I flex my bicep.This one has willow branches tattooed in a half sleeve, parting around the face of an owl on my shoulder.
“Jesus, are you smuggling a baseball under there?”Bailey wraps her palm around the muscle and her eyes widen.
Her hand is warm.Her fingers don’t quite meet around my bicep.And the way she’s looking at me—not like Hunter’s best friend, not like the guy who beat up her bully—makes my breath catch.
I laugh and pull away.“This is supposed to be about you.”
She shrugs.“It’s only fair since I’m half naked too.”
There’s a beat of silence where both our eyes drop down.I know that what Bailey’s wearing isn’t that different from seeing her at the lake or in my parents’ pool, but the context, the lacy red and black, makes it feel like so much more.
The air between us shifts.Charges.
When my eyes meet hers again, there’s a flush in her cheeks, a wide-eyed look about her—and then she puts those thoughts away.
“Show me,” I say, before she can settle back onto the bed.“Show me your biceps,” I clarify.
She laughs again and flexes for me.It feels like a Herculean effort to raise the camera back to my face, but I do, and the shot is her bright-eyed and proud.Then we get back to the planned ones.
Through the lens, I catch the way afternoon light gilds the edge of her shoulder, turning skin to bronze.The composition—her proud smile, those flexed arms, the unselfconscious joy—is exactly what she needed to see.
This is why I said yes.To give her this.
I keep my shirt off, though.Putting it back on would uneven the playing field again, and I like it where it is.
We work through the list of shots that she wants, the various poses, some outfit changes.Every time Bailey comes back, she’s not only changed her clothes, she’s also refreshed her makeup, especially the bright red lipstick.
The whole time, invasive thoughts pop into my head, begging me to suggest to Bailey that we take these photos a step further.What if she touched herself?What if she was topless?What if I put the camera down and?—
No.
Twice I tell her to turn away from me, to look somewhere else, under the guise of snapping a photo so that I can wrestle to get my erection under control.
Professional.I’m supposed to be professional.
When she comes out with the next outfit and walks past me, I notice something, something I have to look at directly to verify.
I clear my throat.“Um, there’s a loose thread on your...uh, panties.”
“There is?”Bailey twists around, trying to look at her butt cheek.This pair is lacy, hugging her ass and delicately swooping between her legs.The outfit is powder-blue—innocent, almost.“I can’t see it.”
“Hang on,” I say.“I’ve got a pair of scissors here.”I rummage through my bag until I find what I’m looking for and gesture to her.“May I?”
Bailey’s eyes widen.“Yeah.”
I kneel behind her.From this angle, the loose thread is at eye level.So is her ass.
Part of me says I should hand her the scissors, tell her to go to the bathroom and take care of it herself.Another part says I can always edit the thread out in post-processing.
A third voice is Hunter.Don’t you ever hurt my sister.
I place my palm on her thigh to steady myself.Her skin is soft and warm under my hand.
Bailey’s breath hitches.Or maybe that’s mine.
I lean in with the scissors.
Bailey
