“I really don’t think that’s true.”
“Yes, it is. I read it inWhichmagazine, so it must be true.”
“Don’t they evaluate kitchens and hoovers?”
“Yes, what’s your point?”
His laughter is wonderful, and I feel my mouth twitch into a smile just watching him.
Then he sobers, and I can see he’s steady once more. I did that, I think, and the thought shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is. I have a vision of doing this for the rest of my life, and I push it firmly away.
He opens the door and ushers me in. His camera is on the side table, where it’s been all week. Sometimes, when I lie next to him after sex, I see it out of the corner of my eye and fancy I can hear it calling to Reuben.
I hide my sigh as he walks over and give the scuffed leather case a caress. I have the sudden desire to take the camera away and put it in the deepest bin I can find—somewhere he will never be able to locate it—but the truth is I can’t. His path lies millions of miles away from mine, and I think this is probably the only time in our lives that they’ll ever cross. I care about him, so the best I can do is help put him at ease with the camera. If he’s at ease in himself it’s got to make him safer in Afghanistan. That’s the most important thing to me. The thought of a world without him in it makes me swallow hard, and my eyes burn.
He looks up as if sensing my emotion. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s such a perceptive man in a lot of ways. In some ways, though, he’s criminally oblivious. His eyes cloud with concern. “Xavier? Are you okay? We don’t have to do this.”
I shake my head immediately and pull on my sassy persona. After that awful thought, it’s harder than it usually is to find mysnarky side. “And miss the chance to be photographed by the great Reuben Langley?”
“Makes me sound like a magician.”
“Come on. Photograph me like one of your French ladies, Jack.”
He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t get loads of film references, probably because he spends a large amount of his life dodging bullets rather than watching the telly, but he gets this one. “It’s sad you weren’t on the Titanic. Your jawbone could have carried a few extra passengers.”
“More than that door did for sure.” I put my hands on my hips. “Clothes off or on?” I make a praying motion. “Please say off.”
He rolls his eyes. “Go and lean against that wall.”
I blink, and he picks his camera up. I see his fingers tremble.
For a second, he pauses, and I say quickly, “Hair up or down?” He loves my hair. That should distract him. Sometimes at night after sex, he’ll wind strands around his fingers, and his face will be absorbed as if he’s Rumpelstiltskin, intending to spin gold from it.
I’m gratified when his eyes flare. “Down,” he says huskily. “Lean against the wall and look out into the sunlight.” His voice has changed. It’s harder—more in control, and fuck, it’s getting me going. I want him to use it when he’s fucking me next.
I hasten to obey him, and I repress a smile when I see his hands have firmed. He raises the camera, and the click is loud in the quiet, sunlit room. That first photo seems to galvanise him because he starts to move around me, taking picture after picture, his movements growing surer with each click.
After a few minutes, he says, “Shirt off.”
I obey, and he takes more pictures as I lean back into position.
“Look at me.” The command is soft, but I jump to it. I can’t see his face, just the camera, but I stare into the shutter as if it’s a path into his soul, and I smile.
He stills for a second. “Ilikethat smile.”
I brighten, feeling the warmth in my chest and belly. “Do you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves around, crouching and rising and firing off more orders. His voice is hard now and almost cruel, completely absent the usual grumpily gentle tone he uses with me. It could feel impersonal, but it doesn’t, because I know I have hisentireattention. Every single atom of his body is focused on me. As he guides me into position, his fingers are gentle.
He pulls the camera away and looks intently at me. “Take the rest of your clothes off.”
I swallow hard, feeling the air thicken around us. I want to say something snarky. It’s always my default position when I fear my emotions will be too visible to other people. But if I snark at him now, the spell winding around us will break. So, I just nod and kick off my shoes. I wriggle my toes into the carpet as he continues to move around me, snapping more shots. Once I’ve centred myself, I unbutton my jeans and slide them off. Then I snap the band of my briefs. “On or off?”
He swallows hard, but his voice is calm. “Off.” Then he pauses, his eyes locked on my crotch. I never mind his attention there, so I stand happily as he comes closer.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“You have days-of-the-week underpants?”
