Hard (5 page)

10

Holland

I slump back against the headboard, fighting for breath. Jensen’s weight is on me comfortably, and I feel like I could fall asleep just like this, naked, tied to his bed by my hair. And to think, Darren wanted me to cut it. I’m glad I never got around to it. He always complained about finding it on his clothes or clogging the drain, and he thought it got in the way during sex. He never would have thought to use it the way Jensen did.

That was the sweetest torture. Like punishment and reward. I’m sore all over, especially my head, and my breasts, and pretty much my entire vagina. I even feel a sting in my abdomen, and I worship every last bit of it.

Jensen lifts his head, trailing his tongue up my neck and nibbling on my earlobe. “Thank you, Holland,” he whispers gently, just as he did before when he had blindfolded me. And just like before, I don’t reply, unsure what the correct response is. He straddles me, untying my hair from the railing. I rub my fingertips into my scalp, massaging the pain away as I watch him hop off the bed and dress himself. I should probably do the same. Now that I’m no longer intoxicated with lust, I feel very naked, exposed, vulnerable.

“I’m going to go look at your photographs now,” he replies, reminding me he still has plenty to see of me. “Come find me in the studio when you’re ready.”

He leaves, the door clicking closed behind him, and I sit in dazed silence for several long seconds. I experienced more firsts with a stranger tonight than I ever did with my husband. I’ve heard of sexual awakenings, but I never understood what it meant until just now.

Jensen awakened a side of me I never knew existed. It’s terrifying and empowering. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel completely miserable.

And just like that, it all comes rushing back. Worse than usual, because I’m appalled with myself for doing what Darren did. Losing myself in sex to escape the horror of my child’s death.

I stumble from the bed and dress myself as quickly as possible, sans panties, since they still remain inside Jensen’s pocket, and I get the hell out of there.

11

Jensen

I believe the dictionary defines the word,
obsessed,
as a persistent disturbing preoccupation with an often unreasonable idea or feeling. Being who I am, I can see both an unhealthy and a soothing aspect to the dirty little word. Obsession isn’t always a negative thing. It doesn’t always have to be harmful or damaging. Sometimes it can be healing and constructive. As long as you know what you’re asking for.

It doesn’t
have
to destroy you. But more often than not, it does.

I scan image after image of Holland, trying to weed out the bad and decide which need editing. I’ve gone through this block of photos countless times, unwilling to part with a single one. I find something fascinating in each and every photo.

The way her long hair hides part of her face in this one. The way the part is revealed in the next. Then the expression on her face, lips shining and parted in anticipation. The look in her eyes, eager, but emotionless. The way her back is arched, jutting her breasts forward. Her lips. Her pussy. All so flawless. So delectable.

I want to keep them all.

She never came to find me. She left last night without a word and I allowed her to go.

I thought I would be fine now. Sated once I had her—owned her—mine to look at for as long as I can.

But I was wrong.

My thirst is not nearly quenched. I was so goddamn close to keeping her tied to my bed, giving into my desire, allowing myself to gorge on her until I was satisfied. The moment I released inside of her, and all I wanted was to
stay inside of her
, I knew then, I would never have enough.

That’s where obsession gets you.

Beauty—her kind of perfection—doesn’t come along more than once. Some men prefer thick women, some like a tight, lithe body. Some guys are into big fake tits, some like them small and firm. Some men like an ass you can bounce a quarter from, some want one that jiggles and shakes as they thrust inside. Some focus on the face or the eyes or the mouth or the hair. Some guys are leg men. Some have a hard-on for feet or toes or knobby knees. There are no rules when it comes to women and attraction. No rights. No wrongs. Just preference. One man’s trash is another man’s hot, wet treasure.

Holland has everything
I
desire in a woman’s appearance. And because of this, she has fucked with something inside of me. Restored something I didn’t even know had gone missing. Something deep down and hidden. She pulled something out of me like I do to the women I photograph. She gave me vision. Inspiration.

Add this to last night and whatever I
thought
I felt when it came to Holland is now a carnal, animalistic instinct. I want to keep this feeling—absorb it, take from it,
use
it.

I continuously click through photo after photo, knowing I face a crossroads. One where I decide if I allow obsession to make me or break me.

No matter what, I know I am not nearly finished with Holland Howard. That’s not how obsession works. It doesn’t release you after you’ve had a taste.

No. Not even close
.

It pulls you in, dousing your already burning desire with gasoline. You can stop, drop, and roll all you want. You can walk away with your ass in flames. It doesn’t matter. Once it has you, you’re fucked.

I’ve sampled my obsession, my Holland, and I know without a doubt, I’ll gladly let her strike the next match.

12

Holland

I notice him the instant he walks through the door. My skin tingles with the memory of the night before and I feel my ears warm. I touch them, attempting to cool them with my shaking fingers.

It isn’t embarrassment—I don’t care what he thinks of me or about me. It’s more like…yearning. And revulsion. I want a repeat of the night before. I want more. I want to ride the feeling of empowerment and liberation again. But I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t be able to escape so easily just because a man with a dirty mouth and big dick blows me away in bed.

Jensen doesn’t acknowledge me. He takes a seat and slides his phone onto the table, giving it all of his attention. I bite down on my lip, hesitating. I can still feel every aching muscle with each movement I make. Still taste him on my tongue. See his eyes, hooded and full of desire in my mind. Scent him on my skin though I’ve showered twice since our time together. He has branded himself on me.

It’s just sex, it shouldn’t hold this much power over me, but even as I think this, I feel the all too familiar craving for the passion only he has shown me. I’m greedy and needy, and know without a doubt if he asks, I’ll go home with him again. I’ll let him make me feel good. I’ll let him make me forget. The way I feel after, full of loathing and disgust will be my penance.

I finally make my way around the bar, stopping beside his table. “Hi,” I breathe.

Jensen’s mouth quirks up on one side as he pushes his phone away and looks up at me. His eyes dip down, running over my body before coming back to rest on mine.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, his voice low, soft, intimate. “You look lovely, as always.”

“Um, thank you,” I whisper.

His eyes crinkle in the corners as he offers me a small smile. “How do you feel today?”

“Good. Sore. But good.” He nods, knowingly. I don’t mention the war I’m suffering inside of me. “Can I get you a drink?”

He cocks a brow, the warmth in his eyes fading. “Whiskey sour,” he says dismissively, returning his attention back to his phone.

I take a step back, keeping my gaze on him, confused as to his abrupt mood change. Or maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know him well enough to know his moods. I turn on my heel and go back to the bar to make his drink, adding an extra cherry.

“I thought you might like to see these,” he says as I set his drink in front of him. With the tip of his finger, he pushes a small memory card to the edge of the table. “Your photos.”

I pick up the card, holding it in the palm of my hand. “What do you do with them?” I ask. Most women probably would have asked that last night, before they stripped down for his camera.

“With these?” He shrugs. “Nothing. I didn’t have you sign a contract, so I can’t sell them.”

“Is that what you usually do with them, though?”

His eyes finally lift, locking onto mine. “Yes, usually.”

“Do you want me to sign something? So you can sell them?”

“No.” He picks up his drink and takes a large swallow, not offering an explanation.

“Okay,” I utter. Maybe they weren’t good enough. I know I’m a little thicker and a whole lot shorter than most models. My stomach isn’t as tight as it used to be, especially after having Caleb—

I stop my train of thought immediately.

“Okay,” I repeat. “Well, have a nice evening. I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”

“Holland,” he says, stopping me as soon as I turn away from him.

“Yeah?” I ask over my shoulder.

“I need you.”

“Okay,” I say a third time as I circle back to face him. “Sorry. What else can I get you?”

He looks amused, his dark gaze doing another run over my body from head to toe, then back up again. “What time do you get off work?”

“Midnight.”

He nods, his index finger sliding thoughtfully over his bottom lip. “Do you remember the way to my house?”

“Yes.” I walked half of it in the wee hours of the morning on my way home until I finally spotted a cab. I know the way well now.

“Good,” he states, pushing his chair back and standing. “Come by straight from work. And don’t change.” He places a twenty dollar bill on the table, slips his phone into his pocket, and then walks away, not giving me a chance to answer. Actually, it wasn’t even a question, I suppose. It was instructions. Orders that I am meant to obey.

13

Jensen

My dad is waiting on my doorstep when I get home, his nurse sitting in the car, reading a magazine. It’s been a few months since I last saw him which is probably the reason for his impromptu visit.

“Hi Pop,” I say, greeting him as I take his arm, helping him into the house.

“Hey there, stranger,” he replies warmly. I get him to the sofa and he sits heavily with a long sigh. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. Work keeping you busy?” The old man thinks he’s slick as shit, as if I’m not going to realize he’s fishing for info.

I scrub my hands over my face. “Yeah, work has been steady lately.”

His eyes are unfocused and unseeing as he grins in my direction. “That’s good, Jensen. Very good. I was worried—worried that you were going to give it up. I know how important it is to you.”

I don’t even let him go there. We both know how deep my passion runs for photography. It’s in my bones, tattooed into my flesh, runs like blood through my veins. We both also know I
had
given it up. And we both know damn well he doesn’t understand any of it.

It’s all part of the Scopophilia. I’m not sure which came first, my love of looking at beauty or my love of taking pictures. I’ve lumped the two together for so long now. Both feeding off the other. Up until the camera caused me too much pain and I packed up all my equipment, accepting that I would never look through a lens again. If I hadn’t caught that glimpse of Holland from across the room a few months back, I never would have returned to it.

“Have you been keeping your appointments?” I ask, flipping the conversation to him.

He waves his hand dismissively. “What for? I already know what’s wrong with me. Know I can’t do a damn thing about it. There’s no stopping it, Jensen.” He shrugs his thin shoulders, smiling at me sadly. “There’s no point in beating a dead horse. The horse will still be dead and you’ll just be the tired asshole who beat a carcass.”

“Shit, Pop. Stop. Just
fucking stop
.”

He sighs as if I’m stressing
him
out. “You’re too angry all the time. It’s not good for you.”

“And you’re not angry enough,” I fire back, dragging my hand through my hair.

Fuck
.

FUCK
.

I don’t want to do this
.

He nods, as if he can hear my thoughts. “It’s the pain killers,” he says. “They keep me as happy as a dirty old man in a porn store.”

I drop my hand, chuckling lightly. At least there is that, I guess. “Have you been eating? You know you can’t pop pills on an empty stomach.”

He shoos me off again. “Margo feeds me plenty. Her food isn’t worth a damn, but I never miss a meal. She likes to sing while she cooks. Has the voice of an angel. I keep telling her, one of these days, I’m going to get her in bed and find out if she sounds just as sweet when she comes.”

Jesus
. And everyone wonders where the hell I get it from. The horny toad doesn’t jump too far from the log. “You have got to stop hitting on your nurses, Pop. Taking care of you is her job. You can’t say shit like that to her. That’s considered sexual harassment.”

“Pft, I’ll stop when I’m dead. Besides, she likes it. Why else do you think she keeps singing for me? It’s in the fine details. You just remember that.”