Lana(8)

I leaned against the window, arching my back and parting my legs. I lay my cheek against the glass as I sent him what I hoped was a sultry look. “We already had sex. Why stop at once? The damage is done, right?”

He was striding to me before I’d finished taunting him. He grabbed my hips from behind, pressing hard against me, and working himself in, inch by hard inch. He went slowly at first, making sure that I could take all of him at that angle. After he’d cleared my passage twice, he began a pounding rhythm that had me making desperate little sounds in my throat. My climax built fast. He grabbed my br**sts, squeezing and kneading at them. “I’ve jerked myself off to your pictures more times than I can count,” he whispered into my ear.

That did it. I came, gasping out his name.

He jerked into me a half a dozen more times before he reached his own climax, clutching at my br**sts and biting my neck almost roughly. I loved the rawness of it.

He pulled me into bed with him after that, cuddling against me. I hadn’t forgotten how sweet he could be. The memories still haunted me. Often.

“Did you really masturbate to my pictures, or were you just saying that?” I asked him, looking up to see his eyes.

He looked down at me, where I cuddled in my little spot on his chest, his expression baffled. “Why the hell would I just say that? It’s perverted and nasty, not to mention embarrassing. I felt like I needed to get it off my chest. And it’s not ‘did’, it’s ‘do’. When I jerk off to a picture, I guarantee it’s yours.”

I laughed, loving the disgruntled look on his face. “Prove it. I haven’t modeled in years. Where would you even get my picture?”

He gave me a pointed look, pushing me gently from his chest. He rolled to the side of the bed, reaching underneath it to pull out a rather beat-up issue of Sports Illustrated. Sure enough, I was on the cover. “Exhibit A,” he muttered. It was the most high profile modeling job I’d ever done, my fifteen minutes of fame, posing in a tiny yellow bikini and straddling a surfboard on the coveted cover spot. I’d walked away from the business after that job, feeling a strange but overwhelming need, at the time, to reconnect with my family, and the family business. Modeling just hadn’t been for me, and I’d burned out on it quickly.

I smiled at Akira. “You know I don’t mind. You can use my pictures in any filthy way you want to, you pervert.”

He flushed, and I laughed. I enjoyed tormenting him. I always had. For years and years, it had been my favorite hobby.

“It drives me crazy sometimes, thinking about how many other men are doing exactly the same thing.”

I just shrugged, not really concerned about anyone else so much as him. He had always been the only one I cared about, the only one I saw or concerned myself with. It was the joke of my pathetic life that he didn’t feel even remotely the same way about me.

“What else? Is there an exhibit B? What other pictures do you have of me that you like to do filthy things to?” I asked.

He glared, but walked to his computer. “Observe. Exhibit B. See my browsing history?” He clicked on it, and another bikini shot of me popped up. This one was more scandalous. It had been taken when I was surfing, some discarded shot from a photo shoot, maybe. But someone had leaked it. I was straddling the surfboard, looking intently at the waves, one of my ni**les showing clearly due to a wardrobe malfunction.

I laughed. I hadn’t even known that was out there. “I’ve never seen that one.”

“I made the mistake of reading the comments under it once. It was the angriest jerk-off session of my life.”

I laughed, feeling positively giddy at the thought of him wanting me that much, enough to search me online to see a picture of me.

We were both still naked. Neither of us had even thought to cover up as we looked at the computer. He sat in his computer chair, just staring at me, dumbstruck. His gaze ran up and down my body hungrily, but he was still so hesitant to touch me. My hands skimmed along my naked torso. “Which do you prefer, the photo-shopped pictures, or the real thing?” I asked, cupping my br**sts as I finished.

He swallowed hard, looking up into my eyes. “It’s like you have no clue how far out of my league you are. Guys like me don’t get girls like you. You know that, right? You’re a filthy rich supermodel, who also happens to be the daughter of my mentor, the man I respect more than anyone else in the world. I’ve never even met my own father; I’ve had my share of run-ins with the law, on several occasions, in fact, when I was a stupid, violent teenager. I still struggle to keep my fists to myself with the wrong provocation. I almost punched a guy in the bar just last week for talking about those damned pictures my mom won’t take down. I’m not good enough for you.”

I just listened to him as he dissed himself, wanting to punch him, but wanting to hear where he was going with his tirade even more.

I sat on his lap, or rather, I straddled him, naked. It was a mistake. He closed up like a clam after that, looking at my body, his eyes so hungry and tender.

It undid me, such a harsh looking man with such tender eyes for me. When I was certain he didn’t have any more to say, I leaned in and began to kiss him, a hungry, passionate kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck, rubbing against him like a cat. I assumed he couldn’t go for another round, but I just wanted that raw, naked contact with him. I was more than delighted when I felt him growing hard again against me. I shifted against him, instinctively trying to impale myself on the stiffening length.