by Jaci Burton
Rounding the back of the chaise, he grabbed her wineglass. “I think you need another drink.”
She propped herself up to sip, the corset teasing her nipples, and drank deeply. The alcohol hit her toes in a rush, tingling up her legs, then settling in her belly, the exact opposite of what it should have been. And Margo knew it was a release of the tension knotting her insides. Sitting beside her once more, Dirk took the glass, finished the bit left at the bottom, then rolled his lips together to dry them off.
He took hold of her chin. “Look at me.”
As she did, he slid the vibrator down her center, wetting it, rubbing her with it, teasing her without the batteries on.
“Is it cold?”
She shook her head. Her body was already warming it.
“I think it’s cold.” He slid it in his mouth, sucking off her taste. “There, I think it’s warm enough now.”
God, he was a kinky one. She loved it. She settled back against the chaise, and when he touched her with it, the vibrator was warm, wet from his mouth. He turned the control, setting it to buzz on low. He strummed her clit, and she jerked, her pussy ultrasensitive.
“Was that good or bad?” he asked.
She opened her mouth, breathed, then managed a word. “Good.” Intense.
“Perfect.” He gave her a glimpse of that adorable dimple, then he went down on the carpet beside her. “You have a gorgeous pussy.”
He let the vibrator worship it, sliding the length along her opening, then beneath her clitoris, around, right on. She didn’t have a voice to even laugh at his comment. The buzz was light enough to be maddening yet not enough to come. And he never stayed long on her clit. She was sure that was by design.
“You’re not taking pictures,” he chided. “Do I need to handle the remote as well?”
Her finger acted on its own, almost spasming against the button, as he gave her a higher blast of vibrator. Only a second before turning the speed back down.
“Good girl. I’m sure I can’t handle the hard work of fucking you with this and photographing as well.”
His dirty talk, his teasing, made her hotter. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“More.” It was all she could manage.
“More what?”
“Just quit fooling around and fuck me with it, dammit.” It didn’t even sound like her voice and didn’t feel like her words.
“My pleasure.” He grinned. She had the presence of mind to capture it.
Then the vibrator was filling her, humming against her walls, in, out. He angled it, hitting that special spot inside and making her rise right off the chaise. She bucked, forcing the vibrator deeper, and she attacked her clitoris, rubbing it in time to his thrusts. She could barely think to hit the camera’s button, two tasks at once almost beyond her. His voice flowed over her, a litany of words, encouraging her, urging her to the edge. And she was so close, so very close. Yet . . .
She threw one hand over her head, grabbing the back of the chaise, and fought to catch her breath. “I need you.”
“What do you want me to do?” His voice, a question, she could barely hear over the rush of her blood.
“Lick me. Please lick me.” She needed the wet of his tongue, the warmth of his mouth. A man’s touch. This man.
The vibrator thrummed inside, and oh-yes-thank-you-so-damn-much, he bent his head to her. She looked down, and the sight of this huge man between her legs overwhelmed her.
“More. Please.”
He suckled her with his lips, then circled his tongue all around. She twisted her fingers in his hair. The corset bound her tightly, restricting her movements, somehow intensifying each single shift of her body, rubbing the underside of her exposed nipples. The sensations threw her high, then the click, click, click of the camera drove her over the edge until she screamed. She simply came undone for him, her orgasm so hard for so damn long, tears trickled from beneath her tightly closed lids.
Dirk had heard the telltale flicker of the shutter release. He’d wanted to watch her come, but when she’d begged him to lick her, he’d needed the taste of her so much more.
The way she went off, her cries, her moisture flooding his mouth, the tremors coursing her body, he’d felt like a real man. Of course he’d made love to women. He’d enjoyed it, they’d enjoyed it, but with her, it was . . . beyond. He’d given without needing anything but the pleasure of making her feel that good.
Turning the vibrator off and setting it on the carpet, he soothed her legs with his hands, nipped her thigh, kissed her gorgeous little mound.
Her chest rose and fell, her nipples begged for his mouth, and her scent was like a caress along his cock. He ached. Yet the pieces of herself that she’d shared astounded him. Making a woman come with his mouth had never been so powerful.
She flung a hand across her eyes and groaned. “Please say that wasn’t me wailing like a banshee.”
“It wasn’t you wailing like a banshee.”
She uncovered one eye. “If it wasn’t me, then who was it?”
He grinned, then licked his lips, her sweet taste stunning him again. “You didn’t wail. You gave these hot little cries that made me want to take my cock out and stroke it.”
She sucked in a breath.
He’d forgotten she was too much a lady for that kind of language except in the heat of the moment. “I didn’t mean—”
She held up her finger to cut him off. “If it didn’t have that effect, it wouldn’t have been so much fun.”
Fun wasn’t the word he would have used. More like earth-shattering. But she wriggled beneath him as if the fact that he was still lying between her legs made her self-conscious. It was time to take her downstairs, see to her comfort, but he wasn’t anywhere near ready to let her leave.
Sitting up, he pulled her with him, then stood, still holding her hand. “Let’s look at some of the pictures.”
Her face flushed. “Together?”
“Yeah.” He laughed, wanting to take the sting out of it. “I told you the flash card was yours, so if we don’t look now, I’ll never get to see them.” The words struck a chord in him, vibrating right down into his belly. This was a one-shot deal. When she walked out of his house, he wouldn’t see her again.
But hell, it more than met his expectations, and Dirk was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I want to make sure you’re happy with them before you go.”
She hitched the corset higher, setting it once again above her nipples, the way it was supposed to be worn. Then she crossed her legs almost as if she were trying to hide her pretty little bush. Too late, sweetheart. He’d seen it, caressed it, tasted it, and her scent would haunt his dreams.
“Do you have something I could put on?” She tipped her head. “Unless you get me out of this corset so I can dress.”
Hell no. The sooner she got dressed, the sooner she’d be out the door. He wanted her beside him as they viewed the photos, her pussy bare, sensitive, the corset rubbing her nipples the way she’d said she liked. “I’ve got a robe you can use.”
The Chinese screen in the corner of the loft hid a dressing area. On a wooden coat rack, he’d hung a silk wrapper.
“Thank you.” She rose gracefully from the lounge, the corset giving her body a regal bearing.
Pink cherry blossoms on red silk, the robe suited her hair and creamy skin perfectly. He captured a couple of unguarded moments as she slipped it over the corset. Flipping her hair out, she let it settle around her shoulders again, the lights shimmering in its golden streaks.
“Can I use your restroom?”
“Sure. Down the stairs to the left, third door. I’ll just turn off the equipment, then I’ll meet you in the living room. I can run the pictures through the TV.”
For some odd reason, he was loath to let her out of his sight, as if she were a figment of his imagination that would disappear. But for the taste of her on his lips, he might have dreamed the whole thing.
Now h
e just had to convince her that once wasn’t enough.
Margo put her hands to her face and talked to the woman in the mirror. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you did that.”
Yet she’d loved every moment. She wouldn’t trade a single one. She simply wished that a woman could ride the orgasmic high longer, because coming down meant you had to face that you’d gone overboard and done more than you wanted to.
“Except it was so damn good,” she whispered.
She pinched her cheeks for color, since she’d left her blusher upstairs, then took a steadying breath. They were going to view the photos on the TV. She’d be up there in flat-panel living color. Thank God the man didn’t have a sixty-inch screen.
He was already downstairs, the wine on the coffee table, glasses filled, one for each of them this time—he’d hardly touched the beer earlier—and a plate of white cheese with crackers and grapes. Just as she’d ordered. A log crackled in the fireplace.
Down on his knees by the TV, he was plugging in cables.
“I was kidding about the grapes and cheese.”
“Your wish is my command,” he quipped over his shoulder.
Her wish was to stop feeling so tense. She wondered how on earth you could be nervous with a man after he’d gone down on you. It was the most intimate of acts, and yet . . . it had been easier to do that in the intimacy of the moment than to make small talk now that it was all over.
Especially when she actually had to look at herself doing all those things. A chill shimmied through her, followed quickly by a burst of heat. They’d be watching together.
She allowed herself a deep swallow of wine to calm herself before settling back into the couch. The corset keeping her back straight, she tucked her legs beneath her, the front point resting on her abdomen. She sipped again and twirled the stem of her glass in her hand.
Finally he rose, and the blue screen made way for a shot of her in the pinup girl pose.
Margo laughed, and the thought slipped out. “I don’t look half bad.”
Dirk gave her a look. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
She loved the word on his lips. Just as she’d loved it when he’d said he wanted to stroke his cock. Crude was effective in setting her on fire. Yet a thank-you was all she could manage.
He sat on the couch beside her, concentrating on the photos. “Dammit, I should have moved that light a couple of inches. I don’t like the shadow it puts on your face.” Leaning forward, he grabbed a composition book off the table and jotted down a line. Then he glanced at her. “I want to make some notes so I can fix the things I didn’t like and duplicate the things I did right.”
Margo couldn’t help herself. “I definitely think there are some things you did very right.”
His lids dropped to half-mast, his gaze heated, and he gave her a long second’s look. “Should I duplicate them?”
Her breath caught in her chest. “You should certainly record the technique in your little book there.”
He wrote another line, never taking his eyes off her. “Duly noted.”
The pictures went on. Some he skimmed because they were multiples of similar poses. “You can choose your favorite.”
She liked most of them. “You’re very good.”
His coloring deepened. Just as it had when she’d complimented the pictures of his family.
“I mean it. You really made me look good.”
Tipping his head, he turned, giving her a frown and a pair of narrowed eyes. “I photographed what was already there.”
“But the lighting—”
“Good lighting only enhances.”
Thank God for Photoshop, too. But he was missing her point. “A good photographer knows the right moment to capture.”
He’d stopped on the photo of her rolling off a stocking, the satin of her panties flirting with the camera, a sultry smile gracing her lips as she smoothed her hands along her legs. She didn’t remember that smile, hadn’t known she was capable of it.
“I do look beautiful,” she whispered, then turned to him, “but your talent brought it out.”
His lips parted, and something hovered in his mind. But instead of voicing the thought, he pointed to the plate of goodies. “Eat a grape with a piece of the cheese. It’s tart and best with something sweet.”
Wasn’t that true about most things? Life was best with contrasts. Such as his big hulking body matched with that adorable dimple.
But she wasn’t going to let him get away with ignoring her. Taking his face in her palms, she forced him to meet her gaze. “You made me beautiful.”
“You are beautiful.” He wasn’t giving in.
“I’m talking about your photographs, Dirk, how you find a person’s soul. They’re magnificent. They are art.” Then she let him go to clasp her hands in her lap.
His gaze roamed her face, settling on her lips, as if he didn’t want her to see whatever might be written plainly in his eyes. Then he wrapped a grape in a slice of cheese and pushed it between her lips.
Argument over. He’d won. For now.
Six
Watching herself remove her panties on camera excited Margo all over again. Yet other than murmuring “perfect” and “gorgeous,” Dirk was engrossed in his composition book.
Even so, his words filled a need yawning inside her.
The corset fit her snugly, enhancing all her existing attributes. As he said the camera did. She was already beautiful, the camera and the corset just made her . . . more. Yet would she have seen that with any other man?
Then she was naked but for the old-fashioned yet extremely sexy garment. In a close-up, she’d pinched her nipples, the aureoles red. And her face . . .
“So fucking perfect.”
She held her breath. He was right. On screen, she was totally enamored of her own body, her own sensations. Even her pussy looked lush, wanton, and yes, beautiful. Her touch on her own body wasn’t sleazy or porn-star tawdry. It was passion personified. She remembered how it felt, his voice pushing her on, telling her to touch herself for him, to make herself come.
She squirmed on the couch, and he glanced at her, his eyes the deep, dark blue of the depths of the ocean.
“I’ve never just watched a woman come like that.” He looked from her to the TV screen and back again. She could hear him breathe. “Women don’t really need men at all, do they?”
Her cheeks blazed, and she laughed or she would have melted into an embarrassed yet highly aroused puddle. “It’s better when there’s a man involved.”
Yet she hadn’t had a man in a year, and she’d been . . . all right. It wasn’t the sex itself that she’d come searching for. It was the connection. It was to liberate something in herself. Then she’d found him.
“I want to see the ones with you,” she said.
He clicked through to his hand, so big, so dark against her skin. She heated between her legs all over again. The bright red of her nipples, the dusky curls between her legs, and his fingers. She could almost feel it, hear the sounds she’d made.
What he did on film wasn’t porn. He’d given her a memory she’d tuck close, like a diary she’d take from beneath the bed when she was eighty and say, “I did that. And I loved it.”
Suddenly she had to have it all.
Sliding forward, the corset giving her grace, she wrapped a single grape in cheese and held it out to him. As she had done, he ate from her fingers, licking the tip as she drew away. Then she went to her knees on the braided rug like a geisha.
“I want another picture.” She put one hand on his knee.
“Of what?”
She detected a slight crack in his voice. “Of you letting me pleasure you with my mouth.” She could have put it crudely. But she liked dirty words better when he said them.
He rubbed a hand on his jeans. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” She rolled her lips together, tasted wine, cheese, the fruit, her lipstick. “I want to taste you.”
He d
idn’t say a word, didn’t make a move.
“I will die if I leave here tonight without that.” She’d never wanted it more, never needed a man as much.
He rose slowly, until he was high, high above her. Then he held out both hands and helped her to her feet. “By the fire,” he said, “where it’s warm.”
She wasn’t cold, far from it, but she went to her knees once more by the blaze, the corset keeping her straight, the silk robe caressing her arms, her legs, her butt. Delicious contrasts.
He whipped the TV connector cable from the camera and towered over her. God, he was hard, huge, filling out every ounce of his jeans.
“Take off your shirt,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the camera and unbuttoned.
His chest was one big wall of muscle, tanned, hairless, massive pectorals. She’d never seen real washboard abs, but the man had them in abundance.
“Hmm,” she mused, “pants on or off?” She glanced up. “Which would be sexier in the photograph?” She couldn’t decide whether to choose the purity of his naked body or the decadence of his clothes hanging open. She put a finger to her lips before he could answer. “Decadent,” she said as if he could read her mind. “Just the belt and fly open.” Then, handing the camera back, she gazed up at him. “Don’t miss a moment, okay?”
His laugh choked off in the middle. “I surely won’t.” He smoothed the hair back from her face in an oddly reverent gesture. “Take off the robe and show me your nipples.”
The silk pooled in her lap, and she plumped her nipples above the corset. The blush had worn off long ago, but each was a bright, sensitive, rosy red.
“Perfect.” He put the camera to his eye.
She would never again use that word without thinking of him.
His belt buckle was stiff, and it took a moment to loosen it and the buttons on his jeans. Beneath, he was naked. His curls were a dusky brown lighter than his hair, and he’d trimmed. Fresh soap and the musk of his precome mingled with the wood smoke of the fire. She parted the placket of his jeans and gasped. He was even more than she’d expected. Stretching back, she couldn’t read his expression past the camera.