7. A Little Into You
7
A LITTLE INTO YOU
L eighton
The drive back to the studio takes forever and no time at all. But we’re here now as dusk falls over the city. We leave the twilight behind, heading up the steps. With each footfall, anticipation winds tighter in me, higher.
I’m the only one using the studio today, so when I unlock the door, I’m confident it’ll just be us. Still, I look around the space, reassured to find it empty, just like we left it. I head over to the chaise this time to set up the camera in front of it—I’ve been low-key vibrating the whole way here, imagining capturing our first kiss on film—when Miles grabs my hand, jerking me back toward him, pulling me against his body.
I can feel how much he wants me.
“You’re going to send me that picture.” It’s a demand, rough and intense, matching the need in his dark brown eyes.
My head is swimming with desire and surprise. I’ve never met a man like him, one who’s actually interested in the artistic side of me. One who wants a picture of us. I have a feeling he’s going to want pictures of so much more, and I’ll probably give him what he wants because I want that too.
I want to see how we look coming together. But right now, I’m not sure I remember how to adjust a setting on the camera. I’m not sure I can hold a single thought in my head that doesn’t revolve around the heat curling through every cell in my body, the need pulsing through my veins.
Still, I’m determined to give him what he wants, and to give it to myself too.
“Yes,” I say, quickly crossing over to the camera on the tripod and grabbing the remote trigger. I’m so used to the remote that it’s no big deal to hold it while I do things—I learned how to shoot boudoir both with others and through self-portraits.
“Good, Shutterbug. Because I want us to see it,” he says, and that word thrums through me— us .
A promise, once more, of another time.
When I spin around, he’s right there, eyes on me. And I’m nothing but raw need. “You’ve been driving me wild all day,” I tell him. “Do something about it.”
I’m almost shocked to hear my own words. It’s so strange to say exactly what I want. To know he wants to hear it.
To know he can handle it.
His smile is devilish. “I’ll do whatever you want, Leighton.”
But when he closes the distance to me, I tense for a few seconds, expecting him to forget what I told him earlier, since most guys just do. They get caught up. They don’t listen. They don’t care. I half expect him to drag his fingers through my hair and over my ears.
If he did, there’d be loud ringing in my ears.
But Miles has proven different all day.
He’s an incredible listener, so when he takes off his glasses, sets them down on a low table, then lifts a hand slowly, I choose to trust.
And he curls that hand around my throat, gentle yet entirely possessive. And setting my heart to flames.
He inches closer, licks his lips, and drops his lush mouth to mine.
There’s never been a kiss like this. It’s soulful and filthy at the same time. His hand stays firm on my throat, his fingers holding me tight, the locket resting against my chest. His lips are soft as they coast over mine, his stubble scraping my face deliciously. His tongue slips past my eager lips.
And I ache everywhere as I help the camera capture our first kiss with a push of the remote.
The sounds he makes are hungry, carnal, and I swear I not only hear every single thing but feel it too, everywhere, all at once.
The kiss feels like the type of photos I try to capture. Sensual, moody, and most of all, a prelude.
It’s not a first kiss at a picnic, or in a park, or under the sun. It’s a first kiss where the lights are low, night is calling, and the doors are locked.
I’m so glad that the woman I rent the studio from is out of town today because I’m pretty sure I’m one minute away from doing something risky.
As Miles kisses me slowly, seductively, making my head swim with longing, his thumb and forefinger circle a little tighter around my throat. His touch there is possessive, but full of restraint, like he won’t cross lines until he gets the go-ahead. I want to give him all the go-aheads. Sparks rush down my body, and I ache for so much more. I inch closer, pressing my body to his. He makes a noise low in his throat, a dirty rumble. His other hand ropes around my waist, traveling to my back. He slips it under my shirt, laying it flat against my skin.
I make some kind of incredibly uncivilized noise. I wish I could say it was a deep, throaty purr, but it’s more like a needy plea.
Miles breaks the kiss to look at me, a smirk on his lips, fire in his eyes. But coiled restraint too. This man is a portrait of caged lust. “Tell me what you want,” he says in a rasp, letting go of my throat and running the back of his fingers down my cheeks. “So I can give it to you.”
My chest flips.
Who is this man?
Is this what I’ve been missing? Is this what I never experienced when I dated guys my age in college? This kind of focused attention. These direct questions.
I honestly don’t know how to start answering him, but I give it my best shot because honesty has gotten me this far today. Into the arms of a man who’s not afraid to manhandle me—the way I want. And I want it…a little rough.
Here I am—doing something risky. Asking him to fuck me in the studio. “You,” I begin, taking that small step.
He fiddles with my bra strap. “In case it’s not clear, you’ve got me. You’ve got all my attention, Leighton.” He pauses and licks his lips. “I’m just a little into you.”
He drags out that word, tone dry, making his meaning clear.
He’s a lot into me .
“Show me,” I say.
Tilting his head, he studies my face, then says, “If you insist.”
His fingers travel to the hollow of my throat tracing it, drawing a circle over it, before he brushes them along my jawline, dragging them there. My breath hitches from the firm touch. From the sheer different-ness of it. Has anyone ever touched me like this before? I don’t think so. It’s so specific, so purposeful. It’s like he’s finding ways to touch me that are only for me.
Like his hands are telling me how he doesn’t need to thread his fingers through my hair to turn me on. He’ll find other ways to arouse me, and since I’m ludicrously wet, he has. But I know, too, that he’s holding back. I can see his restraint in the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw.
I’m going to have to take the next step. Say the next thing.
“When I said you , I meant I want all of you,” I add. That’s clear enough, but just in case it wasn’t, I press my body even closer so I’m rubbing against the outline of his erection. Making my intentions crystal clear.
For a hot second, his eyes go glassy. His breath stutters. But then he gains control again.
“All of me?” he asks like it’s a question, even though it’s an amused me , as if he’s having too much fun with my words as he keeps one hand looped firmly around my waist. “How exactly do you want all of me?”
Oh my god. He’s toying with me.
I groan in mock frustration. “You want me to spell it out?”
“I do, Leighton,” he rasps out. “I really, really do.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s doing little to mask how turned on I am. “Fine—then here’s an opinion for you.” I pause, letting him hang there on my every word as I run a hand down his chest, over the buttons on his shirt. I lift my chin, look him in the eyes. “I want you to fuck me hard. And a little rough.”
Something in his eyes seems to snap, a tight wire breaking as he scoops me up without warning. “I’m going to fuck you exactly the way you want, Shutterbug.”
“Oh,” I say, blinking as he grabs my ass nice and tight and sets me down on the chaise behind us. He lays me on it, climbs over me. Grabbing my wrists, he pins them over my head and lowers his body to mine. This time it’s just us. No record of the moment as I let the remote fall from my hand.
The weight of him is extraordinary. He grinds against me and I pant. I thread my fingers through his messy hair while I drag my other hand down his arm. He’s so outrageously fit, I can’t stand it. The strength of his arms, the size of his chest, the way he covers me.
I seriously can’t wait to take off his clothes. I’m vibrating with desire.
I wrap my legs around him, hooking them at his ass—the muscles in it tell me he doesn’t miss glutes day. I want to send a thank you note to his gym membership.
“Seems like you’re more than a little into me,” I say dryly.
“Yeah, a fucking lot,” he says, then kisses me till I’m clawing at his shirt, trying to take it off.
He wrenches away, sits up, then undoes the buttons in no time. I tug off my top. I’m just in my black bra again, and like that I stare at this thoughtful, considerate, passionate man in a whole new way. He’s no longer the subject of my photographs. I’m not looking at him through a lens. I’m free to gaze at him in a fresh new way. I lift a hand, stroke his face, memorizing the whiskery scratch of his stubble before I say, “Fuck me now, Miles.”
He offers me his hand and tugs me up. “Go on a second date with me.”
A laugh bursts from me. “You already asked me out for a second date. Did you forget?”
“I’m making sure.”
“Are you worried you won’t be any good in bed, so you need to secure that second date now?” I tease.
His eyes darken. “For that, you’re getting multiple orgasms.”
“Lucky me,” I say.
“No. Lucky me.”
We both make quick work of shoes, then he unzips my jeans and slides them down my thighs, but he’s careful when he takes them off, making sure they don’t land inside out in a pile on the floor.
And I think…I could fall in love with him.
Then, I’m nearly sure I could when he folds them. Fine, he folds them over once. But still, he fucking folds them before setting them on the table next to the chaise. He cares about everything.
He turns back to me, his gaze eating me up from head to toe, his eyes lingering on the flowers inked all over my arms before returning to my face. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Leighton,” he says, locking eyes with me. It’s intense the way he looks at me, how he talks to me, but most of all how he listens. How he shifts between Leighton and Shutterbug , how sometimes he’s serious and sometimes he’s playful.
He advances toward me again, then sinks to his knees.
My throat tightens, my heart slamming against my rib cage at the sight of this big man on the floor, hooking his thumbs in the black lacy waistband of my panties. Reverence flickers in his stare, but he’s not slow and sweet when he pulls them off. He yanks them down, and when I step out, his eyes glimmer with flames. He stares at me half-naked—no, mostly naked—in front of him.
A big, needy breath escapes his lips. Then he dips his face toward me, and gives a tease of a kiss to my clit. “After you come on my cock, I’ll spend a good long time eating you. But first, you need to get fucked hard like you asked for.”
Holy fuck.
I asked for it. I did. But he’s giving it. Oh, how he’s fucking giving it good with his words.
He rises, fishes into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, then hands it to me.
With eager fingers, I reach for the condom, not caring about anything else. Like I’m going to scour his ID anyway. With the protection in hand, I set down his wallet as he sheds his jeans, then his briefs. His thick, hard cock points at me. Standing at full attention.
And with a bead of liquid arousal just waiting at the tip. My mouth waters. Then I can’t help it—I smile. “I like that opinion very much,” I say, reaching out and gripping his shaft.
He’s hot and hard, the skin smooth and velvety to the touch. I glide my hand up and down his length. He shudders, like the feel of my hand on him is too much. But it’s a too much he seems to crave, since he covers my fingers, guiding me along as he throbs in my hand.
His eyes float closed.
He groans, so low I can barely hear the sound. But I’m not sure I need to hear it. I can feel his groan. I can see his throat move.
Then, he opens his eyes and blows out a breath, like he’s shaking off the momentary lapse in his focus. He bats my hand away, and takes the condom. “Now show me how pretty you look when you’re riding my cock.”
He sits on the chaise, covers his cock, and pulls me down onto his lap. “And get rid of this fucking bra right now,” he says, nodding to the lace still covering me. “But leave the locket on.”
Yes, sir.
I unhook my bra as he grips the base of his dick and offers it to me. I take the offered prize and rub the head against my wetness. His breath hisses, and the sound and vibration from it thrums through me, turning me on even more. I sink down. An inch at first.
I moan. He groans.
I sink more till he’s filling me all the way, stretching me deliciously, and he’s cupping my tits too. It’s a sensory overload, and so is how he stares too. Like he can’t believe his luck.
He plays with my nipples for a few seconds, then sweeps his hands down my sides. I shiver as he goes, watching his arms, the strength in them, the way his muscles flex, how the arrow tattoo melts right into an inked tree, bursting with bright leaves.
They’re as beautiful as he is. I tear my gaze away from them, looking at his face.
For a moment, the world blurs at the edges, going a little soft and sweet. It’s just us, here in the studio in the early evening, no one knowing where we are, what we’re doing, or that we’re both having the best date ever.
“Hi,” he whispers .
“Hi,” I say.
And the best dates end…like this.
He grips my waist, fingers digging into my flesh, and he takes the reins, taking over. I’m hardly riding him. It’s more like he’s fucking up into me.
With hard, deep thrusts that have nothing in common with the soft way his hands just grazed my flesh. No, now he’s rough, like I asked. Controlling, like I want. Powerful, like I need.
My hands curl tightly over his muscular shoulders, and Miles locks eyes with me as he drives up into me. Everything about this feels raw and necessary. The deep kind of fucking that’s a little merciless.
A little ruthless too.
I see that in his eyes, in the tension lining his jaw and the power in his body. He’s fucking up, but he’s also moving me on his dick, using me, but letting me use him too.
He seems to catalog my every reaction. When he hits a spot deep inside me that makes me shudder from my head to my toes, he smiles wickedly and chases that spot again. And he hits it.
I gasp.
“You like that? When I fuck you hard?”
“Yes,” I answer, in a desperate pant.
His hand travels up my chest, and he squeezes my right breast. “And this?”
“Yes.” I grow hotter, and he has to feel that, because his eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh, you really fucking do,” he says, seeming so damn pleased.
“I do,” I gasp .
He brushes his lips against mine. “I can feel your sweet pussy gripping me harder.”
Another gasp. Another crank of the temperature inside. But I can’t answer him. I don’t even know what I’d say if I could. My body has all the answers though as he twists my nipple, and I throw my head back. “Yesssss,” I moan, unbidden.
He kisses my throat then pulls back, grabbing my face. “Look at me when you come.”
I gasp but nod, my eyes focused on him. His dark eyes are on fire. His mouth is a demanding line. His need is etched in his face. “I will,” I say.
“Look at me because I want you to see what you fucking do to me,” he says, almost like an accusation.
And I love being accused like this. “What do I do to you?”
“You drive me fucking wild,” he says, the words harsh, so harsh they send a jolt of lust through me.
“How wild?”
“I’m so fucking into you,” he says, a feral sort of promise that’s way over the top for a first date.
And yet…it feels wholly true.
Or maybe it’s just that everything feels true with him. True and raw and electric as he drops a hand between my thighs. His thumb strokes my clit, his cock fills me up, and his words grip my dirty soul.
My vision blurs, sparks shooting behind my eyelids as lust grips me so deeply, and I come in seconds.
A long needy series of oh god, yes, oh god yes, oh my fucking god.
And when I’m done, this man I’m sitting on is smiling at me. Smiling as I nearly collapse in his arms.
“I’m not done with you, Shutterbug,” he says, tsking me as he maneuvers me easily on the chaise. In no time, he’s pulled out, flipped me to my back, and is pushing my legs up my chest. With the condom still in place, he notches the head of his cock against me once more, staring down at me so our gazes are locked. “Now I want another one, Leighton.”
“If you think you can,” I tease.
“I can and you fucking will,” he says, and it’s a little scary how he says it, but a lot thrilling.
“Give me one then,” I toss out, challenging him right back.
“I don’t back down,” he says, then braces himself on those strong, sinewy arms. He shoves into me, and I scream from the blunt way he takes me, pushing my knees up to my chest and driving into me.
Miles is doing everything I asked. He’s not fucking me delicately.
He’s a little rough. A little demanding. A little angry. And I’ve never been more turned on than I am when this thoughtful, kind man goes wild on me.
It’s exactly the kind of sex I think I’ve always wanted but have never known to ask for. Till I met a stranger who seemed…enchanted by me.
Oh, god. My heart beats so fast. My pulse surges. The awareness that this is happening pulls me under—there’s some kind of fierce chemistry between the two of us.
It’s not just the rough sex. It’s the real connection. The way he’s treated me all day. Most of all, it’s the knowledge that I’m as into him as he’s into me.
My mind spins and I grab his ass, pulling him deeper till I’m falling apart again too. Several mind-bending seconds later, he groans, then jerks. “Fuuuuuck,” he grunts, his whole body slamming hard into me once more, pushing me up the chaise longue farther as the aftershocks radiate through me.
He drops his face into the crook of my neck, collapsing onto me. Sighing long and hard, moaning, lost in the moment.
Which is, admittedly, a nice compliment.
Except, I’ve no choice but to shift around to accommodate his face in my neck, and with my right ear nearly pressed against the cushion, the top of my hearing aid is knocked loose.
Oh, shit.
The custom mold is still inside my ear—that’s not likely to come loose on its own ever—but the behind-the-ear part? That little silver bitch has jumped off my ear and burrowed into my hair. That usually only happens when something gets caught in my hair, like the string from a face mask at the doctor’s office, or corded headphones.
And now, a hot, strapping man fucking me hard into the cushions has done the job.
Subtly, or as subtly as I can, I sneak a hand into my hair, hunting for it in my strands. But Miles rises up, looking down at me curiously.
Awkward.
Never have I ever searched for a hearing aid post-sex. Because never have I ever had one dislodge during sex.
“Is everything okay?” he asks with genuine concern.
“Yes, fine.”
“Do you need?—”
“Nope,” I say brightly, cutting that idea off at the knees. I don’t need help freeing my hearing aid from my own hair, but I also don’t want anyone else touching it. They’re expensive and necessary. They’re for my hands only .
In a few seconds, I free the piece from my hair without having to pull the whole thing out of my ear, thank god. But still, I scoot up on the chaise and turn away from him, quickly tucking the small silver piece back where it belongs.
It’s not that I can’t hear without it. I can manage. But it’s that—none of this is sexy. And it’s kind of embarrassing. Like some asshole once said to me after a couple dates last year when he learned I wore them. Nick’s words? “Well, that’s embarrassing. Especially at your age.”
Yup. I’m twenty-three and wear something most people associate with the elderly and have since I was sixteen.
Fun times.
Best to move on. “I should get dressed,” I say evenly since I don’t want him to think this bothers me. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. Or to tell me I’m beautiful right now, because if he does that, it will feel like he means you’re beautiful even with your hearing aids.
I don’t want that kind of response, and I don’t need that kind of reassurance. But before I can slide out from under him, Miles wraps a hand gently around my arm, and says, “I’m sorry. Did I knock it out?”
I pause, absorbing the words. The question. The intent. He’s not trying to make me feel like I’m oh so inspiring for being able to have sex with hearing aids in. He’s just acknowledging that they’re part of it and that he’s, well, cool with it.
And that’s a much better response. “Yes, but it’s fine now,” I say. “They survived the great fucking.”
He laughs, then turns sober quickly. “Do you need anything? ”
For you to stop being so fantastic because I’m going to start expecting a unicorn to arrive on my doorstep tomorrow.
And since I’m too much of a realist to believe in good fortune that I don’t make happen with hard work, I say, “I’m good.”
I should get dressed. Say goodnight. Head home to my roommates. Go out on a high note, so to speak.
But before I can grab my shirt, he slips an arm around my waist and pulls me back to him, forcing me to look at his too handsome face. “Can you hand me my glasses?”
My heart stutters from the simplicity of the request. They’re not the same—glasses and hearing aids—but neither one of us has perfect senses and I know that was a purposeful reminder. I hand them to him, and he slides them on, pushes them up, then says, like it’s a goddamn order, “Let’s have that second date now.”
“Now?” I repeat in case I didn’t hear him right. Because who does this? What man puts himself out there this way? This can’t be real. I’m not sure I feel ready for a man like Miles, who seems so certain of who he is and what he wants. I’ve never dated anyone like him before.
“Yes,” he says. “I want to see you again. I have to go out of town tomorrow, but come over tonight, Leighton. Let me cook dinner for you. Are you hungry?”
This isn’t how dating works. This isn’t how men work. This isn’t how I usually work…but I don’t want tonight to end either.
“I guess we’d better find your watch and get out of here then,” I say, and after we clean up the studio we’re closing the door behind us a few minutes later.