I lower myself to the bed beside her and stare at the photos of myself that pop up on the laptop. The first one yanks a startled breath from my lungs. She immediately clicks on it, making it full screen.
“What do you think?” she asks, her voice a bit shaky.
“I think I look incredible.”
That’s an understatement.
I’m used to taking intimate photos of myself, but never like this. The way Evie’s managed to make something so lustful and sexy look like the classiest artwork is incredible. While I may be on my hands and knees, the pose makes me look more like a queen than a submissive. Like I could stare up at a dozen men and have each one dropping to the floor to worship me without needing to speak a single word.
The black lingerie wrapped around my skin looks like ink against my pale skin. My hair stands out in the same way, but for the first time in a long time, I miss the blonde. Not becauseI don’t think the red looks good on me, but because the blonde is authentically me, and staring at myself in this photo, it feels wrong not to be stripped bare of the fake colour the same way I have my clothes.
My breasts hang in the sheer fabric, my nipples hidden only with an expert camera angle. I stare at the excess skin on my lower stomach that I’m used to hiding beneath high-waisted panties as it overhangs the low waistband of the ones I wore that day and feel a burst of pride deep in my chest. There’s so much of me that’s bare in this photo, yet the last thing I feel when I look at myself is exposed.
Emotion balls in my throat as I blink back sudden tears.
“You really like them?” Evie asks softly.
My voice is choked. “I way more than like them. You have a real talent for this.”
“Well, I have so many more to show you. I’m seriously in awe of them, Elle. I can already see one of them hanging in my studio.” She clicks away from that photo to another. “The lighting in this one is good, but I don’t think it’s my favourite out of the bunch. This one, though—this is gorgeous. Look at the way the shadow from the window passes through your hair. It almost looks more black than red. Oh! And this photo is another that I spent hours editing. Not thatyouneeded the editing, but I could see the dust particles around your head with the spotlight dimmed, and I swear by the time I got them all, I was seeing things that weren’t there.”
Her excited rambling dries my tears. I snort a laugh and scoot further onto the bed while she points to the deep arch I’m making on the floor in the next photo. It’s easy to feel confident when you see yourself through the lens of an expertly wielded camera.
And that’s exactly what Evie’s gifted me with these photos.
17
BRIELLE
“So,this is the pool nobody uses. And over there is where I sit by myself in the summer because Roman’s allergic to the sun.”
“Wait, actually?” I ask, following her waving hand as she finishes the tour of Roman’s house.
Evie shakes her head as a laugh trickles out of her. “No. Not really. He’s just a homebody when he’s not at work. A hermit, if you will. Especially in the off-season.”
“I could tell that much. He seemed a bit out of his comfort zone at the concert.”
“That’s the least surprising thing I’ve heard in years.”
She moves closer to the edge of the pool and points her bare toes before dipping them in. I don’t follow suit, lingering behind her instead. The sun has started to set, painting the sky in pinks and oranges that bounce off the still water.
It’s not warm enough for her to be barefoot and wearing only the romper I made, but when I asked her to try it on earlier, she didn’t hesitate. In a blink, she’d yanked it from my hands and stepped into her bathroom to change. And when she came out?
It was like I’d made it specifically for her.
While I can still tell where I need to improve the design, it drapes her body perfectly. There’s no cling to her soft belly ortightness around her backside. The sleeves don’t pinch or rise with movement. It’s flattering in the way it falls over her curves without hiding them.
“How long have you been designing clothes?” she asks, turning at the waist.
“I started when I was fourteen, so give or take about eleven years.”
Her deep blue eyes widen a bit. “No wonder you’re so good.”
“I’ve had a shit ton of practice. I’ve pricked my fingers more times than I can count and even broke my mom’s old sewing machine,” I say, smiling to myself before letting it fade. “She used to make a lot of my clothes growing up because they didn’t have a lot of options for an overweight ten-year-old.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “Not much has changed from then.”
“Nope.”
