Photo Play (8 page)

The exhibit had opened precisely three minutes earlier at a private club on her small town’s main street. The Port Stanley Club was housed in a historic brownstone that was regularly rented out for exhibits, performances and receptions. Darla cursed Kon the whole way there, wondering how she was going to shut down an exhibit in progress, dreading even showing her face in a roomful of salacious photos featuring said face.

In the photo Kon had chosen for the flyer, she’d turned her head aside. She recalled how conflicted she’d felt at that moment, unable to decide whether to put a stop to the session. She was unrecognizable in the flyer, but the exhibit was a different matter. Her face was clearly visible in the vast majority of pictures Kon had taken.

Not that anyone would be focusing on the face. As the windshield wipers slapped at the rain, Darla leaned across the front seat and extracted her sunglasses from the glove box. The glasses were large and very dark. Not perfect as far as disguises went, but better than nothing.

She pulled up to the Port Stanley Club, aglow in welcoming light. Her stomach lurched as she envisioned people she knew strolling through the exhibit and recognizing, with a shock, the subject of the erotic photographs. She didn’t doubt that many of her own friends and acquaintances were among those planning to attend this exhibit. It was quite a coup, after all, a small town like hers hosting an exhibit by an internationally known talent like Konrad Drummond.

He’d done this just to get back at her. Just to hurt her. The evil fucking bastard.

She braked to a halt in front of a hydrant and hurled herself out of the car, heedless of the downpour as she bounded up the front steps and yanked open the door. The entrance foyer was a study in architectural elegance, with its hand-carved woodwork and elaborate chandelier. The turn-of-the-century charm was wasted on Darla, who stood in a puddle of rainwater, gulping air. No one was there to greet her, but a signboard directed exhibit-goers up the wide, carpeted stairs, which she took three at a time, pushing the sunglasses up her nose.

She hurried to the Bennington Room, straight ahead. Her heart jumped into her throat as she spied, through the open mahogany doors, framed photographs hanging on the far wall. In that instant she wanted nothing more than to turn on her heel and flee back out into the rain. Through sheer force of will she put one foot in front of the other, steeling herself to confront a roomful of pictures of Darla Carmody, buck naked and desperate for a cock.

Inside the windowless exhibit room, she felt the first tiny spark of hope. She was the only one there. Dare she hope she was the first? Perhaps the rain had kept the crowds away or at least slowed their arrival. She might yet thwart Kon’s plan to punish and humiliate her.

She might not have to move to Mongolia after all.

Darla looked around. Shouldn’t the artist be on hand to discuss his work and bask in the adulation of his admirers? Maybe he’d run out to the little boys’ room. Here was her chance to rip all the pictures off the walls, to smash the glass and tear up the prints. There were several dozen of them, each large and detailed and unmistakably
her
. Where to start?

She grabbed the nearest framed photograph and wrenched it off its hook. She raised it, intending to slam it against the gleaming parquet floor—and paused, unable to drag her gaze from the riveting image.

In this picture she reclined on the pile of drapes and scarves, her body languid and well loved, her eyes at half mast, smiling into the camera, which had been held low, on a level with its subject. She recalled Kon getting down on the floor to take this shot. The result was a startling intimacy, as if the viewer were her lover—the man who’d put that look into her eye.

Darla slipped off her sunglasses and hooked them on her sodden shirtfront. She brought the picture closer to her face and studied it. She barely recognized her own body, the sensuous line formed by her leg and hip up to the arm thrown carelessly over her head. Sunlight spilled onto her from the overhead skylight, painting her flesh in ribbons of gold. The image was exquisite.

She looked around at the other pictures. They were all exquisite. In all of them, she was beautiful. A beautiful, confident, sublimely sexual woman in the presence of the man who brought those qualities out in her.

“That’s one of my favorites.”

Darla jumped at the sound of Kon’s voice. She spun around and saw him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. He wore pale linen slacks and a navy shirt made of some soft material that draped his sinewy shoulders in a most distracting way. And deck shoes. The man actually owned shoes!

Her fingers tightened on the picture frame. “You... you had no right.”

He shrugged. “You didn’t want them.”

She looked at the pictures on the walls, trying to summon the outrage that had gripped her moments earlier, trying to remember why these entrancing images were supposed to make her feel dirty and used. “But it’s... it’s wrong, Kon. You didn’t ask me.”

“You’re wet.” He started toward her, as graceful and unhurried as a panther.

Darla backed up a step, still clutching the picture. “Don’t change the subject. I knew you weren’t happy with me, Kon, but I never thought you’d try to hurt me like this.”

“You’re shivering. You need to get out of those wet things.”

“Nice try,” she said. He wasn’t lying—she was shivering. The building was air-conditioned, and she was soaked to the skin. She glanced around the room, bare except for a handful of ponderous leather club chairs and a white-draped table laden with champagne in a bucket, crystal flutes and a variety of hors d’oeuvres, including the makings for beluga caviar canapés.

“Where is everyone?” she asked. “I can’t believe folks would stay away in droves from a Konrad Drummond exhibit just because of a little rain.”

She let him take the picture from her and replace it on the wall. This close, she was reminded of how good he smelled, the natural masculine perfume of his skin. He plucked the sunglasses off her blouse and pocketed them, then started in on her buttons.
Déjà vu.

“Are you crazy?” She grabbed his wrists. Her gaze flew to the open doorway. “Anyone could walk in.”

“I don’t think so.” He shook off her hands as if they were pesky flies and continued to open her blouse. And smiled when he exposed the plump upper mounds of her breasts above her sheer maroon demi bra. “Very nice, Darla.” He fondled her bottom with an experienced hand. “Does the thong match?”

“You’re a pig,” she said, and he laughed. She struggled against his embrace, though with little conviction. She couldn’t deny the erotic thrill in simply being held by this man, in feeling his heat and power enfold her.

“Why?” she asked.

“Hmm...?” Kon nuzzled her throat, causing her neural synapses to misfire. “Why what?”

“Why...” She stifled a moan of pleasure as his fingers slid down the crack of her ass over her damp slacks, and asked, “Why do you think no one’s going to come in?”

“Because this is a private exhibit.” He tugged the blouse off her shoulder and nibbled a path along her collarbone.

Darla blinked, trying to clear the fog of desire. “How private?” She pushed at Kon, to no avail. She might as well have been trying to budge Michelangelo’s
David
. “How many flyers did you distribute, Kon?”

“God, you taste good.” His hands were everywhere, and so was his mouth. It was as if he couldn’t get enough of her. When his lips finally found hers, he was ravenous. “I forgot how goddamn good you taste.”

“Kon, answer me!” Darla leaned back as much as she could. She grabbed a fistful of curly dark hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“Ow! What?”

“How many flyers did you make for this exhibit?” she demanded, with one more sharp tug to ensure his undivided attention.

“One. Stop that.”

“What?”

Kon disentangled her fingers from his hair. She stumbled back, dumbfounded.

“You’re lying,” she said.

“Think about it.” He rubbed his sore scalp. “Did
you
see a flyer before today? Did anyone you know mention an upcoming exhibit?”

In her anger and desperation, she hadn’t considered that. “You... you made one flyer,” Darla said. “For me.”

“Private exhibit. Like I said.”

She looked around the room. He’d developed all these photographs. Had them framed. Bought champagne and caviar. Rented out the fucking Port Stanley Club! Cash-strapped Kon Drummond had done all this.

For her.

“You needed to see these pictures, Darla.” His tone turned serious. “And I needed to see you again.” He read her mind. “No, not to fuck you. Not
just
to fuck you,” he hastened to add.

Darla searched his face, seeking the truth behind those brilliant blue eyes. “Then why, Kon?” She watched his chest expand on a deep inhalation.

“I need you in my life.” He lifted his hands and let them fall. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

She swallowed around of lump of raw emotion. “You said it just fine.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way again.” Kon dragged his fingers through his hair. “No, that’s not right. I’ve never felt this way. Not with any of the exes. Not with anyone. I don’t know what it means yet.”

She offered a watery smile. “Join the club.”

Kon’s throat worked. “All I know is, the last fifty-one days have been pure hell. Not knowing if I’d ever see you again.”

“Fifty-one days, huh?” She chewed back a grin.

“What, you weren’t counting?”

“Sorry, sport,” she said, “I was too busy trying to put you out of my mind so my right hand could get some rest.”

Kon’s eyebrows looked particularly devilish just then as his teeth flashed in a wicked grin. He practically tore the navy shirt from his body. The rest of his clothing followed in short order, and she saw—surprise, surprise—that he was hard as a post. He started stripping Darla with the same feverish impatience.

“Help me, goddammit,” he growled. “If I don’t get inside you in the next five seconds, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

She laughed, kicking off her flats as he hauled her jeans and thong to her ankles. Erotic anticipation gathered deep and low. She felt she might come at the merest touch. He took advantage of his crouched position to tip her over his shoulder and carry her like a sack of flour to the nearest leather club chair.

“This view looks familiar,” she told the small of his back. “I can walk, you know.”

“Stick with what works—that’s my motto.”

“What, no rope?” she complained as he threw her facedown over the back of the big chair, her ass elevated. “Where are my nipple clamps?”

“Demanding wench.” He landed a sharp slap to one round butt cheek. She yelped and felt the burn spread outward, settling like fire in her hungry pussy. He spanked her two-handed, varying the placement and pacing of the blows, at one point shoving her knees wide to get at the tender flesh of her inner thighs.

Darla’s cries were half shriek, half sensual moan. “Please...” she begged, “I need you, Kon. I need you now.”

“If I weren’t in such a hurry, you’d get my belt.”
Smack. Smack.
“Next time,” he promised, and finished up with a volley of stinging slaps between her legs.

Darla’s back bowed as if to offer a clearer target. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her orgasm so close, so close...

Without warning, Kon’s cock replaced his hand. He drove into her with a guttural cry, and Darla came instantly. Her body jerked like a marionette, each ecstatic contraction a little explosion within her. Kon’s fingers slid under her to caress her and prolong her orgasm.

He withdrew from her limp body, lifted her and sat her in the club chair. He crossed to the buffet table, his erection bobbing against his belly, and popped the cork from the bottle of champagne. “Thirsty?”

“How did you guess?”

Greedily she accepted the frosty bottle of hundred-dollar bubbly. He hadn’t bothered with a glass, and she wasn’t about to complain. The champagne slid down her throat like carbonated silk. A little spilled on her breasts. “Oops.”

“Oh no,” Kon said dryly. He knelt in front of the chair. “Whatever are we going to do about that?”

“Do I get a vote?”

“This is a benign dictatorship.” He pulled her closer. “No vote for you.”

The first touch of Kon’s hot tongue on her champagne-chilled nipple wrung a moan of delight from Darla. He licked and laved and sucked. Getting clean had never felt so outrageously dirty.

“Wait.” She tipped the bottle, drizzling champagne between her legs, gasping as the cold liquid bathed her inflamed flesh. “I think you missed a spot.”

“How careless of me.” Kon threw her legs over his shoulders and bent his head to his task. Every whimper and moan from her seemed to spur him on. He flicked the tip of his tongue in rapid-fire bursts over her clit, giving her little respite between assaults, until she was writhing and half sobbing beneath him.

Finally he reared up and pushed into her. She was more than ready, eagerly clinging to him, rising to meet his hammering thrusts. Without breaking stride, he rose from the hard floor to kneel on the massive club chair, angling her body for an even deeper fucking.

They came in the same instant. He shouted and bucked against her as her orgasm detonated. They slumped together in a sweaty tangle of limbs.

When Darla could find her voice, she asked, “Will it always be this good?”

“No. It’ll keep getting better.” The devilish brows wagged. “But only if we practice, practice, practice.”