by MV Ellis
I disentangle myself from Arlo’s embrace, pushing him away, and quickly step into the shower, switching it on. Still clothed, he is behind the eight ball, while I’m butt naked, luxuriating in the warm water. I rub myself suggestively, knowing the sight will drive him wild. When he realizes what I’m doing, he hastily struggles out of his wet clothes too. I note that he wasn’t lying earlier when he said he had “hard feelings”—he’s swollen and throbbing. Before I know it, he’s in the shower too, up close behind me.
He presses against my back and reaches around me to again stroke my nipples. As he kisses my neck, his hands glide over my slick skin, arousing me even more. As predicted, the hot shower works wonders, and coupled with the fires Arlo is stoking within me, I’m starting to warm up now. He reaches for the shampoo—a high-end organic brand that smells divine—and begins to rub it into my hair. No guy has ever done that for me before. It feels so loving and intimate. As he rinses the suds from my hair, his erection rubs against my butt insistently, and my warming body is unable to resist responding. I reach behind me and take him in my hand, squeezing tenderly.
Arlo groans, gently pushing me forward. I reach out, resting my free hand on the cold shower tiles to steady myself, before pushing my butt toward him, arching my spine and letting my head fall backward. My wet curls spill down my back, skimming my butt.
Arlo whispers in my ear, “This is what I wanted to do with you that first day.”
He bends down, reaching to my ankles, and slowly traces a line up the insides of my legs with his finger. I’m so turned on now, I can’t wait for him to be inside me. I reach between my legs and start rubbing my clit, wanting to get things started, but Arlo has other ideas. He moves fast, swatting my hand away, and straightening up to move his mouth back alongside my ear.
“No touching. That pleasure’s all mine tonight.”
I groan, desperately in need of relief.
He replaces my hands with one of his and begins stroking, using the other hand to shift me slightly so that my forehead rests against my forearms on the glass bricks of the shower wall.
Arlo speaks, his voice low and sensual, barely audible over sound of the cascading water. “Keep still and quiet. If you move or make a sound, I’ll stop.”
I gasp but know he can’t have heard me over the noise of the water. He increases the pressure, rubbing me harder and faster. I want him inside me so badly, and he doesn’t disappoint, slipping into me in one swift movement. I move back toward him, moaning appreciatively, desperate for more.
Just as I think he’s about to pick up pace and pressure and make me come, he pulls out of me abruptly, turning off the water before opening the shower door and climbing out, pulling me behind him. Fuck! Talk about leaving me hanging.
“I said, don’t move or make a sound, and you did both.”
What? I groan. I forgot it almost as soon as he said it. I was too focused on the pleasure I was feeling to think straight, let alone play along with his games. It’s probably for the best though, because despite our previous agreement about using condoms, we’d slipped up again, and gone ahead without. Fuck.
Grabbing two fresh towels, Arlo pats me down again before drying himself off and tying his towel around his waist. I take a third towel and wrap it into a turban around my dripping curls. As we leave the bathroom, heading to the bed, Arlo swipes a bottle from the vanity.
Once on the sumptuous bed, I lie back, legs spread apart, knees bent toward my chest, inviting him in. He kneels between my legs and bends down, kissing me there once. I lift my butt, angling for more, but he’s already pulled away. He reaches for the bottle on the bedside table, cupping my hand in his and pouring oil into it, then pulling my hand down gently toward his bulging erection. I grip him with just enough pressure, pumping back and forth, and reveling in the feel of him hardening against my palm. Man, he’s huge.
“Fuck!” Arlo groans, his body jolting.
He pours oil into his own palms this time, allowing it to drip over my chest, then lowers his hands to my breasts, rubbing in a circular motion. Heavenly. The way his palms slip over my nipples is enough to send me over the edge to orgasm, if I don’t hold back. I take a few deep breaths and try hard not to come.
Arlo moves his oily hands down between my legs, while I continue to rub him up and down. He slides two fingers inside me, hitting the spot right away. A shudder moves through my body. Applying just the right amount of pressure, he moves his finger in a circular motion. I grab his free hand and pull it to my mouth, sucking greedily on his fingers. He takes this as his cue to press harder, pushing his fingers deeper into me. I can’t take much more of this without him inside me, and I don’t think he can either. He must have read my thoughts, as just then, he hands me a condom. I rip the packet open hastily and get it onto him in record time.
Looping my legs around his back, I use my thighs to draw him closer, hoping he takes the hint. He knows what I want, and withdrawing his fingers, begins rubbing himself up against my entrance. He’s teasing me again—even in bed he’s as stubborn as an ox. I know he’s craving it as much as I am, but he has cast-iron will and can take it slow, without cracking under the pressure.
I’m the opposite—I’m quietly losing my mind. There’s definitely an agony and ecstasy to delaying gratification like this. I want him so badly it hurts, but I know that the longer we wait, the better it will feel when it happens. Just when I think I can’t take any more foreplay, he slips his swollen tip gently inside me.
“Oh God!” I hold my breath in an effort to stop myself from coming there and then.
He tries to pull back, maybe to stop himself from coming too, but I lock my ankles behind his back and draw him further into me. It pays to have strong legs. He goes in easy—smoothly, and straight to the hilt, and I love the fullness. Arlo looks down at me, and I don’t dare release the breath I’ve been holding. His gaze is so intense, and our connection so strong that it overwhelms me. I can’t look away, but it hurts to keep looking. I know in that moment that I can’t not be with this man.
I open my mouth to speak, but Arlo presses the fingertips of one hand gently against my mouth.
“Shhh. Let’s just…. This….” He lets the end of the sentence hang heavy in the air, finishing it without speaking.
Instead, he grabs my hands and stretches them high above my head, at the same time driving hard into me. I get the message loud and clear. He leans down and kisses my mouth frantically, pulling my arms up even higher. The kiss is punishingly rough. Everything feels so real with him tonight, and if it’s our final time together, I want it this way. Tentatively, I try to move one hand, to see if he’ll release me from his grasp. Not only does he not let go, but he tightens his grip, pressing his thumbs into my wrists.
Still staring at me intently, Arlo lowers his head to whisper in my ear, “You’re mine. Forever.”
As he says “forever,” he drives himself further into me, painfully deep, and I don’t know if it’s a threat or a promise.
I arch my back beneath him, pushing up and taking him even deeper. He kisses me again, almost brutally, pressing harder on my arms. It’s bordering on painful now, but I love the intensity. He moves away from my mouth, kissing my neck, my collarbone, and down to my breasts. Nipping, hurting a little. I can’t hold back any longer. I feel the familiar tremble spread through my body, and I know there’s no turning back.
As soon as I realize I’m coming, my inhibitions melt away, and animal instinct takes over. The tremble becomes a vibration pulsing through my body. Feeling my release, Arlo lets go too, swelling and bursting inside me, and the sensation sends me pulsing again and again around him. The reaction is so strong, so animalistic that everything goes dark briefly. When I come to, I’m moaning gently, and Arlo is still inside me.
He kisses me slowly, still hard and luxuriating in me as we come down from the high. A blanket of sleep envelops me, and my eyelids start to flutter and drift closed. I can’t remember ever feeling this spen
t—physically, and emotionally. Just before I float off to sleep, nestled in Arlo’s embrace, I hear myself speak faintly, somewhere in the dim distance, before everything fades to black.
“I love you.”
Chapter Twenty
When we get back to NYC, Arlo is true to his word in giving me the space I need. We speak via phone or FaceTime every few days, and text daily (including a few nudie shots and dick pics to keep the blood flowing), but that’s it. Whenever we speak, Arlo is his usual self—funny, cheeky, and charming when he wants to be, frustrating a lot of the time. Nothing much seems to have changed between us, except we’re not seeing each other in the flesh, which of course is a massive change. It’s always the elephant in the room—hovering between us, yet never mentioned. It’s a bit of a mind fuck, but then when was it ever not with us?
As expected, Arlo is hugely busy from the moment we hit the tarmac at JFK. More so because he and the boys come off tour full of creative energy and inspiration, so decide to harness it by laying down some tracks for a new album. The song Arlo debuted in Paris will be on it, but they’re working on other new material also.
So as well as his usual commitments with the club and tattoo parlor, interviews, photo shoots, and events, he’s now occupied for hours, sometimes days, on end at the recording studio. I’m also insanely busy working on the book and the showing. I’m literally rushed off my feet. Even if we were “seeing” each other, we wouldn’t actually be seeing much of each other anyway, so our break is well-timed from that perspective.
I’ve never been happier to be busy in my life. Not only does it help take my mind off the obvious, but I’m doing what I love on my terms, and I wouldn’t swap that for all the free time or social life in the world.
As a ballet dancer, my job was to flawlessly bring someone else’s creative vision to life. As a photographer, the vision I’m realizing is all mine, so I’m much more invested in the outcome. It’s exhilarating, and more than a little terrifying. I’m shit scared. All. The. Time. Scared that despite all my hard work, the photos will be god-awful, and nobody will buy the book. Scared that I’ll be a laughingstock and that my almost nonexistent photography career will be over before it starts.
Most of all, I’m worried about Arlo’s response to the photos. He’s given me carte blanche to do whatever I see fit, which in many ways is great, but on the other hand, leaves plenty of room for my niggling doubts to flourish. Is it because he wants me to have creative freedom, or because he doesn’t care about the outcome? Was this whole thing a vanity project created as a way to convince me to come on tour with him? The more I think about it, the more I have no fucking idea.
I have use of the most gorgeous exhibition and studio space for the show, and for me to work from in the leadup. It’s a stunning converted warehouse in Chelsea. The double-height ceilings and expansive floor plan make it ideal both for shooting, and for showings. Not that I have time to even consider shooting anything there right now. Upstairs there’s a mezzanine level with a darkroom, kitchenette, shower, office, and bedroom. I crash there most nights, subsisting on far too little sleep, and a diet of black coffee and convenience store snack foods, if I remember to eat at all.
I spend hours poring over the photos from the previous months of shooting, which means pretty much every waking moment is spent staring at images of Arlo. If I wasn’t already well acquainted with his features, I certainly am now. Intimately. Every freckle, hair, and line. Every tattoo, vein, and pore. Looking at the photos, I’ve learned so much more about him and been reminded of stuff I already knew. His moods, his facial expressions, his mannerisms, they’re all there.
Worse still, after occupying my every waking moment, he’s all I see in the few hours I manage to close my eyes at night. Not ideal when you’re trying to get someone out of your head. I might have gained physical space from him, but mentally and emotionally, he’s still crowding me.
While busy with the photos, I miss a couple of calls from Marko, then become so enmeshed in work that I forget to return them. Calling is fairly out of character for him—he’s not really into phone chitchat—more of a face-to-face kind of guy, so I wonder why he’s making the extra effort. When he calls a third time, I pick up instead of letting it ring out, in case something is really wrong.
“Hey, babe, what’s up?”
“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me, as though you haven’t been MIA for weeks, then ignoring my calls and messages. Not to mention the fact that you’ve more or less moved out without telling me.” He’s got a point—I’ve barely been back to the apartment since the tour ended.
“I’m worried about you, princess, that’s what’s up. Come home tonight. I’ll cook you dinner, and you can tell me why you’ve been behaving like a recluse for the past month.” I roll my eyes. He can be such a mother hen when it comes to me.
“Don’t be so melodramatic, Marko, you know what I’ve been doing. I’m working my ass off, trying to pull together a coffee table book and exhibition featuring the front man of one of the world’s biggest bands, and thereby launch my photography career. You know, little things like that.”
“Don’t be like that, you know what I mean. You’re coming home for dinner tonight. It’s not negotiable. You’ll be here at seven sharp, and if you’re not, I’ll come get you myself. If you make me do that, you know it won’t be pretty, so if I were you, I’d play ball.”
“Marko,” I groan.
“Don’t whine, it’s done.” Gah! His similarity to Arlo makes me want to slap him, or myself. The two main men in my life are equally as frustrating as they are loveable. Neither will take no for an answer, and they both seem to feel the need to protect me, which in Arlo’s case is ironic, given that he’s the one I need protecting from.
“I don’t have time, and I’d be boring company anyway. I’m not very talkative at the moment. I’ve got too much on my mind, and I’m fucking exhausted. Like, maxed out. That’s why you haven’t heard from me. I haven’t got the energy to hold up my end of a conversation. I’m not really up for dinner, either—I don’t seem to have much of an appetite these days.”
“All the more reason that you need to come home and let me look after you.”
His voice is firm, and I know that there’s no negotiating. Once he’s made up his mind, he won’t budge. Fuck, he’s the most stubborn person I know. Except one other…. I don’t know what I did to deserve two bull-headed alpha males in my life, yet here they both are. Well, one is, and the other… who knows how that will end?
As the day wears on, it dawns on me that I could really use a change of scene, and that some time spent not gazing at photos of a man I’m trying not think about 24/7 would probably be beneficial to my sanity. With this in mind, I arrive at the apartment at 7.05—which is as “sharp” as I’m ever going to get—having left it until the last possible moment to leave the studio and jump in an Uber. Marko greets me at the door as I let myself in. His face drops as soon as he sees me. What the...?
“Hey, sweets.” He gives me a tight smile, leads me into the living room, and gently sits me down on the couch. He throws himself down next to me, and we swivel around to face each other.
“Wow, you look like shit.”
“Umm, well gee, thanks, great to see you too, asshole.” I mock punch him in the bicep, and he mock flinches in pain.
“I mean it, you look terrible.”
“I never doubted for a moment that you meant it, because you’ve got no fucking filter. Doesn’t mean it’s not a dick thing to say.”
“I meant I’m worried about you. You’re as thin as a rail.” He rubs his eyebrows, which are knotted together in a firm frown. Uh-oh, that means he’s serious.
“No news there then, Marko, I’ve always been little, you know that better than anyone,” I snap. I hope he didn’t ask me to come home just to annoy the hell out of me by stating the obvious.
“Yeah, I do, but you seem even more fragile than normal.” He leans forward, hugging me to his chest a
nd squeezing tightly. ”Seriously, you’re practically skin and bone. What’s going on?”
He almost whispers this into my ear, and I can tell by his tone that he’s genuinely worried, so I know that I shouldn’t be too hard on him for his not-too-tactful delivery. Marko tells it like he sees it, and it’s something I’ve come to accept and even love about him.
“I’m stressed, is what’s wrong. I’m working my ass off and it’s draining. I’m crapping my pants about this whole thing—terrified that the photos will be awful, and I’ll look like to total fool.”
I sigh, tucking my legs under myself and tugging down on the sleeves of my oversized sweater.
“And?” Marko fixes me with his sternest stare.
“And what? I’m worried that I’m about to completely wreck my photography career, and in the most public and humiliating way. Isn’t that enough to be getting on with?” Ugh. He was sweet for a minute there, but now he’s irritating the hell out of me.
“I suppose it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that I know that deep down somewhere, you know you’re a shit-hot photographer, and the ultimate type A personality, so you’re not about to screw this up. So what else is eating you, figuratively and literally?”
“Well, Arlo….” I falter, so Marko interrupts, rolling his eyes.
“Of course, Arlo. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess that he’s at the center of it, whatever ‘it’ may be. What about Arlo?” He cocks his head, scrutinizing me for clues.
“I think… I… well … I’minlovewithhim.” The end of the sentence comes out in a rush, the words almost tripping over each other.
Marko barks out a hollow cackle. It’s laughter, but not of the humorous variety.
