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  I thought I would be fine now. Sated once I had her—owned her—mine to look at for as long as I can.

  But I was wrong.

  My thirst is not nearly quenched. I was so goddamn close to keeping her tied to my bed, giving into my desire, allowing myself to gorge on her until I was satisfied. The moment I released inside of her, and all I wanted was to stay inside of her, I knew then, I would never have enough.

  That’s where obsession gets you.

  Beauty—her kind of perfection—doesn’t come along more than once. Some men prefer thick women, some like a tight, lithe body. Some guys are into big fake tits, some like them small and firm. Some men like an ass you can bounce a quarter from, some want one that jiggles and shakes as they thrust inside. Some focus on the face or the eyes or the mouth or the hair. Some guys are leg men. Some have a hard-on for feet or toes or knobby knees. There are no rules when it comes to women and attraction. No rights. No wrongs. Just preference. One man’s trash is another man’s hot, wet treasure.

  Holland has everything I desire in a woman’s appearance. And because of this, she has fucked with something inside of me. Restored something I didn’t even know had gone missing. Something deep down and hidden. She pulled something out of me like I do to the women I photograph. She gave me vision. Inspiration.

  Add this to last night and whatever I thought I felt when it came to Holland is now a carnal, animalistic instinct. I want to keep this feeling—absorb it, take from it, use it.

  I continuously click through photo after photo, knowing I face a crossroads. One where I decide if I allow obsession to make me or break me.

  No matter what, I know I am not nearly finished with Holland Howard. That’s not how obsession works. It doesn’t release you after you’ve had a taste.

  No. Not even close.

  It pulls you in, dousing your already burning desire with gasoline. You can stop, drop, and roll all you want. You can walk away with your ass in flames. It doesn’t matter. Once it has you, you’re fucked.

  I’ve sampled my obsession, my Holland, and I know without a doubt, I’ll gladly let her strike the next match.

  12

  Holland

  I notice him the instant he walks through the door. My skin tingles with the memory of the night before and I feel my ears warm. I touch them, attempting to cool them with my shaking fingers.

  It isn’t embarrassment—I don’t care what he thinks of me or about me. It’s more like…yearning. And revulsion. I want a repeat of the night before. I want more. I want to ride the feeling of empowerment and liberation again. But I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t be able to escape so easily just because a man with a dirty mouth and big dick blows me away in bed.

  Jensen doesn’t acknowledge me. He takes a seat and slides his phone onto the table, giving it all of his attention. I bite down on my lip, hesitating. I can still feel every aching muscle with each movement I make. Still taste him on my tongue. See his eyes, hooded and full of desire in my mind. Scent him on my skin though I’ve showered twice since our time together. He has branded himself on me.

  It’s just sex, it shouldn’t hold this much power over me, but even as I think this, I feel the all too familiar craving for the passion only he has shown me. I’m greedy and needy, and know without a doubt if he asks, I’ll go home with him again. I’ll let him make me feel good. I’ll let him make me forget. The way I feel after, full of loathing and disgust will be my penance.

  I finally make my way around the bar, stopping beside his table. “Hi,” I breathe.

  Jensen’s mouth quirks up on one side as he pushes his phone away and looks up at me. His eyes dip down, running over my body before coming back to rest on mine.

  “Good evening,” he murmurs, his voice low, soft, intimate. “You look lovely, as always.”

  “Um, thank you,” I whisper.

  His eyes crinkle in the corners as he offers me a small smile. “How do you feel today?”

  “Good. Sore. But good.” He nods, knowingly. I don’t mention the war I’m suffering inside of me. “Can I get you a drink?”

  He cocks a brow, the warmth in his eyes fading. “Whiskey sour,” he says dismissively, returning his attention back to his phone.

  I take a step back, keeping my gaze on him, confused as to his abrupt mood change. Or maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know him well enough to know his moods. I turn on my heel and go back to the bar to make his drink, adding an extra cherry.

  “I thought you might like to see these,” he says as I set his drink in front of him. With the tip of his finger, he pushes a small memory card to the edge of the table. “Your photos.”

  I pick up the card, holding it in the palm of my hand. “What do you do with them?” I ask. Most women probably would have asked that last night, before they stripped down for his camera.

  “With these?” He shrugs. “Nothing. I didn’t have you sign a contract, so I can’t sell them.”

  “Is that what you usually do with them, though?”

  His eyes finally lift, locking onto mine. “Yes, usually.”

  “Do you want me to sign something? So you can sell them?”

  “No.” He picks up his drink and takes a large swallow, not offering an explanation.

  “Okay,” I utter. Maybe they weren’t good enough. I know I’m a little thicker and a whole lot shorter than most models. My stomach isn’t as tight as it used to be, especially after having Caleb—

  I stop my train of thought immediately.

  “Okay,” I repeat. “Well, have a nice evening. I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”

  “Holland,” he says, stopping me as soon as I turn away from him.

  “Yeah?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “I need you.”

  “Okay,” I say a third time as I circle back to face him. “Sorry. What else can I get you?”

  He looks amused, his dark gaze doing another run over my body from head to toe, then back up again. “What time do you get off work?”

  “Midnight.”

  He nods, his index finger sliding thoughtfully over his bottom lip. “Do you remember the way to my house?”

  “Yes.” I walked half of it in the wee hours of the morning on my way home until I finally spotted a cab. I know the way well now.

  “Good,” he states, pushing his chair back and standing. “Come by straight from work. And don’t change.” He places a twenty dollar bill on the table, slips his phone into his pocket, and then walks away, not giving me a chance to answer. Actually, it wasn’t even a question, I suppose. It was instructions. Orders that I am meant to obey.

  13

  Jensen

  My dad is waiting on my doorstep when I get home, his nurse sitting in the car, reading a magazine. It’s been a few months since I last saw him which is probably the reason for his impromptu visit.

  “Hi Pop,” I say, greeting him as I take his arm, helping him into the house.

  “Hey there, stranger,” he replies warmly. I get him to the sofa and he sits heavily with a long sigh. “I haven’t heard from you in a while. Work keeping you busy?” The old man thinks he’s slick as shit, as if I’m not going to realize he’s fishing for info.

  I scrub my hands over my face. “Yeah, work has been steady lately.”

  His eyes are unfocused and unseeing as he grins in my direction. “That’s good, Jensen. Very good. I was worried—worried that you were going to give it up. I know how important it is to you.”

  I don’t even let him go there. We both know how deep my passion runs for photography. It’s in my bones, tattooed into my flesh, runs like blood through my veins. We both also know I had given it up. And we both know damn well he doesn’t understand any of it.

  It’s all part of the Scopophilia. I’m not sure which came first, my love of looking at beauty or my love of taking pictures. I’ve lumped the two together for so long now. Both feeding off the other. Up until the camera caused me too much pain and I packed up all my equipment, accept
ing that I would never look through a lens again. If I hadn’t caught that glimpse of Holland from across the room a few months back, I never would have returned to it.

  “Have you been keeping your appointments?” I ask, flipping the conversation to him.

  He waves his hand dismissively. “What for? I already know what’s wrong with me. Know I can’t do a damn thing about it. There’s no stopping it, Jensen.” He shrugs his thin shoulders, smiling at me sadly. “There’s no point in beating a dead horse. The horse will still be dead and you’ll just be the tired asshole who beat a carcass.”

  “Shit, Pop. Stop. Just fucking stop.”

  He sighs as if I’m stressing him out. “You’re too angry all the time. It’s not good for you.”

  “And you’re not angry enough,” I fire back, dragging my hand through my hair.

  Fuck.

  FUCK.

  I don’t want to do this.

  He nods, as if he can hear my thoughts. “It’s the pain killers,” he says. “They keep me as happy as a dirty old man in a porn store.”

  I drop my hand, chuckling lightly. At least there is that, I guess. “Have you been eating? You know you can’t pop pills on an empty stomach.”

  He shoos me off again. “Margo feeds me plenty. Her food isn’t worth a damn, but I never miss a meal. She likes to sing while she cooks. Has the voice of an angel. I keep telling her, one of these days, I’m going to get her in bed and find out if she sounds just as sweet when she comes.”

  Jesus. And everyone wonders where the hell I get it from. The horny toad doesn’t jump too far from the log. “You have got to stop hitting on your nurses, Pop. Taking care of you is her job. You can’t say shit like that to her. That’s considered sexual harassment.”

  “Pft, I’ll stop when I’m dead. Besides, she likes it. Why else do you think she keeps singing for me? It’s in the fine details. You just remember that.”

  14

  Holland

  Jensen is waiting for me at the door, shirtless and barefoot, when I arrive at his house shortly after midnight. His hair is damp and messy, his dark blue jeans are riding low on his narrow hips, and I can smell the clean, crisp scent of his body wash on his skin as I approach. Fresh out of the shower looks very nice on him. I want to start at that thin dark patch of hair low on his stomach and lick all the way up to his mouth. Taste his clean skin. Savor it.

  He cocks a brow, one side of his mouth lifting in a smirk like he knows what I’m thinking. I’m sure he does. Why else would I be here?

  “Hey beautiful,” he drawls, his voice deep, but quiet.

  “Hi.”

  He leans into the door, giving me room to pass, and as I do, he plucks the clip from my hair, causing it to fall around my shoulders. A smile forms on my lips and I don’t try to fight it. The man knows what he likes and he’s not afraid to let me know. I appreciate that.

  His hand smoothes over my hair, his fingers continuing down to the small of my back to guide me into the living room. “Would you like a drink?” he asks casually.

  I shake my head. I’ve been thinking about him—about what he’ll do to me—all night. He doesn’t have to be courteous with me. There’s no need to waste time on polite conversation. I’ve decided I like him better when he’s indecent and uncivilized.

  “No, thank you,” I breathe.

  He sits in the dark leather chair, leaning back and making himself comfortable. His eyes never stray from me.

  “I’d like a Whiskey Sour,” he states evenly. “It’s my drink of choice. Always. Would you mind making me one?” He tips his head, indicating the corner of the room. “The bar is over there.”

  I’m taken aback for a second, but then I remember, this is Jensen’s thing. He’s particular and bossy. He hasn’t said it, but I’m pretty sure if I play by his rules and follow his instructions, he will give me another night like our previous. This is probably just another part of his game, seeing if I will obey him outside of the bedroom.

  Without a word, I turn on my heel and make my way behind the counter of the bar, quickly locating the Irish whiskey and maraschino cherries he has waiting for me. I don’t see the sour mix I use at The Pub, however, I find sugar syrup and fresh lemons, so I make my own. I smile while I mix the drink, suspecting this was another one of his tests, and knowing I just passed. His gaze is on me, I can feel it like a second skin. Hot and gripping. My smile fades and my eyes lift, meeting his directly. I don’t look away as I pop two cherries in and scoop up the glass.

  My stare shifts down to his chest, remembering how good it felt against me, as I walk the drink over to him. As Jensen takes it from me, his other hand locks around my wrist, just as it did the night before at The Pub.

  “I’ve explained to you that I like to look at beautiful things.”

  It isn’t a question, but he continues to look up at me expectantly, so I nod. “Yes.”

  “Then why are your clothes still on?”

  There isn’t time to respond before he’s out of the chair, his naked chest pressed into mine, his warm breath on my ear. His mouth moves against the sensitive skin there, causing me to shiver.

  “I’m not Superman, Holland. I do not have X-Ray vision and cannot see through your clothing. Therefore, you will not wear clothing in my home. Ever. You remove them now, or I will.”

  I take a step back, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. His words sounded almost angry, but his eyes tell a very different story. He sets his glass down on the coffee table harshly, Whiskey Sour splashing over the rim and coating the wood beneath. I must have hesitated too long or maybe it’s because I hesitated at all. Jensen closes the small amount of space I had put between us, his chest slamming into me as his arms wrap around my waist. The expression on his face is so intense, in all honesty, I don’t know whether he’s pissed or elated that I didn’t do as he said.

  His capable fingers drag my zipper down effortlessly. He slides his hands along my legs, pulling the skirt off as he goes. I reach for the front buttons of my white blouse, only getting two opened when he pushes my hands away.

  “No,” he growls. Nothing more. No explanation, no reasoning. I can only assume he wants to do it himself. I drop my hands, staying perfectly still. He folds his fingers into the waist of my panties and I open my legs slightly, expecting him to pull them down. He doesn’t. Instead, yanking them until the hem at my hip rips. I gasp, momentarily surprised. He grins wickedly at me as he then does the same on the opposite side, letting my shredded panties fall to the floor, ruined.

  He reaches past me, picking up his glass from the table. His other hand flattens into my chest, his fingers splayed just enough that his thumb and pinky slide over both of my nipples at the same time.

  “Sit.” Just one word, but it’s full of hunger, matching the look in his eyes. I follow his command immediately, lowering myself onto his coffee table. I feel the cold, sticky liquid of his spilt drink against my desperately heated flesh, the sensation makes me moan shamelessly.

  Jensen drops to his knees, his glass still in hand. He dips his finger into the drink and glides it across my bottom lip, then the top. He leans in, flicking his tongue out to lick it off. The soft, slow slide of his warm tongue on my lips elicits another shiver, followed by another moan. I grasp his hair, pulling him into me hard, opening my mouth for him.

  He makes a sound deep in his throat. I can’t tell if it’s disapproval or praise. He pulls away and I nearly cry from the loss of his lips.

  “Put you hands behind you on the table and keep them there,” he instructs. He looks up at me, verifying that I understand. I lean back, placing my palms flat against the surface, my shirt rising up to expose half of my stomach.

  For several seconds, Jensen just stares at me, his eyes moving over my body appreciatively as if I’m fully naked and not just from the waist down. My shirt and heels are still on and somehow, that makes me feel sexy. The fingers of one of his hands circle around my ankle, spreading my legs, one right after the other, unt
il I am straddling his coffee table. Goose bumps break across my skin as he slowly skims his fingertips up my leg, along my inner thigh, stopping just before he reaches the place I’m dying for him to touch. I am so wet and I know he must see it. His thumb caresses back and forth, coming closer and closer with each sweep.

  My nails feel like they’re about to snap from the pressure I place on them, fighting against the urge to grab his hand and force him to give me what I need.

  When he suddenly stops touching me, my head pops forward, a whimper echoing in my throat. I watch as he sets his glass on the floor, dips his finger back into the cold liquid, and brings the same finger up, letting it drip over me. It’s so cold, almost uncomfortable, but amazing at the same time.

  He catches my gaze, holding it and licking his finger. “You make a delicious drink.” His mouth comes down on me, his tongue chasing the trail of alcohol. He reaches back into the glass, digging around until he removes one of the cherries. He places it between my folds, icy cold against my clit. I wiggle on the table, unable to decide if I like this or not, but he leans back in, licking and biting at the sweet little maraschino cherry, making it rub and drag against me. His rough cheeks scratch along the delicate skin the whole time and I decide rather quickly that I don’t just like it. I love it.

  I don’t think I will ever get enough of what this man does to me.

  15

  Jensen

  I take my time eating the cherry from her pussy. The sweet mix of Holland, the maraschino, and the Whiskey Sour is delectable. It’s fucking mouthwatering. Hands down, the tastiest thing I have ever eaten. But that’s not the reason I drag this out, making it last as long as possible. The way she responds, panting and squirming above me is such a dazzling sight, it needs to be appreciated.

  Once I’ve devoured the cherry, I push my middle finger inside her, circling and pumping while I suck on her clit. She pinches her eyes shut, tossing her head back as she cries my name through gritted teeth. The sound of my name on her lips is almost as good as watching her come.