Dirty Shots Page 3

  Anya, Anya, Anya.

  Does she think of me? Was she spending her waking moments filled with a tantalizing energy at the memory of what they’d done and at the prospect of what would come next? Or did all thoughts of him and the camera vanish from her head the moment she walked out the door?

  Was this just another job to her?

  No, she’d not wanted to be paid. She came back here because she enjoyed the creation of their art.

  Just the thought of her made his whole body thrum with excitement. The image of her face occupied his every thought—the last thing in his mind when he fell asleep, the first thing when he woke. He wanted to submerge himself in her energy. She seemed to be his new fixation.

  No, he couldn’t allow himself to think that way. He’d suffered from obsessing over his work before, something that had taken him to the darkest point of his life. He’d conquered those problems a long time ago. And besides, this was different. It was her claiming his thoughts, not just his work, despite the two things going hand in hand.

  Eric stripped off his shorts, stepped into a steaming hot shower, and started to soap himself down. The four times weekly gym trips not only helped him to keep to a fixed routine, they also kept his body hard and lean.

  With the beautiful blonde on his mind, the water coursed down his body like a lover’s fingers. He reached out, placed his palms on the glass walls surrounding him, and hung his head, allowing the water to drum the back of his neck. Images of Anya, half naked and exposed for him, filled his head. Blood flowed to his cock, his balls tightening with a pleasurable ache. No. He tried to push the thought of her away. He couldn’t allow himself to go there. How would he look at her again without thinking about what his body wanted him to do to her? But it wasn’t working, his erection continuing to lengthen and grow.

  “Fuck, it,” he growled, grabbing his rock-hard dick in his soapy hand. As soon as he tightened his grip, his body sagged in relief. This was what he needed. He started to masturbate slowly, stroking the satin, soap-slicked skin with a firm hold, his eyes squeezed shut. In his head, he brought forth the memory of Anya’s beautiful pussy, her tight, wet slit. How would it feel to push himself inside her, to have her inner muscles hold him tight? He imagined sliding his cock in and out of her, fucking her harder, faster, while her glorious breasts bounced with his every movement and her face twisted in pleasure.

  He quickened his movements, his ass clenched tight, as his orgasm built. His mind switched from the thought of pounding Anya’s pussy to having her on her knees in front of him, taking his erection in her mouth, those wide blue eyes staring up at him in her mock innocence. He imagined winding his hands in the back of her hair, of forcing her deeper onto his dick, of fucking her face.

  He wanted her to do anything he told her, to accept anything he planned for her, and for her to want to do so willingly just to keep him happy. Would she ever do such a thing? Would they ever reach that point of complete mutual trust?

  With a groan, he exploded onto the glass, coating it with streams of milky cum. His body went weak as the throes of his orgasm shuddered through him.

  Eric took a deep, shaky breath, one arm still propped against the glass to hold himself up. Damn, the things that woman seemed to be able to do to him, even if it was all in his head.

  He needed to hustle or he was going to be late. Quickly, he rinsed himself off, toweling the water off his hard body and short, dark hair. He felt better, as though he’d finally released a dam that had been building for the last few days. He dressed in his usual black shirt and slacks, edgy without being gothic. He wanted the students to feel they could relate to him, hopefully look up to him, without seeming like he was trying too hard.

  Cutting it close, he took a cab downtown and made it on time. The dean was waiting for him and showed him into the lecture hall, where a laptop and projector had already been set up. All Eric needed to do was load his memory stick onto the computer.

  Students began to file in. Engrossed in getting the laptop set up, he barely glanced up.

  When the students finished entering, he straightened. He clapped his hands together and a hush fell over the small crowd.

  “Good morning, everyone. My name is Eric Rutherford and I’m a multi-published photographer and fine art artist. I’m here today to discuss the usage of hard and soft light in portrait photography. I’m happy to answer any burning questions as we go along, but, if you can wait, I will be taking questions at the end.”

  He began to run through his slides depicting some of his own work and explained the techniques he’d used to achieve them. The audience listened, seemingly rapt, even emitting a laugh when the things he said required such a response.

  “I have a question,” a voice shouted from the crowd.

  All heads turned. Eric’s eyes raked the students’ faces, trying to see who had spoken. But lights were on him on the stage, making them hard to distinguish. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, squinting.

  “Yes?”

  The voice ... so familiar. Then his eyes locked on her clear, blue gaze and his breath caught. What was she doing here?

  Anya leaned forward, her elbows rested on her knees. “If I wanted to create more, say, intimate, photographs, what sort of lighting would you recommend?”

  He fixed his eyes on her. “When you say intimate, are you talking about nudity?”

  “I mean like, erotic photo shoots.”

  A nervous, embarrassed titter rippled through the audience.

  He wouldn’t let her fluster him. “Well, that would completely depend on your surroundings. If you’re in a room where there is plenty of sunlight, for example, your need for other lighting might be limited. Perhaps you could see me afterward to discuss this further.”

  She sat back, a smile on her face.

  Trying to force her presence from his mind, he continued with the lecture. What was she doing here? Was she studying here? He wished he could ask someone, another student ... the dean, perhaps. But he didn’t want to appear as though he was showing too much interest in a student. Not that she was underage of course, or even that he was a full time lecturer here and it would be inappropriate, but he didn’t think it would look very professional.

  Eric remembered that morning in the shower and heat burned in his cheeks. That was hardly the most professional thing he’d ever done either, masturbating over one of his models. Would she see his guilt in his eyes?

  Finally, he finished up his lecture. “That’s it for today, folks. Thanks, everyone, for coming.”

  People began to stand and pour out through the double doors. His eyes darted over them, trying to spot Anya, but she was gone.

  She called me, he remembered. He’d still have that number on his phone.

  He scrolled through, locating the call and the number it had come from, and pressed ‘dial.’ But the phone went straight through to a standard voice mail, not even personalized with her own recording.

  “It’s me. What was that today?” He hesitated, not wanting to drill her with questions, terrified he might scare her off. “I hope I’m still seeing you later.”

  Then he hung up.

  Damn it. He wanted her to be submissive to him, yet she seemed to be the one playing him. She was the one in control.

  ***

  Back in his apartment, Eric waited for Anya with his nerves on edge. Not only did he have a hundred things he wanted to ask her, he also had something prepared which he hoped she’d want to do.

  She walked into his apartment and headed straight to his studio area, not mentioning what had happened earlier. He couldn’t let it go so easily.

  “What were you doing at the university today, Anya?”

  She turned to him with her innocent smile. “Perhaps I was following you.”

  “Really? How did you know where I’d be?”

  She shrugged. “I saw a poster in the hall. I’m a student at the college.”

  “Is that right?” He didn’t know whether to believe
her or not. She was such an enigma. He couldn’t tell when she was being serious.

  “Am I not allowed to speak to you outside of this apartment?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course you are.” She always managed to trip him up. “I just ...” ... want to know more about you.

  He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t allow her into his life as any more than a subject of his art.

  “Good.” She smiled. “So, what do you have planned for me today?”

  From his box of tricks, he lifted a length of hemp rope. Her eyes widened, but she nodded and began to undress.

  This was his time now. He would take control of her, harness her to his own will.

  He bound the rope around her body, first around the narrowest part of her waist, knotting it at her navel. Then he brought one end up, between her breasts and across, to loop over her shoulder and down her slender back, down to her waist. He repeated the motion with the other end of the rope, tying it tight so the ridges dug into her soft, delicate skin. The result was that the rope tightened around each breast individually, squeezing them toward him. Her nipples were rock-hard, crinkled peaks, and he longed to touch them, graze his palm across the hardened nubs. But he did not.

  “It’s not hurting you?” he asked.

  Her lips were slack, her breathing shallow, but she shook her head. “It’s fine.”

  He’d finally managed to affect her, he could tell.

  Eric stepped back and lifted his camera, moving around her to snap shots of her bound breasts, stomach, and shoulders. Already, he could see the red marks of the rope and the thought of removing the rope to photograph those marks made him dizzy with anticipation.

  But he wasn’t finished yet. He picked up another length. “Can you handle more?” he asked.

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Gently, he reached down and nudged her naked thighs apart. Again, he started with a loop around her waist, knotted, instead, at the base of her spine. This time he headed downward, pulling the rope between her thighs so it pressed between the crack of her bottom. He looped it back over the length of rope at her navel and pulled tight, the coarse rope pressing between the delicate lips of her pussy, right against her clitoris.

  Anya gasped and then exhaled a small, shuddery breath.

  “Is this okay?” he asked her again, not wanting to hurt her, but still wanting to take their art to the edge.

  She nodded frantically.

  Eric continued to wrap the rope around her body, framing her buttocks, encasing her thighs.

  “Lie back,” he instructed. “Spread your legs.”

  She did as she was told.

  Such perfect contrast, the coarse material against the delicate lips of her pussy. The contact against her clit sending the blood rushing to her most sensitive area. The inner lips almost purple with stimulation. He took a number of shots.

  “Turn over.”

  She rolled onto her stomach.

  “Lift your ass in the air.”

  Every movement would be creating more friction against her clit. He saw her arousal in the wetness on her pussy lips when she lifted her ass for him, heard it in the moan she tried to stifle against the wooden floor. The rope hid the perfect star of her anus and, for that he experienced a momentary dip of disappointment, though it didn’t last long. He knew what his next project would be—to capture her sweet little ass. Perhaps she would even allow him to penetrate her with something? He had a slim, silver butt plug that would look stunning as it slipped into that tight little hole, the light glinting off the metal.

  Oh, fuck. The idea caused more blood to rush to his cock, his balls tightening, his dick throbbing. Or perhaps his cock would look better in her ass, swelling the spot at her lower back as he held himself deep.

  He had to stop now.

  “Okay,” he forced himself to say. “I think we’ve done enough for today. You did beautifully.”

  She turned her head to look at him. “You’re not going to leave me like this?”

  How did she mean, still tied up or ultimately unsatisfied?

  “No, of course not.”

  He got to his knees beside her, carefully undoing the knots around her middle. With tenderness, he unraveled the rope, revealing the red marks he knew would be imprinted into her skin. The rope fell in a pile beside her and she rolled her shoulders, about to move.

  “Wait, just one minute.” He held a hand out, stilling her. “I can’t miss this.”

  Eric grabbed his camera again, taking shots of the imprints on her skin, her shoulders, hips, and thighs.

  She turned her face to him, her eyes locking with his. “Are we done?”

  “Yes.”

  The air between them buzzed with tension. He wanted to kiss her, to capture her pink, plump lips with his own, but he forced himself to step back, needing to keep control of himself. His life was about control, a strict regime which kept him on track. If he allowed himself to veer too far from it, he didn’t know if he’d find his way back again. Desperate to create perfection, he’d suffered from obsessive behavior about his work, something that had plunged him into a depression, feeling like he’d never be able to achieve what his heart and soul desired. He’d work every hour, trying to obtain that perfect image, neglecting sleep and food, running himself into the ground.

  Anya had the power to bring back his obsessive behavior, but she also held the promise of perfection he’d sought his whole life.

  Would she be his downfall, he wondered. Or his savior?

  Chapter Five

  Anya

  Anya emerged from the subway, squinting against the bright midday sunlight. She was meeting a family friend for lunch, and was already running late. Clutching her purse to her side, she hurried across the street to the café where she was supposed to be joining him.

  Justin was already waiting for her outside, and he bent and kissed her on the cheek. “Anya, looking more grown up than ever.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been a grown up for a few years now, Justin. Are you going to comment on how I’ve grown every time we see each other?”

  He grinned. “Absolutely. It’s the payoff I get from being your big brother’s best friend.”

  “So how long are you in New York for?”

  “Only two days.”

  She had the feeling the only reason Justin wanted to meet her was because her brother, or possibly father, had asked him to check up on her. She didn’t like the feeling that her family was making sure she was behaving herself, and resented Justin for acting like their spy. She’d tried to put him off, claiming she was busy, but she knew if she didn’t meet him it would only make her parents suspicious. They’d immediately think she’d become an alcoholic or a druggy overnight, or had had her face pierced or head-to-toe tattoos done. If she didn’t see Justin, they would end up thinking they needed to investigate themselves, and that was the last thing she wanted.

  “Look, Justin, I only have about a half hour, so I’ve only got time for coffee and a quick sandwich, okay?”

  He shrugged. “Fine with me. I just wanted to catch up and make sure you were safe all alone in this big old city.”

  Yep. Checking up on me.

  If only they knew the truth.

  The previous evening with Eric Rutherford had been like nothing she’d ever experienced before. How was it possible for a man to bind her up, naked, with rope, and not lay a single finger on her? She knew he was a professional, but apparently he also had the self-control of a monk. She’d been so turned on, practically panting and on the verge of orgasm, with the rope pressing against her clit, and he hadn’t so much as touched her.

  Perhaps he was gay, or was already in a relationship with someone he hadn’t mentioned.

  Or perhaps he simply didn’t find her attractive.

  Yet he’d told her he thought she was beautiful, and he certainly didn’t give the impression of being gay.

  They headed into the café and ordered. Anya ate quickly, answering all of Just
in’s questions with questions of her own. Luckily, Justin had always enjoyed talking about himself, so it was easy to get him rambling on about his own life. As soon as she’d wolfed down her sandwich and slurped her coffee, she signaled for the check.

  “I’ll get it,” he said. “My treat.”

  Yeah, right. I bet my parents have already paid. But she kept her mouth shut and thanked him instead. She wanted to get out of there so she could have the rest of the afternoon to get an essay finished in order to have time to go to Eric’s apartment later. Her mind kept going to the possibilities of what he would have waiting for her, and she had to hide the little thrill of excitement that raced through her at the thought.

  Justin paid and they left the café together. He held out his arm to her to slip her hand through. She’d known him almost her whole life, and thought of him more as an older brother than anything else, so to slip her arm though his felt natural.

  “Let me walk you back to campus,” he said.

  “No need. I’ll get the subway. It’s only across the street.”

  “Ah, okay. I’ll walk you to the subway, then.”

  Anya laughed. “All thirty steps.”

  Suddenly, her eyes clocked someone walking toward them and her heart leapt in her chest. She’d recognize his dark hair and long, determined stride anywhere. But the moment he noticed her, his stride faltered.

  Eric Rutherford.

  She remembered Justin at her side, and panic filled her. What could she say to him to stop him mentioning her modeling in front of Justin? Would Justin recognize Eric from the numerous interviews he gave, and question how Anya knew him?

  Justin must have noticed the change in her body language, in the slowing of her step and tension in her body, because he glanced down at her curiously and then back up to Eric.

  “Anya!” Eric said in surprise, coming to a halt in front of them, his gaze also darting between her and Justin, probably wondering who Justin was.

  “Oh, hello,” she said, flustered. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, thank you. I had a meeting a couple of blocks over.”

  Anya glanced at her brother’s friend and realized she wasn’t going to get away without introducing them. She just hoped Justin wouldn’t ask too many questions. “I’m sorry, Justin, this is Mr. Rutherford.” She thought of something and latched onto it. “He’s one of the lecturers at school.”