The Dark Collector (6 page)

Authors: Vanessa North

BOOK: The Dark Collector

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“No, look at me, Oliver.” He turns my head with his free hand. “I’m going to make you feel amazing. I’m going to make you fly. Do you trust me?”

I nod mutely, now that he’s looking right in my eyes as he—oh
shit—
works a third finger inside me, I can’t tear them away, and I don’t know why I’d want to. He’s fucking gorgeous and he’s focusing every ounce of his attention on me.

“Good. I bet people have told you your whole life that you’re beautiful, haven’t they? They’ve called you precious and darling and baby and someone always wanted to take care of you. You are beautiful, not a single person has ever lied to you about that.”

I can feel a blush heating my body, my face.

“But they never saw all of you until Jeffrey showed you to the world.
His
Oliver wasn’t beautiful, he was exquisite. God, I was jealous. Of him, for seeing you first. Of you for being loved like that.” He leans over my chest and sucks on one of my nipples, making me arch and take his fingers deeper. He stretches me and strokes with those clever fingers. He kisses and teases and tells me how beautiful I am, and that for tonight, he’ll be the one taking care of me.

I let go, I let him take all that grief and anger boiling away inside and draw it forth until I’m just the body in his hands, aroused, aching, arching into his hand and grunting. I want more. I want him, and I want
more.

I feel more lube dripping onto my ass.
Oh.
I realize what he’s doing, of course I do. It’s dangerous, but I need to see how this is going to play out. I’m not even tempted to safe word. I want
more.
I have to ask for it…

“Your name.” I finally manage to say the words without slurring as he teases my rim with that fourth finger.

“You have a name for me.” He nips my chin with his teeth and smiles at me. God, he’s really fucking beautiful. “Don’t you? Something you call me in your head? Something besides ‘Sir’?”

“The dark collector.” How on earth I get the words out is beyond me.

“Yeah? That’s a good name, Oliver, you know why?”

I shake my head, staring at him wide-eyed as his knuckles—
Oh fuck—
slide around the entrance to my body.

“I’m gonna collect all this dark out of you. I’m gonna take it away for a while, and you’re going to be nothing but shiny, okay?”

I nod, wanting that.
Take it, take my darkness.

And my God, he does.

The pain as his knuckles slide past my stretched rim is intense—but then he’s inside me, his whole damn hand
inside.
I’m gone, past coherency, mumbling and whimpering and possibly begging him for more.

“Oliver.” His voice is soft and reverent, cutting through my own mindless noises. My eyes snap open. When he’s got my attention, he smiles and says, “My name is Henry.”

Henry.

He turns his hand, making soft little motions with it, and he takes my cock in his other hand and starts to pump it. I’m hard and leaking and the pressure in my ass is so intense, I just give myself over to it. Let him have all the dark, all the grief, all the loneliness.

And I’m free and shiny, just like he said, when I come all over myself with a shout and a shudder.

****

When I wake in the morning, stiff and sore in the best of ways, I’m curled into his body, my head on his chest. He’s stroking my hair.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

I wriggle a little and wince. “I will be.”

“Did I hurt you?” His eyes widen, and he moves like he’s going to inspect my ass.

“No. Not really. I promise, I’m fine.” Exhausted. Depleted. Fine.

Something about my grief has been so sharp, I’ve shied away from touching it. But over the course of one weekend, he’s stripped everything away and forced me to confront all of it, bit by bit.

In the pale light filtering through his windows, I’m not Jeffrey’s wild, fey muse. And he’s not some dark collector, taking away my last tie to Jeffrey.

I’m just Oliver, and he’s just Henry, and that’s just fine.

“I’ll call the auction house and arrange to have the painting shipped to you.” He strokes a hand down my arm and tangles his fingers with mine. “I’m sorry. I should have sold it to you and asked you out on a proper date.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes.” I bring his hand up to my lips and kiss the back of it. “I don’t regret this.”

“You called yourself a whore.”

“I didn’t mean it.” I laugh. “Well, I might have in the moment. But I don’t feel that way now.” I look at his alarm clock next to the bed. Seven-thirty. “I have to go to work. I have a call in Brooklyn at nine.”

“You still model?” He looks startled.

“Not like what I did for Jeffrey. Catalog work. Pays the bills.”

“I suppose it must.” He shrugs. “Go ahead and use the shower, I’ll set your clothes out and get breakfast ready.”

“Don’t. I’ll just grab coffee and a bagel on the way.” I don’t want to drag this out. I take that shower, but I don’t linger for breakfast. I kiss him goodbye at the door, and I walk out of his life.

****

Two weeks later…

The package arrives late in the afternoon. I know it’s the painting, because the courier service has me sign all these documents, and they wait for me to unwrap it and make sure it’s okay before they leave. I can barely look at it. I nod, then they hand me a box.

“What’s this?”

“Something else sent over from the auction house. If everything is good with the painting, we need to go.”

I sign the last document and off they go.

I open the box. Inside is a binder—I recognize it immediately. I touch a trembling hand to my mouth. He sent them all. The negatives I
should
have bid on, rather than the painting. My life with Jeffrey. He’s given it back to me. In the box with the binder is a small card. I open it and begin to read.

Dear Oliver,

I hope you’re well. I hope you’re happy, and whole, and maybe these can make you smile, even if you cry a little at the same time. I want to thank you for the amazing weekend. I’ve admired you through Jeffrey’s art for years, and I wanted you.

You gave me so much more than I ever hoped for.

I know you still think of yourself as Kuyper’s muse. I know you loved him, and you're only just beginning to grieve him. But when you’re ready, if you think you can be simply Oliver, and you might like to have dinner with simply Henry, a collector of art and things, I’d welcome your call.

My kindest, warmest regards,

Henry

Henry, who always writes his own thank you cards. Henry who saw me wild and sad and gave me back to myself.

Am I ready to be simply Oliver?

I dial the number on the card.

“Hello?” His voice sounds muffled, like he’s put me on speaker.

“Henry? This is Oliver.”

A flurry of noise, then, “Oliver!” clear as day. “How are you, did you get the painting, and the…”

“I got your note, and the negatives, and the painting, yes, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I was wondering if you’d maybe like to come over and cook dinner with me?”

The line goes quiet. Then, in almost a whisper, “I would like that very much.”

About Vanessa North

Vanessa North was born in New England but moved to the South as a teenager, where she learned to appreciate biscuits and gravy, bluegrass, and that most welcome of greetings: “Hey y’all!” She has a degree in Mass Communication but has long since abandoned journalism in favor of writing romance. Instead of telling the news, V would rather tell stories.

Vanessa has a voracious appetite for books and loves all kinds. She writes obsessively: every day brings new ideas and stories to tell. When she’s not buried in a book—hers or someone else’s—you can find her taking thousands of photographs of the people she loves.

She lives in Northwest Georgia with her handsome husband, not-quite-civilized twin boy-children, and a very, very large dog.

V loves to hear from readers!

Email: [email protected]

Website:
http://www.vanessanorth.com

Blog:
http://vanessanorthwrites.wordpress.com

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GoodReads:
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Other Titles by Vanessa North

Two in Winter

Fight or Flight

Jackson’s Law