The Night Shoot
The studio was cold, but his gaze burned. He was a photographer I’d worked with before—professional, distant. Tonight, something was different.
“Just a few more,” he said, voice low. “Let’s try the sheer silk. No bra.”
I hesitated, then slipped behind the screen. When I came out, the fabric clung to every curve. He didn’t adjust the lights. He just stared.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
He walked toward me, not behind the camera. His hand found my waist, fingers tracing the silk. “You’re not just a model, Grey. You’re art.”
My breath hitched. “Then capture me.”
He didn’t reach for the camera. Instead, he pulled me close, lips brushing my neck. The silk fell away as he pressed me against the backdrop. The city flickered outside, but I only felt his hands, his mouth, the heat between us.
We never finished the shoot. But the photos in my mind—of him, of us—are the ones I’ll never show anyone else.
