Wicked Grind

by J. Kenner

  He moves my hand so that my fingers slide under the thin material and I'm cupping myself. "She's wet," he whispers, and I am, and I want him.

  "So very wet. And she waits, longing for him. She closes her eyes," he says, as I do exactly that. "And as she thinks of him, she strokes herself. Teasing and touching and desperately wanting."

  He pulls his hand away, but as he does I feel his breath at my ear as he whispers. "You're so lovely. Don't stop. And don't open your eyes."

  I make a little whimpering sound, but I do as he says, feeling the bed shift slightly. My fingers slide over my slick skin, and I gasp when I hear the distinctive click of a camera. My eyes flutter open, but Wyatt shakes his head. "No. Don't stop. I want to watch you."

  He lowers the camera, and there's a wild heat in his eyes that fires through me. I don't know if he wants me, or if he just wants the shot, but I'm so aroused now I don't care. I close my eyes again and do as he asks, feeling my body firing as the camera clicks and whirrs again and again and again.

  When I'm close--desperately close--he tells me to open my eyes. I do, and find him sitting at the other end of the bed. "You're amazing," he says. "That was incredible."

  "Oh." I press my thighs together, suddenly shy.

  He comes to me, and I anticipate his touch. Bold and hard and demanding. His hands on my breasts. His mouth on my skin.

  I expect him to finish what I started. To quell this need he's fired inside me.

  I expect all that . . . but all he does is untie my hand. "I think we may have a good one among all those shots."

  I frown, confused by both his words and by the fact that he's backed away to sit on the far side of the bed again. "Only one good one? I thought--"

  "What?"

  I swallow, blushing. "Just that I thought you were probably getting a lot of good shots."

  "Definitely," he says, and there's so much heat and desire in his voice that I'm even more confused. "You were exceptional. But I meant good for the show. And for those, I'm incredibly picky."

  I frown and he laughs. "Photography's a numbers game sometimes."

  "Oh."

  "Why don't you go get dressed?"

  Disappointment cuts through me. "Um, okay. I'll change and head home." I'm feeling overly exposed, and confused enough that getting out of there seems like a good idea. "What time do you want me back tomorrow?"

  "How about eight. If we're cramming the shoot into five days, I'm afraid they should be long ones."

  "Okay. Sure." I stand awkwardly. "I'll just go change."

  He reaches out to touch my arm as I start to walk to the bathroom. "It's a long drive to Valencia. Maybe you should stay."

  I look at the bed. "Here?"

  "I was thinking you could stay in my office. You can have the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

  "Oh." A fresh shock of disappointment cuts through me. Considering he'd demanded I remove my panties in the car, I'd been expecting something much different here. Maybe he was just trying to keep me comfortable during the shoot. But that's done, and if we're going to his bedroom . . .

  To say I'm confused would be an understatement. Especially since I flat out told him I wanted to--as he put it--be bad.

  So where on earth is the badness?

  "Kelsey?"

  "I guess," I say. And then, because it really is a long drive, I say, "Yeah. Actually, that would be great."

  He tells me to grab a nightgown out of the bureau, which I do, then I follow him up the stairs. He's a perfect gentleman. Pulling out the Murphy bed. Making sure I'm comfortable. Telling me he'll be right on the other side of the room if I need anything.

  And then he goes off to the couch, and I slide under the covers, and I lie there, absolutely unable to sleep. Because, seriously, what is going on here?

  Finally, I can't take it anymore. "Wyatt?" I whisper to the dark. "Are you awake?"

  "Do you need something?"

  "Answers," I say.

  "Answers?"

  "You told me I had to do what you said in front of the camera and in your bed."

  "And you did. You were great today."

  I frown. "Yeah, but I thought--" I cut myself off. What am I supposed to say? That I thought he was going to touch me? That I thought he was going to take me to bed? I did think all that, but I'm not sure I want to admit it out loud.

  Except I want to know.

  "I guess I thought you were going to touch me . . . more."

  "Did you?" His words are casual, but I think I hear a thread of heat under them.

  I consider turning on a light since I can't see his face, and on the one hand, that bothers me. But on the other, it gives me courage.

  "Yeah," I admit. "And don't tell me I had the wrong impression. That's what you said from the beginning. So why didn't you?"

  "A few reasons," he says. "For one, it was a dick move for me to insist on that in the first place. I was pissed at you, and it was stupid and manipulative. For that matter, it was probably a lawsuit waiting to happen."

  "I won't sue," I say dryly, earning a laugh.

  "Well, the biggest reason is that you didn't want me to."

  I sit up in bed. "Wait. What? I never said that."

  "You did," he insists. "In the car. You talked about what the women on my walls would want, and how you wanted to be like them. Well, tell me, Kelsey, would those women wait? I mean, if there was a man they wanted, would they hesitate at all?"

  I'm silent.

  "But I guess that's the real question," he continues. "Is there a man you want?"

  My heart jumps a little in my chest. And when I answer, it's a whisper. "Actually, there might be."

  "In that case," he says, "I think you should go after him."

  25

  I draw a deep breath, trying to quell my rising panic.

  Go after him? I've never gone after a man in my life. Going after men was definitely not on my father's approved activity list. And while I may have deviated far away from the ridiculous parameters he set for me, that doesn't change the very basic fact that I have absolutely no experience whatsoever.

  At the same time, I'm ninety-nine percent sure that Wyatt's a sure thing, and that knowledge does a lot for my courage. Couple that with the fact that my body still aches for a touch that never came, and it's easy to find the moxie to get out of the bed and go to where he's stretched out on the couch.

  It's dark, but I can make out the outline of his body under a thin blanket. His eyes are open, reflecting the tiny bit of light in the room. And I can see that he's amused.

  Immediately, I resolve to change that amusement to something quite different.

  "Hi," I say, then slowly pull back his blanket.

  "Hi, yourself," he says.

  I sit on the edge of the couch as I press a finger over his mouth, then trail it down over his chin, his neck, his collar bone. He's not wearing a shirt, and I trace my finger lower and lower, relishing the way the muscles in his abdomen tighten as I graze his skin. And then, just about the time I hit the band of his briefs, I pull my hand away.

  He makes a small noise of protest, which fuels my courage, and this time, I get on the couch and straddle him, my knees just above his hips so that I'm rubbing his cock every time I move.

  And moving is exactly what I intend to do.

  I move my hips back and forth, back and forth. I'm not wearing underwear, and my bare sex is rubbing the cotton of his briefs, and the friction is doing quite a number on me.

  But I'm getting myself off, and that's not what I want. So I shift again, this time leaning forward so that I can kiss my way up his body. And when I reach his ear, I whisper, "You said the women I admire go after what they want? That they demand it?"

  "Mmm."

  "Well, I know what I want, Wyatt."

  He'd closed his eyes, but he opens them now and looks at me with interest. "Do you?"

  "I want you to be in charge." He says nothing, so I rush on. "That's what excited me originally. When you sa
id that I had to do what you said in front of the camera and in your bed. What you said. So that's what I want. That's what I'm going after. A man who takes charge."

  I lick the edge of his ear, then whisper. "So tell me. Am I cheating?"

  He chuckles. "No. I don't think it's a cheat at all. Or if it is, it's a cheat I like." He props himself up on his elbows. "Stand up," he orders. "And take off your nightgown."

  I start to protest, then realize this is my doing, so I obey. I toss the gown over the arm of the couch and stand naked in front of him.

  He sits up, then crooks a finger so that I approach him. Then he slips his fingers between my legs and teases my clit until I'm certain that my legs are going to collapse.

  "Tell me what you want," he says.

  "You. I just want you."

  His dimple flashes as he smiles. "Good answer."

  He stands and strips off his briefs, then sits back down. "I'm going to fuck you, Kelsey. Because I've been thinking about it since you walked into my studio. I want to bury myself inside you. I want to feel you come, your muscles tightening around me. And then I want to hold you close as you fall asleep in my arms."

  I make a kind of whimpering noise, and he chuckles. "Do you want me to wear a condom? I'm clean--I've been tested--but it's up to you."

  I shake my head. "No. I want to feel you. And I'm on the pill. For cramps," I add.

  "Then straddle me."

  I do, and though it's still almost pitch dark, I can see the heat on his face as I look in his eyes. His cock is as hard as steel, and I rub against it, moaning a bit because that's ultimately unsatisfying--I want him inside me.

  He's teasing us both, I know, and I can tell when he can't take it anymore either. He reaches between us, puts the tip of his cock at my core, and tells me to lower myself.

  I comply, moving slowly and gently. But then he takes my hips and pushes me down even as he thrusts his hips up, so that he's deep inside me and I cry out in surprise at the pleasure of being so thoroughly filled.

  He cups my breasts, pulling me close so that he can tease my nipple with his tongue as he uses one hand on my hips to lift me up and down on his cock.

  It's as if I'm on sensory overload, and a wild pressure builds inside of me, higher and harder and fuller, until the pressure has no way to escape and it finally bursts out of me in a wash of sparks and colors.

  I collapse forward, clinging to him as he thrusts inside me again and again. Then I feel his body stiffen and hear his low, rough moan as he explodes inside me.

  "Oh, baby," he says as he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me.

  We sit like that for a bit, merely breathing, then he picks me up and carries me to the Murphy bed. He uses a tissue to clean me up, then slides in next to me, the cool sheets heaven against my warm body.

  He pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. Then he whispers, "I'm very glad you're doing the show, Kelsey Draper."

  And the last thing I think before I drift off is, Me, too.

  Wyatt may be happy with yesterday's shoot, but today is a billion percent better as far as I'm concerned. "You could have just told me," I complain while his hands ease slowly up my inner thighs, spreading my legs until I'm splayed across a straight back chair at exactly the angle he wants me.

  Wyatt only smiles. We both know he's right. I had to go after what I wanted.

  And what I wanted--what I want--is Wyatt.

  "Arms behind the chair," he orders, and I comply, grabbing my wrists behind the chair as I tilt my chin up and look to one side as he told me to earlier. My legs are so wide it's almost painful, and I'm completely naked.

  Completely. Freaking. Naked.

  Well, except for the extra long string of pearls that is wrapped twice around my neck to form a collar, then dangles down between my legs to pool on the wooden chair seat. The pearls provide absolutely zero in the way of modesty, but the feel of them against my skin is undeniably erotic.

  Wyatt circles me, examining me critically. "Perfect," he finally says, then lifts the camera and starts to shoot. "That's it. Now tilt your head and bite your lip--fuck, Kelsey. That's it. That one's going to be magic."

  His words caress me as intimately as a hand. And though somewhere in the back of my mind I hear my father telling me that I'm a nasty, dirty girl who's going to get what she deserves and bring doom down upon the planet, right now, all I feel is power and heat, passion and desire.

  The Kelsey who would have run screaming from this situation is nowhere to be seen. Instead, I'm reveling. My body hot, tingling. There's something so delicious about being seen through the camera. About knowing this moment--this passion--is captured on film.

  And, of course, about knowing that when Wyatt puts the camera down, he'll pull me into his arms.

  I feel brave and bold. More than that, I feel like I've finally grown up. That I've shed the fears of my childhood. And there's no way that I ever could have managed that if it weren't for Wyatt and the intimacy we shared last night.

  Wyatt.

  How the heck had I survived the last twelve years without him? This man who'd uncovered a part of me I'd buried so very long ago.

  "Beautiful," Wyatt murmurs, finally setting his camera on a nearby table.

  "So I can move now?"

  He flashes a wicked grin. "Not just yet," he says, then kneels in front of me.

  "Wyatt . . ."

  Now that he's no longer looking at me through a lens, I feel exposed and suddenly shy. Which, of course, is absolutely ridiculous.

  "Shhh," he says, then goes silent as he rests his hands on my thighs and kisses my inner thigh, right above my right knee.

  Then his lips travel higher and higher, and I'm holding my breath as his mouth closes over my sex--and also over the pearls. I feel his tongue tease my clit, and I also feel the movement of those pearls. It's strangely erotic, and even more so when he takes one hand off my knee, and then very gently eases part of the strand of pearls inside me.

  "Wyatt!" I gasp, but he only laughs, then lowers his mouth so that his tongue is teasing my clit as he slowly--torturously slowly--pulls out the string of pearls even as his finger slides inside me.

  The sensation is insane. Incredible, and I writhe against his finger hoping for more. Deeper, harder, I don't know. I just want what he is giving . . . only so, so much more.

  He's taken me right to the edge, and I can't wait to explode. I'm on the precipice, the verge--

  And then suddenly I'm not.

  I realize I've closed my eyes, and now they fly open again. "What--?"

  "No more pearls," he says, then steps back and stands up.

  "Wyatt," I protest. "I want more."

  "Good. I like you wanting."

  "Wyatt," I protest again, because he's made me completely crazy . . . and is tormenting me by not following through. "You are not a nice man."

  But he only smiles, a wicked gleam in his eye as he unties me. "Go change," he says after a moment. "It's already past noon. JP will be here soon."

  The problem with me being anonymous is, of course, keeping me anonymous. We decided that JP can be in the loop, because he really needs to be in the office so that he can work on prep for the show. Wyatt's promised that he'll set up the lighting himself, and that JP won't be in the room during a shoot--and for that matter, he won't see the images that show my face--but the secret is just too hard to keep.

  We also decided not to bother with makeup. Wyatt said he could add lip color in the lab or darkroom or whatever, and the rest of my face will be hidden. And the odds of finding a makeup artist on such short notice who'll sign a nondisclosure are slim.

  "Are we done in the studio? Or are you going to meet with him and then kick him upstairs?"

  "Actually, I was thinking that today we'd do some beach shots."

  Since I never turn down a walk on the beach, I agree eagerly, even though I'm a little nervous about how he intends to do show-worthy images on a public beach in the middle of the day.


  He has me put on a thin, white cotton sundress from his wardrobe closet, and then we walk the short distance to the Santa Monica Pier, where we grab ice cream cones, then stand at the rail looking north toward the Palisades. "I have a house there, you know."

  I glance sideways at him. "In the Pacific Palisades?"

  "Yup."

  "I thought you lived in Venice Beach."

  He nods. "I do. I rent the Palisades place to a family with kids. It's part of my trust, so I keep the income. But I prefer living by the beach."

  "And paying for it with your photography business," I say, remembering what he'd told me back in Santa Barbara.

  He meets my eyes. "You remembered."

  "Sure," I say softly. "I remember everything."

  He just looks at me. But the moment breaks when ice cream drips from my cone onto my hand, and I toss it into a nearby trashcan. I'm about to pull a tissue from my purse when Wyatt takes my hand, then slowly licks away the ice cream, sending wild shivers running all through my body. "Wyatt," I say, his name barely a breath.

  His lips curve in a hint of a smile. "I like the way you taste."

  My cheeks heat, and not from the beating sun. A moment passes, and I clear my throat. "I thought we were walking on the beach."

  "We are," he says, still holding my sticky hand. "Come on."

  We backtrack, then follow the path down to the parking lot and then onto the beach. I'm wearing sandals, and I take them off to walk in the surf, laughing when the waves crash higher than expected and dampen the hem of the dress.

  "Sorry about that," I say, even though I'm not really sorry. It feels wonderful to be walking in the waves.

  Wyatt's a few feet away, making sure his camera doesn't become the target of an angry sea. "Don't worry about it," he says. But a moment later, he says, "Actually, come this way."

  I'm not sure what he's thinking, but I follow him back towards the pier. The light is dappled under there, mostly shadows, with a few streaks of sunlight breaking through between the planks above.

  He points to a barnacle-covered post. "Stand there," he orders, then uses his hand to direct me to exactly the angle he wants so that one of those sunbeams illuminates my chest.

  "Nice," he says.

  "Is this just for you? Because it's not exactly erotic."

  "Are you kidding?" he says, as he comes over and unbuttons the top three buttons on the bodice. The dress has spaghetti straps, so I'm not wearing a bra, and the thin material rolls back, so that the curve of both breasts is exposed. "Remember, we're telling a story. And sensuality isn't always about sex. Besides," he adds with a devious grin. "I'm not finished staging you."