“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.
20
Holland
It must have been the cold that stirred me. May in Ohio is similar to May in Maine. Pleasant during the daylight hours, not too warm, not too cool. But once the sun goes down, all bets are off.
A steady stream of frigid air billows into the room through the open balcony door. The sheer curtains float and sway, giving short, blurry glimpses of the outside. I shiver, goose bumps rising across my arms and legs as I pull the thick white comforter around me and push myself into a sitting position.
My eyes zero in on Jensen’s naked form, his back to me, standing barefoot on the concrete platform. His camera is poised in front of him, clicking softly as he captures the first sparks of sun rising over the surrounding buildings. The willowy material of the curtains continue to lap with the breeze, bringing him in and out of view.
He must be cold, but he shows no signs of discomfort. I tug the blanket more closely around my shoulders and slide off the bed. My feet slap lightly at the cool hardwood as I move to the open door. I rest my head against the frame and just watch him, enjoying the warm glow of his hard flesh in the crisp morning air.
“Come here,” he beckons without looking at me.
I secure the blanket and take a hesitant step onto the balcony. It’s much too early and chilly for this, but I keep going, gliding in beside him.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he hu
ms, his words fogging in front of him.
I stare out at the ever-changing sky, countless shades of color slowly illuminating everything it touches. “It is,” I agree. I’m not sure I’ve ever done this. That I ever took the time to watch the light bring the morning. As pretty as it is, I feel no joy in it. Only the familiar pang of resentment. The sun still rises and sets every single day. Time keeps moving forward no differently than it ever has. It doesn’t seem fair somehow.
Jensen’s large hand cups my cheek, bringing my gaze to him. He’s warm despite his lack of clothing and I shift, nuzzling into his touch.
His lips brush my forehead, the tenderness of the gesture catching me by surprise. My stomach somersaults violently, filling with unease.
“Stay here, just like this,” he whispers. “I want to get a shot of you with the sunrise.”
I do as he instructs, holding my position. My hair is being pulled with the wind, the ends snapping in the air, but I remain immobile letting him get the shot. He steps back in front of me, sliding the comforter off my shoulders and opening it down the middle just enough to show the dip of my cleavage. I watch him, his fingers folding smoothly around the camera as he takes several backward paces and keeps photographing.
“Drop the blanket,” Jensen calls.
It’s cold, we’re on a balcony, now lit by the sun, where anyone could see us if they were up at this hour, but I don’t even consider challenging him. I release my grip, the blanket falling to my feet, covering my numbing toes.
His finger presses into the button a few more times before he sets the camera inside the door. When he looks back at me, his eyes are blazing. I’m not sure if it’s the reflection of the sun or his passion that causes them to burn so brightly.
He stalks toward me. His hands enclose me in his grip as he pulls me to the ground, leaning me back into the blanket. Any of his neighbors could look out their windows and see how he lowers himself over me. Watch him spread me out to accommodate him between my legs. Witness him guide his cock deep inside of me. Anyone could catch us.
He sets a slow, gentle pace, so different from any of our other times together. Even as he palms my breast firmly, nips at my neck, pins my arm to the rock hard surface below us—even with the possibility of others watching—this feels distinctively unusual.
His fingers slide down, pressing and massaging my breast and making small, soft circles around the hardened nipple. It’s a gradual crawl to my climax, but when I get there, the intensity with which it takes me is unexpected and extraordinary. I scream his name wildly and he closes his mouth over mine, absorbing my cries of ecstasy.
A moment later, I feel his release pulse inside of me. Without breaking contact, he scoops me up with the blanket and walks us into his room, depositing me on the bed, only then do we come apart. He climbs in beside me, his arm folding around my waist.
“Why can’t I get enough of you?” he murmurs against my shoulder. I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
I lie perfectly still, my heart racing, pummeling my ribcage. His eyes fall closed and his breathing evens out. I don’t know how many minutes I stay there, but it feels like much too long by the time I slide out of his embrace and slip from the bed.
21
Jensen
Holland slithers from my bed and once again, I don’t stop her. I silently observe her as she pulls my dresser drawers open one at a time, searching for something. A shirt, I realize, as she lifts one out and works it over her head. It’s several sizes too big—she swims in the cotton tee—but as always, she looks sexy as hell. If she weren’t sneaking out on me—again—I’d grab my camera and make her pose for me.
Instead, I stay quiet, and I watch her. She never glances my way. Never wonders whether I’m asleep or not. If she did, she would realize I am looking directly at her.
She pauses a few feet from the door and I think she might look back, might change her mind, but then she bends, picking up her discarded heels from the floor. She disappears through the doorway in the blink of an eye.
I’m left alone and exhausted in my bed, which is how I prefer it. Relationships are complex. Messy. I’ve always tried my best to never cross that fine line. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else, or worse, someone be responsible for me. I already know how my story ends. I am not trying to confuse that.
However, I can’t deny that predatory side of myself. That part of me that needs to own and conquer. No matter how many photos I take of her, no matter how many times I possess her body, Holland won’t be mine until she wants to stay—needs to stay.
Even as I work this out inside my head, I know how wrong it is to want her to need me for anything more than sex. Know I am not the kind of man who can be relied upon. There is nothing I can do to change it, I know this as well. Yet here I am, desperately beating that dead horse once again.
*
I made it two days before I stopped by The Pub to see Holland. Made it another thirty seconds before my breath caught in my throat. Just over a minute until my cock grew hard as she obediently brought me my drink of choice without being prompted. An additional five minutes and I invited her back to my place.
She’s the sweetest habit and I can’t seem to quit her. Right now, I don’t even want to.
The moment she walks in my door a few hours later, she plucks the clip from her fiery hair, letting it tumble down her back. Her fingers unclasp the buttons on her blouse as she makes her way past me and straight to the bar where she prepares a Whiskey Sour.
I watch her with amusement as she walks to me now, handing me the drink, shrugs off her shirt, and promptly unzips her skirt with swift efficiency. “Heels on or off?” she asks.
I’m growing rather fond of this woman.
I set the drink on the table and lower myself into the chair. Steeple my fingers under my chin. “I can’t decide,” I say, enjoying this too damn much.
Her eyes narrow, but she continues stripping herself bare for me. The bra goes next, revealing pale pink nipples, hardened into tight buds, pleading to be bitten and sucked.
“Come here,” I rasp. I wish I had my fucking camera.
Her mouth curves up in a triumphant smirk as she steps in front of me, her legs brushing against my knees. I take her hand, tugging her onto my lap. I slide my hands slowly up her torso, deliberately missing her breasts. Up her throat, her face, and finally sinking into her thick hair. Her lips are close enough to kiss. I can feel every one of her exhales caressing my chin as she waits for my next move. But I don’t make one. I hold firm, my eyes locked on hers—dark to light, our breaths blending.
The edge of my vision blackens the longer I stare. It’s like looking down a shadowy tunnel, Holland’s face all I can see. My pulse begins to thunder in my throat. I can feel the pounding in my chest. I pinch my eyes closed, my fingers tightening their grip in her hair.
A hand, soft and warm—Holland’s hand—smoothes over my jaw. She strokes upward, the tips of her fingers tracing my eyebrow, then the other. Down my nose, along my cheek, then over my lips. I open my mouth, trapping her finger between my teeth, my tongue skimming, tasting.
With her finger still imprisoned, she starts the entire process over, this time using her lips. She’s relentless tonight, making me feel shit I don’t want to feel.
I release her finger and attack her mouth as she moves her lips to mine. I kiss her with ferociousness. Mercilessly. Savagely. I force my tongue deep. I bite her lips, her tongue. I suck on her. I explore her in ways I’ve never explored another woman. I savor her in ways I’ve never savored another woman. I do it all with my eyes closed. And I don’t stop, and I don’t take it further. Ignoring the primal roar reverberating in my head, urging me to rip her panties off and drive inside of her. To fuck her. Own her. Despite it all, I merely keep kissing her. Unguarded.
22
Holland
Jensen breaks the kiss, leaving me breathless and needy. I expect him to start spouting orders in that commanding way of his, w
ith his deep, calm voice full of authority he likes to use on me. Instead, he silently reaches behind himself, grasping the collar of his shirt. He drags it up and over his head, leaving him shirtless. He guides me from his lap, standing us both up, his gaze raking over my body in a searing route, from head to toe. Then he slides his t-shirt over my head, covering me.
“Come to the studio,” he utters hoarsely. “I want to show you something.”
His long fingers thread through mine and he tows me down the hall to the room I haven’t been in since he asked to photograph me. He pushes the door open for me, flicking several switches, illuminating the space as I step inside. He stays there, lingering in the open doorway, watching me. I scan the area, looking for what he wants me to see. I almost look right over the images lining the one wall, having seen these women before, but a pink scar on the shoulder of one catches my attention. I float toward it distractedly, my fingers drifting directly to the mark, then to my own shoulder, tracing its exact likeness.
The memory hits me so hard, it’s difficult to find my next breath. The summer I turned sixteen, my mom rented a cabin in Eustis and we vacationed on Flagstaff Lake. Alyssa spent two weeks with us during that time and we made it our common goal to swim in the lake every day. The water wasn’t deep enough for diving, but that didn’t deter us. The day before she was to go back home, while Mom stretched out on the dock with a book, Alyssa and I joined hands and went for one last plunge into the cool, murky water. I dove straight into a large rock, cutting my shoulder open. I needed twelve stitches and had to spend the remainder of my summer up on the dock with my mom. It was the best vacation I ever took.
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