Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I slip into the washroom adjacent to the studio, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. The air feels thick, suffocating. I clutch the silk robe I've brought with me—a soft shade of pink, the color of dawn, of innocence.
It's funny, really, how something so simple as a change of clothes can feel like a shedding of skin, a transition from one reality to another.
As I slide out of my jeans and t-shirt, my everyday armor, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes, usually bright and inviting, are now clouded with uncertainty, the pupils dilated with a cocktail of fear and anticipation.
The robe feels soft, the silk cool and whisper-light against my skin, caressing every curve and imperfection I've spent years criticizing in private moments.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, then exhaling slowly through slightly parted lips, steadying myself against the bathroom counter.
My fingers grip the cool porcelain edge as I mentally recite what's become my mantra, reminding myself of the stakes involved, of why I'm standing here on the precipice of something that feels both terrifying and enticing.
This isn't about me or my comfort – this is for my family, for Liam's therapy, for keeping our little yellow house, for salvaging the pool hall that's been Reeves’s heritage for over three decades.
I give people the benefit of the doubt, always have, and now I need to extend that same courtesy to myself.
Stepping into the studio, I'm immediately drawn to the red velvet chaise lounge positioned prominently in the center of the room. It's a striking piece, deep crimson, with curves that seem to invite the gaze.
I can't help but wonder how many women have stretched out on it, their bodies artfully arranged for Caine's lens. A twinge of jealousy flares within me, irrational and unexpected. I push it aside, focusing on the task at hand.
Caine's eyes meet mine, and there's an intensity in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.
Reeves stands in the background, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression dark. I can feel the weight of his scowl, the disapproval radiating off him in waves. But it's more than that—there's a possessiveness there, a silent claim staked in the ground between us.
"Whenever you're ready, Jenna," Caine says, his voice a soothing balm against the crackling tension.
Inhaling a shaky breath, I untie the sash of my robe, letting it fall open. My fingers tremble as I slide the fabric off my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet.
I'm naked now, save for my most intimate thoughts and fears, which I clutch around me like a shield. The vulnerability is overwhelming, my skin prickling with goosebumps despite the warmth of the studio.
I can't quite meet Caine's eyes, my gaze flitting away, catching on the soft glow of the studio lights, the elegant drape of the backdrop, anything to anchor myself in this surreal moment. The silence feels heavy, pressing against my bare skin like a tangible thing.
I focus on my breathing—in and out, slow and steady—trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart that seems to echo in the quiet room.
My toes curl against the cool hardwood floor as I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide the parts of me I've always been most self-conscious about—the ten pounds I've been meaning to lose suddenly feel like a hundred.
I wonder what Caine sees through his professional lens—flaws or beauty, imperfection or art?
This is about art, I remind myself sternly. Not sex. Not desire. Just shapes and shadows, light and form.
Caine is momentarily speechless and motionless. He stares at me with awe, his emerald eyes widening slightly as they travel the length of my body. His gaze is like a physical caress, warming my skin wherever his attention lingers.
I didn’t expect it to feel like this… so sensual.
The corner of his full lips quirks up ever so slightly in appreciation, and I can see his chest rise with a deep, controlled breath. There's something reverent in the way he holds himself absolutely still, as if afraid any sudden movement might shatter this delicate moment between us.
Time seems to stretch and slow, matching his perpetually unhurried rhythm, while the air between us grows thick with an unspoken itch.
He moves around me with a quiet, focused energy. His camera clicks softly, capturing the lines and contours of my body.
"Let your hair down," he instructs gently, and I reach up obediently, pulling the elastic band from my ponytail. My hair cascades around my shoulders, a curtain of fire against my skin.
I close my eyes for a brief second, just to imagine him touching me, pressing his soft lips against my neck. Reeves disappears, and Caine seduces me. He owns me, and I'm lost to him. For a brief few seconds, he fucks me so hard.
I blink the fantasy away, fully aware of Reeves’s dark eyes still on me.
Caine guides me through a series of poses—reclining on the chaise, my back arched, my gaze directed toward an unseen horizon; standing barefoot, one hand delicately touching my collarbone, the other curled into a loose fist at my side.
With each click of the shutter, I feel myself relaxing, my self-consciousness melting away under the warmth of Caine's approving gaze.
I wonder if he's as turned on as I am. I wonder if he's hard at all. I close my eyes again, remembering how I felt him harden against me, knowing how big he is, how fucking hard he was for me that day in the storage room.
I blink again. God, why am I such a tramp? Why can't I just do this without picturing Caine fucking me? The worst part is I'm doing this right in front of my husband.
Caine's voice is a gentle current, washing over me, guiding me. "Tilt your head back... just like that, perfect. Now, look at me. Yes, just like that."
I realize, with a jolt of surprise, that I feel beautiful. Powerful, even. The vulnerability I expected to feel has been replaced by something else entirely—intense arousal, and a sense of confidence, of ownership over my own body and desires.
Throughout the shoot, I'm acutely aware of Reeves’s presence, his unyielding gaze never straying from me. I wonder if he can sense the subtle shift within me, the way my breath catches when Caine steps close to adjust my pose, the way my skin pebbles under the soft sweep of his fingers.
I wonder if he can tell that his wife, the mother of his child, is aroused, her body humming with a need she has no business feeling.
But I don't dare meet Reeves’s eyes, not wanting to shatter the delicate illusion that this is just a photo shoot, nothing more. It's what I've been telling myself after all. I'm such a hypocrite—deep down, I know it's all bullshit.
This is as much about kink as it is about the money. It's about being naked for Caine, about feeling his breath on my skin once more, about feeling his touch, no matter how slight it is, about staring into those amazing eyes and spotting his intense desire for me.
I focus on him, on the rhythm of his voice, the careful precision of his movements, and the way he makes me feel so wanted, unlike any man before him ever has, and of course on the promise of salvation in the form of a check with more zeroes than I deserve.
The silence in the car feels like a physical thing, pressing against my skin.
I stare out the window as Portland's lights blur past us, my mind replaying every moment of the photo session—Caine's gentle instructions, the way his eyes lingered on me, how I felt both exposed and somehow protected under his gaze.
"When do we get the money?" Reeves finally breaks the silence, his voice tight.
I turn to look at him, his profile harsh in the glow of passing streetlights. "Shortly," I manage, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "You know Caine is good for it."
Reeves’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
"Well, hopefully, we're done with the guy for good now," he says, eyes fixed on the road.
"He probably has a million photos of women.
" His words slice through me. "You're nothing special, you know.
Don't go fooling yourself now," he adds with a smirk. "I'd love to see his work."
Each syllable lands like a slap. I turn back to the window, blinking rapidly as tears threaten.
I was special—I felt it in the way Caine looked at me, the careful attention he paid to every pose, every angle.
For that hour, I wasn't just a struggling bartender, a tired mom, a woman drowning in debt. I was art.
And now Reeves has taken that away with a few careless words.
The thought of never seeing Caine again opens a hollow space inside me. I've been trying not to think about it, but now the reality crashes down.
No more afternoons at the pool hall. No more feeling that electric charge when his eyes meet mine. No more of that delicious anticipation that's been keeping me going through endless days of work and bills and worry.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. What right do I have to feel this way? I'm married. I have a child. I made vows.
But still, the sadness wells up, unstoppable as the tide. I press my forehead against the cool glass, hoping Reeves won't notice the tears that finally spill over.
Fifty thousand dollars. It should feel like salvation. Instead, it feels like a door closing on something I never even got to fully experience—something bright and thrilling and forbidden that I'll spend the rest of my life wondering about.
I drop my purse on the dresser, my body still humming with leftover adrenaline from the photo shoot.
Reeves slams the door, making me jump. His face is flushed, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
"That's it," he declares, pacing. “We’re done with that smug bastard. Done."
I sit on the edge of our sectional, watching him storm back and forth across the hardwood floor. His energy fills our living room, making the space feel smaller than it is.
"Reeves, we needed the money—"
"I don't care.” He stops pacing to face me. "The way he looked at you... like he owned you. And you..." He trails off, running his hands through his dark hair.
"Me what?" I challenge, suddenly defensive.
Reeves inches closer, towering over me. "You liked it."
The accusation hangs between us. I can't deny it—not honestly. Instead, I look up at him, at the fire in his nearly black eyes.
"Are you jealous?" I whisper.
"Fuck yes, I'm jealous." His voice drops to a growl. "And I should be. You're my fucking wife."
Something shifts in the air between us. The anger is still there, but it's transforming into something else—something electric and urgent.
"I hated watching him direct you," Reeves goes on, kneeling in front of me. "But God, Jenny, you were so beautiful. So fucking hot."
He squeezes my ass hard. I gasp, surprised by the sudden shift.
"You're mine," he whispers against my neck, his beard tickling my sensitive skin. "No matter how many other men want you."
I thread my fingers through his hair as he pushes me back onto the sofa. It's been weeks—maybe months—since I've seen this intensity in him. He's fully present, completely focused on me in a way that makes my heart race.
His mouth finds mine, hungry and demanding. I surrender to it, to him, letting the guilt and confusion melt away under his touch. Tonight, there's no room for thoughts of Caine, no space for wondering what might have been.
Tonight, in our bedroom, there's only Reeves and me, rediscovering each other with desperate hands and breathless sighs.
"Mine," he whispers against my skin, and for this moment at least, I am.