Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Wes reaches out and gently tugs on the dress’s neckline and straps until the fabric barely covers my nipples.
The silk is already hopelessly wrinkled—consequences of me dropping the dress to the floor not that long ago so that he could take a few shots of me from behind, standing in the puddle of silk—but it’s nothing a good steam won’t fix.
A small furrow of concentration forms between his brows, and then Wes sets the camera down before he leans over me to take hold of my wrists.
Dragging my arms over my head, he crosses one wrist over the other in an illusion of restraint and then rocks back onto his heels, hands on his thighs as he studies the scene he’s created.
“Keep your arms like that,” he rasps before picking up the camera again. His breath catches as he stares through the viewfinder, takes a handful of shots, and then lowers it again. “I’m going to spend far too much time looking at these when we’re apart.”
I arch my back a little more and give him a sultry smile. “Glad I can keep you company in all those lonely hotel rooms.”
Wes shakes his head slowly and reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair off my face. “Oh, I’ll be thinking of you when I get in bed every night,” he says, low and rough. “But if you think that’s the only time I’ll be missing you, you’re very, very wrong, Sloane.”
I forget how to breathe. His stare is unwavering, and as intense as the moment is, there’s new vulnerability in his eyes. Overwhelmed by the sheer want and maybe some other four-letter word, I curve my hand around the back of his neck and pull him down.
I’ve learned that Wes communicates his feelings with touch. There have been a lot of kisses between us since that first one, but there’s never been one quite like this. This kiss sinks beneath my skin, wraps me up in the intimacy of the morning, and refuses to let go.
It’s the kind of kiss that can brand a person on your soul.
Gently pushing him away, I take a shaky breath and try to recapture the teasing, light mood of the morning. “If you think you can make me forget I haven’t had my turn, you are very, very wrong.”
Chuckling under his breath, Wes lifts the camera again with a murmured “Don’t you dare move yet.
” It’s only after he’s taken a few more shots that he swings his leg over my thighs and slides off the bed to set his gear back in his bag.
“Fair is fair.” His gaze devours me while he holds out my camera. “Where do you want me?”
I point to the bed. “Let me just change real quick. I don’t want to damage the dress.”
“Need help?”
“Oh no you don’t.” I dart out of his reach, grinning at his playful huff. “No touching. Yet.”
His stare rests heavy and hot on my back while I strip off the dress and hang it in my closet.
Naked, I saunter over to where Wes tossed his T-shirt earlier and yank it over my head, inhaling deeply and ignoring the throb of arousal between my thighs that only intensifies under his hungry attention.
I’m not sure if I can call it payback when we both enjoy it so much.
Wes is a collection of beautiful lines on the other end of my lens.
Hard lines that form his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the slant of his brows, but softer ones too.
The curve of his lips stretched into his familiar wicked grin, the dip of his waist, and the hills and valleys of soft skin draped over taut muscle.
But what’s really doing it for me is the look in his eyes and the coiled tension of holding himself back from what he really wants—what we both want.
“Hold this for a second.” I hand him the camera and kneel between his spread thighs where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I carefully drag his zipper down the rest of the way, pull the denim apart, and push on his knees to widen his legs. The strain on his underwear is borderline obscene.
Wes sucks in a sharp breath and stares at me with volcanic intensity. “Sloane…” He breathes out my name with a hint of warning.
“You had your turn,” I remind him with a wink before I pop up, tell him to lean back on his elbows, and snap a few shots while he smolders at me like he’s about to burn the bedroom down.
Between his heavy-lidded stare, dark tousled hair, neatly trimmed beard, and the ink splashed across his body, he’s every woman’s bad-boy fantasy come to life.
But he’s all mine.
“No one is ever going to see these photos but us.” We talked about it briefly before Wes took the first shot, but I want the reminder fresh before I make my next request.
He nods. “Just me and you, darlin’. I don’t want to share you.”
“I don’t want to share you either.” I intend it to come out flirty. Instead my words are thick, the mood shifting between us from hot and heavy back to intimate. Especially when I let out a long breath and say softly, “Touch yourself, Wes. Slowly.”
His eyebrows fly up, but his hand obediently slides down his stomach to palm his cock under his boxer briefs with a strangled groan.
He tips his head back to expose the column of his throat, his eyes going heavy-lidded with pleasure.
The muscles in his abdomen bunch and flex as he strokes himself, chest heaving with each breath.