Hard (12 page)

30

Holland

There’s nowhere for me to escape to tonight. Jensen isn’t budging from my bed, and I can’t muster the inclination to ask him to go. His fingertips move up and down my bare back in the softest of touches.

“Talk to me about something,” I say, closing my eyes and snuggling into my pillow.

“Like what?” he asks, his voice low and smooth like melted honey.

I give a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know. Anything. I just want to hear your voice.”

He’s quiet for several seconds so I begrudgingly open one eye to find him watching me. I groan, placing my hand over my face. He tugs on my arm, not allowing me to hide.

“You’re beautiful, baby. Don’t cover it.”

I growl, but keep my hand tucked in his. “Talk.”

“Give me a subject.”

“Work,” I say. “Have you done any new shoots?”

“Um,” he says slowly. I don’t know why, but my shoulders stiffen with his lack of confirmation. Or maybe it’s his lack of denial. “Would it bother you if I had?”

Would it bother me? I don’t know. If it did, it would be the first thing I cared about in a long time. “It’s your job,” I say simply, throwing back another uncommitted answer.

“Yes,” he admits. “I’ve done several shoots. Because it’s my job. But I haven’t slept with any of the models. I haven’t slept with anyone but you. Not since our first time together.”

My heart pounds a little harder, a little faster. I don’t know what to say. What to feel. There’s this strange flutter in the pit of my stomach. I clamp down on it immediately because I know exactly what it is.

Happiness.

Fucking happiness
.

“What about you?” Jensen asks casually. “Have you been with anybody? Other than me?”

“Would it bother you if I had?” I give as good as I received.

His expression goes from indifferent to pained in the blink of an eye. “Yes.”

My lips part, like my mouth wants to say something, but my mind hasn’t caught up yet.

“I didn’t think it would, but just now, thinking about it, imagining another man putting his hands on you, seeing the faces you make, hearing your sounds of pleasure—it makes me sick. I really hope there isn’t anybody else, because I think I might fucking hurt him if there is.”

Nothing is funny about this situation, but I smile. I can’t even help it. “There’s no one else. Just you. You’re the only one I’ve been with since my husband.”

A shiver runs through me as I realize what I just said. And the only reason it occurs to me is because Jensen’s gone completely still next to me. His hand frozen on my back.

“Your ex-husband?” he clarifies.

I wiggle the fingers on my left hand, showing him I don’t have a ring. I don’t even have that tan line most married couples get. I guess I wasn’t married long enough. But none of this means I’m not technically still Mrs. Darren Howard on paper.

“Legally?”

Jensen sits up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “You’re married? You have a husband. And you’re just now telling me this?”

“Would you rather I lied?”

“No,” he growls. “I would rather you have told me sooner.”

I give him an incredulous look. “Are you saying it would have mattered to you that very first night?”

He grinds his teeth, contemplating. Finally he releases a heavy sigh. “No. Nothing short of you saying no would have stopped me that night. Or any other fucking night. I just don’t like not knowing shit.”

“You mean not
controlling
shit?”

“YES.”

I press my lips together hard, holding in a laugh. He’s ridiculously adorable when he’s pissed off, even when it’s unfounded.

“We’ve never really talked about our personal lives,” I remind him. “And Darren—”

“That’s his name?”

I nod tightly, swallowing with difficulty. “He’s insignificant. Just a piece of my past.”

“No,” Jensen corrects. “He’s part of your everyday life until you’re officially free of him.”

“No, he’s not.” I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to talk about him or think about him. I wish I could go back five minutes ago and erase that I ever mentioned him.

I wrap my hands around Jensen’s torso and guide him back into bed. He wouldn’t allow me to do it if he didn’t want me to, so I take that as a good sign. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat in a steady rhythm.

His hand goes back to caressing my back and I let my eyes close, hoping this is the end of the discussion.

Jensen’s breaths grow slower and deeper and I let myself relax. Only on the outside though. Inside, I’m wired. Thoughts and memories swirling endlessly around in my head.

I hate thinking about Darren because my mind automatically flips to Caleb. And thinking of him just hurts too badly.

Darren once told me he wished Caleb was never born, because if he was never born, then we never would have known what we were missing. At the time, I thought it was the cruelest thing he could ever say. But I know now he was just trying to make sense of it all. Grasping at anything.

I would never trade my time with Caleb, even if it would save me all this heartache. Every moment I had with him is treasured. But I get what Darren meant. I also know he was wrong.

I think it is entirely possible to miss someone you never knew. You just don’t understand what that feeling is until you find them.

31

Jensen

I pause, looking at Holland’s face through the camera on my phone. It’s an obsession, plain and simple, and I cannot fight who I am. Not that I want to.

Her eyes are closed, her lips relaxed and slightly parted in sleep. Dreams are peaceful tonight.

Lowering my phone, I take two steps forward, bringing me within reaching distance. I don’t touch her. Not skin to skin. Not in the way I want to. But I stroke every inch of her with my eyes.

The moonlight, shining through the one small window, blue and white and light and bright all at once on her unclothed body is hypnotic. My gaze lingers on the smooth slope of her back. The skin is a shade lighter here. I don’t know that anybody else would be as taken by such a small difference. That anyone other than me would find so much beauty in something so inconsequential. I don’t think they’d even notice. But I notice. Because it isn’t inconsequential at all. It’s the most important thing in the world to me.

I allow my gaze to move, just a bit, following the curvature of her hips, down to the arch of her ass. Here, the skin is several shades lighter. Like ivory and porcelain and I cannot look away. There’s something so pure and untouched about the softness of her flesh, though I know that’s not the case. My fingers and lips have memorized her almost as well as my eyes.

My eyes
.

How can two small orbs bring so much pleasure and cause so much pain?

The shadows linger at the edge of my vision and I’m finally forced to look away from the beauty on the bed.

My fingers grip the cell phone in my hand too tightly as I set it on the shelf. I snap my eyelids shut and let darkness take my sight. Here, I picture the way my fingertips look caressing gently over her skin. I imagine the way it feels, not just where I connect with her, but inside. In my chest. Could she save me? Could she be the peace I’ve been searching for?

I turn to her, opening my eyes and letting them fall once again on her face. My stomach muscles tighten when I find her looking back at me. She hasn’t moved, still lying on her bare stomach, arms beneath her head, rosy cheek resting on the back of one delicate hand. Her hair is splayed, long and flaming, across her pillow.

She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. But there is communication. There is a whole conversation in the way we watch one another.

I’m jealous of the moonlight. Of the way it kisses her body and holds her tight. Of the way it embraces every piece of her that it possibly can. The way it sees her in ways I cannot.

I’m going to miss this most, seeing her in the low light of night.

I should pick my phone back up. I should take another picture.

Yet I can’t stop myself from going to her. Can’t find the desire to make myself stop. To quit this woman. The urge to touch is greater than it’s ever been. To hold and to consume.

I always expected I’d be alone in darkness. I never dreamt I’d find light near the end. It hurts to hope. It hurts to care. To want. To need. I shouldn’t feel this way.
I can’t
.

I blame it on the moonlight.

*

I wake, tangled in arms and legs and a mass of dark red hair, and for the first time since I was twelve years old, I feel—
serene
.

It terrifies the ever-loving shit out of me. And I like that too. I like being scared of something different for a change. I’m selfish and wrong, but I take a deep breath, inhaling Holland into my lungs, and close my eyes, relaxing into the tranquility her presence brings. Like this, I can almost fool myself into believing my final outcome is not inevitable.

“Good morning,” she husks, her voice muffled against my chest.

“Morning.”

“I want ice cream.”

A surprised laugh bursts through my lips, causing Holland’s head to bounce up and down with my quick release of breath. “Ice cream? For breakfast.”

She pushes her hair out of her face—it takes three sweeps before I can see her eyes. “Why not? It’s one of the perks of being an adult. You can eat ridiculous things for breakfast and nobody can stop you.” She smiles—
really
smiles. Hair in knotted disarray, cheeks pink from sleep, eyes wide and bright with mischief, and she’s stealing my breath.

The grin on my face fades as I cup her jaw in my hands, pulling her mouth close to mine. “You’re so incredibly beautiful when you smile.” I kiss her, hard, showing her how stunning I think she is.

Her face is even rosier when I release her. I watch her unravel herself from the blankets and stumble from the bed unclothed and sexy as fuck. She pads to the fridge, pulling a half gallon of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer, and two bowls and spoons from the dish drainer on the counter, before hurrying back to jump up beside me.

She makes quick work, scooping out large spoonfuls into each bowl and offering one to me.

“You never did tell me who you sell your photos to,” Holland says between bites. She’s sitting with her back pressed into the wall, her feet crossed underneath her. “The erotic ones,” she adds.

I spin my spoon, swirling it through my frozen breakfast. “Collectors mostly.” With one hand cradling my bowl, I stretch her bare legs out, skimming my fingers over the smooth skin.

She arches a brow. “People collect nude pictures of women?”

I pause, my hands now resting on her knees. “Yes. A lot of people. And before you ask, no, they are not all men. In fact, I’ve sold quite a lot to women over the years.”

“Do you do art shows?”

I nod, squeezing the space between her knee and thigh. “I did. When I lived in New York, I showed my work monthly in a gallery. Most of my sales are online now.”

“You lived in New York?” she verifies curiously.

“For a while,” I supply. I don’t offer more and though her eyes move over me inquisitively, she doesn’t push for more details. I sweep my hands upward, moving closer and closer to the place I want to be.

“Did you sleep with all of your models?” she asks, licking the remnants of chocolate from the back of her spoon. Goddamn, that gives me all sorts of ideas. “Not the ones since you—you and I—” she stutters. “Since we’ve been…since we met. But before.”

“No,” I reply slowly. “Not all of them.” As soon as the silverware leaves her mouth, I press my lips to hers. Her tongue is cold and sweet when it slides over mine. I’m ready to stop talking now, but Holland, who never seems to have much to say is obviously feeling chatty this morning. She pulls back, her hand skimming along my bicep.

“I saw your wall. There were a lot of different models.”

“Yes?” I sit back on my heels, waiting, wondering where she’s going with this. I’m so damn hard, my balls are starting to hurt.

“So how many is
not all of them
?”

I cock my head to the side, trying to read her expression. “Why?”

Her tongue slips over the spoon again and the head of my cock begins to tingle.

“You can be honest. You won’t hurt my feelings. I barely have any.”

I’m not sure which one of those sentences to respond to first. I’d rather pretend I didn’t hear any of them and just bend her over her bed.

“I’ve fucked a lot of women in the last fifteen years. Some were women who did modeling work for me. Some were women I met in bondage clubs.” My voice is rising with each sentence and I can’t seem to control it.

“There were girls when I was in high school. Even more in college. A few I picked up at a bar or the grocery store or the fucking library. I don’t know why you want to know this all of a sudden. None of them meant anything. I didn’t
marry
any of them.”

Holland’s eyebrows rise as she slips the spoon between her lips and I sigh harshly.

“Happy?”

Her eyes narrow, just one brow arched now, but she doesn’t respond.

“The number doesn’t fucking matter,” I say, my voice low and gravelly now. “None of them affected me in any way. Not a single one of them have ever gotten under my skin and into my bones in the way you have.” I pick my spoon up, my ice cream now more liquid than solid. “This conversation is over and I wouldn’t mind if we never discussed it again. Now, I’m going to enjoy my breakfast.”

I turn the spoon over, letting the cool, chocolate drizzle over her thigh. Her leg spasms, her lip catching between her teeth as she watches me dip down and sweep my tongue over her skin. It’s sweet as fuck.

“I just wanted to know if you slept with any of the women who look like me,” Holland whispers as her body trembles.

I take her nearly empty bowl out of her hand, setting it on the floor beside the bed, and pull her until she’s lying flat on her back. I spread her legs wide, settling myself in the middle.

“No,” I say adamantly. “They were never good enough. They weren’t you.” With my spoon reloaded, I tip it, letting it dribble on her lower belly, moving downward slowly until it drips over her pussy.

“You know, most women would have cared about the number,” I add.

She gives a little one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not like most women.”

My eyes meet hers as I begin to lap at her flesh. “No,” I breathe against her in agreement, “you’re not.”

With that settled, I spend the rest of the morning eating my melted ice cream in every erotic way I can come up with.