Beneath The Skin(23)

The worry seems to ease out of him, replaced quickly with that all-too-familiar cockiness. “Yeah, right. Y’know, two nipples are fun, sure. But four are more fun.” He gives my breasts a quirk of his eyebrows.

I give his nipple one last pinch, earning a moan from him, then release the tortured thing. Turning my back to him, I bend down to the art project next to which we’re having so much fun and release the handcuffs one by one. Brant stands there in all his sexy, slender, muscled glory, his nipples hard and his cock harder, bulging in those tight black briefs of his. When I glance back at him, his blue eyes watch me under his tuft of messy brown hair, hungry and waiting.

I remove the naked lady from the platform—it’s just wire and paper and weighs next to nothing—then gently pat the vacant display. “Giddy up, camera boy.”

Brant, ever slow to process my meaning, simply looks at the empty platform, confused. Then he squints at me and asks, “You want me … to get onto that?”

I lift the four handcuffs. They rattle in my clutch as they tap against one another, creating their tinny dissonant song of metal and restraint.

That’s when the message hits him. “Oh, fuck! You’re a kinky minx, aren’t you?” He laughs, his face lighting up. Then, just as quickly, he turns worried again. “W-Wait, are you serious?”

My lips curl. “Yep.”

He rubs his hands together quickly—whether out of nervousness or to keep warm, I’m not sure—then glances around one last time before crawling up onto the display, assuming the all-fours position.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

He looks up at me, quivering with excitement. Apparently, neither can he.

“Makin’ me your object, huh?” He licks his lips, then lets his eyes go on a thorough stroll down my body, and it might as well be his hands doing the strolling, for the way they seem to touch my every curve. All his wet dreams and expectations are painted on his lively face.

In this moment, I almost lose my nerve, second-guessing myself. That is, until I hear the sound of the cuff clicking around his left wrist.

“Fuck, this is hot,” he whispers—to himself, I think.

I circle around the display to his left ankle. Even from behind, he’s a work of art—a sculpture of muscle, of man, of beauty. Click! His right ankle is next—click!—and then I’m back in front of him, securing the final cuff to his right wrist. Each cuff is tight and unforgiving, lending him no ability to move his limbs whatsoever; he’s secured in place and not going anywhere.

“This sucks a bit for my knees,” he tells me casually, “but I’ll live. Maybe now that you’ve made me your … object … you might consider showing me a little … somethin’-somethin’ of you?”

I crouch down in front of him, nearly nose to nose. “Oh, yeah?” I smile, squeezing my breasts together invitingly. His eyes go straight to them. So predictable. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Throw the dog a bone, huh?”

He sticks out his tongue and pants like a puppy.

“You know, Brant …” I shake my head ruefully. “I still think women are objectified far more than men. But maybe this little display of yours might … sway my mind.” I pat his smooth, flushed cheek.

This close to his face, I find myself in a predicament of my own, warring between a desire to just ditch him here and stalk home, or to kiss those full, sexy lips of his … lips that I know will send a fire rushing through me that no cold shower could dream of putting out. Wetness gathers between my thighs as they squeeze together, nearly squirming as I crouch before him with my face so close to his. A hundred ideas of what else I can do to him tumble through my conflicted mind.

What’s the harm in giving in, anyway? Wouldn’t I get something out of it too, even if it’s just for one night? How long has it been since a man touched me and sent electricity down every nerve in my body?

Why, when something nice actually enters my life, do I feel the need to sabotage any possible chance of something good coming from it?

“You look gorgeous,” he murmurs.

My face softens at his words.

“And,” he goes on, “I bet you’d look prettier with my dick between your legs.”

He, however, is not that “something nice” who’s entered my life. He embodies everything I can’t stand about men. Unspeakably arrogant. Thinks he’s the tissue for my every tear. Thinks he’s the supply to my every lack. Sure, Brant’s talented, and his talent is spoiling every mood and taking what little hope I had and wiping up the floor with it.