15. Conrad
15
CONRAD
B lanton’s gallery was the kind of place that whispered wealth and taste instead of shouting it. Located on King Street, amid Charleston’s most exclusive boutiques and cafés, the gallery occupied a beautifully restored 19th-century Georgian-style building. Its white brick facade was framed by Charleston green shutters and large arched windows that invited curious glances inside. Double doors, left open in the spring to encourage shoppers to wander in, were flanked by perfectly shaped topiaries in elegant terracotta pots.
Inside, the gallery exuded Southern refinement—polished heart pine floors stretched across the expansive space, their warm tones complementing the soft ivory walls. Vaulted ceilings with exposed wooden beams gave the room a sense of airy grandeur, while sunlight poured through tall paned windows, casting a warm glow over the artwork. Antique vases filled with spring flowers—clusters of hydrangeas and cascading wisteria—graced small tables throughout the gallery.
I let my gaze sweep over the room. Blanton had an eye for variety—coastal landscapes hung next to bold abstracts, each piece carrying the distinct flavor of the local artists he championed. My own black and white photography had made its way onto these walls more than once, tucked into a small corner Blanton had graciously reserved for “emerging talent.” Fanny’s abstracts caught my eye instead—bold splashes of pink and gold that seemed to demand attention, almost daring the viewer to interpret them. Across the room, a row of James’ paintings hung quietly, their lighter palettes and intricate details a stark contrast to the wilder vibrancy of Fanny’s pieces.
I found myself drawn to James’ work, as always. His coastal landscapes unfolded like a slow tide, the kind of beauty that felt effortless. They looked simple at first—sun-drenched beaches, sprawling marshlands, quiet gardens—but the more you stared, the more you noticed. A faint shadow in the corner. A set of initials carved into a gate. A face, half-hidden in the vines.
It was hard not to think of him here, his presence lingering in the strokes of paint and the subtle details that were the signature flourish of his art. I wondered if Blanton or Fanny ever thought about those details, or if they just saw what the typical viewer did—a talented artist with a keen eye for Charleston’s historic charm and natural beauty.
I moved through the gallery slowly, taking it all in. There was a rhythm to the space, a deliberate arrangement that led visitors from one piece to the next. Every corner of the gallery was pristine, from the soft light that illuminated each painting to the tastefully arranged upholstered benches inviting visitors to linger.
I slipped into the back, calling out for Blanton as my footsteps echoed faintly on the hardwood. The gallery had always felt bigger when it was empty, its stillness stretching the space. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath my shoes reminded me how many hours I’d spent here, weaving between canvases and frames, learning the unspoken language of art.
Blanton didn’t answer, but that wasn’t unusual. He was likely out working with a client. It gave me a reason to linger in his office, though, which suited my purposes just fine.
I made my way toward his office, my hand brushing lightly against the edges of a few frames as I passed. This place wasn’t just a gallery to me—it was a part of my story. I’d started working here when I was just a teenager, a couple of hours after school turning into weekends, summers, and eventually a permanent part-time gig. Blanton had always encouraged my art, nudging me toward opportunities I hadn’t even known existed. He said he saw potential in my photography, the way I captured the quiet moments that other people overlooked.
It wasn’t just about taking pictures, he’d told me once. It was about seeing—about listening to the land and the architecture as they whispered their stories, revealing the secrets they’d been holding for generations to those perceptive enough to listen.
Over the years, I’d done a little bit of everything here—filing invoices, helping with installations, manning the desk during exhibitions. I’d even played courier a few times, delivering paintings to clients or artists who needed a last-minute favor. The gallery had been more than a job. It had been a lifeline during some of the tougher years, a place where I felt like I belonged, even when everything else in my life felt too messy to deal with.
As I stepped into the office, the scent of cedar and leather hit me—the familiar mix of Blanton’s cologne and the aged patina of the chairs that flanked his desk. The room was neat, as always. Papers were stacked in precise piles, the polished wood of the desk gleaming under the soft overhead light. A few wrapped paintings leaned against the far wall, likely waiting to be installed or shipped off to a client.
I hesitated for a moment, my fingers brushing the edge of the desk. This wasn’t just about curiosity anymore. I wanted to find some clue to help identify the man Holden and Hendrix had seen at The Silver Vine , the one with Blanton and Fanny. There had to be something here that connected them. A name, a receipt, an email. Something.
The laptop on the desk was closed, its screen dark and reflective. A stack of envelopes sat beside it, the top one addressed to Blanton in elegant, looping handwriting. I briefly skimmed the envelopes, but the names and addresses meant nothing to me.
I started with the drawers, pulling each one open carefully. They were exactly as I expected—pens, office supplies, some neatly labeled folders. Nothing that seemed like a clue. Like a secret. My fingers brushed the edge of something thicker, and I pulled it out: a ledger of sales.
Curiosity flared as I flipped it open, skimming the pages. It listed every piece sold through the gallery in the past year, each line cataloging the artist, the title, the date of sale, and the buyer. Blanton was meticulous, as usual. But what caught my eye wasn’t the organization—it was the tiny stamp that appeared next to certain entries. A crow perched on a key.
The stamp was subtle, almost like a little copyright marking. But once I saw it, I couldn’t stop noticing it. It wasn’t next to every piece, only select ones. My stomach churned as I stared at the symbol, a faint prickle of recognition tugging at the edges of my memory. I’d seen it before, but I couldn’t place where.
I flipped a few more pages, snapping pictures with my phone of the ones marked with the crow and key. I didn’t know if this was important yet, but something about it felt significant, like a thread waiting to be pulled.
After tucking the ledger back into the drawer, I straightened up and scanned the room.
I turned my attention to the shelves along the wall. They were lined with books, journals, and binders, each labeled uniformly. Blanton was a collector of knowledge—art history, business strategies, even old catalogs from past exhibitions. If there was a clue to be found, it would be here. I just had to figure out where.
Each shelf was packed tight with books, organized by size, color, and subject. The symmetry was perfectly tidy, almost intimidating—except for one shelf near the middle, where a single book was askew. It jutted out just slightly, breaking the otherwise flawless line.
I moved to it, reaching for the book. It was a thick hardcover with glossy pages, heavier than I expected, and when I pulled it free, I noticed something behind it: a small panel, slightly recessed into the wood. My head tilted with curiosity as I leaned closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the panel. There was a button, barely visible, tucked into the corner.
What the hell is this?
I stared at it, my heart pounding in my chest. It could be anything—a hidden safe, a switch to a false wall, maybe even just a long-forgotten wiring panel. But Blanton wasn’t the type to leave something like this lying around without a purpose.
I reached for the button, my hand hovering over it as the urge to press it warred with the voice in my head telling me to stop. I didn’t know what I’d find, but a part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to find it alone.
The muffled sound of footsteps outside the office jolted me out of my thoughts. My stomach dropped as I quickly slid the book back into place, erasing any sign I’d been snooping. I barely had time to straighten before the door creaked open, and Blanton stepped inside.
He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping the room, landing on me in an instant. “Conrad,” he said, his tone calm but expectant. “Hey. What’s up?”
I forced a casual shrug, my heart pounding in my chest. “Just catching up on some filing,” I said, gesturing vaguely to the stack of folders on the edge of the desk. “Figured I’d get it out of the way while it’s quiet.”
Blanton’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes lingered on me for a moment, like he was calculating something. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Keep it up.”
He crossed to the far wall, his movements smooth and measured, and I watched as he took files from his desk and then picked up two of the wrapped canvases leaning against the side wall. “I needed to grab a pair of paintings for a client, and I want to have the paperwork for them as well,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m heading back out, so text me if you need anything.”
I murmured an acknowledgment as he left the office, the door clicking shut behind him. Only when I was sure he was gone did I let out the breath I’d been holding, my shoulders slumping slightly. My heart was still racing, the image of the button behind the bookshelf burning in my mind.
Too close.
I grabbed the nearest file folder off the desk and made a show of tidying the papers, giving myself a moment to collect my thoughts. The crow symbol in the ledger, the hidden button—both felt like pieces of something bigger. I didn’t know what yet, but I was sure of one thing: I was going to have to investigate further.
Tucking the folder under my arm, I stepped out of the office, my steps measured as I crossed the gallery floor. Blanton was already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. Whatever he was up to, it could wait. For now, I had the ledger photos, a mystery, and a hell of a lot to think about.
But next time, I wouldn’t be coming alone.
As I walked out of the gallery, the ledger pages still fresh in my mind, I pulled out my phone and started a group text. My thumbs moved quickly over the screen, keeping my steps brisk and purposeful as I headed toward home.
Conrad
Y’ALL
I found something in blanton’s office. a ledger with art sales. some pieces marked with a weird symbol. took pics.
ALSO…found a hidden button behind a bookshelf. didn’t have time to check it out. need backup
Hendrix
a hidden button! wtf is this, a spy movie? sure you didn’t imagine it
dead ass i’ll show you when we can all go back
Holden
Heading to class. Be home later tonight. Don’t do anything stupid until we’re all there.
what do you take me for? hendrix is the reckless one
Hendrix
damn right
Moon
I’ll hang with you Conrad
I’ll keep ya out of trouble
don’t act like you need to babysit me moon
Moon
someone’s gotta keep you in line
is that what you call it? keeping me in line
Moon
I’ll even tie you up if necessary lol
Hendrix
can you two skip the foreplay in the group chat
some of us are trying to get actual shit done
Moon
you’re just jealous you won’t be here to join the fun
Hendrix
TRUE
don’t worry baby girl I’ll give you some fun later after conrad fumbles around
pretty sure moon likes how I fumble around
Hendrix
lol
you gonna charm blanton into spilling his secrets too?
maybe ya never know
Hendrix
sorry bro i dont think your rizz is at that level even with ur birds pics and all
and yet my success rate is better than yours bro
Hendrix
ooh mr nature photography what’s your secret
timing
patience
knowing when to make the first move
and when to let someone come to you
Hendrix
boring
i’m more of a hands on guy
Moon
can confirm
Holden
I already regret opening this group chat.
that’s your problem hendrix, always rushing to the finish line
Hendrix
better than sitting back and staring until someone trips and falls into your lap
worked on you didn’t it
Hendrix
oh fuck off
Moon
whoa whoa whoa
did you two—wait no this is even better than i thought
Conrad tell me everything
short story. he couldn’t keep his eyes off me one night at a party. got too drunk. practically begged
Hendrix
pretty sure you leaned in and kissed me first bro
didn’t hear you complaining
Hendrix
my mouth was occupied
Moon
this is the best thing I’ve ever heard. please keep going
Holden
Jesus Christ. I should’ve muted this chat.
chill professor
you’re getting some insider secrets here
Hendrix
yeah holden what’s your take? you’re quiet over there
Holden
My take? You’re both full of shit and can’t handle being outdone.
Hendrix
outdone??
puhlease i’d run circles around conrad any day
you’d try but lets be honest…you wouldn’t last
i remember that from last time lol
Hendrix
the fucking milk ok bro you got me
go ahead make fun of a stupid drunken moment when we were teenagers smh
but if we’re going back to the silver vine we’ll see who can last now
oh i’m down
Moon
i’m coming with you guys this time. someone’s gotta keep you in line. or maybe i’ll tie you both up and see who begs first
Hendrix
that’s bold talk moon
i like it
begging’s not my style but you’re welcome to try
Moon
oh i will
Holden
Muting. Right now.
Moon
see you later Heathcliff
Moon’s next message popped up just for me, and a smile tugged at my lips as I read it.
wanna come over??
i wanna come all over
jesus lol ok i’ll drop you a pin
head over whenever
get ready, trouble
I’m gonna shoot ya
I couldn’t help that her invitation had me grinning like an idiot. This afternoon just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
Her apartment sat just a couple blocks from Rainbow Row, tucked into one of those restored historic row houses that Charleston was famous for. Moon’s was painted a soft peach with crisp white trim, its iron balcony wrapped in ivy and dotted with potted plants—ferns, flowers, and a few that looked like they might’ve been herbs. The black lantern hanging by the door flickered faintly, even in the late afternoon light, adding a flicker of warmth to the quaint facade. An open window let soft music drift out onto the narrow street.
I climbed the narrow steps to the front door, my camera bag slung over one shoulder. My pulse thrummed beneath it all, though, louder and sharper than usual. This was Moon’s home—her space, her world.
Before I could knock, the door swung open.
“There you are.” Moon’s voice greeted me. She leaned against the doorframe, her silhouette relaxed and casual. She was wearing high-waisted jeans that clung to her hips, faded, perfectly broken in—and her bare feet peeked out from under the frayed hem. A cropped vintage tee bared a sliver of her toned stomach. Her silver earrings caught the light as she tilted her head, the little crescent moon charm swaying like it was winking at me and a chunky silver spoon ring glinted on her finger as she hooked her hand around the door. Her hair was a mess of dark curls, piled into something that might’ve been a bun before a few strands rebelled.
“Hmm,” she purred, stepping back to let me in. “Bold move keeping a lady waiting, Conrad.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” I leaned in to press a slow, suggestive kiss against the curve of her neck.
She turned, leaving the door open as I followed her inside. The scent of the place hit me first—fresh flowers and old wood, mingling with something warm and faintly spicy, like cinnamon or clove. The living room stretched out before me, wide and airy, with original brick walls framing tall windows that spilled golden light across worn hardwood floors. The velvet couch, a deep, inky blue, was scattered with pillows in jewel tones. The coffee table was cluttered with art books, a stack of vinyl records, and a few candles burned down to stubs. A record player sat in one corner, spinning something mellow and jazzy. The walls were lined with a mix of vintage art prints and photos—some black-and-white, others faded with age. It was cozy and mismatched in the best way.
“Nice place,” I said, glancing around.
“Thanks,” she said, flashing a grin as she disappeared toward the kitchen. “It’s home. For now, anyway.”
As I moved further inside, I spotted one of her roommates, perched on the arm of a chair with her phone in hand. She glanced up, her sharp, dark eyes sizing me up with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
“So you’re Conrad,” she said, setting her phone down.
“Guilty, but I’m mostly harmless.” I gave her a cheeky grin.
“Moon’s been talking about you.”
“Callie, don’t be weird,” Moon chastised, her voice laced with laughter.
“Me? Never. Have fun,” Callie said, heading back toward the living room. “Just don’t break anything. Especially Moon.”
Moon laughed, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the kitchen. “Ignore her. She’s always like that.”
I chuckled, following Moon into the kitchen, which was just as eclectic as the living room—marble countertops, a collection of mismatched mugs, and an open chalkboard wall covered in scrawled reminders, doodles, and quotes. Small jars of tea and spices lined a wooden shelf, and a vase of fresh wildflowers sat by the sink.
“It smells like you’ve been baking,” I said, catching a faint hint of something sweet.
“Cookies. Callie’s stress-baking again,” she said, handing me a bottle of water from the fridge.
“What’s she stressed about?”
Moon rolled her eyes. “Probably her upcoming dance showcase. She gets like this every time. You should’ve seen the pie marathon last semester.”
I snorted, cracking a smile. “Wouldn’t mind a Moon pie right about now.”
She glanced over her shoulder, smirking. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sweet tooth, Conrad.”
I followed her as she led me down the narrow hallway toward her bedroom. I let my voice drop, my eyes catching hers. “You know I’ve always got room for dessert.”
Her bedroom was the last door down a narrow hall. Her bedroom felt like a retreat—feminine and layered, like her. The walls were painted a soft heather gray, muted and calming, while accents of pale purple and deep blue added a richness to the space. The bed was pushed against the far wall, a wrought-iron frame draped in layers of soft linens—lavender, cream, charcoal—and fairy lights twisted with dried flowers cast a golden glow above it. On her wall, a mix of vintage art, black-and-white photos, and a few theater playbills were arranged in a casual collage.
“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” I admitted, setting my camera bag on the corner of her desk. “But this fits.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked, raising a brow as she perched on the edge of the bed, the light catching the silver rings stacked on her fingers.
“Of course. It’s you.”
“You look like you’re cataloging me,” Moon said, flopping onto the bed with a grin.
“Just observing,” I said. “It’s what I do.”
I turned to the desk—a sturdy antique with scuffs on the legs—and spotted a handful of costume sketches scattered between open books and palettes of makeup. A bulletin board hung above it, pinned with tickets from shows, little notes, and doodles. To one side, a small stack of vintage fashion magazines caught my eye, next to a pair of well-worn dance shoes.
“You weren’t kidding,” I said, moving further into the room. “This is like a blueprint of your brain.”
My eyes drifted to a row of framed photos on a shelf—Moon on stage, her curls pulled back, caught mid-performance. “These are amazing.”
“High school productions,” she said, leaning against the desk. “Back when I thought I was going to be the next Broadway star.”
“And now?”
“Now I just want to create something that makes people feel,” she said softly, her voice losing some of its usual sass. “It’s what brought me here, you know. Charleston has one of the best programs in the South.”
“I didn’t know that.” I picked up one of the sketches, turning it gently. “Where’d you move from?”
“Asheville.”
I raised a brow, curious. “That hippie town up in the mountains?”
She laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. “Yeah, that’s the one. It’s…different from here. Art everywhere, but a little wilder. Less polished. My dad taught literature at the university there, and my mom’s an artist—she paints and makes jewelry.”
I glanced toward her vanity, where a small jewelry box sat open, overflowing with rings and dangling earrings.
“Her work?” I asked, gesturing.
“Some of it,” Moon said, sitting up and crossing her legs. “I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like. She and my dad travel a lot—research trips, residencies, that kind of thing. They’re great, but…they’ve got their own lives.”
Her voice darkened at the end, and I caught the flicker of something more—something lonely. I didn’t press, instead glancing toward her open closet, where vintage jeans and flowy dresses hung beside more structured pieces.
I nodded, my gaze drifting to her closet, the doors slightly ajar. Inside, I could see rows of vintage dresses, sweaters, and jackets, all in rich colors and textures. “Mind if I…?” I gestured toward it.
She laughed. “Go ahead. I’m not hiding any skeletons. Probably.”
As I flipped through the hangers, I noticed a few pieces that stood out—like a fringed leather jacket and a shimmering sequined dress. “Where do you even find this stuff?”
“Thrift stores. Estate sales. My mom.” She crossed the room, reaching for one of the silver rings on her desk.
“I love your style. Such a nice change from Lilly Pulitzer and pearls,” I said, walking over and thumbing through the clothes.
She laughed with a grin. “I’ll take that.”
“My dad’s old tees,” she said, hopping off the bed and coming to stand beside me. “I’ve altered or cropped most of them. The rest are from thrift stores. Asheville has some great ones.”
“You could compete with Hendrix on vintage band tees,” I said. “His mom. His taste in music and all his vinyl are from her.”
I turned back to her, letting my gaze settle on the room again—on the little details that felt so distinctly her. The dance shoes tucked under her bed, the worn copy of A Streetcar Named Desire on her nightstand, the way the sunlight hit the silver rings scattered across her vanity.
“This place is you,” I said quietly, meeting her eyes.
She tilted her head, studying me with that same unflinching curiosity she always had. “What’s yours like?”
“Much more minimalist,” I admitted. “Calm colors. Photos of marshes, mostly. Some climbing gear in the corner. It’s nothing fancy.”
She grinned. “Sounds like you. But I bet I could find a secret or two in there.”
I shrugged, the corner of my mouth curling up. “Guess you’ll have to visit and see.”
Moon didn’t say anything for a moment, her gaze lingering on me. Then she tugged at the strap of my camera bag. “So, photographer,” she teased. “Are you just here to snoop, or are you actually going to take some pictures?”
That was the thing about Moon—she knew how to break the moment just enough to keep it from feeling too heavy.
I unzipped the bag, pulling my camera free. “Oh, I’m taking pictures. And you’re posing.”
She grinned, backing up toward the french doors that led out to her balcony. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Nature Photography.”
The balcony cast her in a perfect light. The sun was low but still rich and golden, streaming through the trees. I lifted the camera, focusing on her as she leaned into the sunlight, all wild curls and silver gleam—a mix of soft and sharp that was impossible not to capture.
“Lean back against the railing,” I said, my voice lower than I intended, more like a command than a request. I raised the camera, peering through the viewfinder as she shot me a look, feisty but compliant.
“Like this?” She tipped her chin up and resting her elbows behind her, the motion pulling her vintage tee just tight enough to expose the curves underneath. The high waist of her faded jeans cinched her in perfectly, revealing toned muscles as she stretched.
“Exactly like that,” I murmured, snapping the shot.
I took my time. Moon wasn’t just a passive subject; she was alive, her personality infusing every glance she threw over her shoulder, every slight curve of her lips. She played to the camera but kept enough of herself back that it felt real, like I was capturing moments meant only for me.
“Good,” I praised, moving closer to adjust a strand of her hair. I tucked it behind her ear, my fingers grazing the silver cluster of earrings that climbed her lobe. “Turn just a bit more…yeah, perfect.”
She smiled faintly, her heather-gray eyes catching the light. “You’re very bossy with that camera, you know.”
I grinned. “I know what I want.”
She let out a soft hum of amusement, her gaze flicking to the camera in my hands. “What if I take something off? Think you can handle that?”
I let out a low breath, licking my lips. “I think I can manage.”
She didn’t hesitate. She peeled off her tee, tossing it lazily onto the bed through the open balcony door. Beneath it, she wore a black lace bralette, delicate and see-through in a way that made it impossible not to stare.
"I was going to keep it professional, but damn this feels like foreplay."
“Too much?” She bit the corner of her lip as she turned slightly, letting one strap slip halfway down her shoulder.
“Not enough,” I shot back, my voice rough.
Her laughter was low, sultry. “Bossy and greedy. Dangerous combination.”
“I think you might like a little danger.”
She moved through a few more poses at my instruction—turning so the curve of her back was to me, glancing over her shoulder, stretching her arms up so the bralette hugged her body tighter. I adjusted her when needed, brushing her hair away from her face or tilting her chin to catch the light. Each small touch burned, leaving a trail of heat I tried to ignore.
“You know,” she said as I paused to adjust the focus, “we should send a few of these to Holden and Hendrix. I bet they’d love a little tease.”
I groaned, half-laughing as I lowered the camera. “You really love torturing them, don’t you?”
“It’s not torture if they enjoy it.” She dragged a hand lazily up her thigh, her fingers skimming just beneath the lace, like she was debating how much she wanted to give away. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything further—she just watched me, waiting, knowing I was already lost in the game she was playing.
“Let’s make them work for it.” I raised the camera again. “They don’t get to see everything. ”
“Everything, huh?” Her voice dropped, daring me. Slowly, she reached behind her, unclasping the bralette. She slid it down her arms and let it drop, baring herself to me.
My pulse kicked hard, but I didn’t move, didn’t speak. I only watched her through the lens, capturing her as she was—flawless, unashamed, completely herself.
“Hands up,” I said softly. “In your hair.”
She obeyed, fingers tangling in her curls as she arched her back slightly, the curve of her breasts catching the light. I framed the shot carefully, making sure the photo felt artful, deliberate—not just raw lust, but something intimate.
“You’re good at this,” she said, her voice softer now.
“You make it easy.”
“Then make it harder,” she said, her eyes locking with mine.
I set the camera aside, the weight of her words settling into me. “You want it hard, huh?”
She nodded, stepping closer. Her fingers tugged at the hem of my shirt. “Get naked with me.”
Her voice lingered in the air, teasing, daring. My shirt hit the floor, and her gaze didn’t shy away—not that I expected it to. Moon took her time drinking me in, and I let her look. There was no need to hide anything.
Her fingers brushed my shoulders first, tracing the curves of muscle, the sun-kissed freckles scattered faintly over my skin.
I tilted my head, smirking. “You’re acting like I’m a museum exhibit.”
Her laugh was soft, low. “Maybe you are.”
She traced a line down my left shoulder blade, her fingertips skimming the ink there—the camera etched in black lines. “Fitting,” she murmured, her touch featherlight. “Your body is art.”
“You’re one to talk,” I said, my voice dropping as I watched her, heat building low in my gut. She was so sensual in her movements, so captivated in touching me, that I felt more seen in that moment than I maybe ever had been before.
Moon worked her way down my chest, tracing over the ridges of my abs, pressing her palm flat just above my V muscles. “You really don’t do things halfway, do you?”
“No point in it,” I replied, my voice a low rasp. Her hand lingered near the button of my pants, temptingly close to where I was already hard, already aching for her.
The way Moon looked at me—like I was a puzzle she couldn’t wait to solve—made the heat between us feel sharper, heavier. Her fingertips traced the tattoo on my forearm, following the sweeping curves of a massive oak tree with sprawling branches, her thumb brushing the coordinates inked just beneath it.
“This has a story,” she said softly, her voice laced with curiosity.
“It’s the Angel Oak, out on Johns Island. I used to climb it when I was a kid. Spent whole afternoons out there, seeing how far I could go.”
Her brow furrowed slightly as her thumb lingered over the ink. “Never heard of it.”
“Biggest tree you’ve ever seen.” I leaned in as my lips ghosted over her temple. “The branches go on forever. It feels like you’re standing under something ancient.”
She tilted her head up to meet my gaze, her gray eyes soft but sparking with intrigue. “It sounds enchanting.”
“It is,” I admitted, watching the way her lips curved faintly.
Her hands drifted lower, skimming my sides, her nails dragging lightly over my skin. “Do you want to keep playing tour guide,” she questioned, her eyes glittering, “or can I see all of you?”
A sharp inhale was all I managed at first. “You’re making it really hard to focus here,” my voice rasped as I shoved my jeans aside. “But if you want all of me, Moon…you’ve got it.”
The weight of her gaze dropped, and a slow, wicked smile curled her lips. “God, Conrad.” Her voice was husky now, and her fingers brushed lightly along the barbell piercing at the head of my cock. The silver glinted in the dim light, already slick from my arousal.
“You’ve seen it before.” My words came out cool though the flush creeping up my neck betrayed me.
“Seeing it is one thing,” she replied, “but having time to appreciate it is something else.”
She knelt in front of me on the bed, her thighs framing me, her body close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off her skin. She ran the length of my cock with the edge of her knuckle before pressing her thumb lightly against the head, circling the piercing.
“Fuck—you’re going to make me leak or combust or both.” My jaw clenched as I pulsed beneath her hand.
Her gaze flicked up to mine, bright with mischief. “Just figuring out what makes you tick.” She leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh, her curls tickling against my skin. Her hand never left me, her touch firm and confident as she explored—tracing the veins along my shaft, squeezing gently near the base, brushing her fingertips against the sensitive skin where my cock met my balls.
A low rumble escaped me as a wave of heat surged through my body, my eyes squeezing shut against the intensity. “You’re full of surprises.”
She hummed against my skin, the sound vibrating into me. “I told you I’ve been dreaming about this.” Her lips brushed the piercing again, her tongue flicking over the cool metal, and my hips jerked involuntarily.
“Jesus, Moon,” I growled, the sound low and raw.
She grinned, pulling back just enough to admire her work, her fingers curling around me again. “I like how this feels,” she admitted, running her thumb up the underside of my cock, pressing just under the head where the piercing sat. “Soft skin, hard silver. It’s perfect.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore. My hands found her waist, pulling her up until she was straddling me. Her thighs pressed against my sides, and I could feel her slick heat through the thin lace of her panties as she settled against my lap.
Her lips were soft and insistent, her body pressing into mine, and I let myself lose track of everything but her—her taste, her touch, the way her fingers traced circles into the patch of hair before sliding back down to where I was already impossibly hard.
Her hand curled around me again, stroking slowly as she shifted, grinding her hips against my lap. The feeling of her heat—of her wetness seeping through the lace—was enough to make me throb against her palm.
“Don’t stop,” I murmured against her lips, my voice thick with need. “I want to map you, too. Every fucking inch of you.”
I let my hand trail down her body as I kissed her—over the swell of her breast, the softness of her ribs, the curve of her waist—until I reached the slick heat between her thighs. I teased her first, just the lightest touch, my fingers brushing her outer lips, spreading her slickness.
She squirmed above me, her hips pressing toward my hand. “Conrad…”
I gripped her waist, my fingers pressing into her skin as I lifted her effortlessly. “Let’s get these out of the way,” I murmured, sliding her panties down her thighs, savoring the way she shivered under my touch.
“Tell me what you like,” I murmured against her jawline, letting one finger dip lower to caress her entrance. “I want to know everything.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t hold back. “Slower,” she whispered, her hips rolling in time with my touch. “But firmer. I like when…when you press.”
I followed her lead, my hand moving in slow circles, my touch firm enough to make her whimper. Her folds were slick and soft, her clit swelling against my fingertips as I worked her. I slid one finger inside her, her body clenching tight and hot around me, and my cock throbbed at the sensation.
“That’s so sexy. You’re coating me.” I slid another finger in, curling them slightly until I found that spot that made her writhe.
Her back arched, her hands clutching my shoulders. “Right there,” she begged. “Don’t stop.”
“Not planning on it,” I promised, watching her face as I moved. I wanted to see every flicker of pleasure, every change in her breathing. My fingers worked her slow and steady, each stroke designed to drive her closer. “You’re gorgeous when you’re lost in pleasure, you know that?”
She groaned, tossing her head back, but her hands suddenly shot out, reaching for the camera. I froze, brow furrowing, but she grinned wickedly as she lifted it and focused the lens down between us.
“What’re you doing?” I asked, my voice rough as I eased my fingers out of her.
Her only answer was a playful hum as she shifted back a little further. Her hand wrapped around me, and she gave my cock a slow, teasing stroke, thumb grazing the silver barbell at the head. I sucked in a breath as she brought the camera up and angled it.
“Hold still,” she whispered, her gaze locking with mine as she positioned the tip of my cock against her pussy, the piercing pressing up against her slick lips. She kept it just at her entrance, not pushing me in, the pressure maddening but the sight even worse—my cock framed perfectly where her body opened up, the gleam of silver glistening with her wetness.
She snapped the shot. The camera clicked, but all I could hear was my own pulse thudding in my ears.
“Fucking hell, Moon,” I growled, my hands gripping her thighs. “Not sure if that’s porn or art. But it’s fucking hot either way.”
She smirked as she set the camera down, her fingers tracing the line of my shaft. “Just wanted proof of how good we look together.”
“Then come here and feel it,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, tugging her forward.
She climbed over me, straddling my hips, her knees framing my waist as she reached between us to guide me. Slowly, achingly slowly, she sank down, her body opening up to take me inch by inch.
I groaned as I felt her stretch around me. “Fuck,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “You feel so goddamn tight and warm.”
Moon let out a low, breathy moan, her hands bracing against my chest as she bottomed out, her hips flush against mine. “You’re so thick.” Her voice was soft and filled with awe. She shifted, rolling her hips in a slow, sensual sway that made my cock throb inside her. “God, Conrad…I can feel everything. ”
I gripped her waist, holding her steady as she moved, her rhythm hypnotic—slowly rolling her hips against my cock, her body undulating in a way that had me gripping her tighter, every movement sending a rush of heat through me, every stroke dragging the piercing against her in a way that made her whimper.
“Your slow grind is the best torture,” I groaned, my voice hoarse as I pressed my thumb to her clit, circling the swollen nub in time with her movements.
Moon gasped, her body jolting at the added pressure. “Don’t stop,” she begged, her fingers digging into my chest, nails leaving faint trails in their wake.
“I won’t,” I promised, keeping my touch steady, my other hand sliding up to cup her breast, pinching her hardened nipple. Her pace faltered, her thighs trembling as she began moving faster, the pleasure catching up to her.
I felt her body start to clench around me, and I groaned, the sensation pushing me closer to the edge. But then—fuck—her hand slipped behind me, her fingers trailing lower until they found my balls, tugging gently.
“Holy shit,” I choked out, my hips jerking up involuntarily as the shock of it sent a jolt of pleasure straight to my spine. “Moon.”
“So that’s what you needed?” she teased breathlessly, her fingers rolling the weight of me, looking down at me as she rode me harder, her slick heat pulsing around my cock.
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t fucking think. Every nerve in my body was on fire, the combined pressure of her hips grinding down, my thumb working her clit, and her hand squeezing me just pulled me straight to the brink.
But then her movements faltered, her rhythm breaking as the control she held so tightly began to unravel. Her confident smirk melted into parted lips, her breaths coming quicker, more ragged. Her hand tightened on me, as her hips rolled erratically, chasing her own release. A moan slipped out, unrestrained, and her head tipped back, curls wild around her flushed face. “Oh, God,” she pleaded, her composure slipping with every second. “Conrad, I’m so close?—”
“Right there with you,” I gritted out, my words rough and urgent as I gripped her hips tight as I thrust up into her, hard and deep. Her body clenched around me like a vise, dragging me down with her, and I lost it—my orgasm crashing through me, every muscle locking up as I spilled into her, my cock throbbing in tight, hot pulses. Thick ropes of cum filled her, coating her, each surge marking her as mine, leaving me breathless and shaking in the aftermath.
Moon cried out, her body trembling as she rode it out, her palms pressed flat against my chest for balance. I held her through it, my hands sliding up her sides, grounding her as her moans softened into breathless gasps.
She collapsed forward, her body flush against mine, our breaths mingling as we came down together. I stayed inside her, unwilling to let the moment slip away, not ready to lose the connection that tethered us so completely. Her fingers traced lazy circles over my skin, and I held her tighter, wishing we could stay like this, wrapped in each other, just a little longer.