He walks his fingers up my thigh at the last few words, then dips his hand between my legs. I stare forward, utterly dumbfounded. The ache in my core makes me want more, but my brain keeps screaming that we’re in public. I wonder if I fell in the shower this morning and hit my head. Maybe I died. He teases me, his fingers pushing against me, making my hips rock as my body desperately cries out to let him touch me. Then he stops and stands up.
“Ready to go, darlin’?”
A shiver runs down my spine as I blink myself back to reality. As we walk, James snaps pictures here and there, both for the client and for himself. He’s being sneaky about it, but I know some of them are of me. I don’t mind because I can’t stop thinking about what he said; the heat between my legs is still begging for him. It’s strange, when you’re this turned on, every alleyway looks less like a dingy hot mess and more like an opportunity.
“Hey, I’ll catch up. I need to swap this out.”
“Swap it—holy shit, is that film?”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s dumb. Film gives it a more authentic look—to me anyhow. More of an artistic edge to it instead of that perfectly crisp digital shot. There’s a unique beauty in the imperfections that digital can’t replicate.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me feel really dumb and really turned on simultaneously by saying a bunch of smart, artsy words.” He puts the camera down and takes hold of my hips, and I wrap my hands around his neck. I’ve barely touched him, but I can feel how turned on he is. I can hear it too in those soft little moans that sneak out of him.
“Yeah, well, you can talk me under the table in computer programs and design.”
“That’s all tech speak. ‘Artistic edge’ and ‘Beauty in imperfections?’ That’s poetic!” He blushes and drops his head to refocus on changing the film. The way his fingers move so masterfully, I’m sure he could do it blindfolded. No wonder he shattered me so completely a few hours ago.
I need to get my mind out of the gutter. It’s my job to keep us on task and I’m failing. All I can think about is this morning. His lips. His hands and how they played along my skin. He steps behind me, holding the camera out so I’ll take it. His hands hold my hips tight as he kisses below my ear, whispering, “Show me what you can do, my perfect Angel.”
He talks me through the settings and I hold the camera up and try to focus as he presses against me. Through the viewfinder, I catch our reflection. He has us lined up in front of a vibrant, happy mural with a shop window in the middle. Warmth spreads through my belly when I realize he wants a picture of us. Together. I shake the butterflies off and try again to focus.
“You’re a sappy one, aren’t you?”
“Nostalgic for parts of the past I never experienced, I guess. Besides, now, when I go home again, I can spend hours developing pictures of you.” He laughs. “Jesus, I suck at this whole flirting thing.”
“You do go from dirty to Shakespeare to stalker a little too quickly.” He pinches my ass and I squeal and smack his arm. “So wait, you were being serious? You develop these? Like you do the whole red light in the darkroom situation?”
“Yep.” He holds up the second camera. “This one is digital, and to be completely honest, I still don’t have the best relationship with her yet. She’s excellent for things like client work and as a backup, but I’m too old school for her sometimes. I have a darkroom behind the house. It’s one of my sanctuaries.”
“That sounds impressive. I should set up a sanctuary in my place, but what would I even put there? Smutty romance novels and my computer?”
“If that’s how you find your inner Zen, yeah. I have a friend who plays these horror video games to relax, and he has an entire room in his apartment with LED lights and everything.”
“Oh, that sounds cool—I could totally do that. Not the horror video games, though. I love horror, but fuck those games.”
“Yeah, we tell him he’s a psychopath for finding that shit relaxing.” He messes with the camera again and I’m reasonably sure it’s because he’s afraid to make eye contact with me sometimes, and I wish I knew why. “We could set you up an area for your sanctuary, but we’d need to fix your place first.”
“Fix it how? What’s so bad about my place?”
“Well, we need to hang that Rent artwork for starters. After that, add some stuff to make it more you—like you have in your office. Make it seem less like an IKEA catalog before you start forming some underground club you’re not allowed to talk about.”
“I have no plans to blow up a city, thank you. Was that for reference, or do you have issues with IKEA?” He picks me up and I yelp as he spins me around.
“It’s boring, You’re not.”
“Yeah, well. I kind of hate the apartment sometimes. Maybe the sanctuary idea would help?”
“It’s a Los Angeles secret.” He puts me down, but doesn’t let me go. “It’s how people who have lived here their whole lives can still put up with a city like her. You have to have somewhere to go and remind yourself who you are and what you’re doing. Otherwise, she’s likely to chew you up and spit you out somewhere near Oklahoma with a splitting headache and no clue how you got there.”
I laugh at the visual. “Oh, my god.”
“Too much?”
“Honestly, not enough. I like the way you talk; it’s…different.”
