She kisses my cheek. “You know which one.”
I whisper her own words into her ear. “When you’re gone, there is no light.”
25
Ican admit when I’m wrong.
At my desk in the studio, I browse the twenty images I’ve just edited, chosen from more than a hundred taken yesterday. I may be biased, but my girlfriend wears lingerie like no fucking other.
In one of my favorites, Halston stretches in a doorway, her arms over her head, fingers resting on the doorframe. Her head is turned to the side. A curtain of white-blonde curls covers her face, stopping right above her breasts. The sheer, black leotard—orbodysuit,as I was told—has a faint lace design that conceals her nipples and a neckline that dips to her belly button.
I was nothing but professional. I spent the entire session with a hard-on and didn’t even touch her.
Halston comes into the studio in head-to-toe sweats, the same pink color of the Mont Blanc I bought her, spooning yogurt into her mouth. She sits on my knee. “They’re beautiful, Finn.”
I have no better word to describe her. “Yeah.”
The black lace is stark against her white skin and colorless hair. The pieces curve smoothly with her hips and breasts. Her nipples point through a nude silk negligee. Her tummy is flat in a baby pink bustier with black garters that connect to matching thigh-highs.
“I’ll be honest, some of the stuff they sent looked pretty unattractive in the box, but fuck. Who knew bodysuits could be sexy?”
“I did. That’s why I wanted to do this.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. Did you also know Butter was sending thongs? They would’ve shown your entire ass.”
She holds out her spoon. “Have some yogurt.”
I loop an arm around her waist and pull her deeper into my lap. “Will they let you keep them, even though we didn’t shoot them?”
“You can’t have it both ways,” she says.
I slip a finger into the waistband of her sweats and slide it down her crack. “Can’t I?”
She freezes. I don’t blame her. We’ve discussed each journal she laid out on the table last week except the “dark” one. I’m in no rush to get through them, but I’m only human. I’ve had my nose stuck in one any time she’s not around. She probably thinks I have a problem, since my erection’s going strong each night she gets home from work.
I give her ass cheek a squeeze and change the subject. “I need to share one of these today. Valentine’s is ten days away and we promised ten posts.”
“Bodysuit,” she says. “Men looking for gifts will need a few days to get used to it.”
I slide a pen and notepad in front of her. “Write the caption while I upload the photo to my phone.”
“You think I can just snap my fingers and come up with something?” she asks.
“Kind of. You’re a pro like that.”
“No, I’m not.” She pushes the notepad away and tries to get up. “Actually, I’mreallynot, like not at all.”
I keep her in my lap. The tautness of her muscles tells me something’s wrong, and I can take a pretty good guess what it is. She must’ve read a comment or message she shouldn’t have, which means she’s checking our posts faster than I’m able to catch the bad stuff. There’s rarely anything negative, but I never know when it’ll come. I have to be more vigilant. “What happened?” I ask.
She sets her yogurt on the desk and looks out the window with a sigh. “I don’t know. It’s not coming as easily as it did.”
I tilt my head, trying to see her expression. Maybe this isn’t about our photos. “What isn’t?”
“The words. I used to be able to sit down and let it flow. Even when it was a couple words or lines, writing something down cut the tension in my body like scissors to string.”
“And now?”
“Nothing. The blank page stares at me. I can practically hear it laughing.”
