Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection

by Hawkins, Jessica

  Jack: Tell me before you come.

  Finn shoves the computer screen away so it’s facing a wall. He stands, sliding me forward. The keyboard clatters at our feet. He puts his hands on both sides of me, trapping me on the desk while he nails me to it, so long and so hard, he has time to work my clit and bring me to climax again.

  My skin burns hot, my pussy slickens, accepting all of him with each plunge. We’re connected on so many levels, Finn and me. We have been since the start, but our bond just gets deeper, stronger. “Come inside me,” I say.

  “I—”

  “Please.”

  He slams me with three punishing thrusts. “Turn around. Quick.”

  It’s just like Finn to want to look me in the eye the first time he does this. I turn and sit on the desk, spreading my legs.

  “Give me your mouth.”

  It takes me a second to realize what he’s asking. I’ve gotten to know his tells over the past month, and I know he’s about to explode. Unsure of what else to do, I get on my knees.

  He holds my chin. “Open.”

  I take him in my mouth. He pushes to the back of my throat a few times, cramming my mouth until I gag. “I’m gonna come. Where?”

  I look up at him. I guess my options are anywhere but where I asked. I want to be claimed once and for all, owned, but it won’t happen tonight. I nod as best as I can, and that’s all it takes. He grips my hair, groans up at the ceiling, and spills into my mouth.

  23

  When Finn calls my name, it echoes through the nearly empty museum. I blink out of my daze, and just like that, I’ve lost a staring contest I didn’t know I was having—against an Indian rhinoceros.

  Finn is a few taxidermied species ahead, but he comes back to get me. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” He presses the back of his hand to my cheek. “You seem out of it.”

  I lean into his touch. “I’m fine.”

  “You can tell me if you’re bored.”

  “I’m not.” Well, not that bored. “Just a slow reader.”

  He brightens. “I’m glad you’re interested.”

  Finn’s been giving me a tour of the American Museum of Natural History for the past hour. He couldn’t believe I grew up outside the city and still had never been. He brought Marissa for the third time last weekend while I moped at my apartment for two days, but he still seems fascinated by every stop.

  He takes my hand and leads me to the next diorama, making a point to stop in front of the plaque. All right, so I wasn’t reading about rhinos. I was thinking about the article for Gotham’s digital magazine again, but I don’t want Finn to know that. We already toasted each other, went to dinner, and discussed it at length, so there’s nothing really left to say.

  Except . . . I can’t get one particular detail out of my head.

  What do I have to celebrate, when nobody knows who I am?

  It came out nine days ago, the middle of January, Friday the thirteenth of all days. Finn was lauded as an up-and-comer in innovative, modern boudoir photography. The kind of evocative art you’d hang in your entryway rather than hide away in the master bathroom. Provocative images of Finn’s seductive model to stimulate your guests. And Finn, my love, my rock—he credited his model as his muse—not for her body, but for her words. He was very clear about that. Nobody who read the article would doubt I had as much to do with his success as he did.

  Anonymous.

  There are theories. Celebrities, socialites, and professional models have been named as Anonymous. Boyfriends tag girlfriends in the photos, teasingly accusing them of keeping secrets. People care who I am, but they know who Finn is. He’s begun getting inquiries about commissions. Where does that leave me? It’s not as if I can come along.

  We blew past ten thousand followers before my target date.

  Finn has been leading me around, and suddenly I realize we’re in the Hall of North American Birds. A dead, stuffed falcon is mid-flight. Inside a glass case, ten, fifteen owls watch me walk by. My scalp prickles. I wore an Angora sweater because Finn likes how soft it is, but the museum’s heat is on and now I just feel suffocated. While Finn’s back is turned, I check my phone. A notification alerts me to a message from Butter Boudoir. Again? This’ll be the third message from them to go unanswered. I want to check it, but just two days ago, Finn told me I spend too much time on my phone when we’re together. I’m trying to be more conscious about it.

  Last week, we accepted two-hundred-fifty dollars from a jewelry company who’d read about us online. I wore a thin, silver bracelet for one shot. They had more followers than us, but they were looking to target a more niche audience. I’d suggested Finn and I use the money to splurge on a nice dinner, but he wanted to put it in the bank. After the conversation I’d overheard with Marissa, I didn’t try to talk him out of it. Instead, I made him a special meal at the apartment. It ended with lovemaking that involved an oven mitt, spatula, and a creative use of linguine.

  At the elevator, Finn turns to me. “The dinosaurs are on the fourth floor. Want to see or have you hit your limit?”

  It’s my stomach that answers him. Saved by the grumble. “I think my limit’s hit.”

  He slings an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you fed.”

  We return to the main entrance to retrieve our things from the coat check. While Finn uses the restroom, I step outside. I put on my fingerless gloves, which I bought specifically for occasions like this, where it’s freezing outside but I want to use my phone. Since I have a couple minutes to myself, I check our inbox.

  Mr. Cohen,

  Congratulations on seventeen thousand followers. I’m sorry we haven’t heard back from you yet. I know sometimes communication gets lost in the shuffle. Consider this our last and best offer.

  Valentine’s Day is around the corner, and we’re making a huge push to reach new customers. We’d love to gift you some pieces from our V-Day collection as well as $5,000 to feature them in a 10-photo series. Again, we’re big fans of your work, and our appreciation has grown even more the last few weeks as the posts just get better. I’m sure twenty thousand followers is just around the corner.

  Thank you for your consideration,

  Kelly

  “I know a burger place nearby,” Finn says behind me.

  I turn and nearly knock him down. I open my mouth to tell him.

  Five.

  Thousand.

  Dollars.

  I can’t even get the number out, as if saying it aloud will make it disappear. This is a sign. We can’t turn this down. “You—I . . . we—”

  “What’s wrong?” He rubs my upper arms. “Christ, Halston. Are you shaking? Maybe we should get you home—”

  “Five grand,” I say. “That’s what the lingerie company wants give us.”

  “What lingerie co—” He glances from my face to the phone in my hands. “You’re still talking to them?”

  “No. I never responded to their last message. But they just wrote and upped their offer because of a Valentine’s Day campaign.”

  He squints behind me. “We already decided against this.”

  We didn’t, but I’m trying to convince him, not anger him, so I keep that to myself. “We decided against a grand. This is five times that. I think that merits re-opening the discussion.”

  “I admit, it’s tempting,” he says, “but it isn’t worth it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not what we do. You’re my girlfriend.” He drops his gaze to mine again. “I’m supposed to protect you, not put you on display for a little extra cash.”

  “A little extra cash? This would cover your rent for two months.”

  He tilts his head and stops trying to warm me. “Why are you worried about my rent?”

  “Because you’re not.” As soon as I say the words, I wish I could take them back. This is an area of our relationship we haven’t yet broached. We didn’t talk about money in my household. My dad still pays my rent. Rich came f
rom wealth. I’m finding that I don’t like feeling so uncertain about the future, but since it’s Finn’s problem, shouldn’t he have been the one to bring it up?

  He stares at me, his breath fogging in front of his face. “You’re worried?” he asks. “About my finances?”

  “Well, no. But . . .” I shift on my feet. Two joggers weave through the crowd. A blue jay hops along a bare tree branch, and I’m beyond grateful for a real, living bird. Absentmindedly, I touch my feather. “I mean, you only work two or three jobs a month, but you live in a two-bed apartment in a very expensive neighborhood.” I look back at him. “How long can you keep that up?”

  “You and I haven’t discussed money,” he says slowly. “You don’t know the first thing about my bank account.”

  “I heard you talking to your daughter that morning after I spent the night.” A chill runs down my spine, and I blow hot air into my mittens. “It wasn’t on purpose, I just overheard. She said you were broke.”

  “Well, if an eight-year-old says it, it must be true.”

  “Is it?”

  “I made serious Wall Street money up until last year. I managed to save a good chunk of it. And I trade stock on the side. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “How would I?” I ask. “You never tell me anything about that part of your life. I know nothing about your finances or your ex-wife or even Marissa.”

  “And you won’t tell your dad you’ve broken things off with Rich. You promised you would after the holidays, and it’s January twenty-second.”

  My face warms. He’s right. I don’t talk about work or my dad with him anymore. I don’t want Finn asking about Rich. Every time I work up the courage to tell my dad the truth, I lose my nerve. He’ll accuse me of making bad decisions without the drugs. I just want to be stable, happy, and sorted with Finn so I can show my dad that I’m able to do it on my own.

  “One fight at a time, okay?” Finn crosses his arms. “No, I’m not broke. I’m good with money, but I am moving through my savings faster than I’d like. I’ve stashed some in my retirement accounts, but I don’t really want to touch those.”

  “Then let’s do this.” I pull on his forearm, trying to get him to uncross his arms. He doesn't budge. “It’s a lot of money. And it fits our brand—”

  “No.”

  Why wouldn’t we say yes? We get to do what we’re already doing, but better, and for money. Not only can I earn us more of an audience, which in turn commands us a higher price tag, but I can also take some of the financial pressure off Finn’s shoulders. All with a few risqué shots. “The pieces are tasteful, Finn. They’re sexy lace and sheer—”

  “Sheer?”

  “But in a tasteful way—”

  “No.” He steps back. “I said no, end of discussion. I’m not going to share you.”

  “You mean again,” I say. “You aren’t going to share me again.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We had online sex with a stranger,” I say. Some people look over, so I lower my voice. “I’ve used the word fuck in our captions, and you’ve been inside me during a photo shoot. Sex is our brand whether you like it or not.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to pimp out my girlfriend—”

  “I’m not your girlfriend right now. I’m your business partner.”

  “Not in this case,” he says. “You come before business. Our relationship comes before business.”

  “But you’re not ‘pimping me out.’ I want to do this.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because it makes me feel good,” I yell. “It makes me feel wanted.”

  “It’s not enough that I want you? You need to know creepy men are looking at you in sheer underwear? Why does talking to a stranger online, or people looking through our windows, get you off?”

  My lungs empty like I’ve been sucker punched. Finn’s never made me feel anything other than confident, smart, desired. Until now. Throwing all that in my face as if he wasn’t there every step of the way. “Are you saying none of that turned you on?”

  “Exposing my girlfriend to other men? No, it doesn’t. On New Year’s, it was fun, and kinky, and I was drunk. A one-time thing, not a recurring show. You’re my girl. At least with your journals, I’m the only one getting access to you, no matter how sexy or sweet or weird your entries might be—”

  Of course. I thought I was safe with him, but maybe that was a dangerous assumption. Maybe Finn’s finally beginning to see the truth. My journals aren’t sexy or provocative. They’re just weird. I’m weird. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you really mean?” I ask. “You think I’m a freak.”

  He looks taken aback. “I didn’t say that. This behavior does alarm me a little, but—”

  I move back, stunned when my dad’s face flashes through my mind as he tells me the exact same thing when I was fifteen. And then all the ways I’ve failed to cope. Now it’s Finn telling me I can’t make decisions about my own body, that I can’t earn money how I want. “Excuse me for wanting something for myself.”

  I can’t do this. I can’t be with someone who thinks I’m strange, especially Finn, because Finn has seen the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. And if he thinks that about me, then it must be true. I turn and head for—I don’t know where. Not here. The opposite direction of his place.

  “Halston.” Finn chases me down and grabs my arm. “Wait. That came out wrong.”

  I whirl around. This is why I hide. I’d rather have people judge my façade than my true self. In this moment, I can’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to stop my treatment. At least then, I could blame anything on the pills, even on my mom’s death. But without that crutch, I’m just me. “You’re the one who pushed me to put myself out there. You said I was good enough.”

  His mouth falls open. “I never pushed you, and you are—”

  “Don’t.” He made me feel safe, confident. “Don’t touch me. Don’t follow me.” I grit my teeth against a wave of tears. I walk off so fast, I’m nearly trotting. When I’m a few blocks away, and I’m certain he isn’t behind me, I lean my shoulder against a brick wall and catch my breath. I’m not going anywhere. I have nobody to run to. Finn is that someone. He’s the first someone to care about the real me. The first to see me.

  I fell in love with him for that.

  I should’ve stopped to think how much it would hurt if he didn’t like what he saw.

  24

  The sun is setting.

  I’m likely to crack the kitchen table if I keep slamming my phone down. I wish Halston would answer my texts. She can be mad as long as I know where she is. I almost followed her, but that’s what her dad or Rich might’ve done, and I think I may have treated her that way outside the museum, causing her to take off.

  I’m not entirely sure.

  I have to be more careful with my words. Her sensitivity spoke to me in those journals, and it’s one of the things I love about her. It also means if I hurt her, intentionally or not, the pain starts and ends in her heart.

  Although she left in the first place and hasn’t returned, I know she’ll come back. This isn’t over. With Sadie, I often worried our affair could end any moment, as if I were always waiting to have the rug ripped out from under me. Halston, though, feels permanent. I’m a different man than I was when I met her only a couple months ago. I still believe fate brought us together, but I no longer want to leave my relationship in its hands. I want to put in the work, the time, the effort to keep it healthy. And, I want to be a better photographer. Not just in terms of composition. I have to prove to Hals that I can do this, earn money at it, and support us. No more leaving it up to destiny.

  So, I’d better wrap my head around the fucking lingerie. If I’d known when we started this I’d have to share my sweet, sensitive girl with so many people, I might not’ve suggested it. But here we are. She’s happy—truly happy. Her work has been validated by thousands of people. Even if she lets the ne
gative reactions bother her, ninety-nine percent of the response is praise. How can they be wrong?

  I’m in charge of the camera. I can make this lingerie thing work, and I will, with her.

  I posted an image, a call for her to come home, a signal that Butter Boudoir isn’t off the table. I’d planned on keeping the photo for myself. The outer curve of her bare breast is visible and even that feels intimate. But I want her to know I’m willing to try. She was right to remind me this is a partnership. I can’t control her, and if I try, I’ll be no better than Rich or her dad.

  The passage I chose is one of her longest—and it’s inspiring more comments than usual, people tagging lost loves or commiserating friends. People lonely on a wintry Sunday afternoon.

  You said

  When you leave, turn out the lights

  Lock the door behind you

  Close the gate

  How can you not see

  When you’re gone, there are no lights

  The door won’t shut

  The gate is a cage.

  I miss you.

  That was three hours ago. I’ve watched my account like it’s a ticking time bomb, deleting any comment or message she might take the wrong way. The last thing I want is for her to see something that might wiggle its way into her head and convince her she’s not good enough. If she feels she has nowhere to turn without me, she might fall into a black hole.

  A knock on the front door makes me sit up. I gave Halston a key, so my mind jumps to the worst case scenarios: she sent someone for her things; she called Rich to confront me; she’s hurt, and the police are here. Holding my breath, I cross the apartment quickly and look through the peephole. Halston sags on the doorstep, weighed down by a backpack I don’t recognize.

  I yank open the door. She falls into my arms. “Oh, Hals,” I murmur, gathering her close. Her nose and cheek ice right through my shirt. “You’re freezing, babe. You should’ve come home. You could’ve been mad here where it’s warm.”

  She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Home?”