Caught On Tape_A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance

by Natalie Knight

  Seriously, how does he even does it? He can’t be a regular human being.

  I’m breathing so hard that my lungs might collapse any second now. Somehow, though, that doesn’t happen –and that’s good, since I want to keep going. I simply can’t grow tired of his cock.

  “I want you,” I find myself saying as I go up to my feet and turn on my heels, looking down at Blake.

  I place one foot on his chest and I push him down onto the floor; he goes down willingly and, before he can do a thing, I’m on of him. I straddle him like a wild cat, clawing at his hard pectorals with my fingernails, and he grabs my ass.

  “Now I’m the one in control,” I tell him with a chuckle, grabbing his cock by the root and pointing it up.

  I raise myself slightly, just enough to place the tip of his cock against my pussy, and then I start lowering my body over his hard cock. I groan as, very slowly, I allow him to slide inside of me. When his shaft is halfway inside my pussy, I just lower myself in one sudden movement and scream.

  Wasting no time, I rock my hips back and forth, working his cock with a fury I didn’t even know I was capable of. I go so fast that, in a matter of a few seconds, large beads of sweat start making their way down my forehead and into my face, going over my lips and inundating me.

  “Fuck, that’s good,” he exhales, reaching for my tits and squeezing them eagerly. He pinches both my nipples at the same time, and that just makes me go even harder.

  Needing an extra edge, I stop for a few seconds – and that just to plant my feet by the side of his thighs. Squatting over his cock, I start bouncing up and down so fast that, if I miscalculate my movements, I might just end up breaking his cock in half. That or he’ll split me in two.

  I fuck him until my muscles start giving up on me but, thankfully, before that happens I feel a thunderstorm building inside of me. By the time I collapse on top of him, that thunderstorm has already reached its zenith. Clenching my teeth, I choke down a scream and press my forehead against his chest, trying to survive the avalanche of pleasure that’s blanketing my mind.

  I roll to the side, completely spent, and sprawl my limbs while trying to catch my breath. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this exhausted. Well, at least it’s for a good reason. I wouldn’t mind being exhausted like this every single day for the rest of my life if it meant I could have Blake by my side.

  Oh, God, what the hell am I saying?

  “Already givin’ up?” He teases me, turning to the side so that he’s facing me. He squeezes my right breast softly, and the moves his hand down and over my stomach, placing it over my pussy.

  He caresses my folds and, when I don’t say anything, he just grins.

  “I think you still need more,” he says, and then forces me to roll to the side, my back turned to him.

  His body fits on mine like a piece from a puzzle, and he doesn’t waste any time – grabbing his cock, he guides it home, placing it against my soaked pussy and thrusting. This time I can’t choke down my scream, and so I just do it at the top of my lungs, his cock scorching the nerve endings on my inner walls as it goes in.

  “As hard as you can,” I find myself saying, not even knowing why I do it. I know how hard I can go – at least I think so – and I’m not sure if I can handle all that right now.

  I mean, how many orgasms have I already been through so far? Too many too count, that’s for sure. So, yeah, I’m not sure if I can handle one more. Or can I? No idea, all I know is that I want it. And, reading my mind again, Blake is the right man to make my wishes turn into reality.

  “I told you before…What you ask for, you get,” he tells me. Digging his fingers into my hips, he starts slamming his cock into me so hard that I even stop breathing for a few seconds.

  The way he’s fucking me right makes all the other times we were together pale in comparison to the sheer fury with which he’s using my body right now. He’s moving like a man possessed, the fires of hell burning under his skin and powering every thrust of his.

  I scream and I moan, forcing my throat to keep working past its exhausted state, and he just keeps on fucking me as if I was as quiet as a ghost. I don’t even know if he can hear me, to be honest – he’s probably in a world of his own right now, his conscious mind completely adrift.

  Blake might seem like a poised man, always cool and in control…But get him hot and he becomes a different man altogether, one impossible to tame.

  Screaming my way into a climax, I come undone the moment his thrusts become so hard I stop thinking at all, completely surrendering to the way he’s ravaging me. I claw at the floor, completely mad and not knowing what to do with my body as an orgasm unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before bursts inside of me.

  My muscles twitch so hard that it feels like I’m having a seizure and, by the time these spasms subside, I can barely move. My eyes are closed, and the silence in the room makes it seem like I’m floating in outer space.

  I’m dizzy and lightheaded but, when Blake slides his cock out of me, a tiny voice inside my mind tells me that it still isn’t over. There’s something I still need to do.

  I sit up on the floor and force my eyelids open. I go to my knees and then look at Blake with my mouth slightly ajar. A grin lights up his face as he realizes what I want him to do, and he goes up to his feet in no time, towering over me.

  I don’t even need to think about what I have to do – my body already knows it. Reaching for his cock with both hands, I start stroking him right away. My rhythm builds up fast, but then I break it by leaning in and wrapping my lips around the tip of his cock. He groans as I do it, and then he groans some more as I push my mouth down the length of his shaft at a breakneck speed.

  Bobbing my head as fast as I can, this time I don’t stop when I feel his cock pulsing hard inside of my mouth – I just keep on doing what I’m doing. In a matter of seconds, he places both his hands on my head and comes.

  Gushing a river of cum into my mouth, he fills it up to the brim with two quick spasms of his cock. I remain still for a few seconds, and when Blake’s finished I start rolling my lips back. His cock pops out of my mouth with a wet sound and, before I can even think about what I’m doing, I simply swallow.

  “Fuck, you’re amazing,” Blake tells me, reaching for me and grabbing me by the hand. He pulls me up to my feet and then makes me lay down on the bed, joining me a second later.

  “You’re the one who’s amazing,” I tell him, rolling to the side and resting one arm over his chest. We stay like that for a long time, the shadows growing around us and tumbling over our naked bodies. Surrounded by canvas, old brushes, and the smell of new paint, I close my eyes and surrender to the moment.

  This is a memory I’m sure I won’t forget anytime soon.

  Katherine

  The rays of the sun caress the back of my neck as I make a cup of coffee in Blake’s kitchen. At first, I only stare at the glistening beast of a coffee machine. I am nearly dizzy from the number of buttons on the silver appliance, but I persist, and it does not take too long before I hold a steaming mug of hot black liquid.

  I take a sip and close my eyes, enjoying the hot liquid caress my tongue before I swallow. This is excellent coffee.

  Coffee is one of my weaknesses. I probably drink too much of it. And I like the good stuff, exactly like the one I am holding in my hands right now. I am a coffee connoisseur.

  Life, I believe, is too short to drink bad coffee. And there’s nothing better than good coffee after a little nap, is there? After what happened inside the studio, I simply nodded off. I must have slept for a couple of hours before I finally woke up. Blake was nowhere to be seen, so I just made my way toward the kitchen.

  Dressed in nothing but one of Blake’s t-shirts, and with bare feet, I now meander through the apartment and back to the studio.

  I make my way through the living room, remembering how it felt to be with Blake. A little color rises to my cheeks as I recall the wild animalistic passion I had fel
t when Blake and I were having sex.

  Dale had never been so near Neanderthal in his approach to sex, at least not with me.

  I push thoughts of the ex-boyfriend aside. He is well and truly history.

  Curiosity arouses I continue my exploration of this oversized apartment. I seem to still be floating on clouds, the after-effect of sex lingering.

  I keep reminding myself that this is just a fling, not a long-lasting attachment, to the point where I’ve nearly convinced myself.

  I have to admit, up until I stood in his workspace, I hadn’t been entirely convinced of Blake being an serious painter. Sure, I had seen his work on exhibit the other night, but it was no proof he was an artist. A real artist.

  And now I stand in his workspace, and an explosion of color and feeling emanate from each and every piece of art scattered through the vast area stretched out before me.

  It is not neat and tidy. I spot two, no, three working easel with canvasses on them. One of them appears to be blank, but the other two have been started, although it is unclear exactly what they are paintings of.

  Some of the finished pieces are leaning against the wall, while others are hanging up. More of them are lying on the floor. He sure is prolific.

  Slowly, I move from painting to painting.

  It is as if a giant has taken me into his cave and laid his soul bare in front of me.

  Open-mouthed, I stare at a large canvass filled with dark blues, grays and blacks. The storm raging within the artist is unmistakable. It must have been a dark day for Blake the day he painted this one.

  I move on.

  I’m intrigued. As a writer I understand all too well how your emotions can rule your creative side.

  A canvass covered in every red and orange on the color spectrum has me reel back. I fear if I stand too close, the heat will burn my skin. I wonder if it is a raging fire he is portraying or something else.

  I keep staring at the blast of reds, and as I do, I can see the destruction of what appear to have been buildings. I sense anger.

  I keep walking. Blues, whites and turquoises draw me in. Puzzled, I stop and stare. Was this supposed to be the sky, the ocean or something so abstract I cannot work it out? Despite my inability to see a definite design, it has a serene feeling.

  I recall having read somewhere that blue is a calming color. I smile. So there was a calm and balanced side to Blake after all.

  Further along the back wall are some nudes. I’m relieved to find I don’t recognize any of his models. As I stare at them, a sense of insecurity creeps through me.

  These girls are gorgeous. There is not a flaw on them. Big boobs, slim waist, flat stomach, nice ass, and slender legs on each and every one of them.

  Some seem a little vacant in the facial expression, but as far as their bodies went, they were perfect.

  Aware of my own nakedness under the large t-shirt, I glance downward. Suddenly I get the distinct impression Blake had only told me he wanted to paint me so he could get me to have sex with him. Must have been a slow day for him.

  I notice another feature these girls have and I don’t. I don’t have long blonde curls to drape over my shoulder, half my face, or half way down my back.

  A half-finished sketch catches my attention. I hold my breath as I instantly recognize the face, the shoulders and the rest of the body.

  In the sketch I’m lying on my side. I’m asleep. Just by looking at it, I feel how peaceful I am.

  My hair, which I had only moments before wished to be long, looks just right. It accentuates my cheekbones. My lips are slightly drawn up, as if I’m smiling.

  The longer I stare at myself, the more I sense the eroticism oozing from me. I’m lying on my side, hiding some of my nakedness, and that somehow just makes it more erotic.

  Suddenly, my throat feels dry, and I’m a little dizzy.

  He must have painted this while I slept.

  Hands wrap around my waist. Warm, moist lips caress my neck, instantly setting off emotional shock waves all through my body.

  “Like it?”

  No sound escapes my lips. His touch threatens to drag me into the thralls of ecstasy once more. I nod.

  “What do you think…?” His hands are drawing little circles on my back. I can’t think properly.

  “About what?” I croak. I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds frog-like.

  “About the painting, Kat. Do you like it?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but I quickly realize that I don’t know what to say.

  Blake

  Standing in the doorway of the studio I see Katherine across the room staring at the painting, and she’s not smiling. I can’t quite read her expression, and I think surely, she’d have some sort of reaction by now. Silly me, I was actually expecting euphoria, or at least pleasant surprise.

  Anything but this seemingly blank look.

  “So…?” I nearly spit out the word as I amble over to where she’s standing, “What do you think?”

  Katherine is silent. She’s doing a slow pace in front of the canvas. Her arms folded in front of her chest in an almost protective stance. She’s wearing a pout, and it’s a far cry from the sexy one she gave when she was posing. I don't know what to think.

  "So…?” I repeat, this time with an edge to my voice, “Come on Katherine, even doctors don’t take this long to give an opinion.”

  She doesn’t look away from the canvas and her voice is a monotone when she finally utters, “I’m thinking.”

  There’s more silence, and after a few minutes she finally speaks.

  “Honestly, I’m not quite sure what to say.”

  “Seriously? You’re the writer, why not try by putting one word after the next? That might work.”

  Katherine gives me a sharp look and it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and her response is just as biting.

  “Yes, I know what I am, but nowhere in my CV does it state that I’m an art critic.”

  “Phfft…critics. I’ve never given one solitary fuck about critics. They’re dilettantes, the lot of them. They have no skills of their own. They’re all cowards, just sitting on the sidelines watching and waiting to pounce on someone’s work. What's that old saying, 'Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, and those who can't do either become critics!”

  “I couldn’t have said it better. And that’s precisely why I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to make hasty judgments.”

  “Katherine, you’re not one of them. You never could be. I just want to know what you think. What you feel when you look at it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’ve never painted anything like this.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve probably painted dozens and dozens of women. I’m no different.”

  “You think that? You can look at it and believe it’s like anything else I’ve ever done?”

  She doesn’t nod yes or no. She doesn’t move, she simply stares at the canvas.

  Rubbing my forehead with the palm of my hand, I turn away. At this moment, her opinion means everything. And everything I feel for her is on that canvas.

  “Katherine, you understand it isn’t finished,” I say. “There’s more work to be done, but the bones, the emotion, the essence of it is there.”

  I’m begging for a reaction, but she seems frozen, with no words or movement. And after what seems like an eternity, she nods her head. It’s almost imperceptible, but I’m noticing everything about her, including the dust motes against the sunlight that surround her frame.

  “Hmm…” she muses, and begins to turn away.

  I grab her wrist and pull her toward me. She doesn’t protest, but when she looks at me, her eyes are sad.

  “Listen, this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  “But…it’s…raw…it’s so personal.”

  “Of course it is. This is personal,” I say pointing to her and me, and the painting. “You are personal”

  I stop and take a breath, but I
don’t loosen my grip on her wrist, and I don’t move away. I’m waiting for her to look me in the eye.

  “This is personal,” I repeat it as a whisper, “and your opinion matters.”

  “I feel as if you’re hounding me,” she says, her words laced with anger,

  “I am not hounding. I just painted what I believe is my best work. You are the subject. You brought that out in me. You are my muse, for God’s sake! Is it too much to ask what you fucking think?”

  I am yelling, and I feel her pull away emotionally. That’s something I can’t afford to happen. I need her because she is my source of inspiration. So, I make one last ditch effort.

  “Katherine, I know…you feel something. Good, bad, or indifferent…just, please, tell me.”

  “You cannot show this painting to anyone,” she finally says.

  But there’s a catch in her voice, tears in her eyes.

  “Are you crying? What’s happening?”

  She shakes my hand off her wrist and wipes at the tears. “I don’t know how you did it. I knew you were talented, but that doesn’t describe what you’ve created here.”

  She is speaking so slowly, I want to reach in and grab the words from her throat, but I know if I rush her, I’ll lose her. So I stand, fists clenched, in anticipation for her next words.

  “Blake, you don’t need me to tell you that this is beautiful, because it is. But it is so much more than that. It’s alive. It’s real. It’s many, many things. But I’m embarrassed when I look at it. And before you say anything, it’s not because I’m naked. No, that’s not it. It’s because you’ve captured something inside me that no one else has ever seen, and you've managed to paint that. My vulnerability. My fears. My...innocence.”

  Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes, because she’s put into words what I could not express.

  “I can’t let you show this to anyone,” she says.

  I almost don’t believe what I’m hearing. “What? Why? You’ve just told me in so many words this is my masterpiece. Why would I not want others to see it?”

  “Blake, please, I’m begging you. I can’t be on display like this. It’s too personal and I do not want anyone but you to see me this way.”