Authors: Cheryl McIntyre,Dawn Decker
Holland
It must have been the cold that stirred me. May in Ohio is similar to May in Maine. Pleasant during the daylight hours, not too warm, not too cool. But once the sun goes down, all bets are off.
A steady stream of frigid air billows into the room through the open balcony door. The sheer curtains float and sway, giving short, blurry glimpses of the outside. I shiver, goose bumps rising across my arms and legs as I pull the thick white comforter around me and push myself into a sitting position.
My eyes zero in on Jensen’s naked form, his back to me, standing barefoot on the concrete platform. His camera is poised in front of him, clicking softly as he captures the first sparks of sun rising over the surrounding buildings. The willowy material of the curtains continue to lap with the breeze, bringing him in and out of view.
He must be cold, but he shows no signs of discomfort. I tug the blanket more closely around my shoulders and slide off the bed. My feet slap lightly at the cool hardwood as I move to the open door. I rest my head against the frame and just watch him, enjoying the warm glow of his hard flesh in the crisp morning air.
“Come here,” he beckons without looking at me.
I secure the blanket and take a hesitant step onto the balcony. It’s much too early and chilly for this, but I keep going, gliding in beside him.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he hums, his words fogging in front of him.
I stare out at the ever-changing sky, countless shades of color slowly illuminating everything it touches. “It is,” I agree. I’m not sure I’ve ever done this. That I ever took the time to watch the light bring the morning. As pretty as it is, I feel no joy in it. Only the familiar pang of resentment. The sun still rises and sets every single day. Time keeps moving forward no differently than it ever has. It doesn’t seem fair somehow.
Jensen’s large hand cups my cheek, bringing my gaze to him. He’s warm despite his lack of clothing and I shift, nuzzling into his touch.
His lips brush my forehead, the tenderness of the gesture catching me by surprise. My stomach somersaults violently, filling with unease.
“Stay here, just like this,” he whispers. “I want to get a shot of you with the sunrise.”
I do as he instructs, holding my position. My hair is being pulled with the wind, the ends snapping in the air, but I remain immobile letting him get the shot. He steps back in front of me, sliding the comforter off my shoulders and opening it down the middle just enough to show the dip of my cleavage. I watch him, his fingers folding smoothly around the camera as he takes several backward paces and keeps photographing.
“Drop the blanket,” Jensen calls.
It’s cold, we’re on a balcony, now lit by the sun, where anyone could see us if they were up at this hour, but I don’t even consider challenging him. I release my grip, the blanket falling to my feet, covering my numbing toes.
His finger presses into the button a few more times before he sets the camera inside the door. When he looks back at me, his eyes are blazing. I’m not sure if it’s the reflection of the sun or his passion that causes them to burn so brightly.
He stalks toward me. His hands enclose me in his grip as he pulls me to the ground, leaning me back into the blanket. Any of his neighbors could look out their windows and see how he lowers himself over me. Watch him spread me out to accommodate him between my legs. Witness him guide his cock deep inside of me. Anyone could catch us.
He sets a slow, gentle pace, so different from any of our other times together. Even as he palms my breast firmly, nips at my neck, pins my arm to the rock hard surface below us—even with the possibility of others watching—this feels distinctively unusual.
His fingers slide down, pressing and massaging my breast and making small, soft circles around the hardened nipple. It’s a gradual crawl to my climax, but when I get there, the intensity with which it takes me is unexpected and extraordinary. I scream his name wildly and he closes his mouth over mine, absorbing my cries of ecstasy.
A moment later, I feel his release pulse inside of me. Without breaking contact, he scoops me up with the blanket and walks us into his room, depositing me on the bed, only then do we come apart. He climbs in beside me, his arm folding around my waist.
“Why can’t I get enough of you?” he murmurs against my shoulder. I don’t answer. I don’t know how.
I lie perfectly still, my heart racing, pummeling my ribcage. His eyes fall closed and his breathing evens out. I don’t know how many minutes I stay there, but it feels like much too long by the time I slide out of his embrace and slip from the bed.
Jensen
Holland slithers from my bed and once again, I don’t stop her. I silently observe her as she pulls my dresser drawers open one at a time, searching for something. A shirt, I realize, as she lifts one out and works it over her head. It’s several sizes too big—she swims in the cotton tee—but as always, she looks sexy as hell. If she weren’t sneaking out on me—again—I’d grab my camera and make her pose for me.
Instead, I stay quiet, and I watch her. She never glances my way. Never wonders whether I’m asleep or not. If she did, she would realize I am looking directly at her.
She pauses a few feet from the door and I think she might look back, might change her mind, but then she bends, picking up her discarded heels from the floor. She disappears through the doorway in the blink of an eye.
I’m left alone and exhausted in my bed, which is how I prefer it. Relationships are complex. Messy. I’ve always tried my best to never cross that fine line. I don’t want to be responsible for someone else, or worse, someone be responsible for me. I already know how my story ends. I am not trying to confuse that.
However, I can’t deny that predatory side of myself. That part of me that needs to own and conquer. No matter how many photos I take of her, no matter how many times I possess her body, Holland won’t be mine until she wants to stay—
needs
to stay.
Even as I work this out inside my head, I know how wrong it is to want her to need me for anything more than sex. Know I am not the kind of man who can be relied upon. There is nothing I can do to change it, I know this as well. Yet here I am, desperately beating that dead horse once again.
*
I made it two days before I stopped by The Pub to see Holland. Made it another thirty seconds before my breath caught in my throat. Just over a minute until my cock grew hard as she obediently brought me my drink of choice without being prompted. An additional five minutes and I invited her back to my place.
She’s the sweetest habit and I can’t seem to quit her. Right now, I don’t even want to.
The moment she walks in my door a few hours later, she plucks the clip from her fiery hair, letting it tumble down her back. Her fingers unclasp the buttons on her blouse as she makes her way past me and straight to the bar where she prepares a Whiskey Sour.
I watch her with amusement as she walks to me now, handing me the drink, shrugs off her shirt, and promptly unzips her skirt with swift efficiency. “Heels on or off?” she asks.
I’m growing rather fond of this woman.
I set the drink on the table and lower myself into the chair. Steeple my fingers under my chin. “I can’t decide,” I say, enjoying this too damn much.
Her eyes narrow, but she continues stripping herself bare for me. The bra goes next, revealing pale pink nipples, hardened into tight buds, pleading to be bitten and sucked.
“Come here,” I rasp. I wish I had my fucking camera.
Her mouth curves up in a triumphant smirk as she steps in front of me, her legs brushing against my knees. I take her hand, tugging her onto my lap. I slide my hands slowly up her torso, deliberately missing her breasts. Up her throat, her face, and finally sinking into her thick hair. Her lips are close enough to kiss. I can feel every one of her exhales caressing my chin as she waits for my next move. But I don’t make one. I hold firm, my eyes locked on hers—dark to light, our breaths blending.
The edge of my vision blackens the longer I stare. It’s like looking down a shadowy tunnel, Holland’s face all I can see. My pulse begins to thunder in my throat. I can feel the pounding in my chest. I pinch my eyes closed, my fingers tightening their grip in her hair.
A hand, soft and warm—Holland’s hand—smoothes over my jaw. She strokes upward, the tips of her fingers tracing my eyebrow, then the other. Down my nose, along my cheek, then over my lips. I open my mouth, trapping her finger between my teeth, my tongue skimming, tasting.
With her finger still imprisoned, she starts the entire process over, this time using her lips. She’s relentless tonight, making me feel shit I don’t want to feel.
I release her finger and attack her mouth as she moves her lips to mine. I kiss her with ferociousness. Mercilessly. Savagely. I force my tongue deep. I bite her lips, her tongue. I suck on her. I explore her in ways I’ve never explored another woman. I savor her in ways I’ve never savored another woman. I do it all with my eyes closed. And I don’t stop, and I don’t take it further. Ignoring the primal roar reverberating in my head, urging me to rip her panties off and drive inside of her. To fuck her. Own her. Despite it all, I merely keep kissing her. Unguarded.
Holland
Jensen breaks the kiss, leaving me breathless and needy. I expect him to start spouting orders in that commanding way of his, with his deep, calm voice full of authority he likes to use on me. Instead, he silently reaches behind himself, grasping the collar of his shirt. He drags it up and over his head, leaving him shirtless. He guides me from his lap, standing us both up, his gaze raking over my body in a searing route, from head to toe. Then he slides his t-shirt over my head, covering me.
“Come to the studio,” he utters hoarsely. “I want to show you something.”
His long fingers thread through mine and he tows me down the hall to the room I haven’t been in since he asked to photograph me. He pushes the door open for me, flicking several switches, illuminating the space as I step inside. He stays there, lingering in the open doorway, watching me. I scan the area, looking for what he wants me to see. I almost look right over the images lining the one wall, having seen these women before, but a pink scar on the shoulder of one catches my attention. I float toward it distractedly, my fingers drifting directly to the mark, then to my own shoulder, tracing its exact likeness.
The memory hits me so hard, it’s difficult to find my next breath. The summer I turned sixteen, my mom rented a cabin in Eustis and we vacationed on Flagstaff Lake. Alyssa spent two weeks with us during that time and we made it our common goal to swim in the lake every day. The water wasn’t deep enough for diving, but that didn’t deter us. The day before she was to go back home, while Mom stretched out on the dock with a book, Alyssa and I joined hands and went for one last plunge into the cool, murky water. I dove straight into a large rock, cutting my shoulder open. I needed twelve stitches and had to spend the remainder of my summer up on the dock with my mom. It was the best vacation I ever took.
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.