The Dark Collector (5 page)

“Oliver…” he sighs, resting his forehead against mine.

I freeze.

“Don’t call me that.” I shove him away from my body, the warm afterglow of the sex and the kiss shattered by the sound of my own name. “Don’t…” I’m shaking now. “You aren’t my lover!”

His expression is so sad when he looks at me and nods. “I’m sorry. I got carried away and forgot this is just a transaction for you.”

“It’s just a transaction for you too!” I shout. “I was your price for the painting. I’m not Oliver to you. I’m not your lover. I’m your whore.”

He winces. “You are not a whore.”

“I sold my body to a stranger for a painting. I know what I am.”

“You have no idea who you are, Oliver.”

“Don’t!”
I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and that ache in my throat. I’m fucking crying
again.
God, I hate that he can do this to me, can strip me down to my emotions like this. I don’t want to
feel
all these things. I’ve been holding my grief around me like a blanket, and he’s ripping it away and exposing everything. “Don’t try to convince me I’m some beautiful person. I’m not.”

“Oh God, but you
are
, Oliver. You are, and that’s why Jeffrey Kuyper’s work was so fantastic. Because of you. His muse, his model. You made him what he was. Without you, he was—”

“He was an amazing man. A great artist.” I cut him off. “I was his lover and his muse. The talent was his.”

“But the face is
yours.
Why do you deny you had anything to do with it?”

“I don’t! But it’s
over.
”

“You’re still alive.”

“I don’t want to be!” I clap my hand over my mouth, as startled as he is by the words.

“Oliver…”

“I didn’t mean…” I shake my head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t…”

He hugs me then, because I’m still crying, and because I just said this awful thing. “Shhhh.” He strokes my hair and I let him, God help me. I need this.

“Oliver, why is this painting so important to you? Why this one painting? There were three other paintings sold at that auction. The negatives of his personal photos… Why that painting?”

Intimate. It was too intimate. It wasn’t right for anyone to see that.

“We fought, and he painted our fight into that painting. Even after we’d made up, he left it that way. He thought my facial expression was ‘raw.’ I thought it was sullen. I don’t want anyone to think that’s what our life together was. We were happy.”

“Of course you were.”

“I couldn’t bear for anyone to see that and think it represented everything between us.”

“Why would they? It’s just a painting.”

“They were never just paintings. They were…” Communication?
No.
“They were a display of ownership.”

“I see.” He sighs heavily, still holding me.

“I wanted that!”

“And now he’s gone, you don’t belong to anyone? Not even yourself? Why are you afraid to be Oliver, not Jeffrey’s Muse?”

“Because I don’t know that guy.” I know what I am. But I don’t know who I am when I’m alone.

“I wish you would get to know him. From what I’ve seen, he seems pretty great.” He runs a hand up my spine. “He’s thoughtful and sexy.” The hand drifts back down. “Playful and kinky.” Back up. “Loyal.” That hand comes around to grip me by the throat. “Fearless.” I shudder, because
that
touch is one Jeffrey never used. Hand-as-collar. This man has done it twice now, and it’s holy-fucking-hell-hot.

He drops the hand. “I didn’t realize how little you’d grieved for him yet. I thought it was sentimentality. I’m sorry, Oliver. I shouldn’t have done this. And now I’m afraid I’ve hurt you.”

“I’m okay.” I sniff, wipe at my eyes. “I just miss him. I’m so fucking lonely. And the sex with you has been…”
really fucking welcome.

“Maybe we should just hang out today. Maybe go out in the city? The park? A gallery?”

“What, like boyfriends? You want to hold my hand and call me by my real name like you didn’t buy me?”

“More like friends. Just friends. To eat up some of that loneliness.”

Yeah. I could do that. I like the sound of that. I nod. “Okay. But I’m gonna need my clothes back.”

****

I’ve lived on Long Island my whole life. It wasn’t a glamorous life, before Jeffrey. When I was with Jeffrey, it became more so. When Jeffrey died intestate, since we weren’t married, I went back to my middle-class lifestyle as everything we’d shared was itemized and sold. I hadn’t gone into the city much except for work. Manhattan was Jeffrey’s territory, really, and it reminded me of him.

But even more than it was Jeffrey’s territory, it’s the dark collector’s. He
owns
this city.

He takes me to lunch at his favorite restaurant and flirts with me over a glass of chardonnay. He’s funny, when he isn’t being all domtastic. He has this self-deprecating thing going on, but a sly little smile gives the jokes away, and I find myself laughing easily.

After lunch he asks if it would be okay to visit an art gallery. “We don’t have to, if that’s hard for you.”

“No, I love art. That’s how I met Jeffrey. A friend of his had a show and he was there. I wandered in off the street to check it out because one of the paintings was kind of…”
Hot.

He laughs. “You don’t even have to finish that sentence. Knowing his crowd of artists. Would you like to see something like that? There’s an exhibit at a small gallery in Harlem… It’s bondage-themed stuff. I’ve been meaning to go.”

“Yes.” How could I have forgotten I’d loved the art first, before Jeffrey? “Who’s the artist?”

“It’s a mixed collection.”

So if I didn’t like one artist’s style, there’d be plenty more to see. Perfect. “Yes, I’d love that. Let’s do it.”

Despite my attitude at his apartment earlier, I do let him hold my hand as we stroll through the gallery, checking out the exhibit. A lot of the art has women as the focus, which is pretty, but not a turn-on for me. Clearly not for him either, because he glances at his watch three times while I’m studying a photo of a woman in a shibari dress. Seeing how uncomfortable he is, I decide to have a little fun. I move closer to the photo and pretend to be fascinated by it. And to be honest, it’s some of the most beautiful knot work I’ve ever seen. Being Jeffrey’s boy, I’d seen plenty in the clubs.

“Something bothering you?” I tease when he huffs and looks around.

“Nope.”

“Look at this here.” I gesture to the photo.

“I’ve seen it. I looked at it when I came in.”

“Right, but did you see this detail right here?” I tug him closer.

“What detail?”

“You have to get
really
close to see it. It’s right here.” I point at a knot just between the woman’s breasts. He rolls his eyes at me and leans in close. Just as his face moves next to mine, I turn my head and lick his ear.

I swear he jumps a mile, and there’s
no dignity
in the noise he makes.

“You. Little.
Brat.
” Hard as he tries, he can’t keep a straight face. “I am
so
getting you back for that.”

“Promise?” I tease, taking his hand again and smiling big enough to make my cheeks hurt.

“Yeah.” He looks down, then meets my gaze, smiling just as wide. “Don’t worry, pet, you’re never going to look at a woman in a rope dress without getting hard again.”

He punctuates that remark with a firm swat on my backside.

The good mood lingers as we make our way through the gallery, but then he stops short at one end of a hallway.

“What?” I practically bump into him from behind.

“You.” He points at a photograph on display in the next room.

Yeah, that’s me all right. I haven’t seen this black and white photograph in years. On my knees, as Jeffrey’d loved me. Hands bound to ankles. My body arched, head back, sweat dripping, my face contorted in agony or ecstasy—what I remember of the shoot was a little of both. My cock juts out proudly from my body, looking like the arrow cocked in a bow.

“The Archer.” I supply the title of the photograph as we move closer.

He nods. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would be on display here.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I wanted today to be about helping you with your grief, not shoving Jeffrey in your face.”

“It’s really okay…Sir.” I realize I still don’t know his name, can’t believe I haven’t asked. But I barrel ahead anyway. “Seeing this is…it’s weird, yeah, ’cause that’s
me
, but it’s not even a particularly popular or famous photo of me. It’s hot I guess, but it was pretty impersonal. This was one of our first shoots together, before we were lovers. There were three other models at the shoot.”

“So it doesn’t bother you? To see it?”

“No.” I lift his hand to my lips and kiss the back of his knuckles. “But it’s nice that you care.”

“Of course I care.” He looks offended. “You aren’t some rentboy or a scene in a club, Ol—pet.” He squeezes my hand. “You’re you.”

Is he blushing? I swear to God, he is.

I don’t know how I feel about that, but I think it’s good.

****

I don’t want the day to end. Is that so wrong? To spend a day with a man like him? It’s like something out of a fairy tale. I had plenty of fairy tales with Jeffrey—believe me, I did. Kinky, sweaty, dirty fairy tales turning into the most amazing art. We lived it good—pretty and hard.

But with
him,
it’s not hard, it’s so easy. He flirts and makes me smile, and he touches me all the time—holds my hand or brushes my hair off my forehead. We stop for a slice of pizza at some place he swears is the best in the city—it
is
pretty good—and by the time we approach his building, laughing and holding hands, I just want to make it last.

His doorman gives us a startled glance as we approach, but the dark collector just grins at him and tugs me through the door behind him.

To say we fall on each other when we get into his apartment makes it sound rushed and frantic, and it isn’t that way at all. He pushes me back against the wall, and he kisses me deep and hard. His lips are so firm and his tongue teases me just right. I wrap my arms around his waist and I take, and take, and take his kiss and let it soothe me and center me. He’s a really amazing kisser, the kind who makes an art of it, but the more we kiss, the more desperate and un-artful it becomes.

“I want you.” He punctuates the words with a nibble at my throat. I groan, throwing my head back so he can lick and bite to his heart’s content. He settles for sucking instead, which makes my body sing with excitement.
Yes, mark me. Leave one I’ll see for a week.

When he comes up for air, I start to move toward the couch, but he shakes his head and steers me toward the bedroom instead.

We drop our clothes along the way; when we climb into his big bed we’re both naked, undulating against each other. I should be waiting for his orders, holding back, but instead I’m kissing and touching and grinding as much as he is. When he pulls away from me and gasps out a frantic “Stop,” I startle, because I’d forgotten everything except making us both feel good.

“Oh, God, pet, you make me so crazy.”

I lower my eyes, submissive again, forcing my body to relax, slow down, let him take over. “Sir.”

“Suck me.” It
sounds
like an order, but he doesn’t shove me down there or anything, he just sort of lies back and closes his eyes.

His shaft is hot and heavy in my palm, his balls are drawn up tight. I slide my hand along him, play with his foreskin, which is really sexy—especially when he groans back in his throat, letting me know he likes what I’m doing down there. He tastes salty and tangy, a little sharp with sweat from all that walking we did. I take him deep and I suck him hard, running a hand up his body to play with one of his nipples.

He arches and ruts, pushing his dick up into my throat, and I do everything I know to encourage him. I jerk his shaft while I suckle the head, I pinch his nipple, I play with his balls, I let him fuck my face, and when he groans low and heavy and tries to warn me he’s about to come, I swallow him deep and I take it all.

“Jesus, Oliver.”

I try not to flinch at the sound of my name. I slide my hands over his chest and I snuggle close to him. There’s no urgency in me—I’m hard and really turned on by blowing him, but also proud of myself for making him come so hard he’s shaking still. His hands run up and down my body, stroking, caressing. It’s not a massage, and it’s not meant to turn me on, it’s something I think is soothing him. When he finally kisses me again, those hands are in my hair, tugging and pulling in a way that makes me gasp and shove my hard cock into the mattress.

“Lie back,” he orders, rolling me over. “Lift your knees to your chest.”

Yes.

And then he leaves me there.

I don’t know how long I lie there, waiting. It could be just a few minutes of anticipation, or it could be an hour. My body is humming with arousal as I try to imagine what he’s got planned. A good hard fuck? More plugs? A dildo?

When he comes back though, he’s not carrying any toys, just a bottle of lube and a big smile. He lies down next to me and kisses me sweet and wanting, nibbling along my lower lip until I sort of slump back against the pillows and wrap my arms around his neck.

His stubble brushes my chin, scratching lightly, and then he nudges me open and takes my tongue. He kisses the tension out of my body, kisses me until my voice slurs and my hands shake.

I don’t hear him opening the lube, and when my eyes are open, I can’t tear them away from his, so the first finger breaching me comes as a surprise.

“You’re so hot, Oliver. I’m going to call you Oliver, and if you want me to stop, you better use your safeword. This is not a transaction. This is me making love with you. We might not be friends, we might not be boyfriends, but tonight we absolutely
are
lovers, and if you can’t handle that, you need to stop me. Got that Oliver?”

His words make me dizzy enough on their own, but that last time he says my name, he slides a second finger in with the first and pegs my prostate hard.

“Unnnh.” I turn my head to the side and groan into the pillow.