Caine guides me through a series of poses—reclining on the chaise, my back arched, my gaze directed toward an unseen horizon; standing barefoot, one hand delicately touching my collarbone, the other curled into a loose fist at my side.
With each click of the shutter, I feel myself relaxing, my self-consciousness melting away under the warmth of Caine's approving gaze.
I wonder if he's as turned on as I am. I wonder if he's hard at all. I close my eyes again, remembering how I felt him harden against me, knowing how big he is, how fucking hard he was for me that day in the storage room.
I blink again. God, why am I such a tramp? Why can't I just do this without picturing Caine fucking me? The worst part is I'm doing this right in front of my husband.
Caine's voice is a gentle current, washing over me, guiding me. "Tilt your head back... just like that, perfect. Now, look at me. Yes, just like that."
I realize, with a jolt of surprise, that I feel beautiful. Powerful, even. The vulnerability I expected to feel has been replaced by something else entirely—intensearousal, and a sense of confidence, of ownership over my own body and desires.
Throughout the shoot, I'm acutely aware of Reeves’s presence, his unyielding gaze never straying from me. I wonder if he can sense the subtle shift within me, the way my breath catches when Caine steps close to adjust my pose, the way my skin pebbles under the soft sweep of his fingers.
I wonder if he can tell that his wife, the mother of his child, is aroused, her body humming with a need she has no business feeling.
But I don't dare meet Reeves’s eyes, not wanting to shatter the delicate illusion that this is just a photo shoot, nothing more. It's what I've been telling myself after all. I'm such a hypocrite—deep down, I know it's all bullshit.
This is as much about kink as it is about the money. It's about being naked for Caine, about feeling his breath on my skin once more, about feeling his touch, no matter how slight it is, about staring into those amazing eyes and spotting his intense desire for me.
I focus on him, on the rhythm of his voice, the careful precision of his movements, and the way he makes me feel so wanted, unlike any man before him ever has, and of course on the promise of salvation in the form of a check with more zeroes than I deserve.
The silence in the car feels like a physical thing, pressing against my skin. I stare out the window as Portland's lights blur past us, my mind replaying every moment of the photo session—Caine's gentle instructions, the way his eyes lingered on me, how I felt both exposed and somehow protected under his gaze.
"When do we get the money?" Reeves finally breaks the silence, his voice tight.
I turn to look at him, his profile harsh in the glow of passing streetlights. "Shortly," I manage, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "You know Caine is good for it."
Reeves’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "Well, hopefully, we're done with the guy for good now," he says, eyes fixed on the road. "He probably has a million photos of women." His words slice through me. "You're nothing special, you know. Don't go fooling yourself now," he adds with a smirk. "I'd love to see his work."
Each syllable lands like a slap. I turn back to the window, blinking rapidly as tears threaten. I was special—I felt it in the way Caine looked at me, the careful attention he paid to every pose, every angle. For that hour, I wasn't just a struggling bartender, a tired mom, a woman drowning in debt. I was art.
And now Reeves has taken that away with a few careless words.
The thought of never seeing Caine again opens a hollow space inside me. I've been trying not to think about it, but now the reality crashes down.
No more afternoons at the pool hall. No more feeling that electric charge when his eyes meet mine. No more of that delicious anticipation that's been keeping me going through endless days of work and bills and worry.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. What right do I have to feel this way? I'm married. I have a child. I made vows.
But still, the sadness wells up, unstoppable as the tide. I press my forehead against the cool glass, hoping Reeves won't notice the tears that finally spill over.
Fifty thousand dollars. It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like a door closing on something I never even got to fully experience—something bright and thrilling and forbidden that I'll spend the rest of my life wondering about.
I drop my purse on the dresser, my body still humming with leftover adrenaline from the photo shoot.
Reeves slams the door, making me jump. His face is flushed, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
"That's it," he declares, pacing. “We’re done with that smug bastard. Done."
I sit on the edge of our sectional, watching him storm back and forth across the hardwood floor. His energy fills our living room, making the space feel smaller than it is.
"Reeves, we needed the money—"
"I don't care.” He stops pacing to face me. "The way he looked at you... like he owned you. And you..." He trails off, running his hands through his dark hair.
"Me what?" I challenge, suddenly defensive.
Reeves inches closer, towering over me. "You liked it."
