13. Final Frame
THIRTEEN
FINAL FRAME
He took me to dinner first.
A place in Inman Park with low lighting and small tables and a wine list longer than the menu.
He wore black. I wore a dress the color of wine that I bought that afternoon.
Deep plum silk with a neckline that draped across my breasts like it was poured there, the fabric holding their weight, lifting them, presenting them like an offering I was finally willing to make.
The back was out all the way down to the dimples just above my ass, the fabric stopping a breath above my crack.
My spine on full display. The muscles in my shoulders bare. No bra. No way to wear one.
Two months ago, I would have put a jacket over this.
A scarf. Something to interrupt the skin.
Something to keep men's eyes from landing where they always land.
But tonight I stood in front of my mirror and looked at myself: the curve of my waist, the fullness of my hips against the silk, the bare canvas of my back, and I thought, this is mine.
All of this has always been mine. And I'm done covering what was never anyone else's to take.
I wanted to feel like something worth unwrapping. And I wanted him to watch me walk into that restaurant knowing that every man in the room could see what only he was allowed to touch.
We sat across from each other and I thought: this is the first time we've been in public together freely. Just a man and a woman at a restaurant with his hand reaching across the table to hold mine between courses.
"You look..." He shook his head. Let his eyes drop from my face to my chest, to the silk holding me, and back up. "You know what you look like."
"Tell me anyway."
"Like you woke up and decided to ruin my life tonight." His thumb traced my knuckles. "That back? Mmm, sexy as fuck Orchid.”
I smiled. Let him look. Let him appreciate what I was finally letting the world see.
"Can I tell you something?" he said. Setting his glass down. Looking at me with an expression I'd never seen on him before. Not the studio Jarvis. Not the session Jarvis. Just a man deciding to be honest.
"Yeah."
“Ten years ago, Memorial Day. Your mother's house.
You were nineteen." He paused. Ran his thumb along the edge of the table.
"I was on the balcony smoking with Trey and you came outside to take a phone call.
You didn't see me. You were wearing this yellow sundress, laughing at something whoever was on the phone said, and I just...
" He stopped. Swallowed. "I watched you for four minutes.
A man who had no business looking at his best friend's little sister the way I was looking at you.
And I told myself to stop. Told myself you were off limits. "
My chest was tight. My wine untouched.
"But I never stopped noticing you after that," he said.
"Every cookout. Every birthday. Every holiday at your mom’s house.
I knew where you were in every room. I watched you shrink into corners and I wanted to pull you out of them.
But you weren't mine to pull. You weren't mine to anything.
" He looked at me. Direct. "Until you texted me that night and asked to see the studio.
And I thought: finally. She's ready. And so am I. "
Speechless. Twelve years. This man had been watching me for eight years and never said a word. Never pushed. Never made me uncomfortable. Just waited. Patient as prayer.
"I want this," he said. "All of it. Not sessions. Not arrangements. You. In my life. Every day."
"Then have me."
After dinner, he drove us to his place. A two story loft in Old Fourth Ward with exposed brick and steel beams and windows tall enough to frame the skyline.
The first floor was open: kitchen, a leather couch, bookshelves lined with photography monographs and vinyl records.
His prints on the walls, but personal ones.
His mother's hands kneading dough. A self-portrait in a bathroom mirror, half his face in shadow.
A rooftop in Havana he'd shot on a trip years ago. It gave dopamine decor.
Upstairs: his bedroom. The bed was king sized, low to the ground, dark linen sheets. A wall of windows facing the city. Atlanta glowing beneath us.
And above his bed.
I stopped. My breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
Two photographs. Blown up larger than any print I'd ever seen in person. Gallery lights mounted above them, casting warm light down onto the images like they belonged in a museum. Like they were art worth preserving.
They were me.
The first: me from the front. The blue robe parted deep at the chest, my breasts visible beneath the silk, the fabric cinched at my waist and falling open at my thighs.
My wrists bound above my head with the same silk, crossed, the ribbon trailing down.
My eyes looking directly into the lens. Not smiling.
Not performing. Just... present. Certain.
A woman who knew exactly who she was and dared you to look away.
The second: me from behind. The robe fallen to my lower back, my spine bare, every muscle visible.
One arm raised with the silk wrapped around my wrist, trailing upward.
My ass exposed where the fabric had slipped.
My head turned just enough to show my jaw, my earring catching light.
My skin glowing against the deep blue backdrop like I'd been painted there.
I had never seen these photos. He'd never shown me.
He'd taken them during our session in the studio, directed me into these positions, and then kept them.
Printed them this large. Hung them above the place where he slept.
I was the first thing he saw every morning. The last thing he saw every night.
"Jarvis." My voice was barely there.
He was behind me in the doorway. I could feel him watching me look at myself.
"When did you..."
"The week you were gone." His voice low. "I needed you somewhere in this house. And those frames... that's the version of you that trusted me enough to be still. I wanted to wake up to that every day. Just us.”
I stared at the woman on his wall. At myself. At the silk and the skin and the absolute certainty in my own eyes. I looked powerful. Like I had chosen to be seen and the seeing was a gift I was giving, not one being taken from me.
I turned to face him. "Just us doesn't mean vanilla, Jarvis."
Smiling, he said “I know."
"Lie down.”
My voice. He obeyed. Lay back on his bed in his black shirt and pants. Arms at his sides. Watching me.
I opened my purse. Pulled out the navy silk rope. The one I'd bought at Velvet & Vice. The one I'd practiced with every night. The one he'd seen on my bedpost the first time he came to my apartment. He recognized it. I watched his eyes darken.
"Hands above your head."
He raised his arms. Crossed his wrists against the headboard. I climbed onto the bed. Straddled his waist. Tied his wrists to the slats with the knot I'd perfected: single column, clean, holding without cutting.
He pulled. Tested. Held.
“Good job,” I said. Looking down at him.
I unbuttoned his shirt. Slow. One button at a time. Peeling it open to reveal his chest. My hands flat on his skin. Feeling him breathe beneath my palms.
I leaned down. Put my mouth on his neck. Bit. Felt him hiss. Bit harder. Felt his hips shift beneath me.
"Don't move," I said against his skin.
I worked down his body. My mouth. My teeth. My tongue. Biting his collarbone. Licking across his nipple and then biting it until he groaned. Dragging my nails down his ribs. Leaving lines.
I unzipped his pants. Pulled him free. Hard. Already leaking. I wrapped my hand around him and stroked once. Slow.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Your mouth."
"Ask better."
"Please suck my dick, Nailah. Please. I've been thinking about it for a week. I need to feel your lips around me. Please."
"Good."
I took him in my mouth. Deep. Sloppy. All spit and suction and my hand twisting at the base while my tongue worked the head. His hips fought to stay still. His wrists pulled against the silk. The sounds coming from his throat were guttural. Broken.
I edged him twice with my mouth. Brought him to the brink and pulled off. Let him hang. Let him beg.
Then I climbed off.
"Untie me," he said.
"Why?"
"Because it's my turn."
I looked at him. Bound. Chest heaving. Dick slick and hard and desperate. His eyes on mine with a want that wasn't submissive anymore. It was demanding.
I untied the knot.
The moment his hands were free, he moved. Fast. Flipped me onto my back with a strength that made me gasp. Pinned my wrists above my head with one hand. The silk still wrapped around one of his wrists, trailing between us.
"My turn," he said again. And pulled the silk from his wrist. Wrapped it around both of mine. Tied them to his headboard with the same knot I'd used on him. My own silk. My own knot. Now holding me.
The reversal.
"Color?" he asked.
"Green." Breathless.
He didn't take the dress off.
His hands found the deep V of my neckline.
Hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled it apart.
Slow. Opening it until my breasts spilled free.
The silk of the dress still framing them on either side, the edges pressing into the soft flesh and holding them taut. Pushed together. Lifted. Presented.
He looked at me. My wrists bound. My breasts bare and full between the wine colored silk. My chest rising and falling.
Then he slid the hem of my dress up. Over my thighs. Over my hips. Bunched it at my waist. Everything gathered in the middle: the neckline pulled open above, the skirt pushed up below. Bare above and below. The dress just a band around my middle. Exposed in the places that mattered.
He pulled my panties down my legs and dropped them off the bed.
He looked at me. My breasts out, my pussy bare, my wrists tied above my head in his bed. He took his time. Let his eyes move over me the way his hands hadn't yet.