by Ophelia Bell
He keeps my wrists pinned above my head as he slides down, capturing one nipple in his teeth and biting until a spike of pain shoots through me, and I gasp. He releases it, then sucks it into his mouth, the pleasure of his teasing tongue easing the sharp soreness of his bite. Sliding one hand down my side, he grips the back of my thigh and pushes it up, tilts his hips, and slowly eases inside, taking his time as I shudder with need.
He proceeds to make love to me slowly, with more determination and deliberate focus than he ever has before. It isn’t until I’m midclimax that I catch Maddox with his camera in my periphery, engrossed in photographing us again. I have no idea when he returned or how long he’s been watching, but I can’t shake the feeling that Leo’s performance was for his benefit as much as mine. Then Leo turns his head midstroke, and he and Maddox lock eyes for the briefest stretch. A second later, his cock pulses and he comes hard, burying his face in my neck as he rides out the torrent, and I clutch him to me. I seek out Maddox too, and am destroyed by the desperate, hopeless look in his eyes, his camera tilting, forgotten in one hand.
There has to be a way for us to have more, for him to be more than just an observer. But is my love enough to hold us all together if we try? Or will it destroy me the way it destroyed my mother, and leave the two of them hating each other?
Maddox sends us home with the promise that he’ll have a flash drive of photos for us to look at soon. He insists it might be too overwhelming to look at all of them—there are hundreds—and that we need to trust his artist’s instincts to choose a selection of the best to keep.
I’m not sure I really want to see them. Knowing that Leo’s goal is for a tattoo of my face still makes me hesitant, but a few days later, he comes home with a flash drive of the cherry-picked photos, so eager to look that I’m infected by his enthusiasm.
We wait until late in the evening, shut ourselves in my room with my laptop on the bed, turn off the Wi-Fi, so we’re truly isolated, and open the drive.
Viewing the photos is surreal. I almost can’t believe it’s us—what I’m looking at looks like an artist’s rendering of some other, sexier couple in the middle of making love. But every image is beautiful, so I have no idea how in the world Leo will be able to decide. Then we come to the ones of my face, and I’m flabbergasted. I look . . . stunning. The uninhibited rawness of my expression doesn’t fit the image I have of myself. I’ve always been controlled, methodical, serious. I was an overachiever in school, my ambition stemming from my unwillingness to draw other people into my complicated life. I don’t see myself as someone who ever just lets go, but in those photos that’s exactly how I look.
The woman in the photos has nothing on her mind but the pleasure she’s immersed in, and somehow it makes her seem more beautiful than I’ve ever seen myself. Is this how Maddox sees me?
One of the photos has the word TAT appended to the filename. We open it and look at the most enthralling image yet. It’s me again, but my eyes are open, my lips parted and curled as if I’m speaking. A few strands of hair cling to my flushed, sweaty cheek. I instantly know when the photo was taken: it’s that moment when I whispered, “I love you” to him. And he caught it.
The next shot isn’t a photograph at all, but a detailed digital rendering that makes me look like a china doll. Every feature is perfection, starkly cast in high-contrast shadows with even shading. Black abstract hatching and precisely drawn geometric shapes and lines make a backdrop. It’s just my face looking back, and my eyes are the only color, but it’s all the more striking for that contrast.
Leo stares in rapt silence like he can’t look away. He reaches out and touches the screen, then finally utters, “Fuck me, he’s good. That’s definitely the one.”
I frown and look back at it. “Are you sure? I mean, all the photos are amazing. I’m sure if you chose a different one, he’d understand.” I don’t know why, but the thought of having Maddox choose that particular moment to capture in a tattoo must be some kind of message. Maybe he doesn’t remember though. Maybe they all run together for him, but I doubt it. There are dozens of amazing shots that are just as striking and would make a tattoo just as impressive. Is he asserting some kind of control over the otherwise hopeless situation by choosing the one moment where I reached out to him and shared my feelings, offering that as the piece Leo will have permanently etched into his skin?
“Babe, just look at it,” Leo says. “He already designed the whole thing. It’s fucking perfect. Why would I change it?” He looks at me and then frowns. “Or maybe you’re not down with the whole idea at all now.” Lifting his fingers to my cheek, he says, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I force a smile and shake my head. “Really. It is beautiful. You should definitely keep it. I’m just a little overwhelmed by how amazing all the photos are. Seeing them again just makes me really self-conscious.”
“No shit, they’re amazing, and you’re fucking beautiful in all of them. Though I think some of the ones he picked out are definitely more for your enjoyment than mine.” He skips back a few to a series that focuses on his impressive tattooed back and bare ass. One in particular is the moment when I’m on my knees in front of him, and my fingers are just venturing up between his ass cheeks. There are others of his face and his body flexing while he fucks me. But he lingers on the series of my ass spread across his hips and his hands digging into the pale flesh. “This is my favorite.” He gives me a teasing grin.
I roll my eyes. “Maybe you should get that tattooed on you.”
“Maybe I will. You know what, I’m going to call Mad Dog now and tell him to redo the artwork. I want this.”
He reaches for his phone, and I smack his arm. “Don’t you dare!”
He holds his hand out of my reach and starts to dial. He apparently has Maddox on speed-dial. The man is serious about his tattoos, so it isn’t surprising that he has his favorite tattoo artist so readily at his fingertips, but it still gives me a shot of hope.
I call his bluff and huff out a breath. “Fine. You want a second butthole, be my guest. The two of you clearly got off on ogling it. Maybe he’d like a tattoo of it himself. You can have matching tattoos of my asshole and call yourselves the butt brothers.”
Leo belts out a laugh that melts my annoyance and has me giggling for all its exuberance. Dropping his phone, he pushes the laptop aside and pulls me into his lap. He nuzzles my neck, and his hands coast down my hips to land on my ass. Squeezing hard, he rumbles, “Baby, if you’d just let me have a taste, I could get it out of my system. Just humor me once and try. If you hate it, we never have to do it again.”
If it weren’t for the fact that he never begs or negotiates this way for anything, I’d shoot him down again. It isn’t that I think it’s gross—obviously, I love how much he enjoys it when I finger his ass—it just feels like too much of an invasion, not to mention he’s huge and the idea is a little frightening. His fingers stray between my cheeks, grazing the more sensitive skin through the thin fabric of my pajamas.
With an exasperated groan, I clench and push his hands away. “You know what? If you want it so bad, you try it first.”
He halts his groping and leans back, giving me a lazy, lusty look. “You already tried it, ángel. You know I get off on you fingering my ass.”
Tingly warmth floods my insides as an idea occurs to me. I’m halfway certain he’ll shoot it down instantly, but if he doesn’t, it’ll be worth it. I shake my head. “No, I mean for real. You first. Not my fingers. Full anal, for real.”
He goes still and narrows his eyes, processing my proposal. “You want to wear a strap-on and fuck me? That’s kinky even for you, but I’m game.”
My body flushes, and I swallow, then go for broke. “No, Leo. I want you to let someone fuck you. I want you to let Maddox fuck you. Then I’ll let you do whatever you want to my ass.”
He starts to shake his head, but his erection is a bruising lump pressing into my hip.
I grab both sides of his he
ad and stare into his eyes. “How much do you want it?”
A nervous laugh stutters out of him. “You’re bluffing.”
“No, you were bluffing about the tattoo. I know how seriously you take your ink. Even having my precious rosebud as a tattoo would be too tacky. I’m not bluffing. The idea doesn’t appeal to me for a variety of reasons, but I need to know exactly how serious you are about wanting it. You ask Maddox for this, and I’ll let you have what you want. I went through with the photo shoot. I’ll go through with this too.”
“Why Maddox? What if he says no? Dude isn’t even into me that way.”
“Because we trust him. And I think you’d be surprised. You know he enjoyed photographing us. Don’t you think he’d have enjoyed being part of it?” I’m fully on board with the scheme now and ready to do anything to convince him. So far, his lack of complete rejection of the idea gives me hope. Maddox already admitted to me how he feels about Leo, and I have a feeling Leo at least harbors deep affection for Maddox. I love them both so much, I have to try, because if I don’t, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if the three of us could have had the kind of love my parents tried and failed to have with Amador.
“Yeah, fucking you maybe, but not me. No man in his right mind would look at you and not want a piece.”
I tilt my head to the side and pose a question I would never have asked had I not already opened this particular can of worms. “Would it bother you to see that? Him fucking me, I mean.” I go a little breathless, searching his eyes as I wait for his reply. He looks scared, but not like someone presented with something truly horrifying and unthinkable. More like a boy standing at the edge of a cliff dive, not sure if he’s brave enough to take the leap but desperate to prove himself nonetheless. His cock answers for him, kicking hard against my hip, so I drop my hand and start petting him.
“Jesus, Celeste,” Leo says on a gasp.
“Tell me.” I lean in to whisper in his ear, taking it up a notch by teasing my tongue around the shell and nipping at his earlobe while I stroke him just enough to drive him crazy. “Can you picture him with me, all those hard, tattooed muscles wrapped around me while he fucks me? Because I can picture him fucking you, and it’s so fucking hot. Instead of my fingers inside you, it’s him. Then I turn around and show you your favorite part of me . . .” I reach for the laptop, which still displays the black and white art shot of my ass spread and poised over Leo’s cock as he drives deep into my pussy. “This is all yours if you can take him. Do it for me, Leo.”
“That’s so unfair,” he growls, throwing me down on the bed and looming over me. His eyes flash but he doesn’t look angry. He looks hungry. Ravenous. He tears off my pajama bottoms and pushes my legs wide. I’ve been wet for ages, ever since we started our tour of the photos, and I ache for his touch, but at the same time, I’m a little afraid he’ll take it too far tonight.
He kneels between my legs, then leans forward and pushes my tank top up over my breasts and pinches both nipples hard.
“You like a little pain. That’s why I think you’ll like having my dick pounding into your ass.” He drops his hands to my inner thighs and spreads me open, slicking his fingers through the wetness until I squirm. He presses one thumb to my clit and rubs while he teases his other thumb against my opening. Then he grips me behind the knees and pushes my legs higher. My ass is on display, and he slides both thumbs lower, grazing parentheses around my rear opening. The pads of his thumbs slide up and down, closer and closer to the center, all the while I’m clenching hard. I have a protest on the tip of my tongue and am starting to squirm when he moves his thumbs away and returns them to my pussy and meets my eyes. “You promise you’ll follow through?”
He’s teasing my clit again, and I realize he’s turned the tables on me, teasing me to wear down my defenses. But I meant every word. “Yes,” I breathe, and it turns into a moan as he slides three fingers into me and starts pumping. When I’m at the verge, he moves above me, removing his fingers and sliding his cock in, stretching me so gloriously I can only moan and cling to him.
Our eyes lock, and he says, “Then I guess we have a deal, ángel.”
27
Leo
After Celeste’s proposal, I think I understand the concept of cognitive dissonance for the first time in my life.
For the next few days, I’m engaged in a kind of mental battle over the entire idea. I’m not gay. I’ve never even checked out other men beyond a mild appreciation for their ink or how cut they are from hitting the weights. It’s always been an ego thing—comparing their looks to mine. I do it with Mad Dog too, and have done it ever since the first day we met right after he opened his shop and I cruised in, cocky as fuck, scoping out the joint as if I were some expert on tattoos.
His complete nonreaction sobered me, and when he focused on my ink, identifying Toni’s work instantly, I knew he was the real deal. It took no time at all to start thinking of him as a friend and fellow connoisseur of ink. For the first few months, I kept a healthy level of paranoia around him, which is required where we live, but that faded fast the more he shared about his history and the easier it got to open up to him. Putting myself at his mercy on a regular basis required a certain level of trust, which he earned by always being straight with me.
I guess he really isn’t as straight as I always thought, though the idea that he might actually agree to Celeste’s kinky proposal doesn’t make it easier to approach him. It makes it infinitely harder.
I round the block for the third time in the Bentley on a rainy Saturday night a week after our photo shoot. I’m working up the courage to go in and talk to him, and for some ungodly reason my dick is hard. Half my brain keeps trying to rationalize it as looking forward to Celeste fulfilling her promise at the end of it all, but the other half whispers the insidious suggestion that I really must be jonesing to have Maddox fuck me.
It doesn’t make me gay. But would that be bad? I’m open-minded. Other than the night Maddox told me he was bi, I never even flinch around the mention of alternative sexualities. It was just a shock with him because it didn’t jive at all with my first impression of what kind of man he was.
It’s just sex. It’s just for fun, and I win a pretty sweet prize for going through with it.
But it isn’t just sex, that second half of my brain proclaims. I’ve never been able to carry on a purely physical relationship with any woman. If I’m not emotionally invested, I just can’t remain physically invested either. I love Celeste. I would literally do anything for her. She’s wormed her way into my head so deep I’m starting to wonder whether she somehow planted this feeling herself. Which would be a feat. I know better, of course. I’ve loved her since long before we got close, and I never agree to shit I don’t want to do on some level.
The lit windows of Mad Dog Tattoo drift past as I roll down Wilshire for the fourth time in half an hour, my windshield wipers slapping against the downpour. At some point, Mad Dog’s little brother is going to pick up on it, if he hasn’t already—the kid has eyes like a hawk.
I need to be honest with myself. Mad Dog Santos isn’t just some tool for us to use to explore our kinks. He saved my life. He was there when Celeste needed him, and I have a feeling there’s more to their past than either of them have let on. I want to know what it is, and as much as I want to follow through to get a taste of what Celeste is offering, I want this more for other reasons that, frankly, scare the ever-living hell out of me to even entertain.
I’m curious, sure, but that’s only part of it. What Celeste and I went through, how we came together, wouldn’t have been possible without him. To say that I love the man probably isn’t even a stretch, but if I give myself to him the way Celeste is asking me to—and God forbid I like it—there will be no going back.
Emotionally invested isn’t even the half of it with him. He’s my fucking blood brother. We may not have bled together, but enough of my blood has spilled on his skin to count. And there was no way in hell I
missed the way he looked at us during the photo shoot—especially at Celeste. He took a beating over her once upon a time, and I think there’s a chance he would again if it came to it. There is no one I trust more than him.
A state of calm resolve settles over me, and I move on autopilot once the decision sinks in. There is no going back after this. I have no idea what Manny would think if he knew what I was about to do. But maybe he would understand. His death left a hole in my heart that Celeste alone can never fill. A friendship with Maddox would go a long way to relieving that emptiness. Something even deeper might obliterate it entirely.
The bell jingles over the door, and I find Maddox, rather than his brother, seated at the counter, working on a tablet. He looks up, and his eyebrows lift for a second before his lips twist into a cocky smile and he crosses his arms. “You ready for that tattoo? I guess that means you were happy with the shot I chose.”
My insides are in chaos, but I nod and chuckle. “A few of the others were tempting . . .” I pause and tilt my chin to indicate the shop at large. “You working alone tonight?”
Maddox shrugs and eyes me, evidently picking up on my weird behavior. I’m usually a lot more easygoing when I come to see him. “Sam and Elle had a school thing. Holiday dance. I think he even took a date, so maybe he’ll get lucky.”
“I think that kid was born lucky. He has mad skills. So do you. Or . . .” For the first time, it occurs to me to wonder. “Which one of you designed the tattoo?”
“It’s my work,” he says. “I only outsource for clients I’m not personally invested in.” His voice takes on a wary tone. “You didn’t really come to talk about Sam or the tattoo though, did you?”
I feel like a ball of white fire has lit inside me, crackling and sparking through my limbs. It makes it difficult to answer, but I manage to not sound like an idiot.
“Not exactly. This might be a bad time though.” I don’t know how I thought this would go, but my timing was shitty if I thought he’d just close up shop on what is usually a busy night just to hear my insane request.