Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92835 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
"You look vulnerable," she says. "I don't see that side of you often."
Is that really possible? I feel exposed every minute I'm around people. I take every step carefully, so I won't shatter.
But not with her.
Not anymore.
I'm not ready to bring her hand to the markings on my chest. But I'm ready to kiss her. To feel her fingers on my neck, chin, cheek without cringing.
"It's overwhelming," she says. "To see that side of you in a photograph. Especially if it's been a long time. Or you've never seen it before. The first time I saw that vulnerability in my eyes, I was overjoyed as a photographer. I captured something real about my subject. Then it hit me; that's me, that's my face, my expression, my pain the whole world can see. It terrified me."
"You didn't show it?"
"No. I almost never show my face. You know that."
"You're naked in your photos."
She nods.
"You don't want strange men to know where to find you."
"That didn't work."
"You aren't careful," I say. "It was easy."
"I'm not trying to be careful. And after this… I'm going public, Adam. We're going public. I don't know how long it will take to find a gallery. They're booked in advance. We… we'll be public with our engagement first."
"Soon."
She nods. "Do you have a timeline?"
I did. With this image in front of me, I can barely remember my name. "Two weeks. In the city. We'll invite everyone to dinner."
"You're going to propose there?"
"No. Before."
"When?"
"It's a surprise."
"Really?"
I nod.
She smiles. "I kind of like that. A surprise proposal. I'll post the ring on my social media."
Perfect.
"That will… that will make it more obvious. People will assume it's you. They won't be able to prove it, but they'll see me, they'll see the ring, they'll see you. They'll put it together."
Fuck.
"If it's too much, I understand. I won't include you in the set."
"At all?"
"Let me show you this," she says. "If you're uncomfortable, that's okay. I won't push you. Even though I adore the photos. But I will show the images of me. Even if I have to wait until our deal expires."
"No. I don't want that." I can't speak. My mouth is too sticky. How can she capture this side of me so easily? Why am I tempted to show the world? "I want you to soar."
She looks me over, studying me for cracks. Then she moves gently, speaks softly. As if I'm made of glass.
Maybe I am.
"I do love that photo of you," she says. "But I'm selfish about it. That's my Adam, the one no one else sees. I'm not ready to show the world."
She turns to her computer. Pulls up a new folder. The first image, another image of me in silhouette. My posture still firm, but not stiff. Commanding.
How she captured that, I don't know. But she did.
Then her, in her black lingerie, looking into the mirror as she applies a coat of lipstick.
Her, in front of the mirror, picking up the camera. Holding it in front of her pelvis as she snaps a photo.
The two of us in the bedroom, her body in front of mine, her robe falling off her shoulders.
Without the camera.
Then with it, again in front of her pelvis, this time with my hand between her legs.
I'm touching her.
She's about to come.
The camera blocks the details, but the action is obvious.
The photos are all cropped at her nose. My face isn't in frame. Only the white fabric of my shirt, my forearms, my hands on her skin.
"If it's too much… I understand that," she says. "I have a set that's not quite so erotic. I might even show it somewhere else. But this… it feels right."
My eyes go to the framed photos on the wall. "You love what DeLaney does."
"Is it too obviously a riff?"
"She didn't invent artistic nudes."
"Even so."
I study the images carefully, trying to channel the art history classes I took in high school and college.
It was mostly what Bash would call stuffy. Classic works.
Bowls of fruits, vases of flowers, landscapes.
The realist movement.
And nude portraits.
Some erotic even. We passed around an oft forgotten masterwork like it was a Penthouse magazine.
In ways it was.
A woman reclining on her back, her legs spread, her cunt on display.
"No," I say. "I think of these photos when I think of you."
"Do you?" Her laugh eases the tension in the room. "How do you think of me?"
"I picture you as the model. Or you, alone in your room, thinking of the images as you fuck yourself."
"You aren't jealous?"
"No. I know why they turn you on."
"Because I like feeling exposed?"
I nod. "The camera placement is a riff of this set. But the images look different. I can't explain how. I don't know enough about art."
"Which do you like better?"
"You're naked in these."
"Only this last one," she says.
"Your face is in this one," I say. "With the lipstick."