Dirty Shots (9 page)

Knowing what she was doing to him, she lowered the spoon again, scooping up more of the coffee and chocolate flavored dessert, and slowly raised it to her mouth. It was her turn to let her tongue sneak out, her lips opening provocatively as she licked the cream from the spoon. She kept her eyes fixed on his, her cheeks rounding as she tried to prevent the grin threatening to break across her face.

Eric leaned across the table toward her. “Anya, you’re killing me.”

She couldn’t prevent the smile any longer, tilted her head to one side. “I’m only eating my dessert, Eric.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growled.

She finished the last mouthful of tiramisu and put her spoon down before leaning across the table to meet him. “So take me back to your place.”

His shoulders slumped and he sat back. “I can’t, Anya. That meeting I told you about is happening first thing tomorrow morning and I’ve still got work to do on my portfolio. Plus, I can’t afford to be exhausted—which I will be if I take you back with me. You have a wonderful habit of not letting me get much sleep.”

She tried not to show her disappointment, smiling brightly. “Oh, sure. I understand.”

“But tomorrow night,” he promised. “Are you busy? I feel like I’m dominating all of your time.”

That’s not the only thing you’re dominating,
she thought but didn’t say, images of handcuffs and ropes dancing in her mind. She shook her head. “I’m not busy.”

“Great.”

Eric motioned Mateo over and paid the bill. Anya reached into her purse for her share, but he waved her down. “Don’t be crazy. It was my treat.”

They left the restaurant, stepping out onto the street. Night had fallen while they were eating, so now streetlights illuminated the way. Anya didn’t want the evening to end, hating that she hadn’t had her fix of him—at least not physically.

Fired by the wine, she grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him down into an alley which ran off the street the restaurant was on. He was so much bigger than she was, only that she’d taken him by surprise had allowed her to yank him off course.

“Anya!” he exclaimed.

She wound her arms around his neck, stepping into his body to press him up against the red brick wall of the adjoining building. “Shh,” she said, standing on tiptoes to press her mouth to his, silencing any protest. His breath tasted of pasta and coffee, and she knew her mouth must taste the same.

His hands found her hips, pulling her closer, and she felt the already hard length of him and marveled at how quickly she’d elicited that reaction.

“People could walk past at any moment.”

“So, let them.”

“Anya, this really isn’t—” But once more she stopped his mouth with her own, her tongue flicking against his with an urgency she wanted to rouse in him, too. She sensed him hesitate for a moment longer, then the tenseness of his body relaxed into her and he kissed her back, hard.

Anya groaned in pleasure and relief, knowing she’d gotten what she wanted. Still on tiptoes, she crushed her mound against the rapidly hardening erection in his pants, feeling like a wanton teenager simulating sex through their clothing. Somehow, knowing someone could catch them at any minute only heightened her arousal. Eric’s hands left her hip and reached beneath her sweater, cupping her breast through the lacy material of her bra, squeezing the nipple hard enough to send little shocks of pain through her. She wished they could take off her sweater and his shirt, and press her naked body against his, but that was taking things a little too far. It might have been spring, but the evenings were still cool, never mind the possibility of someone catching them naked. They would never be able to brush that off as just heavy petting.

Anya pulled away an inch and reached down between them to unzip his fly. She slipped her slender hand into the gap, feeling the hardness and the heat of him. He was too big for her to tug through the hole, so she used her other hand to yank open his belt and pop the top button, freeing him. Eric groaned as her hand massaged his cock in a firm, slow motion.

With sudden urgency, he reached down and yanked her skirt up, exposing her ass, and pulled her panties to one side. She was already wet, her underwear damp with her arousal, and roughly he pushed two fingers inside her.

They clung to each other, kissing with fierce passion. She broke the kiss to bury her face in his neck, panting, clinging to him with one hand while she masturbated him with the other.

“Oh, fuck.” He switched their positions, moving them around so she was the one with her back against the wall. He pulled his fingers from her, lifted her, with his other arm supporting her thighs. Eric positioned his cock at her slit, and with one hard movement, pushed inside her. She gasped and clung to him tighter, loving the way he filled her so completely. She buried her face in his neck, her mouth seeking his skin, her teeth digging into his flesh as he pounded into her, harder and harder. It was rough, ugly, brutal, with the dirt of the alley beneath their feet, the wall crumbling at her back with moss and soot. Where everything they’d done before had been related to beauty, this was fucking for the sheer act of fucking, both of them finding their release.

She cried out when she came, her pussy contracting around his cock, milking him. His thrusts grew more frantic, and then he jerked hard, once, twice, three times, releasing himself inside her.

They clung to each other, panting.

“Quick, my purse,” she gasped as she felt him softening inside her. “I need tissues.”

Eric snatched her purse from where she’d dropped it on the ground. They rearranged themselves, Anya lining her panties with some tissues to catch the mess. They laughed and grinned sheepishly at one another.

“Jesus, Anya. The things you make me do.”

She thought he would take her home with him now, to pour her some more wine and curl up with her on the couch, but instead he said, “I need to call you a cab.”

Her face must have dropped.

“I’m sorry, Anya. I did explain ...”

“Your work, I know.” She forced an understanding expression. “You have a meeting and your work is important.”

He gave a relieved smile. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Hey, I knew who you were before we got involved. The mysterious Eric Rutherford. Photographer extraordinaire.”

Even so, she felt bereft at not being able to spend the night with him. Her whole body had been yearning for him the entire day, and one quick fuck against a wall was not going to satisfy her. If he felt anything like she felt about him, he wouldn’t be able to do this, even for his work, but she guessed that work came first for Eric. Perhaps it always would.

Would she be able to handle that? Would she be able to live her life with a man who always treated her like second best?

––––––––

T
he following morning, Eric crossed
the road at a brisk stride, his leather portfolio clutched in one hand and banging against his thigh as he walked. He dodged traffic, heading toward the building with the floor to ceiling blackened glass windows, posters advertising the previous night’s exhibition still stuck to the smooth surface. The Blanc Art Space, located in lower Manhattan, was owned by his friend, Logan Blanc. Logan came from old money, not that this prevented the two of them becoming firm friends at Art College. Logan’s parents had financed the studio, but Logan’s eye for what sold had made the gallery a success.

He recognized the name the posters displayed, a hip young thing right out of art school. This was his competition, the reason he had to work as hard as he did. Sometimes he felt like he was running to keep still, but the truth was he was simply trying to stay ahead of the pack.

The exhibition had already taken place the previous night. Eric knew from experience that bottles of expensive imported beer, and even more expensive champagne, would have been served from ice filled silver buckets. Smartly dressed men and women would have moved around each other elegantly, as though in a dance, stopping to speak in low tones about the art displayed and the potential of that particular artist. Eric had received his invitation, plus one, months earlier, but, as usual, he’d been too busy to attend such an event.

I should have taken Anya,
he thought with a sudden pang of longing. He’d felt strange that morning, waking up without her in his bed. Even though she’d only stayed with him for one night, he’d become used to her in his apartment, the small lump beneath his bedcovers, the smell of her sleeping, and of sex on his sheets. He liked to turn and find her propped up at the kitchen counter on a stool, sipping coffee, or else with her legs tucked up beneath her body as she drank the wine he’d poured.

She’d have enjoyed the exhibition. He imagined her in a slinky black dress and heels as he introduced her to numerous people in the art world. Or perhaps he was giving himself too much credit. Would she even want to be seen out so publically with him?

Eric rapped his knuckles on the door and hit the buzzer for the intercom. The sound of movement came from inside, bottles clinking together as someone either picked them up or set them down. Then the door cracked open. Logan’s tousled, blond head appeared in the gap, his green eyes smudged with dark shadows.

“Late night, was it?” Eric asked with a grin. He wondered why he’d bothered to make the effort to be fresh today, when Logan clearly hadn’t. But then, he guessed, this meeting was more important to him than his friend.

The door opened fully. Logan stood in the gap wearing faded jeans, his shirt partially un-tucked. He tugged a hand through his curls. “As far as I can remember,” he laughed. “Come on through. It’s good to see you again. I was worried you’d gone back into hiding.”

Eric entered, surveying the remnants of the exhibition. The gallery was a vast, white space, broken only by pillars which were strategically placed as dividers to create smaller pockets of privacy. Oil paintings were hung on the walls, abstract landscapes on a large scale. Most of the pieces had small colored stickers in the corners to show they were sold.

“Well, it looks like you had a profitable night,” Eric observed.

“It was, my friend. Just clearing up the mess now, and then I’ll be adding up the profit.” He rubbed his hands together in mock glee. Eric rolled his eyes. He knew his friend didn’t need the money.

Logan picked up a silver bucket sitting on the floor beside a pillar, inverted, empty beer bottles protruding from the top. Eric collected a couple of empty champagne glasses from a table and followed his friend as he headed into the back of the gallery and out into the offices beyond.

“I don’t know about you,” Logan called over his shoulder, “but I could kill for some seriously strong coffee.”

“Sure.”

“Then we can check out this new project of yours.”

They’d entered a small kitchenette containing a sink, refrigerator, coffee machine, and microwave. Another door on the far side led off the area. Eric knew from experience that this door led to Logan’s office.

Logan set the bucket down by the sink, to join a number of other identical silver pails. “Dump the glasses there,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen worktop. “They’re all rented, and someone will be here to collect them in an hour or so.” Eric did as he was told, and Logan got to work pouring their coffee. He pushed a mug into Eric’s hands and headed through the kitchen and into the office. Eric followed.

Logan took a seat in a comfortable leather chair on the far side of his desk, and nodded for Eric to take a seat on the opposite side. “I have to say I’m intrigued. It’s not often you’d come to me with your work. Normally people are hunting you down to display your stuff.”

Eric sank into the chair. “Yeah, well, this work is a little different from my normal stuff.”

“So you said on the phone.” Logan took a gulp of his coffee and sat back. “Sock it to me.”

Eric took a deep breath and slid his portfolio across the desk. He was always nervous when it came to showing anyone a new project, but this one was particularly personal to him. His friend reached out and pulled the portfolio closer, unclipped the folder, and swung it open.

All the images were in black and white. The first photograph was one of the earlier pictures of Anya. She was wearing a short skirt flipped up, naked beneath, her fingers pulling open the lips of her pussy in an inverted V. He loved the expression on her face, sulky, almost petulant, as if the V of her fingers was a deliberate insult.

Logan flipped the page.

A photograph of her bound chest, a close up shot, focusing on the inky pools of shadows beneath her breasts, the marks the rope left on her skin. The peak of one nipple poked between the coarse material of the rope.

The page turned.

An image from only a couple of nights ago—Anya’s pussy, and, just above, the silver circle of the plug in her ass, the light glinting from the smooth metal, the dip of darkness and promise below.

Eric glanced up at Logan’s face, trying to judge his reaction. He didn’t know what he’d thought his friend would say, but Eric knew Logan wouldn’t have the sort of reaction of most men—perhaps a wolf whistle and a slap on the back. His expression gave nothing away. His face was serious, his gaze flicking over the images, drinking them in with a professional eye. So far, Logan’s only external reaction was a slight high flush to his cheeks, and that could have been due to his hangover or even the hot coffee.

After looking at all of the images, Logan sat back and slapped the portfolio shut. He lifted his gaze to Eric’s. “A lot of people aren’t going to like them.”

“I know.”

“Have you considered publishing them in a different name?”

“No. I don’t want to. They’re my work. I own them and whatever backlash comes with them.”

“You might find they affect any future ‘regular’ commissions.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

A smile broke across his face. “In which case, I love them. Edgy, obviously sexy. Great use of light and shadows, as always with your work. It’s clearly you, but you in a completely new direction.”