Slip of the Tongue Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  “Drink?”

  I thought you’d never ask. I nod hard. “Definitely.”

  I follow him into the kitchen and set my handbag on the counter.

  He opens the refrigerator. “I’m a little disappointed you changed out of those tights.”

  He’d noticed. I’ve had them in my underwear drawer for years, but today was the first time I’d pulled them out. “You didn’t even get to see all of them,” I say.

  He closes the fridge and turns slowly. “No?”

  Any traces of the wintry night fade. My body warms as Finn’s eyes travel downward. “There are little bows at the tops of each leg. Right under my ass.”

  His expression darkens. I’ve seen desire in his eyes before—like when our knees touched on the windowsill at Lait Noir or when he almost kissed me on the couch. But now he’s no longer trying to hide it. “That’d make a good photo.”

  I haven’t stopped wanting Finn’s camera lens on me, even though he told me in the park we couldn’t do it again. “You posted,” I say.

  He nods. “A couple hours ago.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look yet.”

  He gets his phone from his back pocket and hands it to me. “The code is 2008.”

  Getting his password to unlock the screen feels like a form of intimacy, but I try not to look too excited about it. I pull up the photo, and my mouth drops open. “You have fifty more followers.”

  “Are you keeping track, Serenity?”

  I blush hearing the handle I use on all my social media, @suhr.enity. In the excitement of wanting to see him, I’d forgotten that we’d never actually connected online outside of e-mail. “How’d you know the message was from me?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Lucky guess. Where does Suhr come from?”

  I look at the screen. “My mom’s maiden name.”

  “Did you consider any other ‘Suhr’ words?”

  I glance up. “Like what?”

  “Suhr-ender.”

  My insides tighten. He says it like a command, or an idea he’s just had. Is he suggesting I give in to him for a night? How would that feel? “Friends and family follow me on that account.”

  “And? Surrender’s inappropriate?”

  Inappropriate. God. There’s that word again. This time, I’m the one acting like a prude, not Rich. I’m not exactly wild, but have I become boring? No. A boring person wouldn’t be here right now.

  I return my eyes to the picture. “Nobody commented on the last two posts,” I say. “Do you think that means they didn’t like what I wrote?”

  “No,” he says. “In fact, the one with your fingers in your mouth has more likes.”

  He’s right. It does. I hand him back the phone. “Maybe that’s because of the photo, not the caption.”

  “It doesn’t mean that,” he says. “I got a message just before yours complimenting the captions.”

  “Seriously?” My face splits with a smile. “From who?”

  “Just some random girl.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I didn’t answer, but I updated the description to say ‘My model and her words are anonymous.’”

  My model. Mine.

  “Is that all right?” Finn catches my eye. “I know keeping your identity secret is important to you.”

  I can see the headline in my mind now:

  “George Fox’s sex-fiend daughter at it again! Poses for racy photos online.”

  “It’s good,” I say quickly. “I still want that.”

  He returns to the fridge. “All right then. I’ll leave it.” He holds out a water bottle. “Want a tour?”

  I don’t want to seem like a freak by insisting on the coffee he promised me, it is eleven at night after all, so I take the water. It isn’t easy. When I’m uncomfortable, I cling to my patterns, as Rich says. Being here is out of character for me. This isn’t work or home or my dad’s or Rich’s place. And Finn certainly isn’t Rich.

  I follow him down a hall to one of the closed doors. He opens it, gesturing me in before him. It’s dark, the lights dimmed just enough to make the room glow. A desk by the window is topped by an enormous computer, both opposite a small couch. Photography equipment is assembled in a corner, including a camera on a tripod. I avoid looking at the prints on the wall because I’ll immediately judge them. It’s automatic, and I want to think of Finn as the man who made me sexy, not the mediocre, flat photographer I’d thought he was when I’d first looked at his work.

  “Should we take another?” he asks.

  I spin around. “Now?”

  “No, not now. Or, maybe now. If inspiration strikes.” He half-smiles, almost smirking.

  I wonder, if I were wearing the stripe-y tights, would inspiration have struck us down already? Would he have crossed the kitchen, impatient to see the bows? Lifted up my skirt and bent me over the counter for a better look? I curl my hands into balls, an ache forming between my legs. I don’t know what I want more, to fuck Finn or pose for him. “If you were to feel inspired . . . what might you do?”

  “Hmm.” He circles me, looking me over. From every angle. I fight the urge to cover myself or hide. Finn hasn’t given me any reason to be self-conscious. His perusal is both intoxicating and distressing. I want him to drink me in, but what if he doesn’t like how I taste? The hair on my skin prickles as I wait for his assessment. “The white collar of your blouse makes you look so sweet.” He says sweet with an edge that weakens my knees. “Like a good girl. It makes me want to turn you bad.”

  My legs are going to give out, and he hasn’t even touched me yet, not even close. He’s put enough distance between us to ensure I couldn’t even reach out and grab him if I wanted.

  “You can do that with a photo?” I ask. “Turn me bad?”

  “I can certainly try.”

  I nod breathlessly. I want to say, “Try! Please try!” but I don’t trust myself to speak without begging.

  He stops in front of me and picks up something from his desk. “Do you have words for that?” he asks, holding my journal out to me.

  I didn’t even notice it before. I take it. The feel of the leather is the only thing that’s ever come as close to comforting me like my mother’s embrace once had. I open it and flutter the pages, playing the edges like the strings of an instrument. My hands tremble, and I’m certain Finn notices.

  I only know what I’m looking for once I find it. “Here,” I say, giving it back to him.

  He shakes his head. “Read it for me. It sounds so much better from your mouth.”

  I’m already blushing profusely. I’m sure he notices that too. “I hate reading it aloud.”

  He grunts. “Then don’t, not for anyone but me. Don’t read it, don’t show it, don’t even mention it to anyone else. Just me.”

  My heart thumps. He wants exclusive access to this part of me. I want to give it to him, but that means stepping outside my comfort zone. Sharing my journal is more baring than his eyes on my body, than having my photo taken. I think I could strip down to nothing with less effort than it takes to read to him.

  “Please,” he says.

  My fear melts, just a little. He wants this, and don’t I owe it to him for loving my words enough to want to hear them? Luckily, the passage I chose is short and clean. It’s fairly innocuous—until you really start to think about it . . .

  “‘Make me a woman,’” I read. “‘Let me be your girl.’”

  I keep my eyes on the page, but I feel his gaze on me. Is he waiting for me to continue? That’s all there is. The meaning isn’t obvious at first, but I thought he’d understand. If he doesn’t, that choice will sound weird to him. It’s not the sexiest line, I admit. And maybe too nuanced for what we’re doing.

  I open my mouth to tell him I can pick out something else. I don’t speak, though. This caption feels right for the moment. I’m not sure if I’m more nervous that I’ll have to defend my choice or that he’ll like it and want to use it. When it feels as if a full
minute has passed, I close the book, squeeze the leather for reassurance, and finally look up.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  “Perfect?”

  “It’s subtle, like your words, and at the same time, straight up sex.”

  “You get it?”

  “She wants to be handled tenderly, almost like a child. To surrender to someone more powerful than her. And when she does, when he has his way with her, then she’ll be a woman.”

  My heart is in my throat. I shouldn’t’ve doubted that he’d understand. Not everyone would, and maybe that makes it a bad choice for a caption, but Finn does. “I think every woman feels like a girl and a woman at some point during sex.” I pass the book back to him. “You don’t think it’s too vague? Or weird?”

  “Obviously not.”

  I don’t understand why that’s obvious until I drop my eyes to his crotch. I look away just as quickly, but not before I notice the bulge in his sweatpants.

  “C’mere,” he says.

  Butterflies light up my insides, an eruption of fluttering wings, as if I’d spooked a bird sanctuary. This is it. I’m going to do this. Finn will be the fourth man I’ve ever slept with, and I don’t want to mess this up. I want it to be right, to be good, better than good.

  I walk to him, closing the space between us. He reaches up and moves my hair over my shoulder, resting it against my back. He looks at the neckline of my blouse, his eyes trailing the curve of my neck up to my mouth. He never meets my gaze, but circles around me, so he’s at my back. “It’ll be simple,” he says. “Just undo the top button of your blouse.”

  He leaves me where I am. I look over my shoulder. He turns the camera equipment around. My thoughts jumble. I don’t understand what he means. Or what he’s doing. Or why I don’t go stand in front of the camera instead of him moving everything to face me.

  I look forward again and my eyes land on the couch. The couch? He’s aiming the camera there? If he thinks he’s going to record us having sex, he’s delusional. He saw how hesitant I was about taking photos while fully dressed, does he think I’d let him video us while he strips me, lays me down, kisses me?

  It occurs to me—I don’t know. I have no idea what he expects, because I don’t actually know him at all.

  I asked to come up here. I read to him from my journal. Maybe I’ve made him think I’m looking for danger, thrills, sex. Aren’t I, though? Isn’t that what it would be to record something so intimate? Dangerously thrilling, taboo, wrong?

  I inhale sharply as I imagine performing for the camera—and then him watching me after I’ve left.

  “Doing okay?” he asks.

  I look back at him. “Are you . . . are you going to record it?”

  “Record what?”

  “Us?”

  He stops fiddling with the camera to stare at a spot on the floor. He seems to think hard about his next move, then comes over and looks me straight in the eye. “Halston?”

  I try not to fidget. “Y-yes?”

  “We’re never going to do anything—anything—that makes you uncomfortable. I wouldn’t record something like that without talking to you first. To be honest, it never crossed my mind.”

  I exhale a long breath, relieved. Or am I? A small part of me likes the idea of Finn savoring this later. “Good,” I say.

  “And another thing.” He looks me over. “We’re not going to sleep together.”

  This time, I know exactly what I feel. Disappointment. “We’re not?”

  “No.”

  I try to pinpoint what might’ve happened the last few minutes to extinguish his desire, but my mind is reeling too fast. It wasn’t easy for me to decide to do this. Did I imagine his interest, from the earlier fire in his eyes to the bulge in his pants? “Why not?” I ask.

  Even though I’m already looking at him, he lifts my chin slightly with his knuckle. “Don’t lie to me. Ever. I’ve had enough secrets and sneaking around for one lifetime.”

  “When did I lie?” I ask. “Everything I told you was true.”

  “You didn’t break up with him.”

  “We . . . we’re as good as—”

  “That’s not enough. That affair I had was a nightmare. I won’t do it again.”

  “Then why’d you bring me up here?” I ask, embarrassment igniting my temper. I’m already as uncomfortable as I’ve been in a while. I don’t need to be spurned after I’ve put myself so far out there.

  He sighs. “I believe you if you say you’re not in love with him—”

  “I’m not.”

  “But on this one thing, I won’t budge. I will not sleep with you unless I know you’re mine. Really and truly mine, until there’s no chance you’ll ever go back to him. Until he knows it’s over too.”

  My entire being aches for Finn, as if I’ve been holding off my need since the night I met him on the sidewalk, and just now let it flood me. Only to be rejected by him. “I want to be yours. Isn’t that enough for tonight?”

  He takes a few steps back, rounds the camera, and looks through the viewfinder. “Come closer.”

  My pulse beats at the base of my throat. I walk toward him until he holds up his hand, until I’m close enough that my face won’t be in the photo. I take the hem of the V-neck sweater I’m wearing over my blouse and pull it off. I look slimmer without it. My hair frizzes with static, so I smooth it back in place. I drop my sweater at my feet.

  “Just the top button,” he says.

  My nails are bare, like a good girl’s would be. I unbutton the collar while he photographs me. I watch his hands around the camera, big, strong, skillful. I raise my chin to expose my neck and continue down the middle of the blouse, all without instruction.

  When I reach the button between my breasts, he stops me. “That’s good enough. Do it up again.”

  I would’ve kept going. I’ve never considered myself a seductress, but maybe it’s just been hiding under the surface. I do up all the buttons and go to pick up my sweater.

  “Hang on.” He pulls back from the camera. “Hmm.”

  “What is it?”

  “They’re not right. Better in theory than reality.”

  It took hardly any effort to get the first three photos. Maybe I’m trying too hard. I touch my face. “Is it me?”

  “No. It just doesn’t say what the coffee pictures do.”

  God, I need some of that right now—a mug to hold, something to sip when doubt rears its head. “Maybe it would work better with the caption?” I suggest.

  “They should work separately and together, your words and my pictures, don’t you think?”

  It makes sense. I’ve attempted to paint a picture with one line. He wants his photo to tell a story. “What I wrote isn’t about a girl undressing herself,” I say. “You should do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Unbutton my blouse. That would be more accurate.”

  He blinks down to the floor, then back up. “I want to be the one to take the photo.”

  “Put it on a timer. If you set up the shot, it’s still yours.”

  He considers this and returns to playing with the camera. “Take a small step back. Show me your throat, like you did before.”

  My insides quiver. His commands are serious, businesslike, but he wants people to look at these photos and think of sex, and how can that not turn me on?

  When he seems satisfied, he looks up. “Ready for me?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “Don’t move. Let me do the moving.”

  That’s harder than it sounds. I’m already trying not to squirm. He presses a button. Comes to me. Gets close. Moves behind me, even closer, until his front warms my back. He can’t be more than inch from me. “I’m going to touch you now.”

  My skin is like one giant exposed nerve anticipating his hands. He doesn’t touch me, though, not really. He hums in my ear, “Count to three.”

  “One.”

  He raises his hands, and they hover at my throat.

/>   “Two.”

  His stubble ghosts against my cheek, giving me goosebumps.

  “Three.”

  He undoes the first button, barely even touching the fabric, as the camera snaps. Despite that, or maybe because of it, I shiver. His lips brush the side of my head, his breath in my hair, as he continues down. “I don’t want to stop,” he whispers.

  “Then don’t.”

  “I have to.”

  He stops opening my blouse. I hold his wrists to keep him there, and he steps into me, his hardness pressing into my lower back. When I exhale, it comes out as a pained, unnatural sound. “Please,” I say.

  “Please what? What are you asking for?”

  “Anything. I-I want this.”

  He pulls his hands from mine, and slides one down the front of me. He grips me between the legs and backs me against him, reminding me with his intimidating length that he wants me too. “I already told you why I can’t, but when you beg . . .”

  My heart beats in my stomach. I need relief. To feel good. I move against him, pleading with my hips. “Is that what you need?” I ask. “For me to beg?”

  “I need you to not beg.”

  I’m overcome, and it’s a first for me. Everything over the last week has been foreplay, leading to this moment. If he pulls away for good, I’ll be forced back into a restricted state of arousal. “What if I do it?” I ask.

  “Do what?”

  I push his hand away and slip mine down the front of my skirt, into the elastic of my tights. “It’s not cheating if I do it to myself.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He’s right—I wouldn’t. Not normally. But I am, that’s how desperate he makes me. I slide a finger along the damp seat of my thong. Surprised by how wet I am, I envision Finn easily slipping into me and moan.

  “You’re not fighting fair.”

  “I’m not the one fighting.” His erection alone assures me he wants this too. Emboldened by that knowledge, I go out on a limb to hopefully persuade him. “I want this, Finn. Tell me what I have to do to get it. What do you need?”

  When he answers, he pronounces each word, as if it’s taking all his concentration to speak. “It can’t be about what I need.”