18. RAFE #2
I can hardly keep up with what she’s saying, but the phrase late night fantasy embeds itself into my brain.
The way she’s taking charge and ordering me around to get the exact result she wants is impressive.
I never normally experience it; I’m always the one in control, and in a way, it’s a relief to have someone else step into that role. “Okay.”
“You want to practise?” she asks as she leans back, shaking out her hair, which she’s removed from the loose bun, allowing it to fall over her shoulders.
I don’t want to practise.
I want to do this for real.
“No, I’m good,” I say.
“You think you can do it in one take?”
“Yup.”
She laughs. “I can tell you don’t make content. It might take a while to get it right.” She returns to the phone, sets it to film, and gets herself in position. “Ready?”
What am I doing?
On her signal, I step into shot, grab her hips, lift her onto the counter, and keep my face burrowed into her neck as she throws her head back.
Her leg closest to the camera is raised and hooked over my hip, and I have no idea when she did that, nor when my hand slid up to grip her bare thigh.
All I know for sure is that I have a hot handful of her flesh, and I don’t want to let go.
We’re frozen in position, me pressed between her thighs.
“Are we done?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” she whispers back.
Neither of us moves.
My pulse beats so hard I can feel it in my extremities. I cannot do this. Shouldn’t have done this.
But the thought is swiftly followed by another, louder and more insistent.
This isn’t enough.
Her hands move across my shoulders, and my shirt pulls tight, the collar scratching against my throat like she’s grabbed fistfuls of the fabric at the back.
Fuck.
Our breaths are thunderous, chests billowing against one another. Every part of our bodies far, far too close.
“Should I let go?” I cringe at how stupid it sounds; how obvious it is, at least to me, that I don’t want to.
“Yes,” she replies, the word an almost-desperate gasp. “Yes. I think you should. I think that’s a good idea. I think we’ve done enough.”
“Enough,” I reply, hoping the word will sink in.
This could never be enough.
I shift an inch, but she’s still clinging to me.
“You have to let go of my shirt,” I say, and she lets out the tiniest embarrassed-sounding moan as her hands shift and the fabric loosens.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
I release her, but my knees are hollow, and my hands slip, knocking something on the counter. My glass. Water floods everywhere; the glass rolls to the edge of the counter, and as I grab for it in the semi-darkness, it smashes.
I don’t feel the pain at first.
Diana is the one who notices.
“Shit, you’re bleeding.” She slides off the counter and takes my hand, which sure enough has a cut across the palm. Blood is spilling out from a neat wound.
Turning to the sink, she grabs a clean cloth from the cupboard underneath and presses it to my palm. “You should check there’s no glass in it.”
“I really hope we got that in one take,” I say, wincing at the sting in my hand, “because I can’t do it again.”
She glances at me, eyes wide like she can’t believe I’m even thinking about her video. She tugs me to the sink and makes me rinse my hand under the faucet. I suck in a sharp breath, but the wound is bleeding less already, and soon the water runs clear.
“It’s a scratch,” I say. “It’s not that deep. It’s fine.”
“You might need stitches,” she says, gently teasing my fingers open so she can inspect my palm. All I’m aware of is the soft press of her touch.
“I won’t.” I tug free of her grip. I can’t have her touching me, not now, not after the intensity of what just happened. I shouldn’t have agreed to any of it, and the self-reproach has me fisting my hand; it stings and seeps a little more blood, but it’s not nearly as bad as it looked at first.
“You should find a bandage,” she says, switching on the overhead lights, which blast us into a harsher reality. The moment we shared can’t exist here. It’s well and truly over. “Or better yet, tell me where I’ll find one.”
Reluctantly, I tell her there’s a first aid kit in the bathroom, and she fetches it, insisting on wrapping my hand herself.
Against my better judgement, I let her, because she wants to, and it’ll be easier than doing it myself.
She’s gentle, and I can’t remember the last time anyone took care of me like this.
Not that I’ve needed it, but it’s so comforting that I don’t want her to finish.
When she does, she sweeps away the glass and wipes down the surfaces.
“Well,” she says. “That was eventful.”
I nod. “I don’t think I’m meant to create content.”
She smirks, excitement sparking in her eyes. “Shall we see how you did?” She removes her phone from the tripod and replays the footage.
We stand side-by-side as we watch the few seconds of cinematic perfection we’ve created.
It looks exactly as it’s supposed to: like a moment of passion in a moonlit kitchen.
She knew how to position the camera to get the best light, the best view.
She knew how to pose so she looked like she was having an orgasm on the counter just from being lifted onto it.
I don’t know what to say.
“Wow,” she murmurs. “You did do it in one take.”
Later, as I’m finally falling asleep, I replay her words. Was it disappointment I heard in her voice, or did I imagine it?
Perhaps, just perhaps, I wasn’t the only one who wanted to do it over and over again.