7. A Little Into You
A LITTLE INTO YOU
Leighton
The drive back to the studio takes forever and no time at all. But we’re here now as dusk falls over the city. We leave the twilight behind, heading up the steps. With each footfall, anticipation winds tighter in me, higher.
I’m the only one using the studio today, so when I unlock the door, I’m confident it’ll just be us.
Still, I look around the space, reassured to find it empty, just like we left it.
I head over to the chaise this time to set up the camera in front of it—I’ve been low-key vibrating the whole way here, imagining capturing our first kiss on film—when Miles grabs my hand, jerking me back toward him, pulling me against his body.
I can feel how much he wants me.
“You’re going to send me that picture.” It’s a demand, rough and intense, matching the need in his dark brown eyes.
My head is swimming with desire and surprise. I’ve never met a man like him, one who’s actually interested in the artistic side of me. One who wants a picture of us. I have a feeling he’s going to want pictures of so much more, and I’ll probably give him what he wants because I want that too.
I want to see how we look coming together. But right now, I’m not sure I remember how to adjust a setting on the camera. I’m not sure I can hold a single thought in my head that doesn’t revolve around the heat curling through every cell in my body, the need pulsing through my veins.
Still, I’m determined to give him what he wants, and to give it to myself too.
“Yes,” I say, quickly crossing over to the camera on the tripod and grabbing the remote trigger. I’m so used to the remote that it’s no big deal to hold it while I do things—I learned how to shoot boudoir both with others and through self-portraits.
“Good, Shutterbug. Because I want us to see it,” he says, and that word thrums through me—us.
A promise, once more, of another time.
When I spin around, he’s right there, eyes on me. And I’m nothing but raw need. “You’ve been driving me wild all day,” I tell him. “Do something about it.”
I’m almost shocked to hear my own words. It’s so strange to say exactly what I want. To know he wants to hear it.
To know he can handle it.
His smile is devilish. “I’ll do whatever you want, Leighton.”
But when he closes the distance to me, I tense for a few seconds, expecting him to forget what I told him earlier, since most guys just do. They get caught up. They don’t listen. They don’t care. I half expect him to drag his fingers through my hair and over my ears.
If he did, there’d be loud ringing in my ears.
But Miles has proven different all day.
He’s an incredible listener, so when he takes off his glasses, sets them down on a low table, then lifts a hand slowly, I choose to trust.
And he curls that hand around my throat, gentle yet entirely possessive. And setting my heart to flames.
He inches closer, licks his lips, and drops his lush mouth to mine.
There’s never been a kiss like this. It’s soulful and filthy at the same time.
His hand stays firm on my throat, his fingers holding me tight, the locket resting against my chest. His lips are soft as they coast over mine, his stubble scraping my face deliciously. His tongue slips past my eager lips.
And I ache everywhere as I help the camera capture our first kiss with a push of the remote.
The sounds he makes are hungry, carnal, and I swear I not only hear every single thing but feel it too, everywhere, all at once.
The kiss feels like the type of photos I try to capture. Sensual, moody, and most of all, a prelude.
It’s not a first kiss at a picnic, or in a park, or under the sun. It’s a first kiss where the lights are low, night is calling, and the doors are locked.
I’m so glad that the woman I rent the studio from is out of town today because I’m pretty sure I’m one minute away from doing something risky.
As Miles kisses me slowly, seductively, making my head swim with longing, his thumb and forefinger circle a little tighter around my throat.
His touch there is possessive, but full of restraint, like he won’t cross lines until he gets the go-ahead.
I want to give him all the go-aheads. Sparks rush down my body, and I ache for so much more.
I inch closer, pressing my body to his. He makes a noise low in his throat, a dirty rumble.
His other hand ropes around my waist, traveling to my back.
He slips it under my shirt, laying it flat against my skin.
I make some kind of incredibly uncivilized noise. I wish I could say it was a deep, throaty purr, but it’s more like a needy plea.
Miles breaks the kiss to look at me, a smirk on his lips, fire in his eyes. But coiled restraint too. This man is a portrait of caged lust. “Tell me what you want,” he says in a rasp, letting go of my throat and running the back of his fingers down my cheeks. “So I can give it to you.”
My chest flips.
Who is this man?
Is this what I’ve been missing? Is this what I never experienced when I dated guys my age in college? This kind of focused attention. These direct questions.
I honestly don’t know how to start answering him, but I give it my best shot because honesty has gotten me this far today. Into the arms of a man who’s not afraid to manhandle me—the way I want. And I want it…a little rough.
Here I am—doing something risky. Asking him to fuck me in the studio. “You,” I begin, taking that small step.
He fiddles with my bra strap. “In case it’s not clear, you’ve got me. You’ve got all my attention, Leighton.” He pauses and licks his lips. “I’m just a little into you.”
He drags out that word, tone dry, making his meaning clear.
He’s a lot into me.
“Show me,” I say.
Tilting his head, he studies my face, then says, “If you insist.”
His fingers travel to the hollow of my throat tracing it, drawing a circle over it, before he brushes them along my jawline, dragging them there.
My breath hitches from the firm touch. From the sheer different-ness of it.
Has anyone ever touched me like this before?
I don’t think so. It’s so specific, so purposeful.
It’s like he’s finding ways to touch me that are only for me.
Like his hands are telling me how he doesn’t need to thread his fingers through my hair to turn me on.
He’ll find other ways to arouse me, and since I’m ludicrously wet, he has.
But I know, too, that he’s holding back.
I can see his restraint in the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw.
I’m going to have to take the next step. Say the next thing.
“When I said you, I meant I want all of you,” I add. That’s clear enough, but just in case it wasn’t, I press my body even closer so I’m rubbing against the outline of his erection. Making my intentions crystal clear.
For a hot second, his eyes go glassy. His breath stutters. But then he gains control again.
“All of me?” he asks like it’s a question, even though it’s an amused me, as if he’s having too much fun with my words as he keeps one hand looped firmly around my waist. “How exactly do you want all of me?”
Oh my god. He’s toying with me.
I groan in mock frustration. “You want me to spell it out?”
“I do, Leighton,” he rasps out. “I really, really do.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s doing little to mask how turned on I am.
“Fine—then here’s an opinion for you.” I pause, letting him hang there on my every word as I run a hand down his chest, over the buttons on his shirt.
I lift my chin, look him in the eyes. “I want you to fuck me hard. And a little rough.”
Something in his eyes seems to snap, a tight wire breaking as he scoops me up without warning. “I’m going to fuck you exactly the way you want, Shutterbug.”
“Oh,” I say, blinking as he grabs my ass nice and tight and sets me down on the chaise behind us. He lays me on it, climbs over me. Grabbing my wrists, he pins them over my head and lowers his body to mine. This time it’s just us. No record of the moment as I let the remote fall from my hand.
The weight of him is extraordinary. He grinds against me and I pant. I thread my fingers through his messy hair while I drag my other hand down his arm. He’s so outrageously fit, I can’t stand it. The strength of his arms, the size of his chest, the way he covers me.
I seriously can’t wait to take off his clothes. I’m vibrating with desire.
I wrap my legs around him, hooking them at his ass—the muscles in it tell me he doesn’t miss glutes day. I want to send a thank you note to his gym membership.
“Seems like you’re more than a little into me,” I say dryly.
“Yeah, a fucking lot,” he says, then kisses me till I’m clawing at his shirt, trying to take it off.
He wrenches away, sits up, then undoes the buttons in no time.
I tug off my top. I’m just in my black bra again, and like that I stare at this thoughtful, considerate, passionate man in a whole new way.
He’s no longer the subject of my photographs.
I’m not looking at him through a lens. I’m free to gaze at him in a fresh new way.
I lift a hand, stroke his face, memorizing the whiskery scratch of his stubble before I say, “Fuck me now, Miles.”
He offers me his hand and tugs me up. “Go on a second date with me.”
A laugh bursts from me. “You already asked me out for a second date. Did you forget?”
“I’m making sure.”
“Are you worried you won’t be any good in bed, so you need to secure that second date now?” I tease.
His eyes darken. “For that, you’re getting multiple orgasms.”
“Lucky me,” I say.
“No. Lucky me.”
We both make quick work of shoes, then he unzips my jeans and slides them down my thighs, but he’s careful when he takes them off, making sure they don’t land inside out in a pile on the floor.
And I think…I could fall in love with him.
Then, I’m nearly sure I could when he folds them. Fine, he folds them over once. But still, he fucking folds them before setting them on the table next to the chaise. He cares about everything.