Authors: Emily Ryan-Davis
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Erotica, #Romantic, #Romance, #Contemporary
The flat butt of the dildo pressed against the narrow strip of blonde hair curling between her thighs, snagging and pulling every time she moved. She tried not to wince as she approached the photographer, dildo and breasts bobbing every step of the way. Mortification set her chest and face on fire.
Christophe examined her with a critical eye, made notes on a yellow legal pad, and went to set up the camera in the station nearest Mac. "Kneel on that table, on your hands and knees, facing away from the camera," he directed.
Blood pounded sluggishly between Amy's ears. She always thought the metaphor of moving through molasses was a hillbilly grandma saying, but she suddenly knew how appropriate it could be, even in her urban environment. She placed one foot in front of the other until she reached a table draped with midnight blue sheeting. Mac’s gaze seared her skin, driving hot pinpricks of awareness into every muscle, from her shoulders to her calves.
She didn't know how to mount the table gracefully, given Christophe's failure to provide a step for her benefit. The table hit her at waist height, forcing her to hike herself up until she could catch the surface with her knee. The
end of the strap-on smacked the edge of the table. The impact knocked the synthetic shaft askew. She had to readjust it.
“Put your feet together but keep your knees apart.” The photographer came close to place a prop between her feet. Amy glanced down between her thighs, past the strap-on, and frowned at the long-stemmed pink rose nestled against her ankles. That wasn’t right.
The air conditioner blew cold air through a vent directly above her. She swore she could hear Mac breathing. His breathing was one of her favorite sounds, whether he was asleep, or finishing a workout, or in the midst of sex.
Especially during sex.
The way he inhaled and inhaled and inhaled, short little pulls of oxygen all in a row without breathing out, always signaled his approaching climax. She listened hard, craving the sound, and shivered as he inhaled.
Was he still angry? That little edge of growl that kept his voice from being completely flat gave her some small bit of hope she might survive this display. She wanted to look at him. She could casually flip her hair out of her eyes and sneak a glance, attempt to gauge the expression on his face. Fear kept her from doing it. She’d find out what he thought later, after the photo shoot was finished, when she didn’t need to focus on retaining her composure.
Bad enough that she was certain Christophe had noticed her scent, as nervous anxiety and embarrassed arousal battled for dominance of her body’s responses.
Mac spent too much of his life looking at his wife, wanting her, loving and sometimes hating her, but not knowing how to touch her since she’d changed. Really touch her, inside, make her open her eyes and see him. Amy existed in a fog he couldn’t penetrate, turned in on
, searching for something he hadn’t been giving her. He was tired of fighting it. He should stop hedging and get the divorce papers together, but every time he tried to imagine life without her, his system locked up.
. How would he manage? She’d been his crutch before later becoming his reason. Losing any more of her than he already had would ruin him. He knew what she needed him to do. The meaning behind the array of props spread across the different photo sets had slapped him in the face the moment he entered the studio. The curling tongue of a riding crop wouldn’t be employed on a horse. Fear surged through him at the sight of the instrument. Only an instinct to protect Amy kept him from bolting.
Once the first wave of fear passed, and he forcibly shoved aside the sickening memories of his parents’ relationship, Amy drew him in. She was afraid of something but she was turned on, too. He knew her body well enough to recognize the flush of arousal staining the pale skin above her breasts. Kneeling at her feet to help with the strap-on harness, he’d smelled her. If they’d been alone, he would have dragged her to the floor and buried himself deep. Out in the corridor, only his anger at her trickery had kept him from hauling her into the nearest restroom. Amy had touched him. His skin still stung from the pressure of her fingernails through his shirt. Scowling, he worked at ignoring the familiar stiffening she cajoled from his dick. He didn’t want to be aroused by the picture of her submission.
The photographer afforded him a focus. His hands balled into fists of their own accord, craving permission to break the photographer’s pompous nose. Prior to the night of Elizabeth’s party, Mac hadn’t been a jealous man. He was comfortable with the knowledge his wife sometimes worked nude. A camera wasn’t the same as a pair of hands. Everything changed that night, though -- Amy let another man arouse her. Even if it wasn’t her intent to become stimulated, even if the physical was theoretically innocent, she’d surrendered on the inside. The only thing that kept him from going after the guy was Elizabeth’s delivery of his written apology. The guy claimed he’d only approached Amy because she wasn’t “collared” by someone else.
As far as apologies went, it wasn’t much, but after learning what “collared” meant, Mac figured he shared some of the blame. This prick, though—the photographer—the pretty man hadn’t earned the privilege of Amy and he didn’t have the excuse of a confusing social situation. Mac concentrated on his rage instead of the more visceral urge to dominate his wife, and fantasized about plowing the other man’s face with his fists.
The photographer snapped several photos of her ass, her cheeks parted just enough that the tight pink pucker was visible, along with the clipped blonde down furring her lips, themselves spread wide by that ridiculous strap-on. The black leather harness wound around her hips and between her thighs framed the display like a picture frame. Even across the distance of the room, Mac could smell as well as see her body’s reaction, rosy pussy wet and glistening. He couldn’t tell whether it was a result of conscious arousal or
response. The uncertainty pissed him off. What did she
? As he drew in his fill of her lush scent, his nipples drew tight and the nature of her arousal ceased to matter.
His gaze drifted out of a sense of self-preservation, and he searched for something else upon which to focus. He
“Lift your hips and lower your shoulders.”
The instruction drew Mac’s attention back, away from a neutral spot on the wall where the paint had chipped away. Amy’s shoulders tensed as she repositioned her body. Christophe directed her to lift her shoulders higher—he wanted to get her nipples in the photo. Her knees were too close together. She needed to bring her feet up, hold the rose between her feet but lift them off the table.
Amy obeyed every instruction, adjusting her pose to accommodate Christophe’s desires. She may as well have been a puppet. Even though he’d long ago accepted her willingness to display her body, she confused Mac because she was usually so modest in every other situation in life. Even with him, she requested low lights, wore lingerie to bed, and managed to hold on to at least one article of clothing in the most intimate of engagements.
He didn’t know what was worse--that another man manipulated his wife or that she wordlessly obeyed. He’d never asked anything like this from her—didn’t need kinky sex, racy poses, or dirty language. She was enough for him in and of herself.
She rested her cheek on her forearm, facing him. He’d never seen her eyes so dark before, soft and languid and sultry.
Begging for his attention.
For his approval.
“You’re too wet,” Christophe abruptly announced. He threw a rough rag at Mac. “Wipe her with that.”
Amy’s thighs clenched. She turned her head until her hair hung in her face. Mac couldn’t tell whether her expression changed at all, but he was humiliated and angry on her behalf. And he hated that damned pink rose propped between her little feet, thorns dangerously close to pricking the tender skin. White roses were her roses. He had never given her any other color, and he wanted to jam that pink one up the photographer’s ass.
Instead, he strangled the rag he’d been given and moved behind Amy, blocking her from Christophe’s view.
“Are we here because this is an assignment you want, or because you’re trying to talk to me?” He spread his fingers across the small of her back, directly over the tattoo she’d gotten as a gift for his twenty-fifth birthday. Mac remembered the sex that night, Amy pulling off her panties but keeping her camisole, proudly presenting her new ink and inviting him to fuck her from behind. Sometimes she had a dirty little mouth. The sight of the mark never failed to make him want to bury himself balls-deep and ride her hard. He tried to pull back on the urge. This close, her fragrance drugged him. Something stronger than gravity tried to drag him to his knees, to bring him to a level more conducive to planting his face between her thighs and licking until his tongue wore raw.
The photographer heaved a disgusted sigh behind Mac and swore beneath his breath. “We’ll never make deadline,” he muttered.
Amy didn’t respond to him or the photographer. Chest tight, Mac wrapped her bright pink hair around his fist and tugged. “Amy, answer me.”
He stood behind her, unseen but undeniably present.
Right where she wanted him, in control and enjoying her display.
Another man directed her movements but she was for Mac. She bowed her back, presenting for his examination, craving the rough murmur of his approval. Thrill shivered down the back of her neck when he pulled her hair.
Mac’s voice reached down deep into the warm pool of fantasy that bound her. His voice broke the promise of the dark and offered something new, if only she could claw her way free and grab it.
Somewhere, an unfamiliar person asked, “Amy, what is this?”
“Back off.” That was Mac. “She’s sick.”
His gruff tone alarmed her. She wanted him tender and attentive, not angry, but the gentling filter of fantasy unraveled faster than she could wind it back up. She surfaced through layers of sensation. Numbness pricked her shins. The still-unfamiliar weight of the harness she wore skewed her balance. She drew her knees together, closer to her chest, and something sharp stabbed her ankle.
Big, warm hands cupped her shoulders and drew her upright. A heavy weight draped across her back.
She blinked at the expanse of wrinkled fabric, the single row of buttons that marched down the broad chest that blocked her view of the room.
“I’m taking you home,” he said. He fumbled with the buckle of her harness. Her hips shifted toward him of their own volition, responding to her sensitive, aroused body’s needful cravings for his touch. Mac’s fingers grazed her swollen labia. Amy’s breath caught. She arched into the touch, her eyes closing, and tried to sink back into the fantasy of his hands on her body.
“What are you doing?” the other voice in the room asked. His irritation stung her ears, dragged at her resisting awareness. “We’re not finished!”
“Yes, you are,” Mac said. “Find someone else.”
A door opened and slammed shut. Amy jumped.
“I love you,” she murmured. She pressed her forehead to Mac’s chest. “I do.”
“You need to get dressed.” Mac’s voice, low and rough, made her shiver and tremble all at once. Her head wasn’t where it should be; she couldn’t quite focus properly. He moved away, but came back moments later and dressed her. She tried to help but her arms and legs refused to cooperate.
Mac pushed her feet into her shoes and pulled her up and out of the studio. The timing didn’t seem right. She couldn’t remember most of the
didn’t remember it ending at all, had no idea whether it was a success or a failure. Her recollection didn’t improve as they walked but reality intruded relentlessly. She and Mac, separated by her screwed up head. Shame joined arousal, and together, they drummed a rhythm she couldn’t break, an over-and-over again cycle that held tight and wouldn’t let her go.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. His grip on her biceps tightened and relaxed, but he didn’t say anything.
The high-rise office building’s lobby was deserted. Rain sluiced down the big windows that formed the front. She balked. “I didn’t bring an umbrella.”
Shedding his coat, he draped it over her head and around her shoulders and guided her into the deluge.
“You’ll get sick.” Wet, icy fingers snuck beneath the makeshift umbrella, stinging her cheeks. Mac ignored her protest and hurried her to the parking garage half a block down the street.
They ducked out of the rain and he escorted her to his car, guiding her into the passenger seat. Water dripped from his nose, splashing on her lips. “We’ll get your car later.”
Amy licked her lips dry and worried her thumbnail. He let himself behind the wheel. Now that his focus had been redirected and wasn’t aimed entirely at her, her head started to clear. The rain had also helped, rinsing her clean mentally, even as it destroyed her makeup.
His shirt was soaked through. Wet and transparent, it clung to his skin. She wanted to touch him—every cell ached for some contact, something to bring her away from the edge of shattering. Bringing him into the studio was a tremendous mistake. Mac as an audience was supposed to arouse
, not open a floodgate of raw desire in
. Being watched by him, though…the instant she recognized the outline of his erection, she lost herself. He
He turned on the radio. The public radio newscaster’s world news commentary filled the void between them. She wet her lips.
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Amy glanced sidelong to find him watching her. When their eyes met, he grunted. “What?”
“Not anymore, I’m not.”
That was a lie. She could see the outline of his erection, thick behind his zipper. Heart thudding against her ribs, she said, “I want to…um…Mac?”
?” He lashed out and grabbed a fistful of her damp hair, pulling hard enough to sting as he forced her eyes to his. “You want what, Amy?
Me to drag you over here and push your mouth down on my cock?
Me to hold your hair and force you to take every last fucking inch?
Because that’s what
want to do right now and it’s not fucking right.”
“Yes! I want you to do
.” Amy scrabbled for her seatbelt, trying to free herself. Every nerve in her body sparked and strained for him.
“Damn it. Amy. Fuck.” His grip on her hair tightened. The seatbelt retracted with a hiss and a thud and Mac yanked her across the space between the seats. She squeezed onto the floorboard on her knees, thighs pressed together against the throbbing ache of arousal. With his free hand, Mac tore open his pants and palmed his cock. Amy was waiting for him, her lips parted and eager. The familiar flavor of his
exploded on her taste buds. She wedged her shoulder beneath the steering wheel and Mac thrust up into her mouth, brutal and unapologetic. Amy didn’t have time to linger over remembering his shape. The flared head thumped the back of her throat. She inhaled through her nose and wrapped her hand around his wrist, steadying herself as he used her hair to drag her lips up and down the length of his shaft.
Mac changed the height of the steering wheel and pressure eased off her nape. He shifted his weight, spread his knees,
. “Get your hand on my balls. You’re going to swallow.”
Mindless, she obeyed, humming satisfaction in the back of her throat, molding her palm over the shape of his sac, squeezing gently through his pants. Mac muttered curses above her head. He shifted his grip on her hair, stroked his other hand over her shoulder and found the weight of her breast.
“I didn’t want you to do this to me,” he rasped, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
Glorying in the power he’d allowed her to display, the victory he’d granted, Amy contracted her cheeks and sucked hard. His cock jumped in her mouth and he came against the back of her throat.
“Swallow,” he said. The word sounded like a curse.
Amy remained on her knees, breathing the scent of his body, gently licking him as he softened in her mouth. Nearby in the parking garage someone’s car alarm beeped an alert that another person approached. Mac relaxed his hold on her hair and released her. Reluctantly Amy lifted her head and withdrew into her seat as he adjusted his pants and tucked his penis from view.
“I didn’t want you to do this to me,” Mac repeated. He shifted the car into gear and drove out of the garage.
Amy closed her eyes. The thrill of coercing him into dominating her rapidly abated. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll discuss it later.” Rivulets of water cascaded over the windshield as he nosed into traffic. The thump of the windshield wipers shaped her racing pulse into a new pattern.
Amy shivered and hugged herself as she crashed. She tried to hide her letdown from Mac. Maybe he hadn’t noticed she’d mentally evacuated the scene, earlier. Better if he hadn’t. She wouldn’t have to explain it to him, or convince him it had been for him, not for the photographer and his props.
“It wasn’t him,” she blurted. Confession urged full truth. “It had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t wine, either. I wanted to be seen. I wanted everyone to watch
His hands fisted around the steering wheel. “Amy. This topic is off-limits right now. Don’t push it. Am I clear?”
A sidelong glance at his profile showed his jaw set hard, his gaze straight ahead through the rain. Instinctively, she knew he hadn’t needed her confession. He
She couldn’t help herself—the tiny little word just slipped out. Liquid heat followed the syllable.
He shot a dark, heavy look her way. She knew that look—had known him too long to not know it—but she hadn’t expected want in his eyes. Anger, hurt, disappointment, but not lust so blatant the inside of the car was suddenly as hot as a steam room.
He wanted her again.
Mac dropped her off in front of their building and headed for their complex’s parking garage. Knees shaking, she took herself up to their apartment.
He wanted her but he didn’t
to want her. She had no idea what to do. Attempt to seduce him? Hide from him until tempers cooled and they could talk about it tomorrow? She needed to explain, no matter that part of her believed they would be better off ignoring it.
Five minutes became fifteen, uncertainty became fear, and she dialed Elizabeth’s number.
“I’ve made a mistake,” she confessed first thing. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Where are you?” Elizabeth asked.
Mac dropped me off and didn’t come up.”
“Are you safe?”
She squinted at the locks and bolts on the front door. “The chain’s not put up,” she said.
“But are you
Not suicidal or murderous or anything in between?”
“I think my heart’s breaking.”
“Honey, if you’re safe right now, I have to call you back. I can’t talk.”
Amy blinked at the rain sluicing down the windows, stunned. “But I need you.”
“Somebody else needs me more. I’ll call you back.” Elizabeth hung up.
* * * *
“I’m sorry.” Elizabeth’s voice interrupted the ghost-reel playing in Mac’s head. He latched onto her voice and shoved his father’s shouting into the back of his memory.
“Was that her?” Mac huddled in the alcove of a corner grocery, trying to stay out of the way of rainy-day shoppers ducking in and out of the store.
“I would no more tell you if she called me than I would tell her that you did,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I take confidences very seriously.”
Mac shook his head at the rain and closed his eyes. “She wants me to control her.”
“She wants to submit to your dominance. There’s a difference between submission and slavery, Mac.”
“What about between discipline and abuse? Is there a difference between those, too? I’m not her father.”
I’m not my father, either.
“People want different things out of a power exchange relationship. Most of them don’t consider what they crave, and what they’re asked for, to be the same as abuse.”
He exhaled. “Is this something she needs in order to be a whole person?”
Elizabeth hesitated before saying, “I don’t know.
You need to find that out on your own. She’s reaching out to you, asking you to help her determine the answer.”