Anya groaned, but she didn’t shy away from him. Her back arched like a cat, pushing her bottom up higher for his administrations. Color bloomed in her skin, the distinct lines of his fingerprints appearing on her flesh. He had branded her and something about that gave him an extra thrill. He longed to pick up his camera, but he wouldn’t last long enough to take the photos. Every smack on her backside made his cock jerk and grow harder.
He lifted his hand and smacked her again, three short strikes, one after the other, all on the same cheek. Anya’s clenched teeth caused her jaw to tighten and she gave a little ‘ugh’ of pain every time his palm made contact. The fingerprints began to blur into one, her white bottom now flaming red. The surrounding area was still white, such a contrast his artistic eye wanted to capture, but he could hold himself back no more.
“I’m going to fuck you in the ass now, Anya.”
He dipped his fingers in her pussy, wetting his digits with the leftover cum and the fresh juices she’d spilled from being spanked. She couldn’t have gotten any wetter. He smeared the lubrication against the rosette of her anus, pushing a finger in, and then adding another, creating a scissoring motion to stretch her gently again. The glow of her bottom excited him. He wouldn’t last long for sure, even though he’d already come not long ago.
He slipped his fingers from her body and positioned his erection at her anus. His fingers were on her hips, his eyes glued to the redness he’d created. His palms still smarted from the spanking, so he could only imagine how her bottom felt.
With a gentle push, the bell-end of his cock breached her ring. Her ass was stretched around him, hugging him tight. Eric gave a groan and placed one hand on her lower back, sliding in deeper.
“Oh, God,” Anya moaned.
Eric pulled back a little and then thrust again, plunging deeper. He was almost halfway in now. He gave a couple more thrusts, and the whole length of his erection vanished inside Anya’s back passage.
His hips jerked, starting to build up momentum, and then he lifted his hand from her lower back and brought it down hard on her bottom. Anya gave a squeal that sent a thrill of excitement through him, his pleasure mounting. He lifted his hand and hit her again, harder this time. The cry she let out was more of a yelp.
His balls clenched, heat swelling and flowing, and he cried out as he came hard and fast into her ass, emptying himself thrust after thrust, his orgasm shuddering its way through his body. Anya’s ass clamped down on his cock and he felt the ripples of orgasm in her pussy through the thin walls.
She panted, her head hung.
He quickly grew soft and slipped from her body. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her up to spoon her, and held her tight.
Instead of becoming shallower, Anya’s breathing became more frantic, her shoulders shaking. It dawned on him that she was crying.
A sense of dread filled him. “Anya? What’s wrong?”
She shook her head.
“Hey.” He moved around so he was beside her, his arm around her naked shoulders. “Did I hurt you? It was too much, wasn’t it?”
But she couldn’t speak. She just shook her head again, tears streaming down her beautiful face.
Eric got to his feet and pulled up his pants again. He bent back down and lifted Anya from the floor. Prickles of red dotted her knees.
Oh fuck, the glass.
“Anya, you’re bleeding. We weren’t careful of the glass. I’m so sorry.”
Guilt swept over him. Hadn’t he been thinking about cutting her? Was he really that sick? He needed to watch himself. The dark thoughts were creeping in, and he didn’t want to go back to that same place. He loved Anya; he didn’t want to hurt her. Yet he’d enjoyed spanking her, enjoyed it more than he would want to admit.
Subconsciously, had he made her kneel down in the glass? Was he a danger to her?
But Anya shook her head. She sniffed a couple of times and then said, “I hadn’t even noticed my knees, Eric. That’s nothing.”
“What is it, then?” he asked, standing with one foot in relief and the other in frustration. “Was it the spanking, did I take it too far? Or did I hurt you when I took you ... up there?”
“No, I loved all of that. It’s not you. I love you.”
“Oh, baby, I love you, too.”
They smiled at each other, even through her tears.
“So what’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s your god-damned father, isn’t it?” Fury swelled within him. “I thought you were going to put his opinions behind you.”
She sniffed again and nodded. “I want to. And I’m trying, I really am. But he’s my father, you know? I hate that he’s disappointed in me.”
He was furious on her behalf. “He should never be disappointed in you. You’re amazing and beautiful and talented.”
“My father doesn’t think so. He thinks I’m a slut.” She gave a cold laugh. “After what we just did, I guess he’s right.”
“Hey!” His voice was harder than he’d intended. “Don’t ever call yourself that. We love each other, don’t we? We enjoy each other’s bodies. We make love and we create art. There is nothing you should be feeling bad about, or ashamed about. Got it?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be like this. When I came here, I wanted to prove to my father, and to you as well, I guess, that I could be one of those strong, independent women who does exactly what she wants without caring about anyone else’s opinions.”
“It’s only natural to care about your father’s opinions, Anya. And don’t worry about mine. I’m a self-centered bastard at times, but I want you to be happy. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”
He kissed her, her mouth first, and then her cheeks and her eyes, kissing away her tears. “Come on. I know what will make you feel better.” He scooped her up into his arms like a child and carried her into the bathroom. He set her down and then proceeded to fill the tub with hot water and bubbles.
He stripped off what remained of his clothes and then rid Anya of hers, too. He climbed in first and lay back, and held out his arms for her to climb into. She stepped her delicate foot into the tub, between his legs, and then settled her backside down between his thighs. With a sigh of pleasure, she leaned back, her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head.
They settled into a foggy haze of heat and scent, the glow of post-sex high surrounding them. Even with all of the drama surrounding their relationship, Eric didn’t think there was anywhere else in the world he would want to be.
He could easily fall asleep, he realized. He hadn’t exactly slept well, face-down on his desk, and he needed another few hours. Anya stifled a yawn and snuggled down into him.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s move to the bed.”
Gently, he rinsed off her body. Her skin was now pink from the heat of the bath, though he suspected the redness of her bottom wouldn’t fade completely for a day or two. He ignored the stab of guilt. Despite what she’d said, he hoped he’d not been too hard with her.
They both stood from the bath, water coursing from their bodies and slopping over the sides.
Eric stepped out first, grabbing a fluffy white towel from the heated rail and holding it out for Anya. She stepped into it and he wrapped it around her, wanting to hold her safe, protect her.
He grabbed his own towel and they went into his bedroom. With their bodies still damp, they climbed beneath the covers. Automatically, they sought each other, their limbs tangling, their breathing slowing to match one another.
Within minutes, they both slept.
Chapter Eighteen
Eric
Eric woke with a hollow pit in his stomach that for once had nothing to do with emotion. After missing dinner the previous night, and skipping breakfast in favor of a fuck-fest with Anya, they’d now slept way past lunch.
He was ravenous.
Glancing over at Anya, the sight of her still sound asleep made his stomach tig
hten in a knot. Her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her rose-bud mouth parted slightly as she slept. A flush resided high in her cheeks, but the rest of her skin was creamy. Her long, dark blonde eyelashes lay lightly against her cheek. His heart swelled with joy and he resisted the urge to reach over and crush her in his embrace.
How could something so perfect be his?
Carefully, he slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of low-slung workout pants that had been lying on the floor. Ruffling his hand through his hair, he padded barefoot, and bare-chested, out of the bedroom and into the kitchen area of his apartment.
His computer and camera sat waiting for him, catching his attention. He hesitated. He desperately wanted to sit down and look back through the photographs he’d taken of Anya that morning. His cock stirred in his pants at the thought, but it wasn’t just a sexual thing. He wanted to check out what his photographs had turned out like for a professional reason.
No, he had to eat. If he sat down at the computer, he would plug the camera in and before long would be scrolling thorough the pictures, studying them, making editing changes. And when he looked up again, hours would have passed and he still wouldn’t have eaten. He was already feeling weak from all the strenuous exercise and the lack of food.
Even though he told himself this in his head, it was still a battle not to walk over and start working.
He closed his eyes on his equipment. During times like this he wished his apartment wasn’t open plan. It would be easier to ignore his work if it wasn’t constantly on display.
Using all of his will, he turned away from the computer and camera, and forced himself into the kitchen. Anya, think of Anya. She would be hungry as well when she woke. She wouldn’t want to see him, weak and wasting away at his computer. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off.
Eric pulled open the refrigerator door, hoping something edible would reside within. His gaze scanned the shelves—eggs, ham, cheese, milk. Yes, he had enough to make an omelet. Perhaps not the most exciting thing in the world, but it was food.
Movement made him look over his shoulder. Anya stood at the kitchen island. She rubbed a hand through her mussed-up hair and yawned. She wore one of his t-shirts which hung mid-thigh. Something stuttered in his chest. She was unbearably cute.
“Morning,” he said with a smile.
She smiled back. “Isn’t it more like afternoon?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Does that mean making you breakfast would be weird?”
She hopped up onto one of the stools. “You’re cooking for me?” Delight was clear in her voice.
“Don’t get too excited,” he warned. “I’m not a great cook, and I’m seriously lacking in anything decent to work with. I’m in desperate need of a trip to the store.”
She shrugged one shoulder, coyly. “The famous Eric Rutherford is cooking me breakfast. Even if you managed to burn me some toast, I would be thrilled.”
He laughed. “I’m sure I can do better than burned toast, but I’m happy you’re keeping your expectations low. Coffee?”
“Now that’s a word I wanted to hear.”
Eric set about filling the percolator and whisking some eggs.
“Anything I can do?” she called.
“Nope. Just sit there and look pretty.”
He glanced over his shoulder as she lifted a handful of her hair and dropped it again. She motioned to his t-shirt which covered her body. “I think I might have my work cut out for me there.”
“Don’t be crazy. You look gorgeous.”
Color flushed in her cheeks.
Eric resisted the urge to storm across the room to her and ravage her on the breakfast island. He didn’t want her to think this was all about sex, or his photography, for that matter. He just wanted to be with her. Being in her company was enough.
He set to work grating cheese and chopping ham, heated oil in a frying pan, and started to cook.
Smoke alarms went off, the oil too hot. He danced around, flapping a tea-towel around the incessantly beeping thing, while she put her hand to her mouth and laughed.
Finally, it stopped.
Anya grinned. “I take it breakfast is ready?”
They ate sitting across from one another, self-consciously eating while snatching glances of each other.
He couldn’t put aside the thoughts of Anya crying, or the way she’d wanted to fuck to stop her from thinking. Though she smiled, he still sensed the sadness she held inside of her. He hadn’t even dared ask what she was thinking about the exhibition that was due to open in only a few days.
“Anya,” he started, nerves roiling in his stomach, “I think I should go and try to talk with your father again.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because this thing needs to be smoothed out. I love you and I want to see you happy, and right now I know you’re not.”
She glanced down at her now almost empty plate. “It won’t do any good. You’ll only stir up more trouble.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I knew what his reaction was going to be the first time, but I didn’t trust my instincts. I let myself and everyone else convince me it was going to be okay, and that he might surprise me. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t going to be the case. I think the same thing now.”
“The thing is, Anya, this isn’t just about you. He’s going to try to ruin the exhibition, assuming it goes ahead at all.”
Anya nodded. “I know he will. He won’t take this lying down.”
“So I have to go talk to him,” he insisted. “What hotel are your parents staying at?”
She named a five star hotel not far from where they’d attempted their meal the previous night.
“Okay, I’ll go and talk to him today.”
For once Anya didn’t argue with him.
He set about clearing away the dishes. Anya sat silently, but she was sad and worried, not sulking. He wanted so badly to make her feel better, and the only way he could do so was by making her father see sense.
He kissed her on the head. “I’m going to get dressed. You hang out here until I get back, okay? Make yourself at home.”
“Shouldn’t I come with you?”
“Maybe it would be best for us to be able to talk man to man. It’ll be harder for him to be objective if you’re with me.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Okay, Eric.”
He reached out and touched beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to his. “I know this is hard for you right now, but it will work out in the end. I promise.”
He hoped it was a promise he’d be able to keep.
Chapter Nineteen
Eric
Eric couldn’t be bothered to drive, so he took a cab downtown. He fought against his nerves as he watched the city go by from the back seat. He would talk to Anya’s father, Trent Bergman, man to man. He was Eric Rutherford, a successful artist in his own right, and even if he’d grown to fear art critics to a certain degree, he refused to let himself be afraid of this particular one.
The ringing of his cell from his pocket startled him from his thoughts. Though he’d just left her, his thoughts immediately jumped to Anya, but when he checked his caller display, the name ‘Logan Blanc’ glared out at him.
His heart sank. Logan. What the hell was he going to tell him? That the exhibition might be off? No, Anya hadn’t said anything about canceling, and he didn’t intend on putting words in her mouth. For the moment, he would simply have to stall and hope that his conversation with her father ended better than the last one had.
He pressed the green button to answer. “Logan, hey.”
“Hey, man. I hadn’t heard anything from you, so figured I’d better touch base. Everything okay on your end?”
He hesitated. Part of him wanted to have someone to offload onto, but he forced himself to keep Anya’s life private. “Yeah, everything’s fine here. How are the arrangements for the exhibition?”
“All good. I’ve
sent out the private invitations already. I sent you one. Did you get it?”
Eric confirmed he had.
“So ninety percent of the invitations I sent out have already confirmed, and I suspect the few I haven’t heard from will be confirming in the next few days. And the phone has been ringing off the hook with people I haven’t invited hearing about the great Eric Rutherford smashing back onto the scene with an edgy project in a brand new direction,”
Eric interrupted. “Those sound like words you’ve put into their heads.”
Logan laughed. “Yeah, I might have been dropping a few press releases around mentioning those things.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Logan was known for his ability to get people talking as much as he was for selling art. The idea of the exhibition popping up in the local papers made his heart sink, though. While he knew the papers wouldn’t have any of his photographs, he could just imagine Anya’s father reading about it and blowing a fuse.
“Hey, I know my business,” Logan continued. “So when do you think you’ll have the pieces ready? I’d like them in the studio the night before the exhibition.”
Eric sighed. He was cutting things fine, but then he’d known that when he agreed to Logan’s date. He’d have to spend much of the next week working, even though he’d been trying to wean himself away from his work. “I’ll get it done, Logan. You know I will.”
“Yeah, just don’t go falling down the rabbit hole again.”
“I won’t.” Logan had been there to witness firsthand the mess Eric had been in the last time he’d allowed the obsessive dark thoughts to take over. He couldn’t explain it, how the fog descended on him, blocking off the outside world. He always felt that when he was speaking with Logan, the other man was cautious and careful, trying to assess him for any signs that Eric might be losing it again.
Logan paused, but he could sense he wanted to say something else. “So ... how’s that lovely model of yours?”
“Anya?”
“Yeah, of course, Anya.”
“She’s great.”
“No problems with the concerns she’d had then?”
Dirty Shots Page 16