Eugenie smirked. “You think you’re more than just his latest hole to fuck? He does this with his models. He falls madly in love with them while he’s working with them, and then poof! The minute the show is over, he loses interest. Do you really think you could tame that beautiful man?”
Boh didn’t believe a word, but she still felt the sting. “Whether or not Pilot and I go the distance is irrelevant. I want you to leave him alone, let him live his life. I know what you did to him.”
“WhatIdid tohim?” Eugenie sounded incredulously and despite the smile on her face, Boh could see the anger in her eyes. “He drove to me to behave like I never would have if he’d just …”
“If he’d just what?” Boh’s voice was hard. She knew gaslighting when she saw it—her father had been a master of it and now Boh had no patience or empathy for people who behaved like that. “Exactly what you wanted to? Put up with your whoring around? Your drug taking? Yeah, I know all about it, Genie. You treated that …” she cast around for a word good enough to describe Pilot, “thatextraordinaryman like shit. You took ten years from him. Don’t you even feel a little guilty about that?”
Eugenie gave up any pretense of amusement. “Get out. I don’t need an ethics lesson from a little mulatto whore like you.”
“And there comes the racism. You really are a one-trick pony.” Boh got up, wanting to be away from this vile woman as much as Eugenie wanted her out. “Just remember this … I’m on his side. I’ll fight for him, with him, against any crap you send our way. Not only that, but I’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen about how vile and disgusting you are.” She stalked towards the door but turned at the last minute. “Here’s some free advice, learn how to wipe your nostrils properly, and for the love of God, have a damn sandwich.”
Boh slammed the door behind her as she left, knowing that parting shot was bitchy but she didn’t care. Eugenie Radcliffe-Morgan was the most revolting person she’d ever had the misfortune to meet. The thought of her hurting Pilot any more …nope. Not going to happen.
Her adrenaline carried her back to Pilot’s studio, and when she saw him, looking up from his work and smiling at her, her heart pounded with love.
“Hey, I didn’t expect you so early.”
His smile faded when she told him about Eleonor Vasquez. “God, I’m so sorry, baby.” He put his arms around her and she leaned into his big body.
“I just feel so bad for Celine. Can you imagine, 50 years together and this is how it ends? God.” Boh felt the last of her adrenaline leave her body now and she slumped in his arms.
Pilot held her tightly. “There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better about this, baby, I’m sorry. But perhaps I can distract you?”
She tilted her head up so he could kiss her. “Please, Pilot, please …”
His lips crushed against hers and he lifted her into his arms. She stroked his face as he carried her to the couch where they had first made love. Boh smiled up at him. “I love you so much, Pilot, so, so much.”
“You’re my world,” he said as he began to undress her. “My absolute world.”
They made love slowly, enjoying every moment of their connection, the rest of the world meting away. As Pilot’s cock plunged deeper and deeper into her, Boh trembled and gasped for air, her nipples hard against his chest, her belly quivering with desire as he stroked it. Even when she danced, she could never feel this connected with her own body—he managed to make her feel both precious and unbreakable at the same time.
As they recovered, Boh looked at him shyly and told him how he made her feel. Pilot felt overwhelmed. “Wow. Wow.” He shook his head, burying his face in her neck. An idea came to him, as he breathed in the clean scent of her skin. “Baby?”
“Yes, my love?”
“May I take your photograph … right now? As you lie here, you look so beautiful … it would be the perfect finale. The way the light is making the sweat on your skin glow gold, your astonishing body …” He ran his hand down her belly. “You can say no if you want, absolutely no pressure.”
“Yes,” she whispered, almost as if she couldn’t believe she was agreeing to be photographed nude, just after making love. He kissed her gently. “Thank you. I promise, no one has to see them apart from me and you, if that’s what you want.”
Boh lay, her lithe body stretched out, covered in dewy sweat, and he took the shots, already knowing they would be spectacular. He loved the look in her eyes, sated, loving, sensual. When she looked at him directly with those beautiful brown eyes, he saw trust and devotion in them and it thrilled him. To capture it with his camera was one thing; to know and believe it to be genuine was something else entirely. Boheme Dali loved him as much as he loved her—he had no doubt and the realization almost made him break.
Instead, he concentrated on taking what he knew to be the best photographs of his career. It was a portrait of not just a dancer, but a woman, a girl growing up in front of him,withhim. With his gentle persuasion, Boh posed for him, both in dancer mode and casual mode, wrapped in his sweatshirt, grinning up at him, or entirely naked in arabesque, en pointe, or at the barre.
He took closeups of her nude body, the peaks of her nipples, hardened by his touch, the curve of her soft belly with its deep, round navel—the shadows he got using his lights were exquisite.
It became not just a photoshoot, but an extension of their lovemaking, frequently stopping shooting to have sex again, both naked and laughing, playing with every prop they could think of.
It was the early hours of the morning before they stopped and finally dressed to go home. They walked hand in hand through the midnight streets of Manhattan, even though it was cold. “I love this time of night,” Boh said, “even in New York, there’s a special quiet to it.”
Pilot chuckled. “It’s weird but I know what you mean.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a car backfired and they both laughed. “Jinxed.”
“Ha. By the way, with everything, I forgot to tell you.”
Boh looked at him curiously. “What?”
Pilot grinned. “The realtor called. The loft is ours.”
