18. Gareth
Chapter eighteen
Gareth
My brain must be drunk on hormones because I think Trey just asked if he could shoot me. Like he was asking for my take out order.
"Uh… what?"
He chuckles to himself and he's so different from the cold, stoic man I first took out to dinner.
He smiles now, laughs, and calls me pet names.
God, the second the word 'baby' came out of his mouth I just about left to go pick out a ring.
I'm sure it was just role play or something, but then he did it again.
All I can pray is that he's starting to feel even a fraction of what I feel.
"Shoot you. Like, with my camera. I do boudoir photography and I brought my camera tonight."
Like I could deny this man anything. I don't exactly feel sexy right now. I'm sweaty and my brain is still fuzzy and my mouth is dry, but if it means he spends more time here with me, I'd let him take photos of my feet.
"Sure," I say, trying to sound more confident than I am. I've been running and working out, but nearly a decade of drinking means I still have a stubborn belly I can't quite lose.
He drops a kiss to my forehead and my heart clenches. Every time he shows me this soft side of himself, hope stitches itself into the stupid organ in my chest. It’s begging me to beg him to love me back. Which would surely have him running for the hills.
He comes back a moment later with a black camera bag that he rests on my dresser as he pulls components out and puts together a camera.
We hadn't turned on the overhead light in our hurry, so he looks around the room until he finds my side lamp.
He unplugs it, pulls the shade off and looks around for an outlet, the tip of his tongue peaking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.
It makes me smile. I'd forgotten he does that when he's concentrating.
He finds what he's looking for and plugs the lamp in. It's a softer, warmer bulb designed for reading before falling asleep so it's not very harsh. He drags it over my dresser until he's happy with the result.
"Uh... what do I do?"
He comes over to me, instead of talking, and grabs my wrist softly, dragging my arm to rest above my head. He drapes the flat sheet over my waist, hiding my cock which couldn't get hard right now if it tried.
He touches my other arm gently, resting my hand on my chest the way he wants it.
"Just like that," he says, before bringing the camera to his face and moving around the room.
My nervous breath and the shutter is the only thing I can hear in my quiet room.
I watch him as he works. I don't know what I look like, but the way he moves, finding angles and switching from landscape to vertical is hot.
He's confident, competent, and clearly knows what he's doing.
I watch as the muscles under his dark skin bulge and flex as he moves around like a panther, wearing nothing but his tight boxer briefs.
"Arch your neck."
So, I do. It's awkward because it presses my head further into the mattress but lifts my upper back off of it, but I hold it. He'd tell me if it looked bad.
For what feels like forever he positions me with gentle touches and his deep voice.
It feels like time has stood still. That the world outside of my room doesn't exist anymore.
It's the strangest form of foreplay. My cock attempts to rally, but fails.
So, I just watch and admire and appreciate the man in front of me, and how beautiful he is.
How strong. How competent. How, in this moment, he feels like he could just be mine. There's no one to judge us.
When he yawns, I look at the clock on the nightstand and read that it's nearly three AM.
When I look back to him, he's looking at the clock, too, seeing the same thing that I am.
"I... uh... can pay you... for the extra time?" I offer quickly. The last thing I need is for him to feel like I'm somehow screwing him out of money or taking advantage of him.
His face softens. "I should be paying you for being my model for the last few hours."
My relief is instant.
"You... uh... probably shouldn't drive home... if you're tired?" Jesus, I sound like a fumbling teenager again.
His smile is soft and indulgent. "You asking me for a sleepover, Brockman?" he teases, and I love this playful side of him. He's completely comfortable with me.
"Fine, go die. Forget I offered," I tease back, turning over and giving him my back.
His answering chuckle is deep and rich.
I'm glad I'm turned away from him because the smile that splits my face when I feel the mattress sink behind me is ridiculous and maybe a little manic. It's just a night together. Not even a night, a handful of hours. But he's not leaving. He's not leaving.
"Never knew you were so dramatic, Brockman," he says, sliding in behind me and wrapping an arm around me, dragging my back to his chest. He's huge and warm and his legs slot in behind mine perfectly. As if it was always meant to be.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face for the first time in years.