Free Hard by Cheryl McIntyre, Dawn Decker

bothered, more power to them, but no, that is not my intent. I find women beautiful. A naked woman is lovely. A naked woman, uninhibited, in the midst of ecstasy is picturesque. It’s appreciation over stimulation.” He smiles smugly, raising his glass as if he just proved his point.
    “But isn’t all art meant to stimulate in some way?” I counter. “What would the point be otherwise? Who would bother to look at it if they felt nothing when they did?”
    Jensen’s chest rises and falls quickly with each of his accelerated breaths. The pulse in the side of his neck pounds visibly against his skin. He says nothing for a long time, his stare searing, regarding me with an intensity that makes my heart beat in double time.

 
    17
    Jensen
     
    Not once in my thirty years, have I been scared of a woman. The only one who has ever come close to striking fear in me is my mother, and she passed— God rest her soul —over ten years ago.
    Right now, I am terrified of the sexy, intelligent, audacious woman sitting across from me. If I believed her appearance was the only draw, she has officially made me reconsider.
    “Yes,” I finally agree. “Art is meant to stimulate emotion, you’re correct. However, I don’t deem horny as an emotion. Lust is physical. It’s an instinct. Basic. Animalistic. My photos are not meant for that purpose. I want others to look at what I find beautiful and lose their breath. I want them to appreciate the brilliance in the world—in all forms.”
    She traps her tongue between her teeth, considering my words. It’s fucking sexy as hell. “That’s very important to you.”
    I nod, pushing my back into my chair. “It is.”
    “Why?”
    Well isn’t that the million dollar question? Usually I love a good Why? Not this time. And I have no intention of answering—at least not honestly. My eyes ache and I rub at them with the heels of my hands. “Scopophilia,” I remind her, pointing to my chest, using my easy go-to answer.
    We’re both quiet for a moment, just watching one another. She doesn’t buy my answer, I can see it plainly on her face, but she’s hesitant to say so. And she should be. I’m not above reminding her of the way she carefully steered our conversation from herself just a few minutes ago. Or the way I allowed the detour. Everyone has something to hide. She can keep her secrets—for now—as long as she doesn’t pry into mine.
    The timer buzzes on the oven and I take full advantage of the distraction.
    Once I have our chicken plated and our glasses refilled, I take my seat, immediately digging in. I watch Holland slice a small piece and raise her fork to her mouth. Her jaw works, chewing the bite in an almost hypnotizing way. Right there, that’s the first place I’m going to touch my lips when we’re finished here. I’m going to trail kisses along her jaw, down her throat, and bury my face in her breasts. I’m growing hard picturing it.
    “This is really good,” she says, intersecting my wicked thoughts.
    “Thank you.”
    “Where did you learn to cook?” she asks, her finger circling the rim of her glass absentmindedly.
    I wipe my mouth, sitting forward. This is a much easier topic for me. Cooking doesn’t even come close to my love of taking pictures, but I enjoy it. “My mother. After she and my dad separated when I was eleven, she made it her personal goal to teach me my way around a kitchen. My dad couldn’t make a meal to save a life. She wanted to be sure I wasn’t living off fast food when I spent my summers with him.”
    Holland covers her smile with her fingers. “That’s awesome. I love that. What does she think about what you do? Selling erotic art for a living?”
    I look away and swallow back a deep drink of my wine. Mom’s been gone for a long time, but I’ve wondered the same thing many times before. What would she think of me, of my lifestyle, if she were still here?
    “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She died before I went into