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In her hands is a camera and she holds it up, clicking the button.
A Polaroid prints out.
“What are you doing?” I ask huskily, toeing off my boots.
She rests on her knees and leans, aiming the camera at the floor—toward my feet.
“My project,” she answers, slipping off the bed and stalking forward. “Moments.”
“You’re taking my picture for your project?” I raise a brow, waiting for her answer.
She lifts the camera toward my face and snaps another photo. It prints out and she grabs it, placing it on the table.
“Yes,” she answers. “You know how you said I inspire you to write music?” I nod. “I think you inspire me with photography.” She wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue. “Portrait photography isn’t normally my thing, but I’ve wanted to take your picture for a long time, and for our project we had to do something with meaning. I thought of you first and the whole idea for the project sort of fell into place.”
“Tell me more. Why did you say moments?”
Her lips quirk up into a smile. “Moments. I’m calling it Moments. The focus is on the little details and how they piece together to make a bigger picture.”
“You’re a genius,” I tell her.
She beams at my words. “I thought it was a good idea.”
She takes a picture of my lips.
“Take your shirt off,” she commands.
I smile slowly. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
She shakes her head. “Not tonight. Tonight, I’m in charge.”
I fight a smile and she takes another picture.
“Shirt. Off.”
“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?” I laugh.
I hook my fingers into the back of my shirt, and she says, “Wait.” She moves behind me to take a picture of my fingers in my shirt. Once she has it, she says, “You can continue.”
I grin, but she can’t see it.
I remove the shirt slowly. Revealing a little of my skin at a time, letting her take as many photos as she wants.
There’s something intensely erotic about letting her take pictures of me like this. It feels like I’m exposing a part of myself that isn’t normally seen.
She stands in front of me once more and snaps another photo.
“Drape the shirt over your shoulder,” she commands.
“So bossy,” I say again, and she glares which I’d hoped she would. She’s cute when she’s angry. She crinkles her nose, which makes her freckles stand out more, and purses her pouty lips. When she’s mad, it makes me want to grab her, and kiss her, and fuck her, and show her how to channel that anger into something else. She takes a photo of the shirt dangling over my arm. “Where to next?” I ask her.
“Sit on the couch.”
Normally, I hate someone telling me what to do. I blame it on my father, who controlled every aspect of my life growing up, but I don’t find myself feeling that way now that Nova has turned the tables on me.
I do as she says and sit down.
She takes a photo that shows all of me, then she moves in, getting one of just my hand where I have it clutching the back of my head. Then she gets a close-up of my lips, my eyes, and my chest.
