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"Do you?"
"I have."
Fuck. It's the only thing in my head.
Click, click.
I roll my jacket off my shoulders. Set it on the table.
She snaps a photo.
Then one of me taking off my watch.
The expensive time-piece next to the jacket.
I roll my sleeves to my elbows.
She snaps a photo. "It turns you on."
"What?"
"Me, touching myself."
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Move back to the window."
I do.
"Why does it turn you on?"
Click. Fuck. The thoughts in my head. The expression she's capturing. She's good at this. "The thought of your pleasure. Of you wanting me that badly."
Her chests heaves with her inhale. "I, uh… me too. I like the thought of you fucking yourself. Maybe, one day, I'll convince you to shoot that."
"Simulated?"
"Not my first choice, but I'll take it." The hazy focus fills her eyes. She slips into photographer mode. "Hands in your pockets."
I do.
"You tied me up."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I want to be in control. To read you well enough, I know exactly what you want and how to give it to you. To push you to the edge of what you can take. To fill you with so much pleasure you burst."
"It's not just about the scars? About being in control of who sees them or touches them?"
Fuck, how can she state it so plainly?
"It's about being in control of your partner's pleasure?"
"Yes."
"And you've always been that way?"
"Yes, but before it was a sometimes thing. Now, I need it."
"Because of the scars? Or because you need control now?"
"I don't know," I admit. "I've only been with you."
Her cheeks flush. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"But not with that—"
"I wouldn't do this if I didn't trust you. It's not that. I'm not ready."
She nods with understanding. "Look at me."
I do.
Click, click. "That one is for me." She lowers the camera. "Because I like the expression on your face."
"What about it?"
"No. No looking at photos until we're done. You might get insecure."
"Do you?"
"Always. But I have to look to check the framing."
"Are you insecure about your body or your photography?"
"I don't know sometimes."
"You're beautiful."
"Thank you." She sets the camera on the table. "But I… you're not oblivious enough to think that means I'm without insecurities."
"No. I am aware of the world."
"And how women are supposed to be a million contradictory things at once." She undoes the sash of her robe, showing off the silk lingerie beneath it. "I love my body. I love what it does. But I still see a closeup of my thighs and worry they're too much."
"No."
"No?"
"No." I move to her. Bring my hand to her thigh. "You're fucking perfect."
"Adam…" Her lashes fall together. "Fuck."
She is perfect. But who the fuck am I to tell her to shelve her insecurities?
I barely leave the house.
It's more than the scars.
It's more than the way people look at me.
It's everything.
But it's—
She reaches up and presses her lips to mine.
I kiss back with everything I have.
She releases me with a sigh. "I want to fuck so badly." She takes a step backward. "But not until I'm done."
"Fuck you on camera or wait?"
"Basically."
"What if I choose the former?"
"Wait here." She attaches the camera to the tripod. Adjusts the angle. Leads me back to the window. Click, click. She points to a remote in her right hand. "This will work with the angle. After… sometimes I put the camera on an auto mode. A photo every fifteen seconds. That's why I need the click. To know to move into the next pose." She looks up at me. Brings her free hand to my cheek.
I slip my hand around her waist, under her robe.
Click.
I pull her into a slow, deep kiss.
Click.
She turns, so my back is to the camera, so her arms are wrapped around me.
Click.
Then the other direction, so it's her back on display.
I push her hair behind her shoulder. Cup her neck with my palm.
She looks up at me like I'm the only thing she wants.
Click, click.
"Fuck." She groans as my hard-on brushes her stomach. "I might actually fuck you on camera at this rate."
I believe her.
"I'll set up in the bedroom." She kisses me softly and steps backward. "And you… it's up to you. I'll keep shooting until you say when. Even if that means I'm taking a pornographic video."
She picks up her tripod, moves to the bedroom to set up.
Reality threatens to return to my mind, but I push it aside.
How much can I handle?
I have no fucking idea.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Adam
Is this really the place I slept for seven years?
Between the soft light and the smooth sheets, the space is gentle, warm, inviting.
There's no sign of Bash's absence.
The cold nights I spent alone, tossing and turning.
The empty feeling in my gut.
Only the memory of Danielle groaning my name as she comes on my cock.
I need that.
Now.
Even if it's on film.
Maybe because it is.
Am I out of my fucking mind?
Or is this a sign of progress?
