Take Me

by Tracy Wolff

  “Don’t.” His voice cracks through the tension, shattering it like a mallet against a block of ice—even as it freezes me in place.

  But just because he’s paying me doesn’t mean he owns me. So I lift a brow and ask, “Why not?” as if I’m not dying for him to fuck me.

  “Because you don’t want to.”

  He walks toward me then, arm outstretched. He’s offering me the bottle of water, but I shake my head. That’s not what I want from him.

  Deacon is grinning by the time he stops in front of me, a dark, wicked thing that makes me tremble. He knows it, too. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the heat rolling off him in waves.

  He’s still holding out the water and eventually I reach for it—mostly to get it out of his hands so he can put those hands on me. But he makes a tsking sound with his tongue as he easily evades my grasp. And then he’s leaning forward, rolling the bottom of the ice-cold bottle over first one of my nipples and then the other.

  I whimper—I can’t help it—as I arch into the cold. His eyes turn a deep forest green at the sound. Then he’s cracking open the bottle of water, dipping his fingers inside. Seconds later, his cold fingers are on me, pinching and plucking my nipple until it’s so hard it hurts. Until I’m so turned on that I hurt.

  I lean back, my head rolling back and forth against the wall as my breasts, my hips—my very soul—yearn toward him. He laughs, low and deep, then lowers his head and takes one of my nipples in his mouth.

  I gasp, my hands coming up to clutch at his head—to tangle in the cool, black silk of his hair—but he’s already pulling back. Already pulling away.

  Words form in my throat—in my mouth—and I’m so turned on I want to beg. But I still have some pride, so I lock my jaw, grind my teeth together, and promise myself that sometime soon I’ll turn the tables. Sometime soon, I’ll make Deacon feel as hot and bothered and vulnerable as I do right now.

  Before I can think of anything else, before I can so much as breathe, he reaches over and tousles my hair, sending my curls tumbling in every direction. Then he takes another step back and another and another, and surveys his handiwork with a dark smirk that makes my blood boil in all the different ways.

  “Put your heels back on the table, Hope. Then open your knees for me. Let me see what you so desperately need me to touch.”

  I want to fight him, want to tell him to go to hell. But that black-magic voice of his wraps itself around me, has me doing what he demands without so much as a cursory no.

  “Wider,” he rasps and this time he’s opening his sketchbook, positioning his charcoal over a clean page.

  The knowledge that all this has been about the art—that he’s going to draw me like this—makes it easier, and harder, to spread my legs. Easier, and harder, to show him just how much I want him. Only the darkness of his eyes, the clench of his jaw and his fingers on his pencil, make it bearable. Because no matter how unaffected he tries to act, his body doesn’t lie. I can see the hard line of his cock from here.

  “That’s it, sweetheart.” His voice goes even deeper. “That’s a good girl. You’re so beautiful there, like a flower unfolding just for me. Have you ever seen yourself spread open like this? Have you ever looked?”

  I shake my head, bite my lip as a new wave of desire crashes through me. “Stop,” I tell him, desperate to regain just a little bit of control over the situation—or at least myself.

  “No.” His eyes laugh at me, as if he knows exactly what I’m trying to do. “Drop your right knee to the side, rest the side of your calf on the table.”

  I do what he says. Of course I do. I may need control, may crave it, but I’m smart enough to know that Deacon holds all the cards right now. Besides, it’s no use pretending I don’t like him looking at me. No use pretending I don’t like the look in his eyes as he does.

  He grabs a chair and sits down, spreading his own legs wide as he does. For a second I can think of nothing but kneeling between his knees, nothing but unzipping those jeans and pulling him into my mouth and all the way down my throat.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says again. “Shall I tell you what I see?”

  When I don’t answer, he looks up from his sketchpad, up from my sex. Our gazes meet, hold, for one long moment. Then he’s looking away, his eyes burning a trail over every inch of my exposed skin.

  “You’re wet, Hope. Wet and swollen and so slick I can see you glistening from here.” He reaches for his water bottle as I clutch at the edge of the table, desperate for something to hang on to.

  “You’re a deep rose, now. The more aroused you get, the darker you turn.” His breathing is harsh now, his chest shuddering with each inhalation. “It’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

  I can’t answer him, can’t say a word as my throat constricts with need. As my whole body tightens until I ache all over.

  Deacon leans back on an elbow, even as his pencil moves like lightning over his sketchpad. “Now I want you to touch yourself.” My eyes widen and he laughs, the bastard. “You do touch yourself, don’t you, darlin’?”

  I don’t answer him. I can’t. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because my throat has closed up and my mouth has gone desert dry.

  He grins, like he knows exactly what’s happening to me. Then he continues, “Late at night, when you’re all alone? You rub your nipples, don’t you? Then you stroke yourself between your legs, circling your finger around your hot little clit. I know you do.” He continues to draw, like what he’s saying is the most normal thing in the world. Like he isn’t setting off explosions deep inside me with every word he utters.

  To hell with his sketch. I start to scoot off the table, start to reach for him. “Oh no, sweetheart. You stay right where you are. We’re just getting started.”

  I glare at him, whimpering, as my hips move helpless against the table. A small part of my brain is reminding me that I can get up, that I don’t actually have to stay here. And still I don’t move. I can’t. Not when Deacon’s looking at me like I’m Christmas morning and a hot fudge sundae all rolled into one.

  “That’s right,” he says in a voice that’s pure temptation. “Stay right there. Now, put your finger in your mouth. Good. Get it nice and wet for me and then swirl it around your nipple. That’s it, sweetheart, nice and slow. Now rub your thumb over it.”

  I do what he asks. Of course I do. At this point I’m so far gone the word no has pretty much ceased to exist. “Do it again,” he tells me, his eyes dark and hot as they watch my every move. He isn’t even pretending to sketch now. “This time, I want you to squeeze your nipple between your thumb and finger. Now do it a little harder and rub your thumb over it again. Does that feel good?”

  “Yes,” I whisper as I follow his directions. I’m on fire, my whole body little more than flames as I rub both my nipples under his watchful gaze. I’m wet as fuck now, teetering on the edge of an orgasm that has my sex all but begging for relief. And he hasn’t even touched me yet.

  The thought of his big hands on me makes me even hotter, especially when I remember what he did to me yesterday and how good his fingers felt sliding over and inside of me.

  I don’t even try to stop the moan this time, nor the whispered pleas that fall from my lips as I slide my hand over my ribs and down my stomach to my sex. Then, under Deacon’s watchful gaze, I begin stroking myself.

  He curses as he watches me, something low and guttural and barely understandable. He clears his throat and tries again, this time saying, “Hope, sweetheart, you’re so beautiful like this. So fucking beautiful.”

  My looks have never mattered much to me, but I can’t help preening at the words. Any more than I can help responding to the obvious praise in his voice. It makes me hotter, wetter, and it takes every inch of control I have left not to reach for him.

  Not to beg.

  Especially when he continu
es, “Now I want you to slide a finger inside yourself.” His green eyes gleam wickedly as I do what he says. “That’s right, sweetheart. That’s fantastic. Now another one.”

  He waits while I do what he commands.

  “That’s right. Just like that, baby. Now find your sweet spot and stroke it for me. Do it slowly, slowly. Yes, just like that. Now slide your fingers out a little bit, and push them back in. That’s right. In and out. In and—

  He breaks off when I call out his name, breathless and broken and so, so desperate. I want to say more—there’s so much I want to say to him right now—but I can’t get any more words past my tight throat. All I can do is watch him and wait for whatever he asks for next.

  “Do you like the way that feels?”

  I nod, jerkily. He grins then, and it’s a wild, wicked thing. “I like the way it feels, too. I loved touching you there yesterday, loved feeling how wet and hot you are for me. You are wet right now, aren’t you, sweetheart? Wet and hot and dying for my cock?”

  “Deacon—” I moan, and it sounds as desperate as I feel.

  “Hope,” he mimics, his eyes never leaving mine. “Put your thumb on your clit.’

  “I can’t,” I manage to gasp out. “I can’t take—”

  “You can,” he says in a voice as rock hard as the cock I can see straining against the zipper of his jeans. “You will.”

  Again, he waits me out, not saying anything else until I do as he asks. “No, sweetheart, keep your fingers inside your hot little pussy while you touch your clit. Yes, just like that. Now tap softly. No stroking yet. Just that soft up and down with your finger. How’s that feel?”

  I struggle for breath, shocked at how incredibly good it feels to do as he says. “Fabulous,” I gasp, intensifying the pressure as I get closer and closer to the edge. I’m not sure what’s more erotic—touching myself in front of Deacon or watching his sketchpad clatter to the ground as he watches me.

  “Yeah?” He looks pleased...and aroused. “Does it feel as good as my cock will feel inside you? As good as my tongue will feel slipping inside you?”

  His words take me right to the breaking point and one more stroke sends me careening over the edge in a shower of pleasure so mind bending, so soul shifting, that it erases everything else.

  Everything but the ecstasy.

  Everything but Deacon.

  I come back to myself slowly, pleasure continuing to spark along my nerve endings and deep inside me for long, insane seconds. When I can finally breathe, I reach for him, wanting to give him as much pleasure as he’s just giving me.

  But Deacon just stares at me, a look of intense satisfaction on his face as he bends over and picks up his forgotten sketchbook. And then he starts to draw.

  I don’t like it.

  I’m not sure why I don’t like it—it’s what he did yesterday, after all, and it didn’t bother me then. But it bothers me now, this...this... I don’t even know what to call it. It’s not a tryst and it’s sure as hell not an affair. I can’t even call it a wham bam thank you ma’am, as there’s been no whamming or bamming. There’s just him getting me off, and then retreating behind his sketchbook like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like I can’t see from here how long and hard his cock is at this very second.

  I think about saying something, but what am I going to say? Stop giving me orgasms if you won’t let me reciprocate? Said almost no one ever.

  What game are you playing? That’s a stupid question, too. Because, if it’s a game, it’s his game. He is the house after all. And the bank.

  In the end, I don’t say anything—partly because I need this job and partly because there’s nothing to say. Not really. Not yet, when all I know about him is what I’ve read. And what his work has shown me.

  And, to be honest, I’m not even sure why it matters. Twenty dollars an hour, enough money to pay my tuition, a chance to watch the best iron sculptor working today practice his trade and amazing orgasms? I mean, what’s not to love?

  Except...except as I sit here, watching him watching me, I can’t help wondering what he’s thinking.

  Can’t help trying to figure out what he sees when he looks at me.

  Can’t help seeing just how alone he is.

  I know it’s a choice—it’s not an exaggeration to say he could have five hundred people here in a heartbeat if he just snaps his fingers—but just because he wants it this way doesn’t mean there isn’t a story.

  I want the story. God, do I want the story. I don’t even know why I want it this bad, but I do. Maybe even more than I want money for tuition.

  Maybe.

  I add it to the list. One more thing I want from the great Deacon Vick.

  One more thing I have no intention of leaving here without.

  Wednesday: Deacon

  She’s late. Again. It should bother me considering I’m paying her to be here when I want her—and it does bother me, just not nearly as much as it normally would. Maybe because it’s the beginning of a pattern. Late, not late, late again. It’s fucking thin, but it’s the first real tell Hope’s shown me. The first real glimpse she’s given me into who she is.

  That’s what’s driving me crazy. Not the lateness, but the fact that I can’t figure her out. And I’ve tried—which is another thing that’s bugging the fuck out of me.

  Over the course of the last two days, I’ve spent close to twelve hours with her. Staring at her, drawing her, talking to her, getting her off, and I still know little more than I did when she first walked through my studio door.

  Normally that’s the way I like it. Hell, normally that’s the way I demand it. Partly because it gives me a blank slate to work with when it comes to what I see and how I portray it and partly because I don’t give a shit about who any of my models are. About what they have to say or what they want. Why should I when it’s about the art not them?

  It’s always been about the art.

  But Hope’s different and she’s been different from the minute I fucking laid eyes on her.

  Just acknowledging it makes me want to throw the bottle of Jack I’m currently drinking from against the nearest wall. Hell, who the fuck am I kidding? It makes me want to punch that wall and keep punching it until the pain knocks out everything else—including the fact that I’m sitting here mooning after her like a little bitch right now. Or a gigantic fucking wuss.

  I glance at the clock, hating that it’s only been three minutes since I last looked at it. Hating even more that she’s keeping me waiting. Hating the most that I’m letting her.

  Fuck it.

  I drop the bottle of Jack on the nearest table and head to the closet at the side of the studio. Flinging it open, I stare into its depths, cataloging the various tools I store there—and the props.

  It doesn’t take long to find what I want. After all, I’ve been imagining her on it since the moment I first saw her. Imagining what it would be like to sketch her on it.

  Imagining what it would be like to fuck her on it.

  My dick hardens at the thought—but that’s not exactly unexpected at this point. I’ve been at least semi-hard nearly every waking moment since Hope walked into my studio two days ago. I don’t expect it to go away now, when I’m standing here imagining her naked and spread-eagle on my St. Andrew’s Cross.

  I reach for the huge wood and iron X, then roll it slowly toward the center of my studio. I made it on a whim, thinking I’d one day like to find a way to incorporate it into a sculpture. Right now, though, sculpting is the last thing on my fucking mind.

  I’m in the middle of unbuckling the restraints—wrist and foot holds—when the door to my studio bursts open. Relief washes through me, taking with it all the tension I’ve been feeling for the last hour and a half, and I realize for the first time that a part of me was afraid she wouldn’t show up. Afraid I wouldn’t get the chance to
finish sculpting her. Even more afraid we weren’t going to be able finish what we started.

  “You’re late.” The words whip through the studio. “Again.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She rushes over to me, looking earnest and apologetic and Hot. As. Fuck.

  “Didn’t I tell you never to apologize?” I look her up and down, lingering for long seconds on the white shorts that show off her gorgeous legs. Dressed like that, with that body and that hair and those eyes that see way more than she lets on? It really feels like she was made just for me.

  Because the thought fucks me up, I take a step back—mentally and physically. But she just follows me, a small smile on her face as her hands go to the small silver buttons on the front of her blue cotton shirt.

  “I thought being an hour late when you’re so obviously waiting for me might be an exception to that rule.”

  “There are no exceptions. Otherwise, why would it be a rule?”

  She laughs then, full and rich and so sexy I feel it in my dick. “No apologies and no excuses?”

  “Exactly.”

  She finishes unbuttoning her shirt in silence, then shrugs it off. I try not to watch like a total perv, but I can’t help it. I want her in a way I haven’t wanted anyone in a long damn time. Maybe forever.

  Because just the idea makes me uncomfortable as fuck, I back up a little more. Not running away, I tell myself as the distance between us grows. Just being prudent.

  It’s a lie and I know it, but fuck it. At this point, it’s either lie to myself or rip those tiny white shorts off of Hope before bending her over the nearest table and burying myself balls deep inside of her.

  My dick twitches at the thought, because fuck. That’s exactly what I want to do to her. After I strap her to the St. Andrew’s Cross. After I eat out her gorgeous little pussy. After I come in her mouth, on her breasts, in her ass.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. There’s no end to the things I want to do to this woman. No end to how much I want her. It’s why I haven’t fucked her yet—because something primal inside me warns that once I do, I won’t be able to stop for days. Or worse, forever.