I watch his bicep flex beneath his tattoos as he moves, and the curious, insatiable look in his eyes is impossible to look away from.
“Are you sure I can’t take pictures of you?” he asks. “They’ll be for me. Only me.”
“You can do anything you’d like,” I hear myself say like I’m watching from somewhere outside my own body.
Red flag.
Red fucking flag, Logan Stone, and you’re blowing right past it.
I’m trusting him too much. Just because I divulged my career to him doesn’t mean I should suddenly trust that he will keep explicit photos of me secure. I could be wrong, andway off base, and wake up to images scattered all over the internet of my cock…
But I want to please him.
I want to see him happy.
He reaches over into his black bookbag and unearths a small, metal, strange looking camera that I realize is an old film camera, not a digital one.
“I expected a phone camera. What is that thing?”
“It’s a medium format camera. Takes pretty black-and-white pictures. Don’t worry, I develop them myself.” He kneels back down between my legs as he points it at me. He snaps the shutter, and a soft click fills the air. “Look at you. You look like you just got fucked, and I’ve barely touched you yet.”
He leans over and rests one arm on my thigh, positioning himself so that he can take an up-close photo of the edge of my hip and bottom of my abs.
“Ow,” I protest, reaching down to shove at his arm. “Your elbow.”
“Sorry,” he says. He moves a little, still heavy against my lap as he snaps the second photo, contorting on top of me to get the angle he wants. “Your freckles here will look so sick on film. Had to get a shot of those.”
He sets the camera down on the table and then leans between my legs again, looking at my skin. He kneads his fingers over the constellation of freckles at the base of my stomach, then bends to run his tongue along the skin there. I watch his tattoos shift every time he moves his body, watching the lines of the giant fox move above his shoulder.
My cock throbs, pressed up against the edge of one of his arms.
It’s like my life has been on a slow, surreal rise up to the top of a roller coaster and ever since I met Chase, it’s taken off, sending my head spinning on a daily basis.
“I can’t believe you’re real,” I murmur down to him.
He smiles up at me and one of his dimples appears. “If you were going to dream me up, you definitely should have gone with someone who’s less of a mess.”
“I like messes.”
“Are you kidding?” he says, moving to gently bite the inside of my thigh. “You hate messes. I barely know you but I know you’re a neat freak.”
“That means I can handle a mess. I’m good at cleaning them up.”
He shoots me a fiery stare. “You saying you think you can fix me?”
“Don’t think I’d want to even if I could.”
For a moment I worry I’ve struck a nerve. His expression is intense as he watches me, like he’s trying to decide if he should be offended.
Words come to my mind that I don’t say. I could tell him that I don’t think he’s a mess at all, because calling him amesswould be like saying a great painting is a mess of color. It’s supposed to be that way. The chaos is what makes it beautiful.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, dragging one palm down the inside of my thigh.
“OhGod,” I utter, because instead of waiting for my reply he drops down and takes my tip fully into his mouth for the first time. I disappear past his lips, and he moves downward, taking his sweet time.
Then he pulls off again just as slowly.
The top few inches of my cock emerge from his mouth, slicked and glinting in the light.
