It’s a ballpoint pen scrawling eagerly along a piece of paper.
It’s the effortless click of a camera when my finger presses down on the shutter button to capture the beauty in front of me.
I come undone, a heap of tremors racing through my exhausted body. My foot drops off the couch, my back arching as I let wave after delirious wave crash into me, drag me down, and smother me.
The feeling is almost equivalent to when I slipped off that rock and plunged into the open waters. Except this is so much better. So much more uplifting and thrilling than that moment was.
I’d fall again and again if it meant I could capture this moment for all of eternity. For forever.
I resituate my hand, not even realizing that, at a certain point, I leaned back on my palm to catch myself from lying back. It bumps into something hard and cool. I glance over my shoulder, dazed and riding the high of my orgasm. My messenger bag is tipped over, a few of my belongings shifting out of it, my camera one of them.
An idea pops into my mind.
It’s absolutely inappropriate. A thought that should stay in the confines of my mind instead of breaching the boundary of spoken word.
With Dawson’s head still between my legs, I grab my camera and power it on. He doesn’t notice my shifting as anything other than coming down from my high as he greedily drinks me in. I bring the viewfinder up to my eyes, Dawson’s frame appearing through the lens.
He’s remarkably stunning. A knight in the form of curly brown hair with a chiseled jaw that harnesses the power of thoughtfulness and affection in a way I’ve never experienced.
Before I freeze this moment in time, I ask, “Can I take a picture of you?”
He pulls back, though not very much, and looks up at me, his eyelashes beautifully draped over caramel eyes. He presses up on his knees, sitting taller in his knelt position. “You always have my permission, Emory. Now and forever, so long as I can see the magic of the moment afterward.”
There’s a mischievous glimmer as he watches me. A reflection of smoldering heat that swirls into a sandy surf that calls out, begging me to dip my toes in so it can drag me out into the tide.
“Are you sure?” I say quietly, nibbling at the corner of my mouth as I try to hold back a smile.
His palm smoothes up my leg, climbing until it wraps around my waist and he squeezes. “Honey, I couldn’t give one single fuck how many pictures you take of me while I’m between these legs. In fact, you’re kind of making me want to create a whole damn album of them.”
Pink tinges my cheeks, but not because I’m embarrassed. Instead, I feel fiercely alive, brought on by the spark that ignited the first time I stepped into his office.
“In that case…” I say with a smirk, moving my foot and only stopping until it’s pressed against his chest. I push, indicating I want him to sit back down on the couch and relax. I want this man. More than I’ve probably ever wanted anyone.
He’s pushed himself into every nook and cranny of my mind, but now I want that fullness between my legs, playing with me and enticing me to step just a little closer.
He stretches out, lifting his arms over the top of the couch as he waits for my next directive. That tongue of his comes out, licking at his lips, lickingmeoff them.
It turns me on all over again.
“Take off your clothes,” I say, the viewfinder just inches away from my face.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs, a groan soon following when he slips his shirt over his back. His pants are quick to go next. Then his boxers. Both are kicked to the ground, and then he’s sitting back down, those arms stretched wide as his thickness extends up toward his belly button.
It’s ungodly large, the velvet skin around his head doused a shade darker than the rest of it. I find it insanely erotic and swallow as I try to tamper down the desire rolling through me. His eyes flick back down between my legs, and I’m sure he sees how much I want him.
I take his picture, the shutter snapping. He’s perfection wrapped in flesh and bone.
Lazily, he lowers a hand and grips himself tight. That soft skin bunches up as he drags his hand higher and drops it. He does it again and again, and I do what I intend, pressing down on the shutter button when he throws his head back, the thick line of his Adam’s apple the focal point.
“I can sit here all night, acting as your muse,” he says, his eyes on mine as he shamelessly touches himself. “Or you can bring your pretty self over here, and you can feel the insane fucking thrum of my heart in my chest as you let me fill you.”
I lift and close the small gap between us, going as far as sinking my knees on either side of him. My center presses right up against him.
He toys with the hem of my shirt. “You’re dangerously warm, and I’m fucking frozen, Emory.” He lifts the shirt a little higher. “Do you know what happens when both come together without having the chance to reacclimate?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
“It causes a reaction equivalent to the visual of shattering glass.” He drags my shirt the rest of the way up. I pull it over myhead, and he drops it at our side, my breasts on full display. My nipples pebble under the weight of his stare. “It’s good you know that’s what you’re doing to me.”
