Dirty Shots Page 9

  “Anya, I’m going to come, should I ...”

  She seemed to know what he was going to say. “No, I want you inside me. I’m close now, keep going.”

  He reached beneath her body, his fingers finding the swollen nub of her clit, rubbing in the fast but gentle circles he knew she liked. The moment he made contact, her whole body tightened, and she pushed back on him harder, driving his cock deeper.

  He pounded into her, his balls slapping against her pussy as he thrust. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was hurting her, but even as her small cries turned to mewls of lust, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop even if she wanted him to. He’d never been this wound up sexually, as if the need to come had taken over his mind and body, and he’d have to come whatever else happened. His orgasm built, higher and higher, his balls tingling and hot.

  “Oh, fuck, Anya. I’m going to come.”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Even as she said the words, her whole body tightened. He felt the pulse of her pussy contracting in her back passage, too, thrumming against his cock.

  Eric shattered, his climax exploding through him. Her ass clamped around his cock as he came, spurting inside her in long, hot streams of cum.

  He pulled Anya up against him and lowered his forehead to her shoulder, holding her tight as the final spasms of orgasm released them from its hold. His legs were weak, his head spinning from the intensity of what he’d just experienced. Had he ever fucked a woman like that before? He felt as though he’d emptied his power and strength into her, as though he’d shared with her the essence of who he was. He’d never before experienced such connection and oneness with another human being.

  He grew soft and slipped from her body. Knowing they’d make a mess, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bathroom.

  She laughed, thumping his shoulder playfully. “Eric, I’m not a child.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I know you’re not, but I still want to take care of you.”

  He deposited her gently on her feet, and reached into the shower and turned it on full. He removed the small amount of clothing she was wearing and pulled her beneath the spray. He’d thought he’d be exhausted, but being with Anya had given him renewed strength. He stood behind her, her back and bottom pressed against his chest and groin as the hot water ran down their bodies. But his sexual desire had been sated for the moment, at least. With care, he soaped her body, cleaning her intimately, washing away the residues he’d left on her skin.

  “I only have men’s shampoo,” he said, holding up the bottle.

  She smiled. “That’s fine.”

  He tipped her head back slightly, the water running through her blonde locks, darkening the color. He squeezed some shampoo onto his hand and gently soaped her hair and rinsed it. She turned to him, taking the bottle to return the favor. Her small hands ran over him, stroking the soap over his body. This was different from the sexual frenzy they’d been in before. This was intimacy, the simple yet personal act of washing one another.

  They rinsed off and stepped out of the shower, wrapping themselves in thick, cream towels that were warming on the radiator. They hurried across the apartment, toward his bed, and climbed beneath the covers.

  Anya twisted in his arms to face him. “I never asked how your meeting went this morning.”

  “Well. It went well.”

  She laughed and playfully shoved his chest. “Come on. You can give me more than that. This friend of yours must have had something else to say.”

  “He thought the photographs were beautiful. He warned me that I may get some backlash from the press and the art world because of their nature.”

  “Because they’re so sexy, you mean.” She reached down and cupped his balls, but for once he didn’t respond to her.

  Why was he struggling to tell her? The nervous energy he’d put down to the anticipation of the change in his career grew stronger. Perhaps he misread his own emotions. Was he actually anxious over Anya’s reaction?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, removing her hand, worry tightening her lovely features.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes, there is.” She squeezed his hand in reassurance, and his unease deepened. “Come on. You can tell me. Did your friend not like them, really?”

  “No, he did.” If he was going to go through with the exhibition, he had to tell her. Letting her find out because she’d seen a poster at college or an article in a magazine would not do. It wouldn’t do at all. Still, he had to force the words from his mouth. “The friend I saw this morning is Logan Blanc, the owner of the Blanc Art Space.”

  She smiled and nodded encouragingly. “I know it.”

  “He loved the photographs so much he wants us to have an exhibition there. One night only.”

  She stiffened in his arms. “But I thought none of the photographs would be sold.”

  “They won’t be. This is purely an exhibition. People can look but not buy.”

  “And when is this exhibition happening?”

  He took a breath. “In ten days.”

  She pulled away from him, shock written on her expression, her blue eyes wide, her face pale. “What? Ten days from now?” Something fluttered over her expression and a hand went to her mouth. “No, it can’t be. My parents are in town that weekend.”

  “Can’t you put off seeing them for one night? I want you to be there.”

  “It’s not that! What if they want to see the exhibition? What if they recognize me?”

  “They won’t see the exhibition. I can make sure tickets are sold only to people in the art scene who we know.”

  “You don’t understand. My parents are Trent and Saara Bergman.”

  Eric felt as if she’d punched him in the gut. “The art critics?”

  She nodded. “They’re who I got my love of art from.”

  “But your name? Your surname isn’t Bergman?”

  “I use my mother’s maiden name of Rhinne. I didn’t want people at school to think I was getting a special deal because of who my parents are.”

  “Jesus.”

  Her eyes widened. “My father is Catholic. If he gets any hint of what I’ve been doing, he’ll probably disown me.”

  “Anya, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I didn’t want you to treat me different if you knew who my parents were.”

  “As if it would have made any difference!”

  “Wouldn’t it have? Really?”

  He dug deep, trying to figure out his own emotions. Would he have been as open with her if he’d known? He’d like to think he could have been, but doing such things to Trent and Saara Bergman’s daughter, knowing he’d want the art world to see the photographs eventually ... would he have truly expressed his art in the way he’d wanted? He’d have been editing himself, knowing whose daughter he was photographing so intimately.

  His chin dropped, his eyes closing briefly. “You should have told me,” he repeated.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I just wanted this so badly—wanted you so badly. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, and I hoped you wouldn’t need to find out.” She took a breath. “It’s the reason I told you I didn’t want to be paid. I thought as long as you didn’t have to see my real surname because you weren’t writing a check or transferring money into an account, then you would never even need to think about who I was.”

  He let this sink in. He felt as though he had the right to be angry—she had deliberately deceived him, but she was too important to him to lose over some stupid thing like a name. They needed to find their way past this.

  Eric moved back slightly in the bed, so he could look directly into her face. “You’re going to have to tell your parents.”

  Her eyes widened in fear. “No, I can’t do that! I told you, they will never speak to me again.”

  “Then you should have thought of that before!”

  “What about if you don’t use any of the pictures where y
ou can see who I am? And then I just won’t go to the exhibition.”

  “No, Anya. The photographs where we can see your face are the best images. Even Logan Blanc said so. He thought exactly what I did, about how you have this ethereal quality, while still looking so sexy.”

  She looked horrified, withdrawing farther from him. “No, you can’t!”

  “I have to use the photographs with your face in them, Anya. Can’t you see?” He reached out and touched her cheek, but she jerked away. “It’s your face that brings such an innocent quality to the photographs. Yes, they are erotic, but the photographs that show your face stand head and shoulders above the rest. You look like an angel.”

  She sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed so she sat perched on the edge. “So what are you saying? That you’re going to go through with the exhibition, no matter what I say?”

  “You must have realized other people would see the photographs, Anya.” He was starting to get angry now, his voice restrained but heated.

  “Yes, but I hadn’t realized it was all going to be quite so ... public.”

  “I’m a photographer, and photographers display their work. I promised you I wouldn’t sell the images, and I meant that. I have no intention of allowing your naked form to be hanging in some other man’s house for him to enjoy anytime he wants, but I do want my art to be appreciated.”

  She stared at him, angry tears beginning to well in her eyes. “But my parents? They don’t even believe in sex before marriage.”

  “What do you want me to do, Anya? Am I supposed to never show any of your pictures? Destroy them and hire a new model to do the work all over again?”

  Her face paled at the mention of a new model. “You would replace me?”

  His emotions were in a whirl. He was so confused right now. He was furious with her, yet he cared about her more than he wanted to admit. He hated how her innocent face was tightened to the point of looking as though she might shatter into a million pieces. He wanted to comfort her and tell her it would be all right, but at the same time a voice in his head yelled ‘all that work!’ If she wouldn’t allow him to show his photographs, then there was almost no point in all those hours he’d spent agonizing over them.

  Maybe this was his fault. He should have been more specific in the contract, made her understand that, though he had no intention of selling the work, so no one else would have her beautiful face or body hanging on their walls, he always intended for the work to be seen. Perhaps then the implication of who her parents were would have stood more soundly in her mind.

  What was the point in creating art if no one was allowed to admire its beauty?

  “What else am I supposed to do, Anya? Please, tell me. I don’t want to hire anyone else, but you can’t expect me to give up my work for you.”

  She stared at him, her lips pressed tight together, the tears in her eyes trembling. “Fine,” she finally managed. “Hire someone else. Fuck her, too, if that’s what you want. See if I care.”

  With that, she climbed from his bed, clutching the sheet to her chest, and ran from the room. She grabbed her discarded clothes as she went, pulling the items on. The buttons on her shirt had popped off when he’d torn the shirt from her body, so she had to clutch it together to cover her breasts. Without another word, she headed to his front door, not even looking at him, her face white with anger.

  He opened his mouth to call her back and then closed it again. What could he say? He lifted a hand, gripping it in his hair. “Fuck,” he hissed. Then louder, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  He didn’t want to lose her, but he was stuck.

  Did he have to choose between the work he loved and the woman he was quickly falling for?

  Chapter Twelve

  Anya

  Anya ran from Eric’s apartment, clutching her clothes around her, tears streaming down her face.

  How stupid she’d been. She didn’t know how she’d thought she’d get away with hiding who she really was from Eric. She’d just wanted to be with him so badly, she’d lied to herself as well, about the chances of him finding out the truth. She might have been able to hide the secret for longer had he not thrown the news of the exhibition at her, but the minute he’d told her about it, and she’d realized it was the same weekend her parents were in town, she’d had no choice but to come clean.

  She gave a choked sigh and shook her head. Of course her parents would have found out eventually anyway. Eric Rutherford was famous in the art world. This change of direction would be talked about in every circle, and her parents would be right at the helm of several of them.

  What had she thought would happen? That he’d fall in love with her so completely, he’d be too jealous of the idea of other men seeing the photographs that he’d never show them to another person? She’d been stupid and naive. He was Eric Rutherford, a man known to be obsessed with his art. What did she think was so special about her that he would give that up?

  Afternoon was fading to evening, and she couldn’t walk back to campus like this.

  She glanced behind her, hoping to see Eric coming after her, but the street was empty of anyone but strangers.

  He wasn’t coming, and she could only blame herself for that. She’d lied to him and put him in a terrible position. She didn’t deserve to have him chasing after her.

  Luckily, she’d managed to grab her purse on the way out, and she had just enough cash to be able to grab a cab. She looked a mess, with her makeup smeared from her tears and her clothes torn. Clutching her shirt together with one hand, she used the other to try to flag down any passing cabs. The first couple of vehicles drove right past, probably thinking she was trouble and wouldn’t have any money, but the third stopped.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” she said, pulling open the back door and sliding onto the seat.

  The driver looked back at her. “You’re not going to run on me, are you?”

  Anya delved into her purse and pulled out some cash. “No, I have money. I can pay in advance, if you need.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Where you headed?”

  She told him.

  The driver looked her up and down and frowned slightly. “You okay, miss?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You haven’t been attacked or something?”

  She gave a forced laugh. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I had a fight with my boyfriend. I’m fine, honestly.”

  “I’ve got a daughter not much younger than you. If she had a boyfriend who left her in the state you’re in right now, I’d be telling her to get rid of him, shortly before I paid him a visit myself.”

  “I’m fine, I promise. It isn’t how it looks.”

  The man gave a ‘humph,’ but turned back to the front and pulled the car back out into traffic.

  It did look bad, her with her torn shirt and tear-stained face. She thought her own father would act in a very similar way once he found out the news.

  After a drive across the city, the cab pulled up in the campus parking lot, and Anya paid the driver and climbed out. She needed to get to her room before anyone saw her, but now was the time when people were just starting to go out for the evening, not go home.

  Clutching her shirt even more tightly around her chest, and holding her purse against her torso to try to hide the gaps, she put her head down and walked as quickly as she could without breaking into a run, toward her dorm.

  “Hey, Anya!”

  Her heart dropped, but she didn’t lift her head at the call. She recognized the voice all too well. Of all the people to see her, it would have to be him.

  “Hey, don’t ignore me.” Gavin’s voice was closer now. She lifted her head slightly focusing on the building that housed her room. She just needed to get inside and then she could slam the door on him.

  “I’m being serious, Anya. Look at the fucking state of you. What are you up to these days? Are you hooking, or something?”

  The word shocked her into stillness and she twisted her fa
ce to him. “No, I am most certainly not! How dare you!”

  “Really?” A smug smile spread across his face. “I think I’m going to ask some questions around campus. I’m sure someone will know something.”

  Angry tears filled her eyes. If Gavin started spreading rumors that she was prostituting herself, her reputation would be ruined.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eric

  Though Eric had tried to stop himself going after her, he’d only managed a matter of ten minutes before he’d given in. He’d run out onto the street, but not seen her anywhere. He had a Lexus he rarely used, kept in the parking garage beneath his building, and so he took the car to try to catch up with her.

  He hoped Anya was all right. She’d been pretty upset when she’d left. He hoped she’d have money for a cab, and wouldn’t be attempting to walk home. It was already getting dark, and she shouldn’t be walking the streets when she was so upset, and with her clothes torn. She would be asking for trouble.

  Their fight had his stomach in knots. Could he have an exhibition without her blessing, or bring himself to cancel and keep his work to himself? Either option didn’t seem like an option at all.

  How was this going to be reconcilable? He felt mad at her for not telling him about her parents, but at the same time he was glad she hadn’t. If she’d told him, they would never have created the images they had, and he couldn’t go back on his work. Ever.

  But a voice in his head spoke up. Even if it means losing her?

  He sighed. That, he didn’t know.

  Something else occurred to him. Despite the heavy workout, the long walk, and then the fuck with Anya followed by their fight, he’d completely forgotten to eat. Shit. He’d not eaten all day. He had to be careful. It was too easy to slip back into bad habits, and forgetting to eat, sometimes for days at a time when he was working on an all encompassing project, was one of them.