I can see the headline in my mind now:
“George Fox’s sex-fiend daughter at it again! Poses for racy photos online.”
“It’s good,” I say quickly. “I still want that.”
He returns to the fridge. “All right then. I’ll leave it.” He holds out a water bottle. “Want a tour?”
I don’t want to seem like a freak by insisting on the coffee he promised me, it is eleven at night after all, so I take the water. It isn’t easy. When I’m uncomfortable, I cling to mypatterns, as Rich says. Being here is out of character for me. This isn’t work or home or my dad’s or Rich’s place. And Finn certainly isn’t Rich.
I follow him down a hall to one of the closed doors. He opens it, gesturing me in before him. It’s dark, the lights dimmed just enough to make the room glow. A desk by the window is topped by an enormous computer, both opposite a small couch. Photography equipment is assembled in a corner, including a camera on a tripod. I avoid looking at the prints on the wall because I’ll immediately judge them. It’s automatic, and I want to think of Finn as the man who made me sexy, not the mediocre, flat photographer I’d thought he was when I’d first looked at his work.
“Should we take another?” he asks.
I spin around. “Now?”
“No, not now. Or, maybe now. If inspiration strikes.” He half-smiles, almost smirking.
I wonder, if I were wearing the stripe-y tights, would inspiration have struck us down already? Would he have crossed the kitchen, impatient to see the bows? Lifted up my skirt and bent me over the counter for a better look? I curl my hands into balls, an ache forming between my legs. I don’t know what I want more, to fuck Finn or pose for him. “Ifyou were to feel inspired . . . what might you do?”
“Hmm.” He circles me, looking me over. From every angle. I fight the urge to cover myself or hide. Finn hasn’t given me any reason to be self-conscious. His perusal is both intoxicating and distressing. I want him to drink me in, but what if he doesn’t like how I taste? The hair on my skin prickles as I wait for his assessment. “The white collar of your blouse makes you look so sweet.” He sayssweetwith an edge that weakens my knees. “Like a good girl. It makes me want to turn you bad.”
My legs are going to give out, and he hasn’t even touched me yet, not even close. He’s put enough distance between us to ensure I couldn’t even reach out and grab him if I wanted.
“You can do that with a photo?” I ask. “Turn me bad?”
“I can certainly try.”
I nod breathlessly. I want to say,“Try! Please try!”but I don’t trust myself to speak without begging.
He stops in front of me and picks up something from his desk. “Do you have words for that?” he asks, holding my journal out to me.
I didn’t even notice it before. I take it. The feel of the leather is the only thing that’s ever come as close to comforting me like my mother’s embrace once had. I open it and flutter the pages, playing the edges like the strings of an instrument. My hands tremble, and I’m certain Finn notices.
I only know what I’m looking for once I find it. “Here,” I say, giving it back to him.
He shakes his head. “Read it for me. It sounds so much better from your mouth.”
I’m already blushing profusely. I’m sure he notices that too. “I hate reading it aloud.”
He grunts. “Then don’t, not for anyone but me. Don’t read it, don’t show it, don’t even mention it to anyone else. Just me.”
My heart thumps. He wants exclusive access to this part of me. I want to give it to him, but that means stepping outside my comfort zone. Sharing my journal is more baring than his eyes on my body, than having my photo taken. I think I could strip down to nothing with less effort than it takes to read to him.
“Please,” he says.
My fear melts, just a little. He wants this, and don’t I owe it to him for loving my words enough to want to hear them? Luckily, the passage I chose is short and clean. It’s fairly innocuous—until you really start to think about it . . .
“‘Make me a woman,’” I read. “‘Let me be your girl.’”
I keep my eyes on the page, but I feel his gaze on me. Is he waiting for me to continue? That’s all there is. The meaning isn’t obvious at first, but I thought he’d understand. If he doesn’t, that choice will sound weird to him. It’s not the sexiest line, I admit. And maybe too nuanced for what we’re doing.
I open my mouth to tell him I can pick out something else. I don’t speak, though. This caption feels right for the moment. I’m not sure if I’m more nervous that I’ll have to defend my choice or that he’ll like it and want to use it. When it feels as if a full minute has passed, I close the book, squeeze the leather for reassurance, and finally look up.
“Perfect,” he says.
“Perfect?”
“It’s subtle, like your words, and at the same time, straight up sex.”
