Voicing that aloud was even more stupid. This woman turns me into an idiot. But she did keep staring at them when we danced on the island.
Maybe she was staring because she hates my feet. Maybe she thinks they’re monstrous.
I’m never removing my socks again, ever.
She throws her head back and laughs. The sound is so joyous that it soothes my awkwardness. Until this moment, we’ve been talking in hushed voices, as if we’re sneaking around or in danger of waking Lizzie, but the walls are so thick in this place, and her room is all the way at the other end of the hall, that there’s no chance of that. I can allow Diana to laugh without a reprimand, and I don’t want to stifle the sound.
“Your feet are fine,” she says when she’s collected herself, sounding more professional now. “But I don’t need them for this. Meet me back here in two minutes.”
Two minutes later, I’m wearing a shirt, suit pants, black dress socks, and leather shoes in the middle of the night, questioning my every decision, when I see Diana wearing a red silk dress with a slit up one side, allowing a glimpse of thigh that I’m struggling not to look at. A pair of red stiletto heels completes her costume. She’s completely transformed herself, and she’sstrutting about the kitchen as if it’s no big deal that she looks like temptation wrapped in silk.
“Might as well get some use out of these clothes you bought,” she says, noticing me staring as she sets up a tripod and fixes her phone to it. “I only need you for the middle section. The rest I can do by myself. So, if I lean back against the counter here.” She moves away from the camera until she’s in shot and tilts back against a strip of marble countertop. The moonlight filtering through the windows casts shadows over her cheekbones and glints off her hair. Her skin looks opalescent, as if she’s some kind of nighttime goddess. The effect is mesmerising.
“This is what the fantasy woman looks like, eh?” I ask, my mind hazy as my mouth forms words without my permission.
Diana pushes off the counter, frowning. “That’s the idea. Are you concentrating, or do you need to take a power nap?”
I straighten my shoulders. “I’m listening.”
“Good. So, you lift me, just like the video I showed you. It has to look…” She twists her hand in the air. “Passionate.”
“Passionate,” I repeat, sounding like a robot; like I don’t even know what passion is.
“Yes.”
“Do we need an intimacy co-ordinator for this?” I query, only half-joking.
“No. You have permission to grab me. I trust you.” I swell with pride at the comment, while simultaneously not sure if I deserve it. My thoughts about her are far from innocent. “And if you don’t want anyone to see your face, you’ll have to keep it angled away from the phone.”
“Sure. Do you need to turn the lights on?”
“Nah. The moonlight is perfect. I’ll turn the lights on for my solo scenes and splice this late night fantasy between the two.”
I can hardly keep up with what she’s saying, but the phraselate night fantasyembeds itself into my brain. The way she’staking charge and ordering me around to get the exact result she wants is impressive. I never normally experience it; I’m always the one in control, and in a way, it’s a relief to have someone else step into that role. “Okay.”
“You want to practise?” she asks as she leans back, shaking out her hair, which she’s removed from the loose bun, allowing it to fall over her shoulders.
I don’t want to practise.
I want to do this for real.
“No, I’m good,” I say.
“You think you can do it in one take?”
“Yup.”
She laughs. “I can tell you don’t make content. It might take a while to get it right.” She returns to the phone, sets it to film, and gets herself in position. “Ready?”
What am I doing?
On her signal, I step into shot, grab her hips, lift her onto the counter, and keep my face burrowed into her neck as she throws her head back. Her leg closest to the camera is raised and hooked over my hip, and I have no idea when she did that, nor when my hand slid up to grip her bare thigh. All I know for sure is that I have a hot handful of her flesh, and I don’t want to let go.
We’re frozen in position, me pressed between her thighs.
“Are we done?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” she whispers back.
