Hard

  She guides me to the bed and pushes on my chest. I smirk at her, liking where this is going. I sit down easily, staring up at her as she sweeps her little yellow dress over her head. It’s a nice fucking dress—even nicer on my floor. She’s not wearing a bra beneath and I find that hot as hell. Her panties go next, then she reaches for me, wasting no time. I help her, shrugging out of my t-shirt. She nudges me again, directing me to lie back.

  I think I enjoy this domineering side of Holland.

  She yanks and tugs, and I lift my ass, letting her strip me bare. My cock is so hard it aches for relief. I’m ready for her to climb on and ease the pain, but instead, she rounds the bed to the other side, opening my nightstand.

  Four short lengths of rope are tossed onto the bed—the same ones I’ve used a few times on her. Her expression is deadly serious as she busies herself, binding my ankles to the posts, and I have to check myself, holding back my laughter. I also don’t mention that her knots kind of suck. She’s on a mission and I’m not going to get in her way.

  She crawls on top of me, straddling my hips as she ties my wrists, one at a time. My dick twitches against her ass cheeks in anticipation, my balls pulling up tight.

  After a little tug to make sure I’m securely bound, she leans over, retrieving the scarf she has worn as a blindfold on multiple occasions. I can deal with the ropes—I don’t mind not being able to move, but I have to be able to see.

  “No,” I husk, ducking my head and nipping her breast. “No blindfold.”

  “Yes,” she says stubbornly. “I wear it all the time for you.”

  It’s a reasonable argument. She does. But she has no idea what she’s asking of me. I’m not willing to explain it to her either, though. I sigh in exasperation. Everything inside is fighting me—begging me to deny her request. My pulse is pounding erratically and my forehead is beading with sweat as I reluctantly surrender, jerkily nodding my permission.

  With soft hands, she slides the scarf over my eyes, casting me into darkness. I swallow hard. My muscles tighten reflexively. Her weight shifts, leaving me and I decide quickly I don’t like being the one left not knowing what to expect. I don’t know if I can do this.

  Fuck, I don’t want to do this.

  For her. I have to do it for her.

  My breathing is fast, too fast. I try to slow it. Try to concentrate on keeping my dick hard.

  I hold perfectly still, waiting for her next move. Several long seconds tick by and I’m beginning to get too anxious to keep this up. I pull on the ropes, testing their strength when I hear the lightest movement, her feet on the hardwood floor as she approaches. A moment later, something shockingly cold glides down the center of my chest. I hiss though my teeth, aroused and uncomfortable simultaneously.

  This works. As long as she’s touching me, I think I can handle it.

  She continues sliding it over my skin, leaving a frigid path in its wake. My cock is practically rippling now with expectancy as she comes closer and closer. Then it’s gone as suddenly as it touched me. I pick up a light sound of crunching and I’m thoroughly confused for the briefest beat, which is good. It keeps my mind off my panic. Hot and cold surround the head of my dick, something soft and hard, rubbing against the sensitive flesh.

  Ice. It’s ice, half chewed in her mouth as she goes down on me. Holy shit, I like this. She takes me in deeper, the full length of her tongue against me, her hot/cold mouth encircling my erection. Strike that, I don’t like this. I fucking love it.

  She continues to bob on me, her fingers, still cool from holding the ice, grip my sack firmly. She kneads and massages. The sounds of her efforts so clear and sensual in my ears. She doesn’t stop until her mouth is fully warm again, and when she pulls away, I hope it’s for more ice. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

  “You’re being awfully good for me” she whispers.

  I give her a mischievous grin. “You should reward me.”

  Her sweet laughter fills the room and I wish I could absorb it into my skin, let it swim through my veins.

  “Maybe I’ll just sit back and stare at you for a while,” she suggests, her voice sassy and sexy.

  “I’ll spank your fucking ass if you leave me here too long.” That’s not an empty threat. I’ll fucking do it. She has no idea what I’m going through for her.

  “How?” she breathes. “You’re tied up.”

  “I won’t be forever,” I point out.

  She clicks her tongue. “I suppose you’re right. But I can’t decide what I want to do with you next.” I pick up the clicking of her nails, tapping against something solid. Probably the headboard. Her fingers snap. “I know. Why don’t we play a game?”

  I twist my arms in my binds. “I’m at your command,” I remind her, my heart pumping quickly, more from excitement than unease.

  “I’m going to have you smell something, and if you can guess what it is, I’ll let you eat it.”

  I grin wickedly. “Deal.”

  The bed shifts under her weight as she moves and I’m practically salivating. Something touches the tip of my nose, causing me to jolt. I recognize the sweet scent immediately.

  “Maraschino cherry.”

  “Very good.” The smile is clear in her voice. She drags the cherry across my lips and I open for her. She slips it in, her fingers making contact with my tongue, the flavor of her skin addicting.

  “Again?”

  I nod, smiling as I chew. “I’m starving. Give me something a little more…satisfying this time,” I reply lasciviously.

  She makes me wait for it. My senses are all hyper alert. I’m picking up things I don’t think I otherwise would have paid attention to. My dad has talked about this before—his blind super powers. The bed tips as she comes closer to me, my body rocking with her movements.

  “Tell me what it is and you can have it.”

  I inhale deeply, identifying the scent of Holland instantaneously as if it’s a part of myself. A growl erupts in my chest, full of pleasure. I can feel moisture beading on the tip of my dick. “Thank fuck,” I croak. “That is the scent of heaven. Climb on my face now so I can have a taste.”

  My arms are straining against the ropes, wishing like fuck I could just grab her and slam her pussy against my mouth. But I reign it in. This is Holland’s show tonight and she’s one hell of a star.

  Finally, finally, she positions herself over me, lowering her soft mound onto my lips. I feast on her greedily, ravenously. In this position, I can probe deep inside her entrance, suck her entire clit into my mouth, lap at every inch. Even when she comes on my tongue, her sounds of elation echoing through the room, I keep licking, wanting more.

  Once again, my bound arms leave me bereft, unable to hold her against me. She slips away and I groan in frustration. I wasn’t fucking done.

  Her juices are on my face, hot and sticky. I roll my tongue over my lips, savoring her. Wondering what she has in store for me next.

  Holland’s lips brush my neck and I shudder violently. She kisses her way down, the tip of her tongue teasing my nipple. It hardens for her as easily as my cock does and she bites it. I suck in a breath, willing myself not to come before I’m inside her.

  I love listening to the sound of each of her kisses. Her inhales. Her exhales. Her purrs of pleasure. Every sweep of her lips, nip of her teeth is amplified. I wish I could touch her. Feel how wet I know she is with my fingers. If I could, I’d bury three in her right now.

  As she continues to sample my body, she slowly crawls on top of me. With an excruciating rhythm, she glides her pussy up and down my length, but doesn’t let me inside. I start thrusting my hips upward, searching for entry. This is the closest I’ve ever come to begging. I want her so badly. Need her. I want to rip out of these ropes and seize her. Punish her for teasing me.

  “Jensen,” she says my name on a moan, grasping me hard and guiding me into her. I gasp in gratification. All her torture was worth it. Every second of cruelly prolong
ed anticipation. Her pace is fast, almost frenzied, as if she tormented herself as much as me. Her core contracts, squeezing me and I erupt, coming harder than I think I ever have.

  Holland drops her chest to mine, breathing fast and heavy. She pushes the blindfold off my head, her eyes meeting mine. “This is what it could be like,” she pants. “Every time could be just like this. You don’t need your eyes to experience all beauty.”

  34

  Holland

  Jensen’s face contorts, shifting dazedly from relaxed and satisfied, to confused, shocked, then wary, and finally settling on furious.

  “Untie me,” he demands.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but—”

  “Untie me, Holland. NOW.”

  I roll off of him, his rage radiating through him so forcefully I can feel his muscles vibrating. Jensen has never truly frightened me, maybe because I didn’t care enough to be scared before, but I’m afraid now.

  I’m afraid I’ve pushed him too far. Afraid I’ve overstepped far beyond my duty as his fuck buddy. Afraid I’ve allowed myself to care about him too much. Afraid it will all have been for nothing.

  I hesitate too long, only enraging him further. Every muscle, every hard tendon throughout his arms, shoulders, and neck swell and twist, bulging with his movements as he yanks on the ropes. The headboard groans in protest, the wood giving under the pressure. One bedpost snaps in half like a twig. I startle as the sound ricochets off the walls loudly.

  Jensen uses his now free hand, swiftly releasing his other. He bends forward quickly, his eyes narrowed slits, intent on his mission. I’m still in shock, standing frozen beside the bed. My legs feel like Jell-O, my knees threatening to give.

  He doesn’t say a word once he’s uninhibited by the ropes, but he doesn’t need to. His anger is potent. The air thick with it. He scoops my dress off the floor, flinging it toward me. It hits me square in the chest and slips to the floor. I’m still slow to move, still shocked—by him, by me, by my actions that have led to his actions. By all of it.

  My eyes are stuck to his back, watching him stiffly shove his legs into his jeans. The pull of his zipper is loud in the heated quiet. It jerks me out of my stupor. I scurry to dress myself, not wanting to be naked when he finally says what is so clearly clinging to the tip of his tongue.

  My stomach churns painfully when my eyes meet his. Not because his are filled with wrath, like I expected, but because what I find staring back at me is so much worse.

  Jensen Payne’s hard exterior is breaking.

  And worse yet, all I want to do is help put him back together. I’m breaking with him.

  “It doesn’t have to change anything,” I say barely more than a whisper.

  His gaze narrows, locking in on me like a missile and I know what’s about to come is going to be painful.

  “It changes everything.”

  “Only if you let it.”

  He scoffs, his nose crinkling like he’s disgusted by my words. By me. My terrible word choice occurs to me and I try to switch tactics.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me,” I say. “Because I know something you didn’t want me to know?”

  “Yes,” he hisses. “And what the fuck was that?” He gestures, indicating the bed. My gaze follows and I stare at the rumpled sheets, not truly seeing them.

  I shrug, completely at a loss. “I wanted to prove to you that I don’t care whether you can see or not. That life can still be good—can still feel good.” I shake my head hard, flicking my eyes back to his. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He looks at me almost apologetically. “It doesn’t matter to me if you care or not. At the end of the day, you’ll still have your sight and you always will. The same isn’t true for me.”

  “So you’re angry with me because I’m not going blind?”

  “Yes. I don’t know. You tied me up and seduced me instead of talking to me about it. That shit doesn’t sit right with me. How long have you known?”

  I run my hand through my hair in frustration, my fingers tangling in the knots. “Seriously? This coming from you? The master of bondage and seduction?” I let that sink in a moment before I continue. “I found out today. Retinitis Pigmentosa is genetic. I’m the one who should be upset right now. You hid this from me.”

  “Well,” he chuckles darkly. “It’s not like I was hiding a husband.” He smirks, the look so smug I kind of want to hit him. But he’s right. I didn’t tell him about Darren.

  “Great,” I say flatly. “So we’re even, I guess.”

  He cocks a brow, but remains quiet. I wish I understood what was going on inside of his head. I make another attempt, trying an alternative approach.

  “There are worse things than losing your sight,” I offer softly. I should know, I’ve lived through a few of them.

  He laughs without humor. “Not to me, baby. And to be perfectly fucking honest with you, I really don’t feel like getting a motivational speech from a woman who only shows signs of life when she has a cock to fuck.”

  I really wish that didn’t sting so much, but the truth is generally what hurts the most.

  I nod slowly, keeping my tongue caught between my teeth until I taste blood. “I’m going to go.” The words are like sand in my throat, choking me.

  I leave without so much as a goodbye and he makes no attempt to stop me.

  35

  Jensen

  I was invincible until I was twelve years old.

  Then one tiny black eye floater popped up in my vision, reminding me I was vulnerable.

  I had absolutely no control over what was happening to me. I couldn’t hide from it. It didn’t matter how strong I was or how smart or how fast. There wasn’t a single thing I could do to stop the degeneration of my eyes.

  I was a good kid. I listened to my parents, I maintained a four-point-O grade point average, I did my chores, I told the truth, I washed behind my ears, wore sunblock, flossed nightly, I confessed all my sins every Sunday at church, and yet the only thing that mattered was who my father was.

  That kind of injustice fucks with a kid.

  That kind of injustice fucks with an adult.

  Every goddamn day.

  I grew up listening to my parents tell me going blind wouldn’t stop me from doing the things everybody else does. That I could live a happy, fulfilling life. I could have what everyone else has.

  They meant well, but every time they said shit like that to me, it made me think. And slowly but surely, a list began to form over the years. All of the things I wouldn’t be able to do started cataloging in my brain.

  From there, my thoughts were constantly split in two. What I wouldn’t be able to do, and what I needed to do before the chance was gone.

  On my birthday that year, I received a camera from my mom, and it felt like a cruel joke. Pictures are meant to be kept for a lifetime so years down the road they can be viewed, memories can be revived and relived. What use would I have for pictures then? But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I used the camera, and something magical happened inside of me. I knew that someday I would lose the ability to see everything. So when I looked at the world, I saw it differently than everybody else. And with my camera, with my photos, I could make them see what they took for granted.

  I could hold each one like a precious gift. I could stare and store each one to memory. And I’d never lose them this way. Each and every one was mine, always.

  Capturing beauty became an obsession. A compulsion. I chased it like my life depended on it. My camera was a part of me.

  Right around the time my mom passed, my vision took another hit. Clouding in my peripheral. From then, it’s been a gradual decline. It started to get harder to pick up my camera. The idea of taking a photo some day and not having the chance to see it edited and printed started to eat at me like the shadows moving into my eyes.

  By the time I was notified about Pop’s liver going to shit, I was ready to r
etire photography for good. I almost didn’t bring my equipment home with me when I left New York. It was tempting to leave it there, leave it all behind. But Mom bought me that first camera and it just seemed wrong, like I would be abandoning her dream too. Abandoning her. I brought it all home. Everything. All my gear. Every last photo. But I was done. For months, I didn’t take a single picture. I refused to even use the built-in camera on my phone.

  It was like living in limbo. I wasn’t blind yet, but I had stopped seeing the world around me.

  And then I walked into The Pub to drown my sorrows and there was Holland.

  At my lowest point, she awoke the artist in me. She stoked the embers, refueling my passion. My obsession. She had the kind of beauty people look right past. To everyone else, she was a pretty face they forgot about the moment they turned away. The quiet girl in the corner. But I saw her differently. That kind of beauty, sad, hard, damaged, raw—it was captivating. It told a story. One I needed to know the ending to.

  Once I saw her, I couldn’t look away. I tried. I really did. But she makes me weak from the inside out. She crumbles my defenses, compelling me to forget I’m a clock on a countdown. She makes me forget I was ever miserable.

  But what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

  36

  Holland

  One day turns into two. Two days into three. And soon, the days are all running together.

  I wake every morning alone in my bed, inside my empty apartment, and I can’t fathom how I ever preferred solitude. I know I did, I remember it clearly, but it seems like the memories of a different person.

  How many me’s can there be? I don’t know how to tell anymore.

  My days now consist of reading. Not books. Books make me emotional because there are mothers in books and children in books and friends in books and lovers in books. Each one reminds me of what I don’t have. What I do have is a shelf full of half-read novels.