“You’re a monster.”
“Let me see you.”
I turn on my camera and glare. But then I see how exhausted he looks, dark smudges under his eyes and a five-o’clock shadow that looks hours over the limit.
“God, you’re pretty, Rae.”
“What’s wrong. Why do you look like that?”
“Just tired.”
I snort. “At least you’re not aching like a—a—a…”
His smile’s oddly soft. “What, Rae?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think like this.”
“Why not?”
“Because you left me, wet and worked up, and… and covered in your…”
“Spunk?”
“Argh! And you were right there all day! With those burn-y eyes and that… hair!”
“Bernie? Like… Sanders?”
“Oh, stop it. Show me the orgasm, Bowman.”
He bursts into laughter. “That’s my line.”
“Well, it’s mine now. I want it.”
“You can’t have it,” he says, his voice low but rich. Bossy as hell and so rough I feel it on my skin.
“Sadist,” I hiss.
“Brat,” he replies, his eyes warm as he watches me. “Show me. Show me how turned on you are.”
“No.”
“Sunny.”
It pisses me off that my body races to obey when my brain’s this irate. But he looks good and he sounds good and he’s tired and…
“Show me your face. Move the camera back.”
I obey.
“Now the rest of you.”
I pan down over my wrinkled work top and the skirt I’ve got hiked up already to my hips.
“Hold on. What’s going on here?”
“I tried.”
“Tried.”
