Page 9 of Dirty Shots

Anya set about picking up her discarded clothing and redressing. His heart sank at the sight of her covering her flawless, porcelain skin, the dark buds of her nipples, the narrow inward curve of her waist.

He longed to ask her out to dinner, or at least offer her a glass of wine. He wanted to know her, know all about her, even though he felt like in a way he already did. Her lack of inhibitions, her playfulness, her way of being completely direct, all of those qualities enthralled him, and he wanted more. He wanted to find out what foods she liked and disliked, what music she listened to in her apartment, who she went home to after she left here. But that wasn’t the reason for her being here; that wasn’t what he’d offered her at the start. This was supposed to be a professional relationship, and him doing any of those things would breach the line of what made them purely artistic comrades and become something more—if not lovers, then at least friends. If he did such a thing, would he be able to photograph her impartially? Hell, would she even say yes?

Oblivious to his thoughts, Anya reclaimed her purse and headed to the door.

Don’t leave,he inwardly begged.

But he couldn’t give voice to his thoughts. To do so would be breaking the boundaries he’d so rigidly set for himself.

“Same time tomorrow?” he managed to croak.

She swung her head around, her blonde hair moving in a sheet of white gold. “I’ll look forward to it.” Then she stopped, hesitating. “Can I say something?”

“Err, well, yes ...” He fell over his words, wondering what was coming up. “Of course.”

“Tomorrow I’d like to try something a bit kinkier. Do you think we could do that?”

His mind set in a whirl. Does she think I’ll say no?

“Yes, of course. I was just ... you know... building up to things.”

She flashed him that angelic smile again and his heart contracted. An angel and demon all rolled into one. He hoped he could capture those contrasting qualities in his pictures.

“I’m all built up, Eric,” she said. “You can do whatever you want.”

***

Eric woke the following morningand climbed out of bed with a sense of impatient excitement. There seemed to be too many hours until Anya would be back in his apartment, and he knew each one would drag slowly and painfully by. That day he was due at a New York college to give a lecture to a group of students. Normally, he enjoyed teaching, allowing his enthusiasm and expertise to inspire others, but that morning the lecture felt like a hurdle to get over before he could spend more time with Anya.

Anya, Anya, Anya.

Does she think of me?Was she spending her waking moments filled with a tantalizing energy at the memory of what they’d done and at the prospect of what would come next? Or did all thoughts of him and the camera vanish from her head the moment she walked out the door?

Was this just another job to her?

No, she’d not wanted to be paid. She came back here because she enjoyed the creation of their art.

Just the thought of her made his whole body thrum with excitement. The image of her face occupied his every thought—the last thing in his mind when he fell asleep, the first thing when he woke. He wanted to submerge himself in her energy. She seemed to be his new fixation.

No, he couldn’t allow himself to think that way. He’d suffered from obsessing over his work before, something that had taken him to the darkest point of his life. He’d conquered those problems a long time ago. And besides, this was different. It was her claiming his thoughts, not just his work, despite the two things going hand in hand.

Eric stripped off his shorts, stepped into a steaming hot shower, and started to soap himself down. The four times weekly gym trips not only helped him to keep to a fixed routine, they also kept his body hard and lean.

With the beautiful blonde on his mind, the water coursed down his body like a lover’s fingers. He reached out, placed his palms on the glass walls surrounding him, and hung his head, allowing the water to drum the back of his neck. Images of Anya, half naked and exposed for him, filled his head. Blood flowed to his cock, his balls tightening with a pleasurable ache. No. He tried to push the thought of her away. He couldn’t allow himself to go there. How would he look at her again without thinking about what his body wanted him to do to her? But it wasn’t working, his erection continuing to lengthen and grow.

“Fuck, it,” he growled, grabbing his rock-hard dick in his soapy hand. As soon as he tightened his grip, his body sagged in relief. This was what he needed. He started to masturbate slowly, stroking the satin, soap-slicked skin with a firm hold, his eyes squeezed shut. In his head, he brought forth the memory of Anya’s beautiful pussy, her tight, wet slit. How would it feel to push himself inside her, to have her inner muscles hold him tight? He imagined sliding his cock in and out of her, fucking her harder, faster, while her glorious breasts bounced with his every movement and her face twisted in pleasure.

He quickened his movements, his ass clenched tight, as his orgasm built. His mind switched from the thought of pounding Anya’s pussy to having her on her knees in front of him, taking his erection in her mouth, those wide blue eyes staring up at him in her mock innocence. He imagined winding his hands in the back of her hair, of forcing her deeper onto his dick, of fucking her face.

He wanted her to do anything he told her, to accept anything he planned for her, and for her to want to do so willingly just to keep him happy. Would she ever do such a thing? Would they ever reach that point of complete mutual trust?

With a groan, he exploded onto the glass, coating it with streams of milky cum. His body went weak as the throes of his orgasm shuddered through him.

Eric took a deep, shaky breath, one arm still propped against the glass to hold himself up. Damn, the things that woman seemed to be able to do to him, even if it was all in his head.

He needed to hustle or he was going to be late. Quickly, he rinsed himself off, toweling the water off his hard body and short, dark hair. He felt better, as though he’d finally released a dam that had been building for the last few days. He dressed in his usual black shirt and slacks, edgy without being gothic. He wanted the students to feel they could relate to him, hopefully look up to him, without seeming like he was trying too hard.

Cutting it close, he took a cab downtown and made it on time. The dean was waiting for him and showed him into the lecture hall, where a laptop and projector had already been set up. All Eric needed to do was load his memory stick onto the computer.

---