Some other time, Jonathan might have sought to play with Charlie for a while to draw their pleasure out. That wasn’t the mood he was in that morning, though. He wanted simple, thorough release, and he took that without compunction.
Charlie made a louder sound as Jonathan entered him, then settled into moaning and gripping the pillow as Jonathan thrust hard and fast, with the intent of bringing himself off in the man as quickly as possible.
He didn’t last long, but he didn’t need to. His orgasm was sharp and intense, like the flash accompanying one of hisphotographs. As soon as he was done, he bent over Charlie to kiss the back of his neck and a few too-boney notches of his spine, then carefully pulled out.
“Don’t move,” he said, scooting back to position Charlie’s legs a bit farther apart, then rushing off the bed and over to his camera.
It took longer than he wanted to set up for the quick, obscene shot. Charlie didn’t move a muscle the entire time, which was beautiful. By the time Jonathan had his camera in position, the dry plate inserted, and the lens focused, Charlie’s loose hole seeped with Jonathan’s seed.
A popping flash and quick exposure later, and Jonathan had the image fixed permanently. Or at least he would as soon as he developed the pictures.
“There,” he said with a satisfied smile, moving his camera to the side again and walking around to the bed. “You’re free to move.”
Charlie let out a breath, lowering his hips to the damp sheets, then rolling slightly to peek up at Jonathan.
God help him, Charlie wore his emotions as plainly as a strumpet wore silk flowers.
Those emotions were not fear, and neither were they guilt. They were something much closer to…adoration.
“I think there’s time to manage a warm bath, if you’re interested,” Jonathan said, stepping aside to fetch the robe he’d loaned to Charlie the night before, then bringing it with him as he sat on the side of the bed. “And while you’re indulging, I’ll cook us a proper breakfast.”
Still lying limp on his side, Charlie just stared up at Jonathan.
“I’ll probably send you on your way after our morning meal, but not until I find some nicer clothes for you,” Jonathan went on. “I have quite a collection of clothing that models I’vephotographed have used in the past. I’m certain something in the wardrobe downstairs will fit you.”
Charlie said nothing, but his eyes said he would accept whatever Jonathan offered him.
“Up you go now,” Jonathan said as though they’d just been sitting down to a picnic in Hyde Park on a summer’s day.
He stood and held the robe open.
Charlie was slow to move, but when he did, it was like he was finally waking up and accepting the world as it was and not whatever world he’d created in his head. Once Jonathan had him wrapped in his robe, the two of them left the bedroom.
“You might have to help me heat the water if you want a warm bath,” Jonathan said as they headed downstairs to the homey kitchen and dining area under his bedroom. “It shouldn’t take too terribly long, though, once the stove has heated.”
The stove took its sweet time heating, but Jonathan didn’t mind. It meant he could observe Charlie longer, get his help bringing the camera and photographic plates down from the bedroom and into the darkroom.
“We don’t have to develop these now,” he explained as he set the tray of exposed plates on one table in the basement room. “That’s the genius of the dry plate process. We could wait months to develop these and the images would be as fresh as if we’d just taken them.”
Even with ordinary lamps and not the ruby lamps necessary while processing the photographs, the dark room was dim. But it was not so dim that Jonathan didn’t see the flush that painted Charlie’s face, or the curiosity that sparkled in his blue eyes as he glanced around.
“Prior to the invention and manufacture of dry plates,” Jonathan went on, more interested in watching Charlie’s interest blossom than in what he was saying, “wet plates had to be developed immediately or the images would overexposeand disappear. The collodion used to create images was nasty, flammable stuff. But dry plates are manufactured with gelatin and can be stored and kept for ages before use.”
He wasn’t certain whether Charlie heard anything he said, only that he was fascinated by the shelves with bottles of chemicals and stacks of albumen paper, the trays used for bathing the plates in chemicals and washing them, and the lines strung across the far end of the room for hanging freshly developed, wet photographs to dry.
The whisper of an idea hit Jonathan.
“If you’re that interested, you can assist me in developing your photographs after breakfast.
“Truly?”
Jonathan had become so accustomed to Charlie not speaking that the single word, gasped in the young man’s angelic voice, sent shivers down his spine.
“Of course,” he answered with a casual shrug that belied the way he truly felt. “It’s more convenient to have an assistant for these things at any rate.”
Charlie burst into a smile, which did more for Jonathan’s insides than the cheekiest winks of most impish street boys.
It was going to be difficult to let the lad go later.
