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  I close my eyes, inhale a shaky breath, and then force myself to push the memories away as I look at the picture on the wall. The woman in the photo is me. I hardly recognize myself, but that is definitely me. On my knees in Jensen’s bed, blindfold over my eyes, cheek to the mattress, arms stretched out in front of me. Those are my glossy lips parted in anticipation. My pale skin covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. Me.

  The memory card he gave me the other day is sitting somewhere at the bottom of my purse. I don’t have a way of viewing it, not that I had all that much interest in doing so. This is the first I’m seeing myself through Jensen’s eyes.

  “What do you think?” he asks, drawing my attention back to him.

  I shake my head slowly, unsure what I think. What I feel. It’s hard to place the image of the sensual woman with myself. I don’t feel the way she looks.

  As I glimpse at the one next to it to compare, I realize that one is of me too. And the next and the next and the next. I’ve taken up a fourth of his wall.

  “I thought my photos weren’t good enough to sell?” I question, confused. “Why do you have them hanging up?”

  His brows rise, the expression on his face a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. “I never said they weren’t good enough.” The way he slinks forward, moving closer to me, reminds me of an animal tracking it’s game. “If you haven’t comprehended it yet, I find you extremely beautiful.”

  My teeth graze over my bottom lip as I nod, glancing at the other photos. “Yes, but you have an obvious thing for redheads.” I motion to the proof on the wall. “I look very similar to these other women.”

  He laughs, placing his feet on either side of mine. His close proximity makes my pulse flutter with expectancy. “You don’t look like them, Holland,” he breathes into my ear as his hands wrap around my hips, arms engulfing me. “They all look like you.”

  That’s not possible. “I don’t understand. You knew these other women first. You already had their photos when I came to your house.”

  His lips graze down my neck, his breath raising goose bumps across my flesh as he chuckles. “I guess it’s time for a little honesty.” He sighs, causing me to shiver. “Three months ago, I went to The Pub for a much needed drink, and I saw beauty like I had never seen before. More stunning than any other woman. Better than any sunrise. Inspiring beyond any erotic art I’ve ever laid eyes on. Captivating in a way that I could not control. I saw you. I saw you and I couldn’t look away. It was your resemblance I tried to find in these models. Tried and failed.”

  I’m not sure if this is flattering or creepy as hell. He liked what he saw in me and tried to capture that in his work, in his art—that’s flattering. But there are so many women…an obsessive amount of women. And we’ve taken this far beyond art. We’ve slept with each other. Of course, this is what he does, I think. He has sex with his models, so I guess, for him, this is just routine.

  It’s still a lot to take in.

  “So then why won’t you sell my photos? I still don’t understand.”

  His arms tighten around me, his body going rigid. I can tell he doesn’t want to answer the question. He’s sidestepped it several times already. But the more he dodges, the more I want to know.

  “Why?” I repeat.

  23

  Jensen

  And yet another Why? from her sweet lips.

  “Your photos are for me. Nobody else. They’re meant for my eyes only.” Her brow arches in an obvious question, but she doesn’t push for more. However, for whatever reason possesses me, I offer it freely.

  “When I saw you that first time…” I trail off, considering how I want to word this for her. “I hadn’t taken a single photo in months when I walked into The Pub—I had given it up. I didn’t give a shit anymore.” I shrug casually, though it was a very low point in my life. “And by the time I walked out, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on my camera again.”

  Holland’s eyes search my face. The muscles in her throat tighten as she swallows forcefully. “Why did you give it up? Your photos are incredible.”

  I told her the truth, handed her over this little piece, because she deserves to know her pictures are worthy. She is worthy. Beautiful. And she threw me off with the striptease and the drink. And that kiss. That hot as hell, fucking kiss. But I’ve had enough questions and more than enough storytelling for one night. Talking like this, sharing my personal shit—I don’t do it. I bind. I photograph. And I fuck. There’s no point in anything else.

  My hands find the hem of the t-shirt, hanging loosely around her body. I slide it up, revealing her plain cotton panties that get me harder than silk or lace ever have, and skim my thumb over the soft material.

  “I’d rather show you all the ways you have inspired me to get back into it.” I don’t give her a chance to respond. I tug her panties to the side, gliding my fingers into her pussy, making her gasp.

  This is the way I like to talk. No words are needed when you can say everything you want to with two fingers and a stiff dick. Two people can have an entire conversation with nothing more than their bodies and their panted breaths.

  Holland cups me over my jeans, her fingers squeezing firmly. Fuck. She’s speaking my language fluently.

  I pull my fingers out of her and slide them into my mouth. Knowing I made her this creamy makes it taste even better. When I’ve licked every bit of her off, I step back, contemplating. My gaze roams over her greedily as I choose how I want to play with her tonight.

  “Come with me,” I command, taking her hand and slipping my fingers between hers, mine still damp with saliva and smelling of her. In my bedroom, I lead her to my nightstand, tugging the drawer open and removing a long length of red synthetic rope. I hold it in my inner elbow as I strip her naked.

  The tips of my fingers move feather light along her skin before I take hold of her wrists, guiding them behind her back. I roll the cord around them there, tying her securely.

  “Spread your legs,” I instruct, nudging her feet with mine until she’s standing shoulder width apart. I trail the remaining rope down, amid her ass cheeks, slipping it through her thighs and pulling it upward, along her stomach, and in-between her breasts. I give it a little tug, making sure it slips through the folds of her labia, and then I circle it three times around her neck, locking it in place with a final knot. She looks amazing, bound in this way. The more she moves, the more friction she’ll put on the line, rubbing into her ass and against her clit. And, of course, if she struggles too much, it will tighten around her delicate throat, choking her. It doesn’t take long for this to occur to her.

  I step in behind her, pushing my chest into her back and fold my arms around her, finding her nipples instantly. She moans as I cup her tits, gently pinching the firm peaks. I flick my tongue out, kneading it up the side of her neck, nipping on her pulse point. She wiggles her ass into me, squirms beneath the rope. I give it another pull, yanking it deeper into her folds.

  “Are you soaking my rope, Holland?” I ask, my breath fanning her skin where the shoulder meets the neck. She doesn’t answer me and I jerk it a little harder.

  She groans and sighs, her head lolling back to rest against my chest. “Yes,” she breathes. “Yes.”

  “Perfect.” I step away and she stumbles back, the bind chafing and tightening visibly. The way it constricts around her windpipe makes me throb within my pants. A small whimper of pleasure slips from her lips, adding fuel to the already blazing fire. My camera begins snapping as soon as my fingers touch it. The red of the rope contrasts stunningly with her milky white skin tone. I cannot wait to see this in print, on my wall. Even more urgent is my need to take her, wrapped so pretty in my line.

  “I want to fuck you like this,” I say, my voice so hoarse with need, it’s barely audible. I drop the camera onto the chair and grasp her waist, picking her up and lying her across my bed. The way she lands, bright hair splayed out on the crisp white sheets, arms under her, jutting her pert tits forwar
d, is picture-perfect, but I don’t reach for my camera. I only reach for her. Soft. Delectable. Flawless.

  I spread her legs to accommodate me as I sink down between her thighs. The air is intoxicating, heady with her scent. I run my tongue over the rope tucked into her smooth folds, my lips brushing against her with each sweep. She bucks, the line scraping hot and raw on her most sensitive flesh. I pull it aside, letting it snap against her inner thigh as I slowly begin kissing her, making it better. The pace deliberately teasing. Torturing.

  “Fuck,” she hisses, “yes.” She struggles, wanting her hands, but she only tightens her snare around her neck. I can’t wait to see the mark the rope will surely leave behind, branding her throat. I relish the look on her face, caused by the hot bite of her bind as it drags and digs into her flesh. Gorgeous.

  I continue to lap and lick, kiss and stroke until her body goes tight and rigid. She hisses my name, her hips bucking, pulling the rope harshly.

  With one last kiss, I move over her, positioning my arms on either side of her shoulders, my cock resting against her soaking channel. As much as I want to, I don’t push inside of her. Instead, I wait, watching her come down from her orgasm. The brilliance of her eyes is enthralling. I could look at her all night.

  “Jensen,” she murmurs. “Please.”

  “Please what?” I skim her cheek with the backs of my fingers.

  “I need you.”

  I know she’s referring to my cock. She needs my length and my girth, filling her, stretching her, pounding her. But my lungs constrict and my jaw tenses, her breathy words replaying in my head. I need you. And all I can think is… I need you too.

  24

  Holland

  The days have faded into weeks, merging and blurring. Time is distorted when I’m in Jensen’s bed. I don’t know exactly when it happened. I don’t know how. At some point, we reached some unspoken arrangement. Each night, after I finish my shift at The Pub, I go over to his place. We fuck in a frenzy, trying to purge ourselves of the way we both craved one another in our absence. He cooks and we eat, sharing a meal and drinks. We talk, our conversations light and never crossing that invisible boundary we’ve silently created, keeping our personal lives separate. Then Jensen breaks out his camera and array of binding toys and we spend the remainder of the night forgetting whatever drives us both to repeatedly seek comfort in the other’s body. Sometimes I stay the whole night. Most nights I don’t. My days off are my own and we don’t see each other then. I don’t ask him what he does during the periods I’m not with him and he doesn’t offer me that information, nor does he ask what I do. This understanding seems to work well for us.

  I’m early tonight. The Pub was slow and not picking up after the dinner shift, so my manager sent me home early. I didn’t even think. I just got in my car and drove straight to Jensen’s on this new instinct I’ve acquired. Which was obviously a bad idea.

  Though we have never discussed it and I never assumed we were exclusive, this is the first time I have ever witnessed another woman in his home. Woman is pushing it. This is a girl. No more than eighteen or nineteen years old. Small and perky. It’s so unexpected and unusual, it knocks me off kilter. I step back from the door, checking the number to make sure I rang the right residence.

  The girl smiles, her soft round cheeks still full with the waning remnants of baby fat rising and causing her eyes to squint.

  God, she’s young.

  I’ve gone mute, quietly staring in surprise.

  “Hi,” she says in a rich, bubbly voice. It’s unnervingly inviting. “Come on in. Jensen’s still in the shower.” She steps back, holding the door open and I freeze just inside the entryway. Not because I’m concerned about who she is to Jensen—she’s another one of his models, I assume—but because on the middle of the living room floor, amongst a pile of brightly colored fabric blocks, is a baby. She’s lying flat on her tummy, fingers bathed in slobber as she sucks her tiny fist.

  There’s a ringing in my ears and a painful flutter in my chest.

  A rush of panic and envy and fear and longing and anxiety and aching nostalgia burns through my chest in rapid succession. Runs thickly through my veins. Churns my stomach and fills my throat with bile.

  I can’t look away. God, I want to—I want to run—but I can’t make myself stop staring at the perfect, healthy baby in front of me.

  “That’s my Nelly-Belly,” the girl says proudly. “I think she’s getting ready to break teeth. She chews on everything.” I almost tell her babies do that. Everything goes in their mouth whether they’re teething or not. The baby makes a sound full of excitement, slapping at the floor, chubby fingers curling in an attempt to grasp one of the blocks and my thoughts fade.

  All I see is Caleb.

  Tears pool in my eyes and I try to choke them back quickly. It’s hard. It’s so damn hard because I miss him with every single last fiber of my being. I miss him.

  “I love your shoes,” the girl continues, shifting topics so swiftly. I finally—slowly—drag my gaze away from the unfair, painful reminder cooing contently on the floor, and back to the girl.

  “He was supposed to babysit tonight, but he forgot.” She rolls her eyes upward, shaking her head in annoyance. Another subject change and it takes me a moment to understand. I’m in a fog, half in reality, half in memory, fully in agony.

  “J—Jensen?”

  She nods, kneeling down to wipe the drool hanging from the infant’s chin with the back of her hand, unaware of my inner turmoil.

  “Now he’s trying to weasel his way out of it.”

  She looks up at me with a wily smile. “You must be the plans he can’t get out of.” She keeps going never giving me a chance to confirm or deny, not that I’m even capable right now. “You know, if you tell him you don’t mind Nelly hanging out with you guys, then he might let her stay and I can actually go out for the first time in months.” She beams up at me, her eyes forming thin slits, squeezed by her apple cheeks. I feel my mouth open in a strange mix of shock, fear, and disgust. “I’ll owe you so big,” she adds hopefully, either misunderstanding my expression or ignoring it.

  I don’t know what to say. I have no idea who the hell this girl is and the thought of spending the rest of my evening with a baby that isn’t mine makes my head feel light and fuzzy. I can’t. I can’t do it. My eyes fall back on the baby and my fingers scream at me to touch her, to feel her baby soft skin. My lungs beg for one breath of her powdery scent.

  I haven’t been in this situation in a long time, anguished by a child. It was the sole purpose I chose to work in a bar. Why, up until I met Jensen, I hardly ever left my tiny efficiency apartment unless it was to go to work or to pick up a few necessities.

  I’m not ready for this. I can’t handle this.

  “Where did you get them?” the girl asks suddenly, once again switching gears. Even if I hadn’t been taken aback by her presence—by the presence of her baby—I still don’t think I could keep up with her.

  “Your shoes,” she prompts. “Where did you get them?”

  “Oh,” I utter, glancing down at my feet. Even these shoes are a painful reminder of my past. “Uh…I don’t remember,” I lie. These are the shoes I was wearing when I walked out of my house and away from the shambles of my life. They’re simple black patent-leather Jimmy Choo pumps with a four-inch heel. I spent a week’s worth of pay on them—my first week’s pay after I landed the magazine dream job. I should throw them away.

  Nelly screeches excitedly, slapping one of the blocks against the floor and rocking back and forth on her hands and knees. All I want to do is look away. All I want to do is stare.

  “How…how old is she?” I ask around the lump in my throat.

  “Five months. Almost six.”

  I feel so dizzy.

  “She’s beautiful,” I breathe.

  I want to grab this young mother by the arms and warn her. I want to shake her and tell her to value every single moment with her daughter as if it
’s her last. Because it could be. It could be. You never know. I didn’t. And it ruined me.

  But I don’t grab her by the arms. I don’t warn her. I don’t say a word.

  She grins widely. “Make sure you tell Jensen how beautiful you think she is. Maybe he’ll let her stay for a photo shoot and I can sneak out. I mean, I adore my Nell with all my heart, but if I don’t get some ME time, I’m going to pull my hair out.”

  Yes. I vaguely remember that. Needing “me time.” It’s funny how what seemed so important at the time, faded after the tragedy. “Me time” seems so insignificant. All I have now is “me time.”

  I wonder where the father is. Then I wonder if Jensen is the father. The thought makes me a little sicker to my stomach somehow.

  “How—” I cut myself off before I can even ask. It’s none of my business who she is to him and on the grander scale of things, it’s irrelevant.

  She must pick up on my curiosity—which is ironic since she hasn’t appeared to register my unease. She stands up abruptly, offering me her hand. “I’m Summer. Jensen’s sister.”

  His sister. I ignore the tiny surge of relief that floats through my belly as I shake her hand. Summer fits her perfectly. Everything about her is…warm. From her golden hair and skin to her ocean blue eyes and sunny disposition. Fleetingly, I wonder if I ever looked this happy.

  “Holland,” I reciprocate. “Jensen’s—” Shit. I’m at a loss for words. I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t tell his sister we’re bed buddies, but nothing else is coming to mind. My eyes flick back to Nelly, letting the ache burn in my chest.

  What am I to Jensen Payne?

  “Friend,” a low, husky voice says behind me. His presence brings a shiver skittering down my back, causing goose bumps to prickle my arms and legs. It’s like an embrace, just having him close, and my anxiety eases slightly.

  I glance over my shoulder to find Jensen in nothing but a pair of dark jeans hanging low on his hips, sculpted chest on display. My eyes follow a bead of water as it drips from his dark and shining hair, full of moisture, running over his shoulder and down his pectoral muscle. This is good. I can focus on him. I can focus on the way he makes me feel, makes me forget. I can push it down as long as he’s close.