Hard Page 6

  I stand up, undoing my jeans and letting them fall from my waist. I’m so hard it hurts. The need to have her wrapped around my cock is nearly overwhelming. I pick her up under her arms, bringing her with me as I sit heavily on the sofa, the leather cool under my bare ass. Her arms close around me, embracing me tightly. Without warning, I put Holland down on my lap, thrusting straight up into her. It takes her a few seconds to adjust to my intrusion, pain etched openly on her face. I use every last ounce of self-control I have to stay still and not drive into her in the way I want to—need to—but I do it. Somehow, I do it.

  She sits upward, releasing a pained breath and I keep my attention focused on her, waiting to make sure she’s okay. That she’s still with me. I realize in that moment, I don’t want to hurt her, and it startles me. I’m not abusive, not by any means, my partners are always willing, eager participants, and I’d fuck anybody up that tried to mistreat a woman. But having sex and offering pain, for me, have always gone together in the same way photography and Scopophilia works hand in hand. Like the way normal people pair socks with shoes or peanut butter with jelly.

  I twist my fingers into her long hair with both hands and yank her into me, my mouth slamming into hers. I kiss her hard. I kiss her long. I kiss her until her breaths are fast and rough and she begins moving against me. Riding me. Taking me all the way.

  My head falls back, sinking into the sofa. She feels so damn good, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop this. I know I need to. Have to. I don’t have a condom on and I’m not in the market for any kids. Ever.

  “Are you on the pill?” I husk, watching her slick pussy slide up and down my length and enjoying every fucking second of it. When I don’t get an answer, I begrudgingly lift my head.

  She swallows tightly, her gaze focused somewhere behind me, not on my face. Not on my eyes. Warning bells sound loud and obnoxious in my head, but then she nods confirmation, and I notice her shirt has fallen off her shoulder, exposing the strap of her bra over her porcelain skin, and the alarm fades.

  I clutch her shirt between my fingers and jerk, sending pearly white buttons scattering onto the floor. That will keep her from trying to sneak out on me again. She shrugs out of the destroyed blouse as I yank her bra down, freeing her breasts. She guides my head toward her, not that I needed any direction. I grasp her tits firmly, kneading them. I run my tongue up her chest, kiss my way back down, and suck her nipple into my mouth.

  Holland moves quicker, bounces on me harder. So good. So damn good.

  Fuck it. I can pull out. I know I’m clean. The only thing I’ll give her is another orgasm, maybe two. Hopefully three.

  My hand floats down her body, finding her swollen clit. I rub, my thumb caressing gentle, but fast. I feel her tense up from inside and then she’s shaking, fresh arousal seeping onto my dick.

  I’m close. Fuck I’m too close. I shove her sideways, lying her back on the sofa, and kneel over her. Holland knows what I want before I tell her. She grips me in her small hand, lifting her head, and closing her mouth around my cock. I reach back, plunging two fingers back inside her, my thumb clamping down, pressing and massaging her again.

  She groans, the vibration too much for me. I come into her mouth, hissing her name. Her pussy contracts around my fingers as she finds her own release. I touch her face, my palm cupping her cheek affectionately. The come is still dripping from my dick and already I want back inside her. I know, right here, with everything inside of me, I’m completely fucked.

  16

  Holland

  “I need to eat,” Jensen says once he’s dressed in his jeans. I’m still on the couch, coming down from my third orgasm, and wondering what the hell I’m going to wear home. He shredded most of my clothes. A skirt and bra isn’t going to cut it. I extend my limbs, stretching my aching muscles out, preparing to ask him for one of his shirts.

  “Baby, Holland, you need to stop right now unless you want me crawling back on top of you.”

  I roll to my side, peering up at him through my lashes. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” I couldn’t stop the sassy grin that forms on my face even if I tried. “If you want another go at me, you can most certainly have at it. We didn’t even get a chance to play with any of your toys.”

  His brows raise in surprise, his eyes moving over me ravenously. “I’m having another go at you,” he confirms. “Many goes. Tonight. That’s not even questionable. And we will be playing with my toys—that’s a given. I’ve been picturing you tied to my bed since I woke up this morning. But I’d like to share a meal with you before we have at it.”

  “Oh,” I utter. He wants to share a meal. With me. That makes sense. Most people do that. I used to do that. Before I settled here. Back before…before my life went to shit.

  He extends his hand and I sit up, accepting it. He reaches down, swiftly tugging my bra into place, then leans around me, sweeping up a throw from the end of the couch, draping it over my shoulders.

  “I thought I was supposed to be naked at all times.”

  He skims his upper teeth over his bottom lip, contemplating. His dark eyes silently search mine. “You better keep this on for now. I really need to fucking eat and that won’t happen if you aren’t covered. As soon as we’re done, I expect it to go, though.” He takes my hand again, towing me in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, teasing.

  Jensen pauses, glancing at me over his chiseled shoulder. Already I see the telltale sign of desire heating his gaze. “I kind of like it when you call me that.”

  “What? Sir?”

  He dips his chin once in a nod. “Mm, yeah, I like that a lot.”

  “I like you,” I say before my brain even realizes what it allowed to leave my mouth. I feel my eyes widen in astonishment. His brows pop up, obviously sharing the sentiment. That was unexpected. But I guess it was also honest. How can I not like the man who has provided me with multiple orgasms and a break from my misery? He’s lucky I’m not worshipping at his feet. Actually, on second thought, he would probably like that. A lot.

  Still, I’m surprised I told him.

  He grins down at me, his shoulders relaxing and eyes softening in a way I haven’t witnessed on him before. “I like you too. But, no offense, I like you even more when you’re naked on your back, so let’s fucking eat and get to it.”

  I huff out a shocked laugh. Not because he said he likes me naked on my back, I’m already used to the way he talks so crassly, but because he said he likes me too. Or the expression on his face when he said it, I guess. Open and honest. Sweet and sincere.

  Jensen Payne might just have a soft side. That’s good, maybe it can counterbalance my hardened side.

  *

  When Jensen said he wanted to share a meal, I thought he meant a quick power snack. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  I perched on the counter, happily watching him beat two chicken breasts until they were flat and nearly thin as paper while he sautéed vegetables on the stove simultaneously. He mixed more veggies and spices with feta cheese, and rolled it into the chicken. I’ve never seen this done before, but as it now bakes in the oven, its aroma filling the air and smelling incredible, my stomach growls in anticipation.

  Who knew? Not only is he a master in the bedroom, but also the kitchen.

  He sets the small table for two and I slide off the counter, continuing to watch him. His body is so tight, so firm, that every one of his movements cause his muscles to bulge and ripple. It’s fascinating. No, it’s beautiful. I think I kind of get his obsession with looking at pretty things. I could look at him all night.

  “There’s a wine rack in that closet behind you,” he says, breaking the silence. “Would you mind choosing a bottle?”

  I tuck the throw around me and open the door, surveying his selection. I’m good at this, pairing wine with meals. I had to learn quickly at The Pub. Chicken typically goes well with red or white, so I know I can’t go wrong either way. It usually just comes down to
preference. Because there are a lot of vegetables with our meal, I finally decide on a medium sweet white.

  I hand it to Jensen and he examines the label quickly before twisting the corkscrew in and popping the plug out. “You know your wine. How long have you worked at The Pub?”

  Since about a week after I fled my old life. Three months, one week, and four days ago.

  “Uh, a few months, I guess.” I press my lips together, waiting impatiently for my drink to settle my quickening pulse.

  “And before that?” he prompts as he fills one glass halfway and offers it to me.

  I take a large gulp before answering. “I wrote an advice column for a teen magazine.”

  His eyes flick to mine, surprised by my admission. “I was unaware they had those in Ohio.”

  I take another long drink. “California,” I correct.

  His gaze moves over my face deliberately, as if he’s looking for something. I swallow back the rest of my wine.

  “So you’re from California?”

  I run my shaking fingers through my hair, working out the tangles and playing with the ends, keeping my hands busy. This is hovering a line I don’t want to cross. “I’m originally from Maine. Moved to California for college. Stayed for work. Moved out here a few months ago when I decided I needed a change.” Honest, but unrevealing. I suck in a breath and keep going, shifting the conversation away from me. “The photography, you do that for a living?”

  His eyes narrow, not missing the subject change. I grit my teeth, waiting for him to call me on it, but instead, he refills my glass, and takes a seat. “Photography is a hobby, a passion, and an obsession. I’m lucky to be able to make my living doing what I love. I mean, I’m no millionaire, but I do very well for myself.”

  “Who buys them? Like porn sites?”

  He scoffs, obviously offended, but I’m not sure why. I’ve seen his photos. He takes pictures of naked woman, consumed with sexual passion. Pornography.

  “I sell erotic art, not porn.”

  “What’s the difference?” I ask, sipping my drink to keep myself from laughing at his annoyed expression. He must get this question a lot.

  “Intent,” he answers simply.

  I set my glass down, folding my hands under my chin. “Isn’t your intent to make viewers horny?”

  He laughs, shaking his head. He has an amazing smile, and an even better laugh. “If they get hot and bothered, more power to them, but no, that is not my intent. I find women beautiful. A naked woman is lovely. A naked woman, uninhibited, in the midst of ecstasy is picturesque. It’s appreciation over stimulation.” He smiles smugly, raising his glass as if he just proved his point.

  “But isn’t all art meant to stimulate in some way?” I counter. “What would the point be otherwise? Who would bother to look at it if they felt nothing when they did?”

  Jensen’s chest rises and falls quickly with each of his accelerated breaths. The pulse in the side of his neck pounds visibly against his skin. He says nothing for a long time, his stare searing, regarding me with an intensity that makes my heart beat in double time.

  17

  Jensen

  Not once in my thirty years, have I been scared of a woman. The only one who has ever come close to striking fear in me is my mother, and she passed—God rest her soul—over ten years ago.

  Right now, I am terrified of the sexy, intelligent, audacious woman sitting across from me. If I believed her appearance was the only draw, she has officially made me reconsider.

  “Yes,” I finally agree. “Art is meant to stimulate emotion, you’re correct. However, I don’t deem horny as an emotion. Lust is physical. It’s an instinct. Basic. Animalistic. My photos are not meant for that purpose. I want others to look at what I find beautiful and lose their breath. I want them to appreciate the brilliance in the world—in all forms.”

  She traps her tongue between her teeth, considering my words. It’s fucking sexy as hell. “That’s very important to you.”

  I nod, pushing my back into my chair. “It is.”

  “Why?”

  Well isn’t that the million dollar question? Usually I love a good Why? Not this time. And I have no intention of answering—at least not honestly. My eyes ache and I rub at them with the heels of my hands. “Scopophilia,” I remind her, pointing to my chest, using my easy go-to answer.

  We’re both quiet for a moment, just watching one another. She doesn’t buy my answer, I can see it plainly on her face, but she’s hesitant to say so. And she should be. I’m not above reminding her of the way she carefully steered our conversation from herself just a few minutes ago. Or the way I allowed the detour. Everyone has something to hide. She can keep her secrets—for now—as long as she doesn’t pry into mine.

  The timer buzzes on the oven and I take full advantage of the distraction.

  Once I have our chicken plated and our glasses refilled, I take my seat, immediately digging in. I watch Holland slice a small piece and raise her fork to her mouth. Her jaw works, chewing the bite in an almost hypnotizing way. Right there, that’s the first place I’m going to touch my lips when we’re finished here. I’m going to trail kisses along her jaw, down her throat, and bury my face in her breasts. I’m growing hard picturing it.

  “This is really good,” she says, intersecting my wicked thoughts.

  “Thank you.”

  “Where did you learn to cook?” she asks, her finger circling the rim of her glass absentmindedly.

  I wipe my mouth, sitting forward. This is a much easier topic for me. Cooking doesn’t even come close to my love of taking pictures, but I enjoy it. “My mother. After she and my dad separated when I was eleven, she made it her personal goal to teach me my way around a kitchen. My dad couldn’t make a meal to save a life. She wanted to be sure I wasn’t living off fast food when I spent my summers with him.”

  Holland covers her smile with her fingers. “That’s awesome. I love that. What does she think about what you do? Selling erotic art for a living?”

  I look away and swallow back a deep drink of my wine. Mom’s been gone for a long time, but I’ve wondered the same thing many times before. What would she think of me, of my lifestyle, if she were still here?

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She died before I went into erotic art. But she bought me my first camera.” I pause, the memory hitting me hard. “I hope she understands how much it means to me, knows why I do it.” I finally look up, meeting Holland’s gaze, her eyes shining with moisture. “I’d like to think she’s proud of me.”

  She clears her throat, placing her napkin on top of her plate, and forces a weak smile. “Do you think she knows? That she can see what you’ve become?”

  Her voice is gravelly, as if she’s nearly choking on the words, and I wonder if we’re still talking about me.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Life’s a constant struggle. You make it over one hill just to find ten larger ones waiting for you. Some days I hope she’s with me—that I’m not struggling alone. Others, I pray she has no idea about the things I’ve done and the choices I’ve made.”

  She nods stiffly, shifting her head away just as a tear slides down her cheek, rolling under her chin, before dripping onto her chest. I change my mind, knowing that’s the trail my lips will take.

  18

  Holland

  As soon as we’re finished cleaning the kitchen, Jensen hands me a fresh glass of wine and takes my other hand, leading me directly into his bedroom. He leaves a soft kiss on each of my eyelids, then both of my cheeks. His lips part, running over my chin and down my neck, his tongue skimming my skin in a searing path. Openmouthed kisses trace my collarbone, his breath warm as it blows gently against me. He untangles the blanket wrapped around me, letting it fall to the floor at my feet, and unclasps my bra, dropping it on top. The last kiss, he places over my heart.

  He takes my glass, setting it down as he dips into the second drawer in his nightstand, bringing four cords and a thick black s
carf out, which he tosses onto the bed. I lift my foot behind me to remove my heels, but he motions quickly for me to stop. I drop my foot back to the floor, awaiting his direction.

  “Leave them on or you won’t be tall enough.”

  I arch a brow. Tall enough for what? He definitely has me intrigued. His eyes remain on my face as he circles around the bed, coming up behind me. He presses his chest into my back, his hands rubbing firmly along my hips as he encloses them around me, pinning me too him. My stomach muscles tighten with expectancy. What I’ve learned in our short amount of time together is that Jensen doesn’t do anything halfway. Whatever he is getting ready to do to me is going to be twisted and hot. And I can’t get enough of it.

  “Bend over the foot rail,” he commands in the husky voice that makes my thighs clench. “Spread your arms and legs out.”

  I follow his instructions, extending my limbs and spreading myself out until I resemble a bent starfish, bowed over the end of his bed. He fastens my ankles first, tethering my legs to the bottom of the bed posts. His hands glide up the backs of my legs, cupping my ass before falling away. He leans into me then, his jeans cool against my bare skin, the weight of his chest resting on my back as he binds my wrists next. My arms are held straight out at my sides, but I notice this rope has some give, allowing me to move slightly. Last is the scarf. He secures it over my eyes and guides me farther down until my cheek is pressed into the bed. This position pulls on my shoulders, the light twinge of pain not entirely unpleasant.

  I feel him move away and I listen intently, trying to determine what he’ll do next. His hair brushes my thigh and I gasp at the unexpected touch. Both palms stroke my behind, massaging, as his lips move up my leg. “Don’t move,” he whispers.

  Seconds tick by like this, his hands gripping me tightly, his mouth caressing up and down my legs. I whimper with need. I’m so turned on, I just want him inside of me, soothing the ache. Without warning, his hands shift, parting me, and his tongue slides between my ass cheeks, licking fast and hard. I suck in a startled breath and release it on a moan.