Pretty, Dark and Dirty

I lay still, my heart thumping in my clitoris as it pulsed against my fingers.

Nothing about this was normal. What we were doing, or how it made me feel. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was finally where I belonged.

He drew me for forty minutes before he laid his pencil down, shaking his hand and flexing his fingers.

“Do you need a break?” he asked.

My limbs prickled from lying in the same position for so long. “Maybe a short one.”

“We’ll take ten,” he said.

I wondered if I would have to touch myself again when we resumed, not that it would take much to get me going. I was still humming like an engine left to idle, easily revved to life.

Mason uncrossed his legs, resting both feet on the ground. His sketchbook slid to the side. I sat up to stretch and caught sight of what looked like the ridge of an erection braced against his thigh through his jeans.

I sucked in a quick breath and my inner muscles tightened.

How long had he been aroused? A few minutes? Since he’d spread my legs? Since I started touching myself?

I flicked my gaze away. When I looked up at his face, he was eyeing me as though he knew exactly what I’d seen—and wasn’t sure how he felt about my seeing it.

His fingers flexed. For a second, I thought he might reach for me. He stood, and the way he positioned his sketchbook over his lap did not escape my notice.

“That’s enough for today,” he said.

With long, swift strides, he crossed the room and ascended the stairs to the loft, leaving me alone in the studio.

Chapter Nine

The air turned brittle in the sudden quiet, save for my heart beating like a drum in my chest. I donned the robe he’d tried to give me earlier, securing the terrycloth sash around my waist, then padded to the sink for a glass of water.

I had wanted Mason to draw me like he used to. I should’ve known that it wouldn’t be that simple.

Time had changed us. I wasn’t his little girl anymore, and the things he wanted from his models were things I had no business giving him. It was natural for him to get aroused with the others. I wondered if he slept with them, too. The thought made me sick, not from disgust, but from jealousy.

I had never felt so emotionally naked with a boy before, let alone a man—and that's what Mason was, a man. Jagged and smooth, hard and soft, so many amazing things at once. Once upon a time, I was his daughter, and now I was a woman, with breasts and hips and the ability to give and receive pleasure.

He’d touched my pussy. No hand but mine had ever touched me there.

It happened so quickly I hadn’t had time to process. But thinking about it now made me want to rub my thighs together.

I liked it. More than that, I wanted it to happen again.

Something was seriously wrong with me.

I refilled the glass, running the tap too hard and splashing water everywhere. I forced myself to drink, to drown, to suppress these chilling urges.

This man had abandoned me, but until a few weeks ago, he was still my father. Had six years apart turned us into strangers who could mistake one another for love interests? My mind cried out for an explanation for which my body had no answer. None that made sense, anyway.

My lungs begged for air. I coughed, water spluttering from my mouth into the sink. I moved to set the glass on the countertop and misjudged the edge. The glass fell to the hardwood floor and shattered.

“Fuck.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stooped to gather the pieces.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“What happened?” Mason asked, coming to stand behind me.

“I dropped a glass.” My voice cracked from coughing. I couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry.”