It occurs to me the photographer must have actually been in front of her, his camera angled toward the mirror image of the woman. And I realize it’s the photographer—Jensen—the woman is searching for.

My fingers brush over the secret frame before moving on.

In another image, only part of a woman is visible in a side view. She’s on her knees, on the floor. Her long red hair lies down the center of her back. More leather cuffs bind her ankles to a thick black bar, holding her legs open behind her. The bottoms of her feet are facing upward, smudged with dirt. Her slender fingers clasp her ankles where her wrists are also bound, connected to the same bar as her legs. The way her body is slightly twisted, just as in the last photo, it’s like she’s searching for her savior. For the person behind the camera.

I turn and examine him now. This man who takes such intimate and forbidden, stunning photos.

Glasses now off, his dark eyes are steady on me, his body perfectly still, allowing my inspection. His skin is several shades darker than mine, as if he spends a lot of time outside, which I find odd seeing as how most of his work is obviously taken within the confines of this room. Nose a fine slope and perfectly straight. His jaw strong and dimpled. Neck thick and lightly shadowed with a day missed shaving.

My eyes lower to his broad shoulders held stiffly. I expect his chest is firm beneath that crisp buttoned shirt. Waist narrow. Pants filled out nicely. I pause on his hands, rigid at his sides. Solid, capable hands. Fingers thick and rough. Artistic. A divergence from his immaculate dress. He’s pleasant to look at. I knew this before, but it hadn’t really registered until this moment.

I wave my hand toward one wall of his work. “I have the look you obviously have a hard-on for. Is this what you want me to do? Pose like these women?”

His eyes close briefly in an exaggerated blink. “Yes. That’s what I want.”

My gaze shifts to the print above his head. A woman, naked, her hands tied above her head to the beam in the center of the room. Her hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, wisps covering part of each breast. She’s staring into the camera with wide green eyes, cheeks ruddy, lips wet and parted in satisfaction. We could be sisters. The only real difference between us is the gratification on her face.

There’s a burning in my chest. Hot and unyielding, and so much like the day I caught my husband fucking my friend in my home. It’s
envy
. I want to look like that. I want to
feel
like that.

My eyes travel back to Jensen. He hasn’t moved an inch, still watching me. Waiting. “Okay,” I say resolutely. “You can photograph me.”

5

Jensen

My elation causes a physical reaction. Every muscle in my abdomen contracts, twitching and convulsing. My cock thickens and throbs as a tremor of excitement pulses throughout my body. The result of finally receiving what I coveted for the last three months.

Every moment in life should feel just like this. A sweet victory. A triumphant conquest. It’s an amazing sensation—getting what one wants.

I move with purpose, stalking to the case on the table and remove my camera, not allowing her time to overthink the situation. My fingers move deftly, detaching the cover. They slide over the buttons by memory. I’ve done this so many times I know this equipment better than the back of my hand. As if it’s an extension of me.

“Come with me,” I demand, walking briskly through the door and leading her to my bedroom. I don’t want to shoot her in the studio. It’s too cold. Too clinical.

The lighting in this room is soft. The bedding lush. The perfect backdrop.

I drag the chair from the corner, shoving it up toward the end of the bed, before heaving myself down. I lean back, my legs sprawled wide, making myself comfortable.

Holland stands just inside the doorway, plump bottom lip caught between straight front teeth, one hand clasped around an elbow, her satiny hair shielding part of her face.

My camera comes up as if acting on its own, my finger following suit, clicking a picture. We are so attuned, my camera and I. It knows exactly what I want.

She stands stock-still, but her eyes flick toward me, staring directly into the lens. I take photo after photo in rapid succession.

“Is that it?” Holland asks uncertainly when I finally lower the camera.

Not even close
.

“Take off your clothes.” My voice is gravelly and I hardly recognize it. I’ve imagined how she looks naked a million different times. Dreamt of this moment more than I can count. My hands circle around the device clutched in my grip, squeezing firmly.

One auburn brow arches as if in challenge, a silent remark to my lack of polite request. I mimic her, cocking my own brow, but give her nothing else. Manners don’t belong in the bedroom. This is who I am and I do not apologize for it.

I ask once—and only once. I offer a choice and they make their decision. After that, it’s my way. Anybody who doesn’t agree is free to leave. I don’t want her to go—I’ve waited far too long for this—but I am who I am and I will not—
cannot
—change.

She makes a small, growl-like noise deep within her lovely throat. Though not very lady-like, I can’t say I don’t enjoy the sound. In fact, I think I’d like to hear it again.

“Your clothing, Holland.” I say, provoking another disgruntled rumble. It’s her only reply to my command. A heartbeat later, she takes a few slow steps, bringing her closer to me. Without another moment of hesitation, she gives in, doing as I say. She reaches behind her and slides the zipper of her skirt down. Her hips sway back and forth, wiggling free of the material. A slow breath leaves my lungs, pleased, as it drops to the floor. She begins unbuttoning her blouse, one clasp at a time.

Her movements are unhurried and teasing. I can’t decide whether this is purposeful or if she has no idea how tantalizing she is.

I push my back into the chair and rest an ankle on my knee. Not once have my eyes strayed from her.

With each button, she reveals more and more of herself to me. Her white cotton bra—a mismatch from her black panties, innocent and sensual at the same time. She obviously wasn’t planning on going home with anyone tonight, yet here she is, with me.

Her taut stomach is exposed next, muscles moving fluidly with her actions. Smooth, flawless flesh, calling to me, needing to be touched.

The shirt falls from her arms. The soft fabric brushing against her skin as it makes its way to the carpet, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

Fucking gorgeous.

I raise my camera.

“Leave the heals on,” I say, “but remove your bra and panties.”

Holland’s verdant eyes drop away, but her arms curve around her lithe body, unclasping her bra and slipping the straps down her slender arms. The material sends a fresh set of goose bumps skittering across her skin before it joins the other articles on the floor at our feet. She takes hold of her panties, fingers sliding into the waist. I sit forward, motioning her to stop.

I prolong the moment, clicking another series of pictures.

“Turn around.”

She falters, my demand catching her off guard. Her gaze returns to me, an unspoken question in her stare. My eyes narrow as I wait out her indecision, but I do not repeat myself. That’s not something I’m accustomed to and I’ve already done it once tonight. It will not happen again. I know what I want. I never question myself and I do not tolerate anyone else who does.

Silence stretches between us. No matter how much I want this—
yearn
for this—I will only be sated when she submits. There’s no point in her being here otherwise.

As if finally understanding this, Holland sucks in a breath and pivots, turning herself around. I know how difficult this is. With her back to me, she has no idea what to expect. No clue what I’m doing now. No inclination what I might do next.

It’s this spike of fear, this rush of anticipation that will make for a breathtaking photograph. This is what I do. What I’m good at. Stirring the unseen, unknown emotions we hide even from ourselves. Hauling them to the surface where I seize them and add them to my collection.

“Take off your panties, but do not turn around until I tell you to,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Do you understand?”

Her head dips one time in a rigid nod. She grasps the hem of her panties and begins slipping them down her now shaking legs. The trail of black sliding along milky white is intoxicating as she bares more and more for me. Once they hit her mid-thigh, she’s forced to bend and push them the rest of the way off. Rewarding me with a perfect view of her most intimate place. She’s smooth here, free of hair. I can see each delectable crease.

A harsh breath spouts from  my lips. I pull my face away from the camera, needing to experience this without a lens between us.

“Stay right like that,” I murmur. My voice is low, raspy. Hungry.

So very, very
hungry
.

I want to eat her viciously. Suck each lip into my mouth hard before biting down on them. I want to tease her clit, lick it, suck it, flick it, smack it, and lick it some more until she’s coming all over my tongue. Then lap at her juices. Coat my cock in it. And then I want to kiss her, letting her know exactly what she tastes like on my lips.

“Spread your legs. Wide. Now.”

She does it immediately. All earlier reservations seemingly abandoned. Her breathing has grown shallow and strained.

Aroused.

I stroke myself over my pants as I watch her.

So motherfucking impeccable, just as I knew she would be.

I stand, my steps restrained as I glide toward her still-bent form. I reach around her, opening the nightstand drawer. My arm brushes lightly over her thigh. She flinches and trembles, but doesn’t change her stance. I freeze, her reaction having a direct effect on my cock. The scent of her excitement perfumes the air around us. I inhale deeply, appreciatively. I’m rock hard and aching, knowing she’s ripe for the taking.

“Get on the bed,” I order, slipping the leather cuffs from my table. The same cuffs I’ve used so many times before. She climbs onto the mattress, turning to face me. I perch on the edge of the bed and place her arms where I want them, spread wide on either side.

“I’m going to bind you now.”

She draws her arms back to her sides doubtfully, a crinkle forming between her eyebrows.

“You’re going to have to trust me,” I tell her.

“Trust you? I don’t even know you.”

I smirk. “That’s what makes it so much fun.”

Holland watches me closely, lips parted, cheeks a warm shade of pink. Her eyes are wide, quietly absorbing every one of my movements as I take her wrists in my hands, placing her arms back where I had them. I smell another woman on the cuffs as I begin to buckle her. Something flowery and much too strong. I stop abruptly, dropping the restraints to the floor. I don’t want anything soiling this moment.

Improvising quickly, I gather her discarded bra and panties from the rug, bathed in her scent only. I readjust her arms and use her bra to tie them together over her head. The panties I slip into my pocket.

6

Holland

Jensen backs away from the bed, examining me openly and unabashed. I remain motionless, unsure of what happens next. There’s a twinge in my stomach. A strange sensation building inside.

I’ve never been tied up before. Never stripped myself bare for a man I didn’t know. Never allowed anyone to take nude photographs of me. I revel in the way my skin prickles under his gaze. Relish the ache forming between my legs. Savor the sensation of
feeling
.

I don’t know what I expected to happen tonight when I got into this man’s—this stranger’s—car and accompanied him home. But it wasn’t this.

My breasts feel heavy, nipples tight and peaked, tender. Begging to be touched. I’m uncomfortably slick between my legs. I finally move, squeezing my thighs together. Jensen shakes his head disapprovingly, lifting his camera.

“Open your legs for me, Holland.”

The way he says my name, hushed and hoarse, only makes the desire worse. I do as I’m told, letting my legs fall open. He circles the bed, his pants tented at the crotch, his camera snapping away the entire time. Taking forbidden photos. Of me.

He’s obviously as turned on as I am. I wonder if he sleeps with his models. If he’ll fuck me while I’m tied to his bed. He keeps going, passing out of sight. My wrists twist in my binds as I reflexively try to track his movement. The material rubs roughly, stinging. It adds to the onslaught of sensation I’m already experiencing and a moan escapes my lips.

Jensen comes quickly back into view, camera focusing on my face.

“Beautiful,” he utters. And then he leans his knee onto the bed, reaching behind me, and releases my hands. “Roll over. I want you on all fours.”

His quick change causes me to pause, but the bright excitement lighting his eyes pushes me to obey. Once I’m in position, I hear the low click of his camera and know he’s taking photographs of me in this vulnerable position. And I like it. I like the way I feel, this sick mixture of awakening—this humiliation, shame, boldness, and fearlessness all at once. A twisted paradox of emotions. Whatever degradation he has in store for me, I want it.
I deserve it
.

My hair has fallen into my face, hiding him from my sight. I swing my head, shifting my curls to one side, and I glance at him over my shoulder. I want him to see what I am feeling. I want him to know how he is making me feel. Our eyes meet. He stops moving, but his camera never rests.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” he says gently as he reaches back into the nightstand that I now understand houses his toys. “Hold still,” he instructs as he produces a plain white scarf. My breath hitches as the material slides over my face. My exhale panting out of me erratically. Then I see nothing but the darkness of my eyelids. I swallow tightly.

“Keep your knees bent beneath you. Lean forward until your cheek touches the bed.” I startle at the rough sound of his deep voice, but slide my hands along the comforter, bringing myself forward until I am doing as he requested.

In this position, my ass is in the air. I can only imagine the way I look right now. My fingers coil into the blankets. My ears perk, picking up on every one of his movements. I say nothing. I do nothing.

Jensen circles the bed again, but this time, instead of following him with my eyes, my ears track him now. It feels much longer than before, waiting, unable to see him, uncertain, unsure. And so much more exciting. I feel my arousal seep down my leg and I know exactly when
he
sees it. His feet stop abruptly, his breathing becomes audible, and the camera stops snapping.

“Thank you, Holland,” he says tenderly. “You may remove the blindfold.” I push myself up to a sitting position, dragging the scarf from my eyes. His gaze lingers appreciatively on me for a moment more before he pivots, returning to the chair at the end of the bed.

My skin is on fire. My body aches for relief. I can feel more moisture pooling between my thighs. Hot. Sticky.

“You look very wet,” Jensen utters. “Are you wet, Holland?”

I swallow forcefully and clear my throat. “Yes.”

“Touch yourself,” he breathes. “Be sure.”

That would be another first for me—letting a man watch me touch myself. The thought alone sends a tiny rush through my veins, my blood pumping a bit faster. Will he take pictures of that too?

He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and exhales a long breath. “Indecisive and thoughtful is a stunning combination on you.”

Thoughtful, maybe, but not indecisive. I lean back, spreading my legs. His eyes are hooded, his hand moving slowly, back and forth over his hardened length pressing at his zipper. The sight of him caressing himself turns me on more and adds to my conviction.

I trail my fingers over my stomach, down my hipbone, stopping just before the place I ache to be touched. I can’t read the look on Jensen’s face, but I know forced restraint when I see it.

His jaw is tight, neck muscles pulsing. He’s about to break.
I’m
about to break him. Unleash whatever he’s trying to keep caged up inside.

My other hand curves around my breast, kneading the sensitive flesh. I pinch my nipple, biting down on my lip to stifle my unexpected moan. Just knowing he’s watching, knowing he’s as close to losing it as I am, is almost enough to send me over the edge. Almost, but not quite.

I place my hand between my legs and skim a single finger through my slick folds. It comes away soaking.

“Hold your hand up so I can see. Show me how wet you are for me.”

I like the way he words that, how wet I am
for him
. As if my pussy is a gift. A guttural groan erupts from my throat. I extend my hand, showing him my glistening finger. He growls deeply within his chest.

“You are gorgeous,” he says. “Your face, your eyes, your mouth—all exquisite. You have beautiful breasts and an ass meant for spanking. But your pussy is one of the most stunning sights I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.”

I’m not sure how to reply to that. I’ve never been complemented so crudely before. “How noble of you,” I say shakily.

He smirks, his gaze unmoving. “I’m no white knight. I only yield one sword, and there is nothing gentlemanly about it.”

His grin turns wicked, dark eyes blazing. “I didn’t tell you to stop. Make yourself come. I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”

I don’t know how to respond to that either. All I do know is that as soon as the word
come
left his mouth, his eyes burning into mine, coming is exactly what I want to do. I
need
relief from the ache between my legs or I’m going to go insane.

My fingers slide into place, spreading the lips wide as I rub my clit in small, fast circles. My other hand fists into the bedding as I arch my back and my hips reflexively buck against my palm.

I hear the click of Jensen’s camera and my world explodes. It begins slowly. Soft twinges of pleasure. Deep, deep from within, in the very core of my body. It builds and builds. Growing stronger. More powerful. Increasing. Rising higher and higher. Outward. Everywhere. My whole body tenses. I’m focused on that blissful feeling. Nothing else matters. Nothing. No one. Elation pulses like fissures from my core, radiating throughout my entire body. I want to hold onto that feeling. To never let it go. But it’s over all too quickly, leaving my body drained and sated, and yet, wanting more.

I open my eyes, meeting his exalted stare. We’re both quiet, the only sound is my panted breath as we watch one another.

Jensen stands. Stalking toward the bed like an animal.