He moved to the next image.
My hand was spread across his bare back beneath disordered white sheets.
Only part of Noah’s face showed against the pillow. His eyes were closed. His mouth was soft, his hair untidy, his skin warm with morning light. The photograph revealed almost nothing and somehow exposed more than nudity would have.
I remembered that morning.
The room full of pale sun.
His body loose and satisfied beneath my palm.
The slow, private smile he had given me before setting the timer.
The memory struck so sharply that I had to force air into my lungs.
Noah stared at the image.
“I took this?”
“You set the timer.”
“Why?”
“You liked the way the light fell across the bed.”
His gaze lifted to mine. “What had we been doing?”
My body remembered before I could stop it.
Heat gathered low in my abdomen. My hands tightened against my knees.
I kept my voice controlled.
“We spent the morning in bed.”
“Sleeping?”
“No.”
His attention returned to the screen.
“Was I embarrassed?”
“Sometimes.”
“By you?”
“Rarely.”
His thumb rested at the edge of the photograph.
“Did I like you touching me?”
“Yes.”
The single word roughened in my throat.
“How?”
