5. Just Like That
5
JUST LIKE THAT
Leighton
I have steady hands. No one wants a photographer with shaky fingers, so I have half a mind to reprimand myself as I set the Nikon on the tripod carefully, fighting against my own nerves.
Am I really doing this? Filling in for my client with the sick kid? And doing it with the guy who’s standing in for a zombie hunter—Birdie’s grandson, no less?
I could change my mind. I could say, you know what? There’s no need for this, but I appreciate the offer . Except, one glance around the studio I share with other boudoir photographers—the studio I booked and paid for today—and I’m not sure I can find a reasonable excuse to back out.
It’s not against a photographer’s code of conduct.
I’m not stealing time from someone else.
The only issue is me, and the attraction I feel for this man. I don’t want it to get in the way of my judgment .
So yeah, I can do this but with some rules. I need control over this shoot, over myself. It’s not that I don’t trust him—I don’t trust how easily he could make me drop my guard. I’ve spent too long building my walls to let them crumble in one afternoon.
“Why don’t we try with clothes on?” I say, because that feels a little safer.
He nods easily. “Whatever you want.”
It feels like he means that—on a deep and real level. Like this man wants to give me my wishes and dreams.
But really, it’s best I focus those on photography so I don’t get carried away.
I mentally cycle through the poses I had planned for Katrina. I know exactly which ones I want to start with. I’ve been dying to try these out.
First, I turn on a playlist from my phone, letting it pipe into a portable speaker. I don’t mind the quiet, but music helps nearly everyone relax during a shoot, mostly so they aren’t simply hearing the echo of their own thoughts. Plus, I’m used to the faint background tunes as I work. Once a soft, sultry tune drifts around the studio, I point to the bed, nerves buzzing through me even as I take control.
“Lie down. Unbutton your shirt.” That’s exactly what I’d say to him if Katrina were here posing too. But she’s not here, so the command feels entirely personal.
Like it’s me giving it to the man I flirted with at the coffee shop, rather than the photographer to the model.
I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
Or just…reality today.
I expect him to strip as he walks over to the bed a few feet away, but instead, he watches me, tilting his head to the side, then slowly undoes his buttons, one by one, until his shirt falls open, revealing strong pecs that taper into stronger abs. A smattering of dark chest hair draws my eyes, especially as it trails down his abs and disappears into his jeans.
I’ve photographed countless bodies before. I know how to admire form without letting it get to me. But this feels different—it feels personal. His casual confidence makes me want to drop my defenses, and that scares me. It’s not just his body—it’s the way he carries himself. It’s like he’s daring me to trust him.
Pretty sure he’s also daring me to look at him, so I indulge in the offered view. I’m tempted to comment on his six-pack—heck, it’s even an eight-pack. To say, “Who knew carting a few dozen heads of cabbage could shape abs like that?”
But Birdie said not to mention what he does for a living. So I don’t. He’s probably an Internet chef or something. I don’t even ask his last name.
All I know is Miles The Hot Chef is a man unfazed by partial nudity. A man who knows what he brings to the table. “Will this do?” he asks with confidence and certainty. I’m not used to men who speak like this. The guys I dated in college and since I graduated last year always seem like they’re either trying too hard or running away when they learn I’m, well, complicated .
He seems so comfortable, as if he’s done this a hundred times. But there’s something in the way his eyes follow me, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Like he’s offering himself up but also watching me closely to see if I’ll accept.
“That’ll do,” I say, trying to stay composed even as heat races through me.
He undoes his boots and takes off his socks, then his watch too, setting it down on a table. He heads to the bed and there, he stretches out on it, not needing instructions. It’s like he knows exactly how I want him to look. He parks his hands behind his head, stretches out his long legs. He’s relaxed but poised. “You said I should look like I want her, right?”
I swallow roughly, my mouth suddenly dry. “Yes. Please. That would be great.”
“Good, because I should really look that way right now,” he says, in a faint voice, but still I can make it out.
My heart is beating so fast, I swear he can hear it.
I really need to concentrate on the task at hand, not on the way he makes me feel. The way he watches me too. While I know guys my age can and do wear glasses, there’s something about them that makes a man seem…more mature. Like, he’s settled into who he is. Or maybe that’s how Miles comes across.
Tearing my gaze away from him, I ensure the composition is just how I want it, with both of us in the frame even though we won’t be touching. I adjust the focus so the camera will follow him if he moves, then grab the tiny remote I can use to trigger the shutter. With that in my hand and everything ready, I move to the plush red chair and sit down, drawing a deep, steadying breath.
“Just watch me,” I tell him, but that feels redundant since he’s done nothing else since he started taking his clothes off.
“Easy enough,” he says.
I lean back, letting my hair fall down my spine, pushing my chest up, my legs stretched out in front of me—a classic pose that any good dancer knows how to use. The kind that comes in quite handy in boudoir.
But this pose doesn’t feel like it has before when I’ve snapped self-portraits. Nor does it feel like it has the times when I’ve shot couples where he’s mere inches from her, about to touch her. The small space between us makes me feel watched in a whole new way. I feel admired. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Miles is staring like he can’t look away. I trigger the shutter, and then there’s a click, then the flash.
I slide my hand into my hair on the right side—the side he can’t see right now.
Another press. Another click.
I move my hand down my chest.
Then a few more clicks.
I break the pose and glance over at him, and he speaks first. “Did that work for you?”
Not How’d I do?
His concern is only me. On giving me what I want. Or really, what I need.
Normally, I’d check the back of the camera myself, but nothing about this shoot is normal anymore, least of all the charge in the air, the ions crackling between us, the heat shimmering in this space. “Do you want to see?” I offer as I rise.
He’s up in no time, standing next to me as we peer at the viewfinder together. He’s close enough that I can smell him. Clean and soapy, with a hint of sandalwood or something darker—something earthy and warm. The scent wraps around me like a slow, steady pulse and it goes straight to my head, fogging up everything else.
I’d like to say I’m affected by scent as much as the next girl, but I think I’m more affected. What I’ve lost in one sense, I more than compensate for with others. My eyes rival an eagle’s. My nose is nearly as good as a dog’s. Sometimes that’s annoying. Today, it’s intoxicating and heady as I breathe in that hint of cologne or aftershave while I scroll through the pictures.
In every picture, I’m soft, a little out of focus, but he’s not. Miles is looking only at me, like he doesn’t want to miss a single small shift I make from shot to shot, my fingers in my hair, my hand sliding down my chest.
Yes . This is exactly what I wanted to capture—the moment when desire ignites. The moment before it turns into touch. The anticipation of what’s to come.
“It’s good,” I say softly but what I really mean is you’re good .
And that’s hard to say. I’m wary of getting too personal, even though everything with him feels very, very personal.
“Yeah, I think your model’s delivering exactly what you’re looking for,” Miles says, his deep voice sending a fresh wave of heat through me. He turns, his eyes locking on mine. “What do you think? It’s like I want her, right?”
He’s so steady, so sure, and that certainty in his tone both excites me and knocks me off-kilter. He’s waiting for me to take my turn. Wanting me to keep going.
I really shouldn’t do this. I really shouldn’t flirt with him. I’m crossing a line here—my own line of trust on a first date. I don’t like to get this close. And yet…
“Yes. You look like you want her. You seem to be nailing it on the first try,” I reply, throwing the flirt right back.
His grin deepens. “Do you want me to look like I’m about to get up and prowl toward you next? Like I need to have you?”
I swallow again, the tension rising between us. He’s remembering everything I told him. And he’s taking control. “I do.”
He moves to the edge of the bed, sitting down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped just under his chin. A strong, masculine pose. Full of energy, even though he’s not moving. “Will this work?”
God, he looks like a sinful portrait already. I’ll call it A Man on Edge .
Actually, this wasn’t on the shot list—him solo. But I want it anyway. Improvising, I grab the camera from the tripod, moving closer to him, snapping a couple of shots of him up close and personal. His face is so interesting, from the scruff lining his jaw, to the nose that’s nearly straight, but not quite, to the darkest of brown eyes that crinkle slightly at the corners behind those glasses. He’s not perfect, but those imperfections are doing it for me. I inch even closer, needing to capture him from every angle, wanting to record everything he’s giving right now.
I stop. “Just feeling inspired,” I say, explaining myself.
“Want to show them to me?”
It’s dripping with invitation. I narrow the distance, sitting next to him on the bed. He leans in, his shoulder bumping mine as we look at the camera together. I can barely concentrate on the images on the back of the device. He’s even closer to me than last time we checked out the shots. So close that if I turn my face, he might capture my lips in a kiss.
I blink off the thought as I pull away so I can set up the camera again on the tripod.
“So, now you want me to stalk over to you?” he asks, reminding me of the pics I want to get.
The reason we’re doing this.
To test my skills. To try new things. To capture a man in motion, a man who can’t stand to be away from his woman. It’s an action shot of sorts, and there should be just enough room to capture him moving toward me .
Well, here goes. “I do, but it’ll be a little different this time,” I say.
“How?”
Am I doing this? Yes. I’m doing it. I look at those dark brown eyes, so soulful, so heated. “Sit down and find out.”
I’m going off script. I take a breath, check the settings once more on the back of the camera, then move to the chair a few feet from him. Close enough that he could stretch out an arm and touch me.
The remote in my hand feels like a timer, so I reach for the hem of my shirt, then stop thinking and just act. In one swift move, the shirt is gone, leaving me in my jeans and black lace bra. The cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his eyes.
This time, I do hear him clearly—a quiet sound, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable because it can only be one thing.
A low, reverent holy shit.
And now, I don’t feel nerves washing over me. It’s power. I’m the photographer, I’m the subject, and I’m the object of his desire.
I smile, feeling like a queen—exactly how I wanted my client to feel. How Miles is making me feel.
He stands, closing the short distance between us with each trigger of the remote and click, click, click of the camera.
We didn’t script what will come next. But he’s moving next to me now, straddling the chair, sinking down behind me, his hands sliding down my arms.
“Like this?” he murmurs.
I shudder, closing my eyes, giving in as the camera clicks. “Just like that.”