“But . . .” I put my hand on her shoulder. “We’ve been doing this for months and you haven’t mentioned this.”
She shifts toward me. “Because you’ve gotten almost everything from my journal. What happens when we’ve used all the passages?”
Now that I think about it, she’s right. I almost always turn to her journal, and the few times I’ve asked her for a caption, it’s taken her days to get something to me. “We won’t run out,” I assure her. “There are hundreds. Plus,” I slide my hand inside her sweatshirt, “now I’ve got even more to work with. I know I haven’t mentioned it yet, but I’ve been reading the other journal.”
She shudders but pushes my hand out of her top. “I’m serious, Finn. What if I’m all dried up?”
“You’re not, believe me. It’s probably just . . .”
She rubs the inside of her elbow. There’s a dry patch of skin she absentmindedly scratches when she gets nervous. “What?”
I cover her hand with mine, lacing our fingers together. She got self-conscious about the itching when I brought it up, so I’ve figured out other ways to help. “Well, things are good between us. You’re happy, so maybe it’s a little harder to create.”
She considers this a few seconds before nodding at the images on the screen. “But you can create. Does that mean you aren’t happy?”
“No. It just means I work differently than you. Look, don’t worry about the caption. I’ll go find one.”
“Aren’t you getting tired of having to look through my stuff for each photo?”
If I could only put into words how not tired I am. How I could page through her thoughts for hours on end, envisioning how she was before me, then us together, then our future. When I think of her words, I feel as though I could photograph her for weeks and not run out of ideas. Briefly, I wonder if the opposite is true for her. Doesmywork not inspireher? Not even a little? I kiss the side of her head. “I’ll never grow tired of it.”
I get up, and she takes my place at the computer. I find her journals in the kitchen next to yesterday’s mail. On the top of the pile is a check from Butter Boudoir. Five grand. Everything I told Halston is true—I don’t have to worry about money just yet, but half this payment will cover almost a month of rent, and I earned it doing something I love.
I glance over my shoulder and open the journal she described as explicit. From what I’ve read, it’s mostly what I suspected. There are entries about the sting of a hand on her ass, being bound and helpless to her lover’s whims, and even some that walk the line of force. I hadn’t expected the anal, though.
Face down, you won’t see my shame,
But you’ll know with each tight forbidden thrust
By the blush that spreads
Down my spine.
I have to look up at the ceiling a moment to ramp down my arousal. I’m going to whittle her down to nothing if I don’t stop fucking her at every turn. I don’t have to ask if she’s ever tried anal. The tense of her body any time I’m in the area tells me she’s not sure she wants it. It’s not the only thing in the journal that caught me off guard, though. I flip to the middle, to a passage about several hands and mouths on her at once. I had to read it a few times to process it.
Just tonight, tomorrow we’ll go on, but just tonight, I’ll be all-loved by lovers all.
If I had any question about what I was reading, one line in particular spelled it out for me.
Fucked from both ends, I’m your willing doll.
I hadn’t known what to think. Still don’t. I got fucking hard, I’m a man after all, but the idea of someone else touching my girlfriend also made my blood boil. She said she didn’t necessarily want everything she wrote about in the journal, but I’m not sure how to clarify without upsetting her. If she thinks I’m weirded out by it, she might react again.
I put it away—I’m not able to go there now—and return to my tried and true journal. I can find what I need in here. I pick an entry that describes waiting for her man to come home that’ll work for the bodysuit image.
Her phone lights up on the counter, so I take it and the journal back into the studio. “Found what I need in practically no time at all,” I say. “I told you it’d be—” Two steps into the room, I stop. Halston’s head is blocking most of my view of the picture on the computer screen, but I’d know those tits anywhere. The fan of black hair on the cushion of Kendra’s hideous, deceivingly uncomfortable green velvet couch.
Sadie.
Halston doesn’t move, but her sweatshirt quivers with each breath. “You told me you never photographed anyone else,” she says. “Not like this.”
My throat and mouth dry up. As I walk up behind the computer chair, Sadie comes into full view. She stares at the camera with her intoxicating, purple-blue eyes. Her back is arched off the couch, her breasts on full display. Desire is clear in her face. “It’s not . . .” I try to explain. “This was something else . . .”
“What was it?”
That afternoon with Sadie hits me in the chest like a slab of concrete. I’d thought I finally had her, but what a fucking fool I’d been. We’d spent the day together, gotten caught in the rain, and sought shelter in my apartment. Her own was across the hall, but she’d come tomine. Wet. Cold. Lonely. I’d warmed her up all right. Caught up in the moment, I’d loved her with my camera before devouring her head to toe on that couch.
I can’t speak. Halston asked me a question, and I need to answer, or her imagination’ll run wild. My silence will hurt her more than I already have. “What?”
