“Then why’d you bring me up here?” I ask, embarrassment igniting my temper. I’m already as uncomfortable as I’ve been in a while. I don’t need to be spurned after I’ve put myself so far out there.
He sighs. “I believe you if you say you’re not in love with him—”
“I’m not.”
“But on this one thing, I won’t budge. I will not sleep with you unless I know you’re mine. Really and truly mine, until there’s no chance you’ll ever go back to him. Until he knows it’s over too.”
My entire being aches for Finn, as if I’ve been holding off my need since the night I met him on the sidewalk, and just now let it flood me. Only to be rejected by him. “I want to be yours. Isn’t that enough for tonight?”
He takes a few steps back, rounds the camera, and looks through the viewfinder. “Come closer.”
My pulse beats at the base of my throat. I walk toward him until he holds up his hand, until I’m close enough that my face won’t be in the photo. I take the hem of the V-neck sweater I’m wearing over my blouse and pull it off. I look slimmer without it. My hair frizzes with static, so I smooth it back in place. I drop my sweater at my feet.
“Just the top button,” he says.
My nails are bare, like a good girl’s would be. I unbutton the collar while he photographs me. I watch his hands around the camera, big, strong, skillful. I raise my chin to expose my neck and continue down the middle of the blouse, all without instruction.
When I reach the button between my breasts, he stops me. “That’s good enough. Do it up again.”
I would’ve kept going. I’ve never considered myself a seductress, but maybe it’s just been hiding under the surface. I do up all the buttons and go to pick up my sweater.
“Hang on.” He pulls back from the camera. “Hmm.”
“What is it?”
“They’re not right. Better in theory than reality.”
It took hardly any effort to get the first three photos. Maybe I’m tryingtoohard. I touch my face. “Is it me?”
“No. It just doesn’t say what the coffee pictures do.”
God, I need some of that right now—a mug to hold, something to sip when doubt rears its head. “Maybe it would work better with the caption?” I suggest.
“They should work separately and together, your words and my pictures, don’t you think?”
It makes sense. I’ve attempted to paint a picture with one line. He wants his photo to tell a story. “What I wrote isn’t about a girl undressing herself,” I say. “You should do it.”
“Do what?”
“Unbutton my blouse. That would be more accurate.”
He blinks down to the floor, then back up. “I want to be the one to take the photo.”
“Put it on a timer. If you set up the shot, it’s still yours.”
He considers this and returns to playing with the camera. “Take a small step back. Show me your throat, like you did before.”
My insides quiver. His commands are serious, businesslike, but he wants people to look at these photos and think of sex, and how can that not turn me on?
When he seems satisfied, he looks up. “Ready for me?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Don’t move. Let me do the moving.”
That’s harder than it sounds. I’m already trying not to squirm. He presses a button. Comes to me. Gets close. Moves behind me, even closer, until his front warms my back. He can’t be more than inch from me. “I’m going to touch you now.”
My skin is like one giant exposed nerve anticipating his hands. He doesn’t touch me, though, not really. He hums in my ear, “Count to three.”
