Hard (7 page)

17

Jensen

Not once in my thirty years, have I been scared of a woman. The only one who has ever come close to striking fear in me is my mother, and she passed—
God rest her soul
—over ten years ago.

Right now, I am terrified of the sexy, intelligent, audacious woman sitting across from me. If I believed her appearance was the only draw, she has officially made me reconsider.

“Yes,” I finally agree. “Art is meant to stimulate emotion, you’re correct. However, I don’t deem
horny
as an emotion. Lust is physical. It’s an instinct. Basic. Animalistic. My photos are not meant for that purpose. I want others to look at what I find beautiful and lose their breath. I want them to appreciate the brilliance in the world—in all forms.”

She traps her tongue between her teeth, considering my words. It’s fucking sexy as hell. “That’s very important to you.”

I nod, pushing my back into my chair. “It is.”

“Why?”

Well isn’t that the million dollar question?
Usually I love a good
Why?
Not this time. And I have no intention of answering—at least not honestly. My eyes ache and I rub at them with the heels of my hands. “Scopophilia,” I remind her, pointing to my chest, using my easy go-to answer.

We’re both quiet for a moment, just watching one another. She doesn’t buy my answer, I can see it plainly on her face, but she’s hesitant to say so. And she should be. I’m not above reminding her of the way she carefully steered our conversation from herself just a few minutes ago. Or the way I allowed the detour. Everyone has something to hide. She can keep her secrets—for now—as long as she doesn’t pry into mine.

The timer buzzes on the oven and I take full advantage of the distraction.

Once I have our chicken plated and our glasses refilled, I take my seat, immediately digging in. I watch Holland slice a small piece and raise her fork to her mouth. Her jaw works, chewing the bite in an almost hypnotizing way. Right there, that’s the first place I’m going to touch my lips when we’re finished here. I’m going to trail kisses along her jaw, down her throat, and bury my face in her breasts. I’m growing hard picturing it.

“This is really good,” she says, intersecting my wicked thoughts.

“Thank you.”

“Where did you learn to cook?” she asks, her finger circling the rim of her glass absentmindedly.

I wipe my mouth, sitting forward. This is a much easier topic for me. Cooking doesn’t even come close to my love of taking pictures, but I enjoy it. “My mother. After she and my dad separated when I was eleven, she made it her personal goal to teach me my way around a kitchen. My dad couldn’t make a meal to save a life. She wanted to be sure I wasn’t living off fast food when I spent my summers with him.”

Holland covers her smile with her fingers. “That’s awesome. I love that. What does she think about what you do? Selling erotic art for a living?”

I look away and swallow back a deep drink of my wine. Mom’s been gone for a long time, but I’ve wondered the same thing many times before. What would she think of me, of my lifestyle, if she were still here?

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She died before I went into erotic art. But she bought me my first camera.” I pause, the memory hitting me hard. “I hope she understands how much it means to me, knows why I do it.” I finally look up, meeting Holland’s gaze, her eyes shining with moisture. “I’d like to think she’s proud of me.”

She clears her throat, placing her napkin on top of her plate, and forces a weak smile. “Do you think she knows? That she can see what you’ve become?”

Her voice is gravelly, as if she’s nearly choking on the words, and I wonder if we’re still talking about me.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Life’s a constant struggle. You make it over one hill just to find ten larger ones waiting for you. Some days I hope she’s with me—that I’m not struggling alone. Others, I pray she has no idea about the things I’ve done and the choices I’ve made.”

She nods stiffly, shifting her head away just as a tear slides down her cheek, rolling under her chin, before dripping onto her chest. I change my mind, knowing that’s the trail my lips will take.

18

Holland

As soon as we’re finished cleaning the kitchen, Jensen hands me a fresh glass of wine and takes my other hand, leading me directly into his bedroom. He leaves a soft kiss on each of my eyelids, then both of my cheeks. His lips part, running over my chin and down my neck, his tongue skimming my skin in a searing path. Openmouthed kisses trace my collarbone, his breath warm as it blows gently against me. He untangles the blanket wrapped around me, letting it fall to the floor at my feet, and unclasps my bra, dropping it on top. The last kiss, he places over my heart.

He takes my glass, setting it down as he dips into the second drawer in his nightstand, bringing four cords and a thick black scarf out, which he tosses onto the bed. I lift my foot behind me to remove my heels, but he motions quickly for me to stop. I drop my foot back to the floor, awaiting his direction.

“Leave them on or you won’t be tall enough.”

I arch a brow.
Tall enough for what?
He definitely has me intrigued. His eyes remain on my face as he circles around the bed, coming up behind me. He presses his chest into my back, his hands rubbing firmly along my hips as he encloses them around me, pinning me too him. My stomach muscles tighten with expectancy. What I’ve learned in our short amount of time together is that Jensen doesn’t do anything halfway. Whatever he is getting ready to do to me is going to be twisted and hot. And I can’t get enough of it.

“Bend over the foot rail,” he commands in the husky voice that makes my thighs clench. “Spread your arms and legs out.”

I follow his instructions, extending my limbs and spreading myself out until I resemble a bent starfish,  bowed over the end of his bed. He fastens my ankles first, tethering my legs to the bottom of the bed posts. His hands glide up the backs of my legs, cupping my ass before falling away. He leans into me then, his jeans cool against my bare skin, the weight of his chest resting on my back as he binds my wrists next. My arms are held straight out at my sides, but I notice this rope has some give, allowing me to move slightly. Last is the scarf. He secures it over my eyes and guides me farther down until my cheek is pressed into the bed. This position pulls on my shoulders, the light twinge of pain not entirely unpleasant.

I feel him move away and I listen intently, trying to determine what he’ll do next. His hair brushes my thigh and I gasp at the unexpected touch. Both palms stroke my behind, massaging, as his lips move up my leg. “Don’t move,” he whispers.

Seconds tick by like this, his hands gripping me tightly, his mouth caressing up and down my legs. I whimper with need. I’m so turned on, I just want him inside of me, soothing the ache. Without warning, his hands shift, parting me, and his tongue slides between my ass cheeks, licking fast and hard. I suck in a startled breath and release it on a moan.

“Oh, my God,” I pant. It’s an unexpectedly sensual feeling. Yet another first for me. Keeping my body still is horribly difficult. I want to push back into him. I want to crawl away.
Fuck, I want more
.

He pushes two of his thick, long fingers into my pussy, rolling them, and I don’t know how much more I can take. It’s sensory overload. My legs go weak, but I am forced to stay on my feet, bound as I am. I lean a little further, allowing my upper half to take most of my weight on the bed.

Jensen pulls back, his mouth and fingers leaving me. I think I hear the slap before I actually feel it. It could be that I’m just too shocked to register that he actually hit me. The sting sets in, red hot on my bare ass. Before I can react, his tongue is there, gliding over the burn. He blows across my skin, instantly cooling it. Goose bumps prickle my flesh and I shiver.

“I said not to move,” he utters, and I swear I hear regret in his voice. He steps away and my eyes pool with unwanted moisture beneath my blindfold, more of a knee-jerk reaction than from any real distress. I track him by his footsteps. The sound of the latches on his camera case hit me and I comprehend that probably wasn’t remorse I heard in his tone.

“I wish you could see how incredible my handprint looks on you. Like a tattoo or a brand…” He lets his words float between us, the soft click of his camera the only noise in the otherwise quiet room. He circles the bed several times and I remain motionless.

“So beautiful.”

I hear the metal teeth release on his zipper. Hear the soft rustle of his jeans hitting the floor. I expect him to drive into me from behind, but Jensen hasn’t once done what I expect. Something cool and wet trickles through the rope and over my wrist. Then the other. The tangy scent of wine fills the air. I’m confused, unsure why he would pour wine on the cords binding me.

But he always has a motive.

“That should hold you in place,” he murmurs close to my ear.

An exhilarated rush tingles down my spine as I feel the restraints around my wrists tightening. Slowly but surely, squeezing pleasingly. I realize he was in complete control of this entire situation. Of me. Pulling my strings like a puppet. Purposely leaving enough give on the ropes and doing something he knew I would react to. Despite what he says, he
wanted
me to move.
Wanted
to punish me. Spank me. Even bringing my wine into the room was calculated, knowing he would use it to expand the rope.

I should probably be scared. Most other women perhaps would be.

But I’m not like other women.

Jensen’s breath tickles my neck. “Are you ready for me?” The head of his cock teases my entrance, rubbing up and down, sliding through my arousal.

“Yes,” I breathe. “I’m ready for you.”

19

Jensen

I dig my fingers into her hip as I slowly push inside of her from behind. My other hand covers the still lingering raised red print on her ass cheek. It’s hot to the touch. A mix of pride and shame battle inside my chest. I like leaving my mark on her. Worship seeing the glow of my hand on her supple skin. Feeling the swollen, inflamed flesh. Claiming what is mine. I adore it. God help me.
I fucking love it
.

At the same time, I can’t stop replaying the way her body jolted and trembled under my palm. I was too rough. I hit her too hard. Much harsher than I intended to. Her mouth opened on a shocked, silent cry of pain and the realization of what I did struck me. The truly fucked up part is that I want to do it again. I want matching prints burning her perfectly round ass. I want her thinking of me every time she sits down.

I want her thinking of me always.

My head falls forward as I thrust my hips deep. I watch myself slide in and out of her, my cock glistening with her sweet juices. She’s always so wet for me. So responsive.

Keeping one hand on her hip for leverage, I glide my other around, my fingers finding her clit. I rub her soothingly, softly, building her up slowly as I grind into her faster.

I idolize her pussy. Like a hot, tight, sheath tailored just for me.

Sweat drips down my chest. Beads across her back. My movements become wilder. I press my fingers against her harder.

“I’m going to come,” she breathes.

Thank fuck
.

She clenches around my length, eliciting my own climax. Reluctantly, I pull out, drenching her ass as I come. I immediately reach over and untie her wrists, my fingers caressing the beautiful impressions the ropes have left behind. It takes me a second to remember where I abandoned my camera. This needs to be documented.

I spot it on the side of the bed and retrieve it, placing the strap around my neck as I first step into the bathroom, wetting a washcloth to clean Holland up. The only trace of myself I want in this photo is the impressions I left on her skin. Red, raw, and radiant.

She’s quiet and still as I brush the cloth over her. I don’t know if the warmth is soothing or stinging—she gives nothing away. I step back and lift my camera, taking several photos in succession. A side view of just one arm. Then I refocus, allowing more and more of her to fill the lens. Each shot is more hypnotizing than the one before. Finally, I remove her blindfold and capture one last image, this time with her eyes peering up at me, the vibrant green captivating in its ethereal beauty. She still doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. It’s written plainly on her face. She is as conflicted about us as I am. I don’t like it. I understand it, but I don’t like it.

She makes it so damn hard to breathe sometimes.

*

The moon’s pale blue rays shine through the open blinds, caressing Holland as she sleeps. I’ve always loved the way things look in moonlight. There’s an eerie elegance, an intimacy to it. I’ve been clicking pictures of her all night long. Her face is peaceful in a way I haven’t ever seen before. Free of sadness. Free of desire. This is her—the real her. The one who has been buried beneath the many layers of pain she carries. Over the years, I’ve unmasked deep-rooted, concealed emotions in women. Revealed their hidden cravings, exposed their darkest fears, unveiled their most coveted secrets. I bared who they truly were at the base of it all. But I have never once searched for serenity.

Seeing this now, observing the change in Holland’s appearance, uninhibited from everything I thought drew me to her—all the despair and brokenness—makes me realize I had no awareness of her true grace.

I want to know this Holland.

Maybe it’s just the moonlight, maybe it’s just the fact that she stayed tonight—I don’t know what it is and I do not have the energy to question it—all I do know is I have never felt a pull to someone the way I do her.