Dirty Shots (10 page)

“That’s what I was aiming for.”

“The best pictures are the ones where you can see her face. She’s got a certain ... quality to her. Like she’s innocent, but knows something you don’t, all at the same time.”

Eric smiled. “I noticed that, too.”

He grinned and leaned forward. “So, who’s the girl?”

“Her name is Anya.”

“She’s pretty.”

“She’s more than that.”

“Are you screwing her?”

He exhaled. “Logan, you know I’m not like that.”

“Come on. Even a monk like you couldn’t keep your hands off a woman in those kinds of poses.”

“
She’s
not like that.”

He lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “No?”

“Okay, look, I didn’t start anything intentionally.”

Logan chuckled. “So you are screwing her.”

“It’s not just sex, Logan.”

His friend’s face darkened. “You’ve got feelings for her. Well, I can see why, but you know you need to be careful.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got things under control.”

“I just care about you, buddy. You know that.”

“I know, and I’m thankful. But anyway, you’re getting off the subject. This isn’t about my sex life. I want your opinion about the photographs.”

“They’re beautiful, and I think they’ll sell. There’s a market for this kind of stuff lately. It all seems to have come on trend.”

“I don’t want to sell them.”

His green gaze snapped up. “What? Why not?”

“I don’t want other people to own a part of her. I’m happy to exhibit, but nothing more.”

“If you run an exhibition where no one can buy, it could go one of two ways. People will be so desperate to see the work no one is allowed to own, it will be all over the media, and you’ll be offered disgustingly large sums of money just to see if you do have a price.” He exhaled. “Or else people will think you’ve lost the plot again, and come to see the pictures anyway.”

“I didn’t lose the plot,” Eric muttered, the turn of phrase jarring him.

“Sorry. But either way, the media will probably be involved. People will talk about the subject matter, and about you and your mental health. You understand, don’t you?”

“I want people to talk, Logan. Isn’t that part of the fun of creating art, to make people talk, to think about the pieces, to shock and inspire?”

“Well, you’re certainly going to do that.”

“So will you exhibit them for me?”

“An exhibition where there’s no profit margin?”

“Come on, Logan, you don’t need the money. If the media are going to be as involved as you think, you’ll make the money in infamy.”

He folded his arms across his chest and laughed. “True.”

“Plus, you can always sell tickets. I don’t want or need a cut.”

Logan shrugged. “Works well for me.”

“So when do you have an opening?”

He reached across the desk and turned on his computer. With a couple of clicks on the mouse, he pulled up a calendar. “I have a spot in ten days. It would be one night only. Can you be ready by then?”

Eric rubbed a hand across his mouth. The date was far sooner than he’d anticipated. “Got anything further in the future?”

“Sure. A lot further. If you don’t take that spot, the next opening is ...” He scrolled the calendar forward. “Five months from now.”

“Five months? Seriously?”

“What can I say? The gallery is busy.”

“Ten days,” he mused. “Will anyone be able to attend at such short notice?”

“They will when they know it’s you. If you want, I can get out the press releases on your behalf. I’ll make sure people are here.”

He felt like a snowball that had just been given a hefty shove off the top of a mountain. This thing was gathering momentum, a momentum he hadn’t quite been prepared for, and now he’d gotten things started, he wasn’t quite sure he could stop.

The words were out of his mouth before he allowed himself time to change his mind and go back on this whole thing.

“Okay, let’s do it. Nothing like a challenge to keep life interesting.”

“And I hope I’ll get to meet the lovely Anya at the opening.” He spoke with a twinkle in his eye.

“Of course, she’ll want to be there.”

But in the pit of his stomach, nerves roiled. He’d only mentioned to Anya that he would be showing her photographs to his friend, not that they’d be displayed for the world and media to see. She’d said she didn’t mind, and that he didn’t have to ask her permission—which he supposed he didn’t—yet something sat uneasy with him.

What would Anya’s reaction be when he told her.

––––––––

B
reaking his usual routine, Eric
headed to the gym. He needed somewhere he could think with a clear head. Somewhere he wouldn’t be surrounded with images and thoughts of Anya.

He hoped he was doing the right thing by exhibiting his work, and wasn’t about to commit professional suicide.

No,
he told himself,
plenty of photographers are held in high esteem with their erotic work.
There was no reason he couldn’t join their ranks. His problem only occurred because this kind of work simply wasn’t expected from Eric Rutherford. The art world expected introvert pieces, deep studies of the human soul, and, despite Eric believing what he and Anya created contained the same qualities, he knew it would take awhile for the critics to come up to speed.

The sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach didn’t go away at his own reassurances.

He paid enough money to have his own locker at the gym, and he kept a spare set of workout clothes in it, in case of times like these. Because most other people had started work by now, the place was relatively quiet, so he changed in peace.

Over the next hour, Eric worked hard, his feet pounding the treadmill on an incline until the sweat dampened his hair, dripped down his torso, and soaked into his shirt. Still, he found no release, nerves coiled tightly inside him. He moved on to the weights, pushing his muscles to the point of exhaustion, until they trembled and could lift no more. The anxious, nervous sensation inside him remained.

But he knew one thing that would fix it.

Eric wiped down the gym equipment and made his way to the men’s changing room. Quickly, he showered and changed, before plucking his cell phone from his jacket pocket. He hesitated, his phone in one hand. He didn’t want her to think he was just making a booty call. He wanted to talk to Anya about the exhibition anyway. She needed to know, and besides, he wanted her by his side. He could imagine her on the night of the opening, sophisticated and elegant as everyone around them admired her.

He had her number on speed dial, so hit the button before he could change his mind.

“Hi, Eric!” she answered, her voice bright. She sounded pleased to hear from him, and the fact she’d not asked who was calling meant she’d saved his number to her phone, something that, albeit absurdly, pleased him. “How are you?”

“I’m missing you. Are you free?”

He heard her breath hitch. “No, not right now. I’ve got class to go to, but I can come over right after.”

“How long?” He felt almost desperate in his need to see her, to feast on her like a fine meal, to savor her like an expensive wine.

“A couple of hours at most.”

“Okay, great.”

She hesitated. “Eric, I’m glad you phoned.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

He hung up and left the gym to begin the walk home. He’d rather walk than get a cab. He normally would anyway, but his motivation for doing so was different today. Walking minimized the time he’d spend in the apartment on his own. He knew what he would do as soon as he walked through the door—he would start to analyze and overanalyze every single photograph in his collection, trying to figure out which ones were good enough to been seen and scrutinized by the public eye. The art world could be a cruel scene, and if the critics didn’t like what he’d done, they would tear him apart like a pack of wolves over a hare.

The fact this work was erotic didn’t change anything. No matter how brilliant his work was, he always felt as though it wasn’t good enough. He’d study the photographs for hours at a time, scrutinizing every single aspect—depth, composition, light, did he get the position exactly right, could he have done something differently? In the past, he’d repeated photo shoots over and over, wanting to capture precisely the right atmosphere, but he couldn’t do that with Anya, could he? She said she knew who he was, but in truth she only knew the Eric portrayed by the media. She didn’t understand what it was like to be inside his head.

He took a longer route home, wanting to fill his time before Anya arrived. He eventually reached his apartment, his legs aching after his time in the gym and his long walk, the lean muscles straining and taut beneath his skin. He would fuck Anya and then coax her into his bath, hot water and bubbles hopefully easing both his mind and body.

Inside his apartment, Eric forced himself to stay away from both his camera and computer, busying himself by making fresh coffee and flicking through the morning’s mail.

The buzzer sounded, and his heart leapt. She was here. He buzzed her up and then went to his front door, opening it to wait for her. The doors to the elevator slid open, revealing her like some precious pearl inside a shell.

She walked toward him, a high flush in her creamy cheeks. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said, catching him out. She gave him a smile he couldn’t quite read, before brushing past him into the apartment.

He pushed the door shut behind her. “You do?”

“I hope you won’t be mad.”

“I couldn’t be mad with you.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “Are you sure about that?”

She crossed the room to his desk, bent over, and pulled her skirt up, revealing a tiny black thong. Something was nestled beneath the thin strip of lace, something silver and shiny. Something he recognized.

“Anya!”

She looked over her shoulder at him and wiggled her behind. “You’re not angry, are you? I mean, it’s not like I was stealing it. You said you’d never use the toys on another woman.”

“No, I ... I hadn’t even noticed it was missing.”

“I wanted to prepare for you.”

“For another shoot?”

“No, Eric. For you.”

“Oh ...” What she was saying finally sank in. He’d been too preoccupied with what was on his own mind. “Oh!”

“Why are you still standing there, staring at me? You’re starting to make me nervous.”

“’Cause I’m a fucking idiot.”

He stepped toward her, closing the gap. The gorgeous, creamy curves of her bottom and the smooth length of her thighs met his hands first. The heat of her skin against his palms released something that had been wound tightly inside him ever since first thing that morning. He felt himself relax. This was what he had wanted, to lose himself in her, like she was his addiction and sex was the drug. And it seemed she wanted exactly the same thing.

His cock throbbed, what had already been a semi swelling with blood, becoming hard and thick inside his pants. He stroked her skin, cupping the solid weight of her ass. With one thumb, he hooked the panties to one side while the other trailed down, over the head of the plug. She let out a little moan as he made contact with the toy, and she stepped her feet farther apart. The movement sent the scent of her arousal floating up to his nostrils. He could see the sheen of her cream on the inside of her thighs, the dampness of her panties.

“I want you inside me,” she said twisting her neck to look back at him again. “I want your cock in my ass.”

His breathing grew labored, his mouth dry. His fingers moved lower, dipping into the warm, wet heat of her pussy. He knew she was already aroused, but in order to take him the way she wanted, she would need to be as relaxed as possible. He was a lot bigger than either the plug or his fingers.

Eric pushed two fingers inside her pussy, and her breathing quickened. Her inner muscles clamped around his digits, hot and wet. In a sudden rush of necessity, she lifted herself slightly and shoved away everything on the desk below her—pens, paper, a stapler, and calculator, the items clattering to the floor—so she could bend over farther, her breasts pressing against the desktop, her bottom protruding even more.

He used his free hand to snap open his belt and yank down his zipper, freeing his cock. Closing his hand around his erection, he inhaled deeply as he squeezed himself and began to move his hand up and down the hard length. Anya was like sex personified, bent over his desk with the plug in her ass, creaming over his fingers. He was lucky he hadn’t come over her already.

“Eric, wait.” She turned her face to him, two bright spots of color high in her cheeks. He didn’t want to wait, but then she said, “I want to taste you.”

He slipped his fingers from her, allowing her to turn around. Her blue eyes burned into his, her lips pink and full, and she dropped to her knees in front of him, the desk at her back. She clasped his erection in her hand to steady it. Her lips opened, her tongue sneaking out to lap at the head, licking the drop of pre-cum, making him stiffen and moan.

Keeping her gaze locked on his, her lips opened and she enveloped the head of his cock into her wet, heated mouth. The inside of her mouth felt smooth as silk, the back of her throat like heaven.

“Oh, God. That feels so good.”

His hand found her head, his fingers lacing in her soft locks. His balls throbbed, heavy and tight. Her pretty lips created suction around his dick, her tongue licking and dancing along his length as she bobbed back and forth. But he didn’t want to come in her mouth, as much as he loved the idea of her swallowing his seed. No, she’d come here wanting something, and he intended to give it to her.

“Anya, you need to stop now. You’re going to make me come.”

She let his cock slide from her lips, giving one final lick to the tip which made him shiver with desire. She pushed her hair from her face and got to her feet. Stepping into him, her arms slipped around his neck, and she kissed him long and hard, their lips meshing. He tasted the salt of his pre-cum on her tongue. His cock was squeezed between their bodies, and Eric realized Anya was still wearing all of her clothes. That needed to change.