Dark Hearts

by Micalea Smeltzer

  In her hands is a camera and she holds it up, clicking the button.

  A Polaroid prints out.

  “What are you doing?” I ask huskily, toeing off my boots.

  She rests on her knees and leans, aiming the camera at the floor—toward my feet.

  “My project,” she answers, slipping off the bed and stalking forward. “Moments.”

  “You’re taking my picture for your project?” I raise a brow, waiting for her answer.

  She lifts the camera toward my face and snaps another photo. It prints out and she grabs it, placing it on the table.

  “Yes,” she answers. “You know how you said I inspire you to write music?” I nod. “I think you inspire me with photography.” She wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue. “Portrait photography isn’t normally my thing, but I’ve wanted to take your picture for a long time, and for our project we had to do something with meaning. I thought of you first and the whole idea for the project sort of fell into place.”

  “Tell me more. Why did you say moments?”

  Her lips quirk up into a smile. “Moments. I’m calling it Moments. The focus is on the little details and how they piece together to make a bigger picture.”

  “You’re a genius,” I tell her.

  She beams at my words. “I thought it was a good idea.”

  She takes a picture of my lips.

  “Take your shirt off,” she commands.

  I smile slowly. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

  She shakes her head. “Not tonight. Tonight, I’m in charge.”

  I fight a smile and she takes another picture.

  “Shirt. Off.”

  “You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?” I laugh.

  I hook my fingers into the back of my shirt, and she says, “Wait.” She moves behind me to take a picture of my fingers in my shirt. Once she has it, she says, “You can continue.”

  I grin, but she can’t see it.

  I remove the shirt slowly. Revealing a little of my skin at a time, letting her take as many photos as she wants.

  There’s something intensely erotic about letting her take pictures of me like this. It feels like I’m exposing a part of myself that isn’t normally seen.

  She stands in front of me once more and snaps another photo.

  “Drape the shirt over your shoulder,” she commands.

  “So bossy,” I say again, and she glares which I’d hoped she would. She’s cute when she’s angry. She crinkles her nose, which makes her freckles stand out more, and purses her pouty lips. When she’s mad, it makes me want to grab her, and kiss her, and fuck her, and show her how to channel that anger into something else. She takes a photo of the shirt dangling over my arm. “Where to next?” I ask her.

  “Sit on the couch.”

  Normally, I hate someone telling me what to do. I blame it on my father, who controlled every aspect of my life growing up, but I don’t find myself feeling that way now that Nova has turned the tables on me.

  I do as she says and sit down.

  She takes a photo that shows all of me, then she moves in, getting one of just my hand where I have it clutching the back of my head. Then she gets a close-up of my lips, my eyes, and my chest.

  My heart beats like a steady drum in my chest.

  I watch her carefully, my skin prickling with awareness at her proximity.

  I feel so exposed as she takes my picture.

  Stripped bare and splayed raw.

  But I don’t stop her. I don’t want to.

  She sinks down onto my lap, straddling me, and murmurs, “Touch me.”

  I wrap my finger around her choker necklace.

  “Take a picture,” she says breathlessly and hands me the camera.

  I take it from her and snap a photo of my fingers tangled in the black cord.

  I release it and grab her neck.

  Click.

  Her eyes flare with desire.

  Click.

  She bites her lip.

  Click.

  I grab her hair.

  Click.

  I snake my fingers under her shirt.

  Click.

  I lift her shirt off.

  Click.

  I aim the camera at her bare collarbone.

  Click.

  Then her stomach.

  Click.

  She takes the camera back.

  “My turn,” she says, her voice thick with desire.

  She takes a picture of my belt buckle.

  “Aren’t these getting a bit X-rated for school?” I comment.

  She grins like the cat that ate the canary and leans forward, pushing her breasts into my chest so she can whisper in my ear, “Some are for me.”

  I growl and push her down onto the couch, shielding her with my body.

  “Then you won’t mind if I take some for me?”

  I don’t wait for her to answer.

  I seal my lips over hers. I kiss her desperately, like I didn’t just kiss her this morning. I feel like I haven’t touched in her years, when in reality, I just had her this morning in the shower before she had to leave for class.

  I cup her breasts as I kiss her, loving the fullness of her in my hands.

  She moves her arms, getting the camera out from in-between us. I growl in satisfaction because now I can feel her more fully against me.

  Her skin is soft and smooth like butter. I could touch her forever.

  The camera clicks and because my eyes are closed I don’t know what she’s taken a photo of, or if she even meant to do it. It could’ve been a complete accident.

  I gather my arms around her back and she wraps her legs around my waist as I grind against her.

  I pick her up and stand from the couch with her in my arms.

  I carry her to the bed with her arms wrapped around me.

  She still holds the camera and when I release her so she lies back on the bed she snaps a photo of me standing above her.

  She places her foot on my chest.

  Click.

  I grab her leg, gliding my hand down her thigh.

  Click.

  I grab her thighs and pull her to the edge of the bed to meet me.

  Click.

  I take the camera from her.

  “That’s mine.”

  I shake my head. “Ours.”

  Her hair is splayed around her and she looks beautiful.

  Click.

  She sits up, and I rub my thumb over her lip.

  Click.

  Her dark lashes flutter against her cheeks.

  Click.

  She takes the camera, and I smirk as she undoes my belt.

  Click.

  The button comes undone next.

  Click.

  Zipper.

  Click.

  My jeans slide down to the floor.

  I feel like I might explode from the need to touch her, but there’s something infinitely more powerful about not touching her, about relinquishing control to her, if only for the moment.

  She rakes her nails down my chest, and I shiver.

  Click.

  She pulls down my boxer-briefs just slightly, so the barest hint of un-tanned skin shows.

  Click.

  She removes them entirely, and I step out of them, snatching the camera from her again.

  I grab her underwear forcefully.

  Click.

  I slide them down her hips, and when they reach her knees, I stop to take another photo.

  Click.

  I remove them completely and take a picture of her bare hips.

  She snatches the camera from me and drops it on the bed.

  “Touch me,” she begs. “Please.”

  I don’t have to be told twice.

  I spread her legs, kissing my way down her thigh. I revel at her little gasp when my tongue touches her pussy.

  “Oh, Jace,” she moans, her hips bucking and her fingers tugging on my hair.

  I swirl my tongue around her smoo
th skin, sucking at times.

  She writes against the bed and it fills me with satisfaction to feel her fall apart beneath me—to know that I do that to her.

  Sex has always been just about sex to me—the act itself.

  But with Nova it’s so much more.

  It’s an art form.

  I move up her body, swirling my tongue around her right nipple and gripping her left breast in my hand. She moans, her hips rising to meet mine. With my free hand, I push her hips back down to the bed and hold them there. She whimpers and I smile, kissing her.

  “Jace,” she breathes between our lips. “Need. You,” she pants brokenly.

  I move my hand in-between us, finding her slick and wet already. I easily slip a finger inside and she gasps at the intrusion, her wide dark eyes flashing up to mine. She looks at me with an inexplicable trust. She knows I won’t hurt her and that I’m about to show her the greatest kind of pleasure.

  I skim my lips down her neck, and she shivers, her nipples tightening.

  I add another finger and her eyes close.

  I grab her chin. “Eyes open, Nova.”

  Her eyes reluctantly flutter open, the warm brown all but swallowed by black and thick with lust. Her lips are pink and pouted, already swollen from my kiss and the night’s only just beginning.

  The tiredness I felt upon getting off work has completely disappeared. I feel alive in a way I didn’t know was possible.

  “You’re beautiful,” I tell her, my teeth biting into her shoulder.

  Marking her.

  Claiming her.

  She glides her hands from my waist, up my chest, circling around my shoulders where she locks her fingers together at the base of my neck. She takes one hand and traces a shaking finger over my lips.

  “So are you.”

  I grab her hand in my own, kissing her fingers before locking our fingers together and placing our joined hands over my heart.

  This moment feels profound.

  I don’t know if she quite understands my meaning—that I’m showing her, since I can’t say it, that my heart is hers. I never thought I’d give it to anyone—to love is to give someone the power to destroy you—but these few short weeks with Nova have been some of the best of my life, and I’ve never felt stronger, or happier.

  Nova’s fingers tremble in mine, and I think, I hope, at least, that she does understand.

  I release her and grab her hips, sliding her up on the bed.

  I follow, and she spreads her legs to accommodate my body.

  My eyes find hers, and I grab the base of my cock, guiding it inside her.

  She gasps, her hips fighting to move but I hold her steady. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip and her nails rake down my back.

  “Jace. Oh, God,” she whimpers, her legs shaking.

  I ease back out and in.

  “J-Jace. Please. Fuck me hard.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  She trembles beneath me.

  “I need—”

  I silence her with a kiss and pull back. “I know what you need. Trust me. You trust me, right?”

  She swallows thickly and nods, her eyes vibrant.

  “I need to hear you say it.”

  “I trust you.”

  I’ve never made love to anyone before. It’s always been hard, and fast, and your stereotypical fuck. I never thought I’d want this—slow love-making with feelings. But fuck, I think this is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. Every moment, every second, feels infinitely slow down.

  My hair falls in my eyes, and I flick my head to the side, ridding myself of the annoyance, because I don’t want to miss a moment of this. I want to watch her.

  I slide in and out of her slowly and her lips part as little pants escape her. Her eyes roam my body, from my head down to where we’re joined. When her eyes find the spot where my cock moves in and out of her, she moans and clenches around me. My little Nova likes to watch, and I fucking love that it turns her on as much as it does me.

  I cup the back of her neck and draw her to me, kissing her until we both have to stop and catch our breath.

  I lower my head to the crook of her neck, pressing my lips to the spot where her pulse races.

  Her pussy clenches around me, and I know she’s close.

  I wrap my hand around her neck, applying a little pressure, and she clenches again.

  So close.

  I sit up and grab her legs, lifting her to meet me.

  “Oh, my God.” Her head falls to the side and her lips part as she comes. Every little sound, every little gasp, I fucking own that.

  I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than Nova coming apart beneath me, ripped at the seams by what I, and I alone, do to her.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I try to fight my need to come, but it’s impossible. It hits me, and I’m unable to stop it. I come, shouting her name, with black spots dancing behind my eyes. I fall onto her, careful to hold my weight so I don’t crush her. It’s the strongest orgasm I’ve ever had in my life. Nothing has ever felt that powerful before.

  I roll off her, my chest rising and falling rapidly as I struggle to get enough air into my lungs.

  Nova turns onto her side and loops her leg through mine and drapes her arm over my body with her head pillowed on my chest.

  Exhaustion so sudden that I don’t see it coming overtakes me, and I fall right to sleep.

  Nova

  I step out of the bathroom, drying my damp hair with a towel.

  Jace looks up from his guitar and the notebook in his lap, scribbled with notes.

  His mouth drops when he sees me.

  “Y-Your hair,” he stutters, swirling his finger around his own head. “W-What color do you call that?”

  I smile and sit down on the coffee table across from him, tilting my head to the side. “Me,” I answer.

  He shakes his head. “You’re a brunette?” I nod. “I’ve never seen you with normal colored hair before. I mean, I always assumed you were a brunette, but it’s different seeing you this way. What made you decide to go back to your natural hair color?”

  “You,” I answer.

  “Me?” He sets his guitar down so it’s leaning propped against the couch.

  I nod. “Yeah … your song you wrote … I kept thinking about it, how true it is. I dye my hair to hide who I am, who I really am. I don’t want to hide anymore.” I shrug, like it’s as simple as that.

  He leans forward and reaches out, ghosting his fingers over my cheek. I lean into his touch with a sigh.

  The decision to dye my hair brown again wasn’t an easy one.

  After I moved to Colorado and was on my own, I knew I wanted to do something big—something my parents would’ve been horrified of. So, I dyed my hair purple. Then the colors kept changing, but while the color might’ve changed, I never did. I’ve still been the same old Nova underneath, and Jace helped me to realize that. I shouldn’t be ashamed of who I was or who I am.

  It was time for me to go back to brunette—to embrace who I am.

  “Do you hate it?” I ask nervously.

  He grins. “You look beautiful. You’re always beautiful.”

  I sigh in relief. “Thanks. It … It feels good. It feels right to be brunette again. I know that probably seems silly, it’s just a hair color, but—”

  He presses a finger to my lips, silencing me. “It’s not silly. I understand.”

  “You do?”

  He nods. “You’ve finally realized that you’re strong enough to protect yourself on your own, that you don’t need a shield.”

  “You know too much,” I tell him.

  He chuckles. “I’m quiet. We see and know everything.” He winks.

  I shiver. How is it possible that talking about something like this he manages to turn me on?

  I move to sit beside him on the couch.

  And then his phone rings. He swipes it off the coffee table and looks at the name flashing on the screen.
/>   He curses.

  “Who is it?” I ask, wondering who’s caused him to tense up and for lines to form between his brows.

  “My father.”

  He stands and answers the phone. “Hello?” His voice is tight, clipped, as he speaks through clenched teeth. “I’m fine, sir, and you?”

  Sir?

  He paces the length of the room and the tension radiating off him is enough to set me on edge.

  They exchange a few more clipped words before Jace opens the large window and slips out onto the balcony.

  Shirtless and in bare feet.

  In the middle of November.

  I shake my head and grab a jacket and socks and take them out to him but he doesn’t even notice me when I place the items on the metal grate beside him where he crouches. He looks like he’s seconds away from launching himself off the balcony and onto the ground below him. I know a thing or two about parents driving you to madness.

  I make my way back into the apartment and sit on the couch, waiting for him to finish his conversation.

  Fifteen or so minutes later he gets off the phone and comes back inside, shivering since he neglected to put the jacket and socks on.

  Men.

  He looks pale and sick, and I think it has little to do with being cold and everything to do with his father.

  He stands in front of me, hands on his hips, and holds up a finger, begging me to give him a moment.

  Which I do.

  Sometimes we all need a minute to steady ourselves for the impending storm.

  He presses his lips together and finally speaks.

  “My dad wants me to attend some fucking family holiday dinner thing next week. It’s some sort of fancy Thanksgiving gala thing for a bunch of uppity fucktards he works with and he needs me there playing the part of the dutiful son.” Jace snorts and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why he can’t just leave me alone.” He mutters the last part under his breath. He groans and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Letting them drop, he says, “Come with me.”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “To the party-gala-ball-thing,” he rambles. “Please,” he begs. “It might be bearable if you’re there.”

  “Jace,” I hedge. “I don’t know.”

  “Please.” He sinks to his knees in front of me. Vulnerable. Open. Begging. “Please,” he says again. “I know it’s not your kind of thing. It’s not mine, either. But I have to go. Please, be my date.”