Photo Play (7 page)

“It’s time.” His eyes burned her like blue flames. “I’m going to watch you make yourself come.”

Darla should have known she wouldn’t get out of that one. Earlier today, Kon had called her repressed, but that was before the most unforgettable afternoon of her life. Only moments ago, he’d marveled at her responsiveness.
Deliciously responsive
—that was how he’d put it. A deliciously responsive woman didn’t balk at pleasuring herself under her lover’s hot gaze.

Particularly when said lover was still pumping his hips, skewering her asshole with that sublime cock of his. The column rocked under the assault of their rutting bodies. It was a bit late in the day to turn prissy. Plus, her clitoris throbbed like a little heart, demanding attention.

Darla touched two fingers to Kon’s mouth, wordlessly demanding entrance. The feel of his lithe tongue almost sent her over the edge as she thrust them in time to his pistoning cock. Finally she withdrew them and homed in on the ultrasensitive bud between her legs.

Her eyes slitted as she caressed herself. She felt her nostrils flare, felt her legs stiffen, felt the tension build in her body.

“Put them in,” Kon demanded, and watched as she burrowed her fingers into her hungry pussy. She thumbed her clitoris, and the air escaped her lungs in a raw, ragged groan. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this way, fully surrendered and at the same time fully liberated.

“Come,” Kon growled. Hot color flooded his face. The tendons stood out in his neck. “Come for me, Darla.
Now.
”

Darla screamed as she found the edge and tipped herself over it. Kon’s cock seemed to swell to gigantic proportions as her body contracted around it in wave after wave of ecstasy.

His fingers gripped her ass hard. He threw back his head and growled, letting himself go at last. He bucked hard against her, jetting his come deep within, prolonging her orgasm as he tumbled into his own.

Four weeks after Darla walked out of Konrad Drummond’s photography studio, an email appeared on her computer screen. “Where do you want the pictures sent?” There was no signoff, unless you counted the automatic “signature” Kon’s email program appended to every note, containing contact information for his business.

He had her home address—she’d provided it back when she’d arranged for the photo session—so she could only assume he was concerned for her privacy. It wouldn’t do for her fiancé to intercept the fruit of Kon’s artistic labor, after all. As far as he knew, she and Brian could be living together. How downright gallant of him.

Darla ignored the note. The last thing she wanted was the photos he’d taken of her, tangible evidence that that afternoon really happened.

We won’t see each other again.

He’d said it matter-of-factly, not unkindly. Still, it had been like a kick to the stomach. She’d just finished pulling on her clothes, or almost. Kon stood before her, fully dressed himself, buttoning her blouse. She tried to search his eyes, but he stared at the buttons as he spoke.

“It’s just the way it has to be,” he added.

Darla swallowed hard. Okay, she hadn’t expected a declaration of love, the whole hearts-and-flowers routine, but still...

“What, no round two? Ever?” She hoped her smile looked worldly—good luck with that. “I mean, I get what this is about, Kon. It’s about sex, not... not anything else. I know you think I’m naïve, but come on.”

Kon placed his hands on her shoulders, his gaze focused on something behind her. His smile looked as weak as hers felt. “You want to hear me say it’s me, not you? Okay, it’s me. I don’t do repeat performances. Not anymore.”

Not since the three ex-wives, he meant. Did he really think anything beyond a one-night stand would lead to monthly alimony checks for life? Or was it indeed her, despite the rote reassurance? Darla’s money was on that second thing.

Well, she wasn’t about to beg. He’d given her the most remarkable afternoon of her life. She’d have to content herself with that.

“Go home to Mr. Right,” Kon had said. “Forget this happened.” He’d given her shoulders a little squeeze. She’d recognized it for the dismissive gesture it was and picked up her purse and tote bag.

Now, a month later, her finger hovered over the “delete” button. But not for long. “Good-bye, Kon.” The email blinked into nothingness.

Five days later she returned home from the gym to find a message on her voice mail. He didn’t identify himself—another bow to privacy—but of course, he didn’t have to. She’d never forget that deep, seductive voice. “This message is for Ms. Carmody. Your order is ready to be picked up.”

She blinked. Picked up? As in seeing him face-to-face? He’d sent three emails, each one more insistent than the last—and none of which she’d answered.
Go home to Mr. Right
, he’d told her.
Forget this happened.
How could she hope to forget about their magical afternoon if it was immortalized in a stack of glossy eight-by-tens stuffed in the back of a closet or hidden in her underwear drawer?

For that matter, how could she hope to forget about their illicit afternoon when it scrolled through her mind like an XXX-rated video every time her head hit the pillow? Inevitably her hand would slide down to her famished pussy, buzzing with desire. The fingers of her other hand would pinch her nipples as she remembered the heavenly contrast of cold brass and a molten tongue.

Now here he was, suggesting she pick up the photos in person. A slip of the tongue?

She listened to him rattle off his phone number, then played the message again. He sounded a bit stiff, as if he’d rehearsed what he’d say if she didn’t answer the phone. But there was something else...

She hit “play” one more time. It wasn’t her imagination. He was nervous. She’d made Konrad Drummond nervous!

How the heck had she accomplished that one?

Darla thought back to that day. She thought about how, after a certain point, Kon no longer wanted to know her fiancé’s name. How he refused to look her in the eye while giving her the brush-off. He was bored, she’d thought. He’d had his jollies and was now faced with the tedious task of ejecting the plaything
du jour
from his life.

Or...

She looked at the answering machine. She thought about those persistent emails.

Or he was conflicted because she’d gotten under his skin. Not too long ago she’d considered that possibility absurd. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Darla gave herself a mental shake.
You’re dreaming, girl.
She was reading far too much into far too little. No amount of wishing was going to make a man like Konrad Drummond fall for her.

She decided to screen her incoming calls, half expecting him to try her again, which he did later that evening. And every day for the next week. And three times a day on the weekend. Each time she spied his name on her phone’s screen and let it go to voice mail, he seemed wound a bit tighter.

“... I’m happy to drop off your order if you’d prefer. This is the only number we have on file for you, so, uh, please call at your earliest convenience. Our number again is...”

If all Kon wanted was to deliver the photos in a discreet manner, he’d have found a way to do so by now. Sooner or later he was going to get her on the phone. Then what?

Darla would be lying if she said she never wanted to see him again. And she’d wasted too much time lying to herself—most notably by becoming engaged to a man she didn’t really love. The time for self-delusion was past. She and Kon had shared more than their bodies during that amazing afternoon, and after listening to all his stilted phone messages, she knew he felt it, too. Only problem was, he didn’t want to.

Well, that was just too damn bad. Whether the man was self-delusional himself or simply stubborn, she didn’t know or care. Life was too short, and Darla Carmody had decided she deserved a man who was incredible in the sack
and
honest about his feelings for her.

The next time he called, she surprised him by picking up the phone. “Hello, Kon.”

“Darla! Hey, you’re a hard girl to get hold of.”

“Not really. I’ve been dodging your calls.”

He rewarded her honesty with an irritated exhalation. “I have your photos.”

“Fuck the photos. What do you really want?”

A pause, then... “You mean do I want to fuck you again?”

Her tone was impatient. “Of course you want to fuck me again, Kon, and I want to fuck you. That’s not the issue.”

“You only want to fuck?” He sounded smugly amused. “What, you’ve had enough of ropes and nipple clamps?”

“Actually, I don’t think I could ever get enough of ropes and nipple clamps, now that I’ve experienced them,” she said. “It was a major turn-on, being dominated like that. You know what else was a turn-on? Sucking your big, luscious cock. And coming with your big, luscious cock in my ass. Oh, and being spanked. I’d definitely love to do that one again. And a thousand other nasty things. The question is, am I going to try them with you or with someone else?”

Kon choked out a startled chuckle. “I assume you’re home alone right now and Mr. Right isn’t sitting there listening to all this big-luscious-cock talk?”

“Brian’s out of the picture. I called off the wedding the day after I met you.”

“You’re kidding.”

She said, “Being with you helped me realize how dishonest I was being with myself. I’d like to return the favor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you felt something more than hormones when we were together. So did I.”

He was quiet a moment. “Listen, I told you when you left—”

“Yeah, I know what you told me. It’s bullshit,” she snapped. “I know it, and I’m hoping either you know it or you’re capable of figuring it out.”

His sigh sounded exasperated. “You said it yourself—it’s just about sex. Remember? You claimed not to be naïve.”

“It was what I thought you wanted to hear,” she admitted. “You were telling me we’d never see each other again.”

“Why does everything have to be romanticized? Okay, so I changed my mind. I do want to fuck you again. You want nasty? Glad to hear it. My big, luscious cock is yours to use and abuse. Just park the romantic shit at the door.”

“Sorry, I’ll take a pass.”

It wasn’t what he’d expected. She could hear it in the dead air. “Suit yourself,” he said, right before he broke the connection.

The phone calls stopped. Darla told herself it was for the best. How long could she have maintained a physical relationship with Kon while denying her true feelings? As much as her body craved him, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—backslide into self-delusion.

On a rainy evening a week and a half later, Darla received a package by same-day courier, a small padded envelope with no return address. She turned it over it in her hand and felt her pulse stumble. It was from him. Somehow she knew it was from him.

The envelope was too small for photographs—unless he’d transferred them to a flash drive. She shook it. Something rattled inside. She tore the envelope open and spilled the contents on her kitchen table.

A single earring. Clip style, with a hammered brass disk and strings of beads. Just seeing it brought that afternoon rushing back, all the mind-blowing details she’d tried, and failed, to exorcise from her memory. Damn him for doing this to her, the manipulative son of a bitch.

Something was clamped in the little brass jaw—a sheet of glossy paper folded into quarters. What kind of note had he written that couldn’t have been sent more easily and cheaply by email? She freed the paper and unfolded it.

And screamed. Her Chihuahua, Monster, leapt off a chair and escaped to his little doggie bed in the corner.

“That prick!”

The paper was a flyer advertising a photographic exhibit titled “D. Bound”. It was illustrated with a full-color photo of herself, nude, tied to the fake Corinthian column in Kon’s studio. The view was from above, so it had been taken when Kon stepped up on the ladder. The snug ropes around her waist dug into her soft, pale skin. Her arms were drawn tightly back. Her breasts jutted as if in offering, the tip of each adorned with a gleaming brass ornament from which dangled several strands of beads. One knee was bent, the sole of the foot pressed to the column. Her hairless slit was clearly visible, the labia moist and swollen with desire.

“No, no, no, no, no...” she groaned.

During the photo session, Darla had been oblivious to the technical and artistic decisions Kon made. Now she saw how masterfully he’d handled the composition and lighting. Her body was a sensual landscape of light and shadow, every dip and curve rendered in sharp relief. Her chestnut hair gleamed, and the earrings sparked with light, drawing the eye.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God—” She scanned the writing on the flyer, looking for the where and when of this exhibit, of which she was obviously the sole subject. She screamed again, a full-throated banshee howl. Monster dashed from the room, his nails clacking like castanets on the tile floor.

Darla glanced at the clock on the sideboard. “I’ll kill the arrogant SOB!” She snatched up her purse and keys as she ran to the door. “He can’t do this to me.”