Inked in the Steel City Series (33 page)

She smiled, her eyes bright as she shot him a sideways glance. “Maybe a little.”

This had been his idea – for them to spend the night in the house he owned in North Side, in the Allegheny West neighborhood. In the morning, he’d drop her off at the airport.

“Wow, this place is gorgeous. I had no idea you owned a house like this, Jed.” She stepped out of the car and stood looking up at the Victorian brick structure, her lips slightly cracked.

“It’s only been mine for a few years. Inherited it from a great aunt.”

He hadn’t known what to do with it at first. The house was old – nineteenth century – but his great aunt had kept it in excellent repair. After her death, he’d carefully maintained the place, sometimes coming over on his days off to take care of routine maintenance and make any needed small repairs. He’d paid the taxes on it, too. But that was it. He’d inherited the place a year after Alice’s death, and the idea of moving in, of taking up residence alone in a big house she would’ve loved, had been incomprehensible then, with the loss so fresh.

He unlocked the front door and helped Karen carry her bags inside. “I thought you’d like it, after what you said about historical buildings that day in the studio when I caught you watching that ghost hunting show.”

She grinned. “You weren’t teasing me about this place being haunted, were you?”

His great aunt – who’d never balked at the notion of lingering spirits like he did – had said a few times that she thought there might be a spirit in the house. Harmless and only occasionally sensed, but there. He’d mentioned his aunt’s claim to Karen on a whim, teasing her, and had immediately feared that he’d hurt her. Mentioning ghost stories so soon after her grandmother’s death … he’d cringed as he’d waited for her reaction. He didn’t believe in that stuff, but for someone who did…

But she’d seemed interested, even delighted.

“My great aunt said she thought it might be. I’ve never seen anything. Don’t know if she ever did either, for that matter.”

“Well, you never know,” she said, walking a circuit of the foyer and drifting toward the living area. “Have you ever spent the night here?”

“Not since I was a kid.” He’d always returned to his apartment after spending time taking care of the house. He’d never had any desire to stay overnight before, but this – with Karen – seemed right. She was obviously getting a kick out of the historical house. It made him happy to see her so excited, running a hand reverently over a hand-carved bannister at the foot of the staircase, then inspecting an empty curio cabinet that stood in one corner of the living room.

“Are you ever going to move in?” she asked. “Or do you plan to sell it?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t feel right selling this place. My great aunt loved the house so much – I know she wanted it to stay in the family.” He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he believed in honoring the memories of the dead when possible. “At first I couldn’t imagine myself living here. But lately, I’ve been thinking the time may be right for a change.”

“This place is so much bigger than your apartment.” She tipped back her head, toward a high ceiling skirted by original crown molding.

He nodded, though it wasn’t like he needed the space. The move he was contemplating was more about moving on. No more stagnating in his apartment just because he’d once shared it with Alice. No more leaving her things on display, untouched. Those old habits couldn’t bring her back, so what was the point?

The apartment, the detritus of their long-vanished domestic life together … those things had rekindled his grief a dozen times a day, and in a way, keeping the fire alive had felt like loyalty. But deep down, he knew that was a lie, that it was exactly the opposite of what Alice would have wanted for him.

He gave Karen a tour, pointing out the house’s original features and supplementing the architectural facts with what scraps of the place’s history he could remember from his great aunt. Karen smiled and nodded and touched things carefully, like she was afraid she’d break something. Eventually he led her upstairs, to a hall lined with bedroom doors.

“I thought we could spend the night in this one,” he said, opening the door to the master bedroom. “It still has a bed, and I brought some clean sheets.”

Only some of his great aunt’s furniture was still present in the house. She’d given him her home, but had left some of the furniture to other relatives. What was left would do, for now – for the night.

They made the bed together, layering linens and a comforter he’d picked up the day before. When that was done he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down onto it, slipping a hand beneath her shirt and pushing it up, eventually pulling it over her head. After tossing her bra onto the hardwood floor, he cradled her breasts in his hands, squeezing as her nipples pricked against his palms, warm and hard.

He lowered his head, brushed the swell of one breast with his lips and closed his them around her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth as he pressed a hand to the small of her back, liking the feel of her arching into him, her spine bowing beneath his fingers. He teased the stiff tip of her breast with tongue and teeth until she was writhing against him, breathing hard.

Unzipping the fly of her jeans, he dipped his fingers into her panties and found her clit. He rubbed it, letting friction warm his fingertips, until she came, her ragged breaths rushing through his hair and sending a frisson down his spine. Straightening, he raised his head and allowed his gaze to linger on her face, memorizing the auburn spread of her lashes fanned against the soft skin beneath her eyes.

Moments later she was fumbling with his belt buckle, loosening his jeans and raking her fingertips over his chest, beneath his shirt. He let her struggle with his clothing for a few moments, her nails scraping over the surface of his skin and making it pebble. Then he helped her, stripping off his things before divesting her of her jeans and panties.

He was guiding his hard cock into her before he knew it, pressing the head against her wet skin and pushing past her folds, into heat and pressure. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him in and sighing when he sank all the way to the root of his dick, his hips flat against her body.

The bed was old but solid. It didn’t make a sound as he fucked her with deliberate force, liking the way she clung tighter to him with each stroke. There was only the sound of rustling sheets and her breath, rushing through her parted lips.

By the time she arched against the bed with an internal tremor, the sheets were as hot as their bodies, impervious to the room’s cool temperature. He drove her hard down into them, pushing her climax as far as he could. She was stronger than he’d realized – his ribs ached a little in the grip of her thighs, and the pressure there matched the ache in his balls, urging him to come inside her.

He held out until she relaxed beneath him, her body suddenly soft and recovering from a wrenching peak that had stolen her breath and weakened her muscles. And then he held out some more, not wanting it to be over. Taking it slow, he resolved to go softly until he felt her legs wrapped tightly around his waist again, or maybe her fingernails digging into his back. Then he’d give her a third orgasm, leave her breathless all over again.

He’d go until the lure of finishing was stronger than the appeal of making what they were doing last. Because this was the last time they’d sleep together before she left for New York, and he knew the opportunity she’d earned there would broaden her horizons, show her the world that was waiting outside of Pittsburgh for someone of her skill set and tenacity. And if that world snared her heart, he couldn’t hold her back.

He’d just learned to let lost love go. What if the experience had been training, a test? It had taken him five years to fully come to terms with the fact that Alice was gone, and he might lose Karen in the span of a few days.

* * * * *

Natasha moved with a practiced grace, all long, slender limbs and cascading white silk, exactly the kind of model Karen was used to seeing in Marc St. Pierre bridal catalogs. She wore a lace stole over her shoulders and held a bouquet of deep red roses and white lilies – the effect was striking, especially in contrast to her long sable hair, which had been carefully styled, but left unbound. The winter bride look was gorgeous, and it would appear in the catalogs a few months from now, photographed by Karen. She got crazy, happy butterflies in her stomach just thinking about it.                                                     

Still, as she captured a shot that highlighted the graceful curve of Natasha’s shoulder and showed off the back of the gown, she thought of Mina in her wedding dress – a real one, for a real bride. There had been a certain charm, a certain thrill found in taking those photos, knowing she was capturing a beautiful moment in a beautiful life.

As exciting as it was to photograph a real New York fashion model in a real designer dress, the elaborate set was just an imitation of real life, and Karen was aware of that – aware of the fact that her job was to make it all look like a glamourized version of reality to the brides who’d open the Marc St. Pierre winter lookbook.

After Karen finished photographing Natasha alone, a groom walked onto the set. He was classically handsome with neat, dark hair and a trim build showcased by a perfectly-tailored tuxedo. He posed with a natural grace too, and together, he and Natasha looked beautiful.

Photographing them wasn’t like photographing a real bride and groom, though. The photos were about showing off the clothing, not the couple or their love, which of course didn’t exist. Karen kept that in mind, capturing images that would display the beautiful wedding wear to full advantage. The models were just perfect – just conventional – enough that they’d fade into the background, living canvases for high-end style.

Karen couldn’t help but think of the people she photographed most often back in Pittsburgh – the friends, the Hot Ink clients and the real-life bride and grooms – so many of whom had turned their bodies into canvases for artwork by artists like Jed and Eric.

The Marc St. Pierre winter lookbook would be a one-time publication, the fashions within fleeting. Taking the photos was a killer career opportunity, but ultimately, the images would find their way into recycling bins and garbage cans. No one would cherish them forever.

The realization stood in contrast to the highly-personal nature of the portrait sessions she often conducted back home. But hey, at least no one was peeing in the corner of the studio. Photographing fashion models might not be as meaningful as photographing tattoos or real-life people celebrating real-life occasions, but it was a heck of a lot better than trying to capture decent images of a spastic greyhound.

There were even assistants – photographer’s assistants, wardrobe assistants, the list went on – ready to primp and perfect every last little detail. They worked attentively, leaving Karen to focus on what she loved – taking photos. It definitely wouldn’t be hard to get used to that.

* * * * *

Jed’s phone rang just as he was exiting his half-booth. He pulled the door shut behind himself as he motioned for Abby to shut off the shop’s ‘open’ sign. “Hey,” he said, a wave of heat and awareness sweeping over his skin as he braced himself for the sound of Karen’s voice.

“Hey,” she replied from the other end of the connection, her tone pleasant, upbeat.

“How’s New York?” She’d texted him a few times to let him know everything was going well, but this was the first time they’d spoken. It hadn’t been long – today was day two of a three day trip, but he’d been constantly aware of her absence.

“It’s great, Jed. The shoot today was amazing. I had assistants! Not that anybody peed on anything in the studio, but it was nice having them around anyway.”

“I bet.”

He could practically hear her grinning, and it made him smile too as he leaned against the wall. Abby kept glancing his way, looking quizzical, but there was no one else in the shop, so he made no effort to seek out privacy. “You ready to fly home tomorrow, or has the Big Apple won you over?”