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His eyes never left me as I folded down into the pillows. When he approached the sectional, I rolled onto my back, locking my gaze on his. He stood over me, his camera clicking away.
“Open the robe,” he said, his voice guttural, urgent. “Good. Now move your hands down your body.”
My eyes closed, I let my hands drift over my breasts and down my sides.
“Like that … yes.”
My hands moved across my stomach then stopped at my panties. I opened my eyes and met his gaze again. He was kneeling before me. Reaching out with his free hand, he clasped my fingers and pressed them under my elastic band, urging
me to touch myself. I slid my fingers down, astonished at how wet I was.
“Tell me what you feel like,” he said, now nearly straddling me, snapping pictures.
I stretched back, embarrassed, pressing my face into a pillow next to me, and all the while my fingers were moving around under my silk panties.
“I’m … wet,” I mumbled, finally. “Very.”
“Yeah? Show me,” he said, his eyes on my hand.
I hesitated.
“Those pictures. You can’t ever …” I warned.
“They’re yours. Don’t worry. When we’re done, you get every frame. I promise. Remember, courage, my love.”
I eased my panties off, pushing them down my thighs, kicking them to the floor. My knees together, I placed my hands inside my thighs and turned my head away again. I just … couldn’t believe I was doing this! Marsha would be shocked! Let alone Julius!
Erik positioned himself at the foot of the sectional. As I spread my legs, he began to click his camera, transfixed. My hands drifted back up. I shrugged off the gray wrap. Then I arched and undid the bra, tossing it over my shoulder. My hands replaced my bra and I found myself squeezing my breasts and writhing, his reaction to this surprisingly turning me on.
“That’s it, Solange. That’s it,” he murmured, inching closer.
I sat up feeling emboldened.
“What about you, Erik?”
He stopped and placed the camera back on the tripod next to us, adjusting the lens to face us, clicking on a button.
“We’re rolling video on this, okay?”
I took a deep breath. Could I do this? Yes. I could. I nodded and he drew his hands away from the camera. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, showing off a smooth, rippled torso.
“Take everything off,” I said, in my voice, with words coming from my mouth. Courage indeed.
He gave me a wry smile as he undid his jeans, stopping momentarily to fish a condom out of the front pocket, tossing it next to me. For such a large man, his body was lean, compact, smooth. He had a smattering of scars, a dramatic one on a pectoral, just below his rib cage. He noticed me noticing it.
“I was a fencer,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“A shitty one,” he added.
I laughed. Naked, he began a slow crawl up my body. Now he was on all fours above me, his hair falling forward, and I pressed my whole self deep into the cushion below, shrinking, my nerves now on fire. Could I go through with this?
“Touch my scar,” he whispered, taking my hand and bringing it to his warm stomach, now rising and falling with his own quickening breath.
My fingers traced his soft line of hair, following the scar’s jagged ridge of flesh, then trailing it down to his erection, stiff and insistent.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
