by Tracy Wolff
The image is so real that pleasure shoots down my spine and for a second I think about freeing her just to see what she’ll look like on her knees. But there’s so much I want to do to her before I let her go, so much I want to see—which is why I take a step back even when every instinct in my body is screaming at me to let her go. To let her swallow me whole.
“What are you doing?” she demands when I pull back. “Where are you—”
“Shhh, I’m right here,” I answer as I circle around to the other side of the St. Andrew’s Cross and drop to my knees in front of her. Then I reach forward and pinch her clit between my thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got you, darlin’. I’ve got you.”
“Deacon.” It’s half whimper, half plea as she thrusts her hips back and forth against my hand. “I need... I need—” Her voice breaks again.
“I know,” I whisper, and then I lean forward and kiss her pussy like I’ve been dying to from the second she first took her clothes off in front of me. Hot, wet, deep, I stroke my tongue over her clit before delivering one long lick along her slit.
She brokenly calls my name again as she strains against my mouth. I love it, just like I love the way she twitches and moans when I murmur sweet nothings against her clit. Just like I love the way she pulls against the restraints in an effort to get closer to me, her free hand clawing at my shoulder and back.
She scratches deep and just like that it sets me off, has my dick jerking against my zipper as I thrust my tongue and my finger deep inside of her.
Hope comes with a scream, riding my hand as her body clenches around me. I find her G-spot and stroke it, intensifying her climax until the only thing she can say is my name. Until the only thing she can think about is me and the pleasure I’m giving her.
Eventually, the rhythmic contractions end and she slumps against the X, eyes dazed and skin covered with a light sheen of sweat. “You okay, darlin’?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything, and she nods vaguely, like forming words is somehow beyond her skill set at the moment.
A better man would release her now, would undo the restraints and gather her in his arms until she came back to herself. But I never claimed to be a good man and there’s still way too much I want to do to this woman to let her off with one little orgasm. I’ve behaved myself the last two days, but now that I’ve had a taste of her, that’s done. Everything is, except my need to make her come again and again and again.
Which is why I slide a second finger inside of her even as I lean forward and blow a stream of hot air directly against her clit.
She jolts, lets out a startled little scream. Then pleads, “Deacon, stop. I can’t—”
“You can.” My voice is lower, harsher, than I want it to be, but there’s no cure for it. Need is riding me hard, a towering inferno that threatens to burn me alive.
I lick my way back inside her, thrusting deep and then pulling back to slide along her sex until she’s trembling wildly. Until the only thing holding her up is the restraints. Until her every breath is broken and her every thought is me.
“Deacon, Deacon, Deacon.” Her fingers tangle in my hair, pull hard and I groan—right before I close my teeth gently around her clit.
She cries out then, a strangled little scream that has my dick pulsing and pleasure slamming through me. I fight it back down—barely—then reach up and grab hold of her own hair. I yank her head down until her eyes meet mine, and, with a flick of my tongue, I send her hurtling toward a second climax even higher and more brutal than the first.
Hope makes a high keening sound now, her hips riding my hand as I pump my fingers in and out of her. I stroke her G-spot again, loving the way she shudders and shakes. Then, when she’s barely coherent, I pull out and spread the slick juices on my fingers over and around her anus.
She gasps, stiffens and I murmur more soft, sweet things to her until she finally relaxes. Once she does, I go back to what I was doing, circling the tight bud again and again, until even my name is too much for her to get past her strangled throat. And then, when she’s shaking all over and her eyes are blurry and black, I thrust a finger inside her ass. At the same time, I stroke my thumb over her clit and shove my tongue deep inside her pussy.
She goes off like my favorite blowtorch, so bright and hot that I can practically see the sparks flying around her as another orgasm hits. This one is fast and hard and deeper than the last one. And this time, when she screams, it’s not even my name. It’s just a deep, primal sound that works its way to the deepest, darkest parts of me.
I can’t help grinning as I pull her clit into my mouth and begin sucking. I’ve got one hand on her hip now, holding her still as I alternate sucking and licking with spearing my tongue deep inside of her. Hope’s crying a little now, begging for I’m not sure even she knows what, as I send her hurtling toward a third orgasm and then, finally, a fourth one.
I’m ready to go for more—I could keep her here all day, all night, chained to this device that I made with my own hands—but this time when I look at her, tears spill out of her beautiful, wild eyes and she gasps, “No more, Deacon. Please, no more.”
I want more—I want everything—but the second she asks me to stop, I pull back. “Are you okay?” I ask as I climb to my feet and reach for the restraints that still bind her. “Did I do something you didn’t—”
“Fuck me,” she pleads, and as soon as I free her other hand, she’s grabbing on to me. Pulling me toward her until I’m flush against the back side of the cross. “I’m dying, Deacon. Please. You have to fuck me. You have to—”
Hope’s breathy pleas run through me like a live current and just like that, my control snaps.
Crouching down, I fumble her ankles out of the restraints. By the time I’m done with the second one, her hands are already on my jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, shoving them down. I grab a condom out of the back pocket as they hit the ground and make quick work of putting it on. Then I pick her up, wrap her legs around my waist and—with one powerful thrust—bury myself balls deep inside of her.
And fuck. Just fuck. She feels like nothing I ever could have imagined. Slick and wet and so fucking hot that for a moment I’m terrified I’ll come before I can get her off one more time. Then she cries out, pulls my mouth down to hers, and every thought I’ve got flies out of my head except one. Mine, mine, mine.
I don’t want to think about it, don’t want to deal with it, so I let it wash over me, wash through me. And then I slough it off, focusing instead on pressing her up against the nearest wall. On bracing my hands beneath her hips to lift her higher, open her wider. On riding her hard and fast.
Over and over I thrust into her velvet heat until every part of me is on fire, flames of ecstasy burning through my brain, down my spine, along my cock. And still I keep going, slamming into her so hard and deep that after a while I can’t tell where I leave off and she begins. I’m determined to make her come again, determined to make the pleasure last, determined to bury myself so deeply inside her that she’ll never get me out again.
The last thought shakes me, so I ignore it, concentrating instead on fucking both of us senseless. Sweat beads on my chest, rolls down my back, and still I keep pounding into her—as hard and fast and deep as I can go. My arms are trembling now, my dick screaming for relief, and still I continue to bury myself inside of Hope. Still I take us both higher.
She’s sobbing now, whimpering, her head rocking back and forth against the wall as her body clutches at me a little more tightly with every thrust. Her nails are digging into my back, drawing blood with every forward slam of my body. Her back is arching, her legs shaking as I drive into her—over and over—with every ounce of strength that I’ve got.
I’m buried to the hilt when I feel the climax rip through her, a deep, dark tsunami so powerful that it swamps me, buries me, drags me under before I can even think to fight it. My own orgasm tears though me without p
ermission, the never-ending pulses of her body sending me careening over the edge.
It starts at the base of my spine and spreads outward—through my cock, my stomach, up my back, around to my chest. It sizzles along my nerve endings, covers every inch of my body. Pain and pleasure merge, roaring through me like a cyclone, spinning wildly from me to Hope and back again as I empty myself inside of her in a series of powerful, all-consuming waves that pull me so far under I can’t help wondering how the hell I’m ever going to find my way back.
Or even if I’ll want to.
Thursday: Hope
“Let’s go.”
“What—” I roll over from where I’ve been drowsing on the couch Deacon brought into the studio for this session.
“This isn’t working. I want to try something else.”
It’s been working just fine for me—I haven’t slept for more than an hour or two since I met Deacon and I’ve really been enjoying doing nothing but lying here while he sketches me...and occasionally reaches out to pet me.
But he’s not paying me to lie around and drowsily think about fucking him, I remind myself. He’s paying me to model and if he wants me up, I’m up. Damn it.
There’s a part of me that wants to know what this would be like if he wasn’t paying me to model, if we were just two people who were fucking...and maybe dating. But I dismiss it even as the idea occurs to me. My name might be Hope, but I’ve experienced enough disappointment in my life to know a pipe dream when I see one.
With that thought firmly in mind, I roll off the couch slowly, taking a couple of seconds to stretch muscles that haven’t moved in nearly two hours. Deacon’s eyes are on me as I do—dark, sizzling, electric—and for a moment I think he’s going to fuck me right here. Just unzip his jeans, grab me and set me down on his cock without so much as a kiss. Or a thank you, ma’am.
Which is more than fine with me. With Deacon I like the wham and the bam enough that I don’t need anything else. The idea of him fucking me like that—no frills, all power—excites me. Or maybe it’s the memories from yesterday that have my nipples peaking and my sex aching. It’s what he did to me last night, after all, seconds after he’d handed me my clothes and told me I could go.
My knees tremble at the thought and I take a step toward him, ready to give him whatever he asks for. But he just grins and tosses me a robe. “Hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
“Where are we going?” I’m baffled as I slide the robe over my shoulders and belt it around the waist. I’ve modeled for him for four days and we’ve never left his studio. Hell, I’ve never seen him outside of his studio and a part of me can’t help wondering if he’ll simply disappear the second daylight touches him—like a really good dream.
“You’ll see.” He grabs a blanket from the arm of the couch and a backpack from his closest worktable then holds a hand out to me.
I stare at it—at him—for long seconds, trying to figure out what’s going on here. It’s just part of the job, I remind myself as I reach for his hand. He just wants to change the light or the scenery or whatever. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it definitely feels like something as his big, warm, calloused hand closes around mine. As his fingers intertwine with my own. As he tugs me forward and drops a kiss on my forehead...and another one on my nose. Fucking is one thing, but this...this feels like something else. Something more.
My heart starts beating like a metronome on high, my brain racing despite the admonishment I just gave myself. Which is stupid. Everyone knows the great Deacon Vick has no room in his life for anything but his art. His fuck ’em and leave ’em policy is legendary in the art world. Which is fine with me, since my life is pretty packed right now, too. With school and work and my own art, I have no room for anything else. Certainly not a man as demanding as Deacon is bound to be.
The fact that I suddenly wish that wasn’t the case doesn’t make it any less true. Or me any less stupid for even entertaining the idea.
“Where are we going?” I ask again, as he tugs me out the door and toward the Range Rover he’s got parked just outside his studio. “I can’t go anywhere dressed like this!”
“You’re with me.”
“Like that matters?”
He shoots me a look that says Obviously, but that’s not exactly reassuring considering Deacon doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about him ever. Still, what choice do I have when he opens the car door and all but throws me on the passenger seat?
“I am capable of climbing into a car on my own,” I tell him in the haughtiest voice I can muster.
“You weren’t moving fast enough,” he answers right before he slams my door and moves around to the driver’s side.
“I wasn’t aware this was a race.”
“Yeah, well, it’s getting late. I don’t want to miss the light.”
And just like that, the fragile bubble of hope I didn’t even know was building inside of me deflates. As it should. As I always expected it to.
I don’t ask any more questions as Deacon takes off down the driveway. It’s apparent that he’s not going to tell me, so what’s the point in continuing to ask? Besides, if he’s worried about natural light, it means we’re going to be somewhere outside, so who cares if I’m in nothing but a robe.
He makes a sharp turn off the driveway to a dirt road that winds through the forest that surrounds his studio and house. The landscape is beautiful—redwoods and evergreens intermingled with craggy rock formations as far as the eye can see.
“Is this all your land?” I ask, when we make another turn after about three miles, this one leading out of the woods into a rocky clearing that’s as untamed and austere as it is beautiful.
“Yeah. I bought it after my first big show.”
Says the man whose smaller pieces routinely—and deservedly—go for a hundred thousand dollars a pop. “It suits you.”
He smiles a little as he brings the SUV to a stop. “Wild and emotionally unavailable?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of untamed and gorgeous, but sure. That works, too.” I throw open the door and rush out into the clearing. All around us are rocky cliffs and towering redwoods, but if I listen closely I swear I can hear the roar of the ocean. It amazes me that while we’re only an hour and a half north of San Francisco, it feels like we’re on another planet. Except for Deacon’s house and studio, there isn’t a building around for miles. Just trees and cliffs in every direction.
And brilliant, brilliant light. Standing here, I can see why Deacon was in a rush.
“So where do you want me?” I ask as he comes up behind me, carrying his bag and the blanket.
For a second those crazy green eyes of his darken and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Can’t help but wonder if he wants me under him—or on top of him or in front of him—as much as I want to be there. But then the moment passes and he’s walking past me to the flattest, grassiest area of the clearing.
I watch as he spreads the blanket on the ground.
“Take off your robe then stretch out on your back,” he answers. “I want your hair spread out on the blanket and your arms above your head.”
I do as he says, but it doesn’t take long for him to crouch down next to me and start playing with my hair until he has it exactly as he wants it. Pleasure zigzags through me at the gentleness of his touch, even as he bends my left arm, so that my palm is face up and the finger of my left hand can rest playfully against the inside of my right elbow.
“Good,” he says when he steps back. “Now bend your right knee and let it fall open.”
Again, I do as he instructs. Again, Deacon crouches and adjusts me until I’m in the exact position he’s looking for. Then he settles several feet away on the grass and starts drawing.
It’s a gorgeous day—warm, but not too warm, with a clear blue sky and a soft breeze that ke
eps me cool. I busy myself studying the scattering of clouds in the sky, making shapes and stories out of them as I wait for Deacon to draw whatever it is he sees when he looks at me.
He hasn’t let me see any of the sketches yet and I get a little antsier with each day that passes. I want to see how he’s drawn me, want to know—more than anything—what he thinks of me. Because if I’ve learned anything during my years in art school, it’s that no matter how true to life a sketch is, its artist is always more important than its subject.
I think about my own art, about the sculpture I want to do of Deacon. I don’t have a chance in hell of getting him to sit for me—even I know that much. He is very firmly the artist and very definitely not the art.
But the truth is, at this point, I don’t even need him to pose. I’ve spent so much time watching him watch me over the last four days, that I’m pretty sure I’ve memorized all the important parts anyway.
The burn and chisel scars on the backs of his hands.
The birthmark on the left side of his throat.
The way only one side of his mouth—the right side—curls up when he smiles.
The way his eyes glow electric green when he laughs...and when he comes. The way they turn forest green when he’s angry and nearly black when he’s on the verge of some artistic tantrum.
The way the hair that falls into his face curls just a little at the ends, like even those ends can’t stand not to be touching him.
I know how it feels. I’ve been itching to touch him for hours now, to stroke my hands over all that golden skin. To feel his muscles move, thick and heavy, beneath my fingers.
To feel his heart beat beneath my ear.
It’s the last thought that has me putting the brakes on, that has me wondering what the hell I think I’m doing. Wanting to sculpt him. Wanting to feel his heart beat beneath my hand. Wanting to lie next to him in the middle of the night and listen while he whispers secrets to me. Wanting to whisper my own secrets back.
