What choice did I have but to try and put the camera back in his hand on my own?
THIRTEEN
Leap of Faith
Creative differences. That was Reagan’s explanation for her hurried disappearance and tense conversation with Marie the night of Brandon’s show. She refused to say another word about it, which was driving me insane, but I could do nothing to change her mind. Marie was even more closed lipped. About that anyway. Every time she’d seen me over the last two weeks, she asked me about Reagan’s project, if I’d turned in my photo yet, when I was going to make a decision about the camera we’d been sent to beta test, or if I was planning to sit in on the casting call for models we needed for the next issue. Anything having to do with being in the studio, she wanted me involved.
Marie had never been terribly subtle. She clearly wanted me back behind a camera. I knew I’d disappointed her when I turned down contributing to Rudolph’s event, but I hadn’t expected her to start some kind of misguided campaign to renew my interest in photography. It wasn’t my interest that had vanished. Every time I stepped into a studio, my fingers itched to inspect the lens, adjust settings and lighting, feel the weight of the camera body in my hands.
As much as I wanted to step back into my old passion, I couldn’t. The potential cost was too high.
“You are in my way every time I turn around,” Reagan laughed.
Not moving from the doorway where I’d been watching her sort through a box of books, I said, “Sorry. You keep distracting me.”
I scanned the room, still stunned to see boxes of her things scattered around the apartment. It had taken me two weeks of hinting, prodding, and negotiating with her to get her to accept my offer to move in with me. It had practically turned into another office-wide game everyone got in on and Reagan rolled her eyes at, although she was smiling as she did it.
Even after all that effort, I hadn’t actually expected it to work. I half-suspected she simply got tired of having to go back to her place every time she needed something, since I refused to sleep over at her cramped little apartment with its thin walls and depressing atmosphere. The fact that she’d gotten notice that her rent was going up when her lease ran out at the end of the month might have contributed to changing her mind as well. I could deal with those being motivators that nudged her toward saying yes, because she was with me.
“You’re still in my way,” she said as she reached up on tiptoe to kiss me.
“I know.”
“Are you going to make me unpack everything by myself?” she asked.
“Are you going to keep making me take pictures of every step of this process?” I countered.
Reagan grinned. “Yes. Your mom made me promise. She’s feeling left out being so far away, and I’m pretty sure she’s more excited about this than either of us.”
Shaking my head, I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted her so I could kiss her more fully. When I set her back down, the handful of books she’d been holding slipped out of her grip. “We’re never going to finish if you keep doing that,” she said, eyes still closed to hold onto the pleasure.
“So? There’s no hurry.”
Reagan giggled, but pulled out of my grip and picked up the fallen books. She shook her head as she walked toward the bookcase. When she approached it, her mouth fell down into a frown. “There’s not going to be enough room for my books.”
“We’ll get another bookcase. Just stuff them on the shelves for now. I think you need a break from unpacking, anyway.”
Rolling her eyes, she started pushing books onto the shelves wherever she could find space. “I’ve only made it through two boxes and all you’ve done is watch me and take pictures.”
“The pictures are your idea, and how is it my fault that you’re too fucking gorgeous to not stare at?” As soon as the last book left her hand, I grabbed her hips and pulled her against me.
She moaned when she felt exactly how much I wasn’t interested in unpacking anything but her body from her clothes. “Hurry up and take your picture. You’ve convinced me to take a break.”
“The picture can wait.” Lowering my mouth to her neck, I sucked at her soft skin, making her arch into me.
“You’ll forget later,” she said. The breathy quality her voice always adopted when her need rose made me harden even more.
“I’d rather take a picture of you, with this look on your face. Show my mom our real progress on unpacking.”
Reagan chuckled, then moaned when I pulled her earlobe between my lips. “You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered, too distracted to truly care what anything but my mouth was doing in that moment. She yelped when she heard the shutter noise from my phone and shoved me back. Her expression was wary as she stared at me. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Her eyes doubled in size when she saw my fingers moving. “Don’t post that!” She snatched the phone out of my hand, but it was already done. “Shit,” she whispered.
She didn’t push me off when I came up behind her and circled my arms around her waist. I could see the picture from over her shoulder. Reagan’s fingers brushed against her bottom lip as she stared at the screen. Brandon had managed to draw a gasp of surprise and a blush from her that day in the studio. He hadn’t been able to capture this.
The close up image of the side of Reagan’s face, beautiful skin stretched taut as she leaned away from my mouth to give me better access, led a visual trail to her parted lips and closed eyes. I knew it was too much to post on Facebook, but if she wanted to push me to play pretend photographer with a phone camera, she could deal with the consequences.
She was the only one I wanted to take pictures of, not books or throw pillows, or whatever the hell other shit showed the world we were living together. If anyone needed to know anything about our lives, it was that I was insanely in love with Reagan and no one else was ever going to be able to make her feel like she did in that picture.
Slowly, Reagan turned in my arms, swallowing hard when she faced me. “You really shouldn’t have posted that.”
“Probably not.”
“God, it’s hot, though,” she said as she exhaled. She shook her head. “How do you make me feel like that with one little touch?”
Instead of waiting for an answer, she tossed my phone on the couch, out of my reach, and started dragging me back to the bedroom. Our bedroom. She pulled me into the room and simply stared for half a second, before sliding her hands timidly under my t-shirt. The sudden shyness confused me, but her hands running up my abdomen erased coherent thoughts from my mind. She kept pushing until the fabric reached my chin and I ripped it off my body to keep it from blocking my view of her as she kissed her way back down my chest.
I couldn’t stop the small convulsions of need that hit me when her lips dipped below my belly button and she started unbuttoning my jeans. I knew without her saying anything that she expected me to stay still and not say word. She was nervous, but determined.
Achingly slow, she pushed my jeans down my legs until I could step out of them. Her hands were shaking as she ran her fingers up the length of my cock, still covered by fabric and pulsing with every light touch. Exquisite torture. My eyes were closed as she dragged my boxers down my legs, so I wasn’t prepared for her tongue to flick across the tip of my cock, and shuddered as one of my hands tangled in her hair.
She slid her hand down my shaft to the base, then hesitated. Holding still, waiting for her to act killed me. I was desperate to feel her mouth on me. It was what I’d imagined that first night she spent in my apartment, drunk in the other room and completely beyond my reach. Now it was our apartment and her mouth was hovering so close. I opened my eyes to find her gazing up at me. As if she needed some kind of confirmation from me, when our gazes locked, the anxiety she was holding vanished.
Her hot, wet mouth slid barely an inch onto my cock and I nearly lost it. “Fuck, Reagan. God, that feels good.”
Emboldened, she took me in further
, drawing a groan from me. I wasn’t sure how long I could hold back, but it felt so fucking good I was determined to make it last. Reagan pulled back, sucking as she did. She closed her lips around my tip, but didn’t lose contact, plunging back down my length again. My fingers tightened in her hair, but I forced myself not to push her.
“Oh, fuck,” I groaned as her tongue flicked back and forth across my cock with each plunge.
It felt like an eternity and barely a few seconds at once. My mind and body were completely hers as she brought me to the brink of ecstasy. I could barely control my breathing as her pace increased and her moans of pleasure threatened to send me over the edge all on their own. Suddenly, Reagan took me in even deeper and I panicked.
“Shit, Reagan, baby, if you don’t stop, I’m going to come in your mouth,” I warned as I tried to fend off a mounting orgasm. Her hesitation at the beginning made me think she hadn’t done this very often and I didn’t want to push her too far, but Reagan didn’t pull back or slow down. “Fuck! Reagan, babe…”
It was too late before I finished my thought. Hot cum poured out into her mouth as my thoughts were consumed by mind-numbing pleasure. She kept sucking, swallowing, taking me in deep until I had nothing left. I felt ready to collapse until she pulled back and whimpered with her own need.
The simple sound of her desire stoked mine. I swept her into my arms and carried her to the bed. Giving up the control she’d had over me just moments before, Reagan held my gaze as I stripped her clothes from her body, one piece at a time, touching as much of her skin as I could in the process. She radiated need, every breath ragged and laden with heat. Each little gasp made me harden, and by the time she was lying naked on the bed, she was wet and ready for me to take her.
There was no hesitation this time. I leaned down to kiss her and she locked her hands around my neck, pulling me closer, desperate to satiate her need. She took over, something she had never done before. Pushing me back from her lips, she arched up as she guided my mouth to her breasts. I was more than happy to comply. Sucking at her nipples as I stroked myself, I reveled in every moan and plea not to stop. When she pushed me lower, I didn’t disappoint her. She bit back a cry of ecstasy as my tongue dove between her folds and then up to circle her sensitized clit.
I had barely begun to pleasure her when her fingers speared through my hair and she was pulling at me again. “I need you,” she begged. “Now.”
In one move, my mouth captured hers as my cock sunk deep inside her. She stiffened in shock, and for half a second I worried I had hurt her, before her muscles clenched around mine and she was urging me to move faster and deeper. Completely at her command, I drove into her, fighting to control my own need until her nails gripped my back and she rode out her orgasm and unleashed mine.
It was the middle of the afternoon, but when I collapsed beside her, she wrapped her body around mine with no intention of going anywhere any time soon.
Hours later, I woke to find her still sleeping beside me. It was nearing dinner time and I decided to surprise her by cooking. On my way to the kitchen, I spotted my phone on the couch and picked it back up. When the screen came to life, it was still on the picture of Reagan. Even though I knew it was too racy to have posted, I didn’t delete it. I was about to set the phone aside when a message bubble popped up from a photographer who used to work at the magazine.
Dude, you back in the game? Saw the pic you posted and had to ask.
I stared at Jared’s message, unsure of how to respond. Posting camera phone snapshots on Facebook wasn’t the same as using a real camera. It wasn’t work, just playing around with Reagan. God, but it felt good. I stared at the picture of her I’d posted, and struggled to resist the urge to wake her and take more. The strange thing was, her gorgeous body was only half the reason. On some level, I was like Brandon, and felt a compulsion to capture her beauty, her essence, the rawest version of this amazing woman no one else got to see. That was art, in my mind. Finding those hidden moments that revealed a person then sharing it with the world.
Slowly, I began typing. I don’t know, man. Not sure I can deal with that right now.
Part of me hoped Jared had sent the message and dropped off, but his reply was immediate. What the fuck’s with the picture then? Who is that? You’ve got to be coming back if you’re going to post shit like that. Have you seen the comments? Everyone’s asking the same questions, wanting to know if you’re setting up a show.
WTF? I demanded, not sure I believed him. I was just messing with my girlfriend, teasing her.
She’s your girlfriend? Fuck. Glad I didn’t ask for her number to get her to come model for me. Seriously, though, look at the comments. I know you won’t do a show with Cyrus, but I have contacts who’d be more than happy to set you up. You’ve been missed.
It took me a while to respond, and in the end all I could give him was to say that I’d think about it before abandoning the phone on the counter. As I pulled out ingredients to make Reagan dinner, I kept glancing at it. I didn’t want to look. Cutting vegetables and heating water kept my hands busy, but not my mind. It was agonizing to not call his bluff. Finally, after dumping linguine into the boiling water, I broke and picked up the phone.
A string of nearly thirty comments proved Jared right. A handful of messages sat waiting as well, galleries offering to host, friends wanting to know what was going on and who the picture was of, and one from Brandon telling me to use a better camera next time. One picture meant to taunt Reagan, and suddenly everyone thought I was throwing my hat back into the ring. If felt so good to share something that captured how I felt about Reagan, it left me wondering…was I?
There was a sense of need almost as strong as what I felt around Reagan that was telling me to stop being afraid, stop hiding. It had been shoving its way into my mind more frequently since first meeting Reagan, and practically beating me over the head over the last few weeks. I wanted it. Badly. Fear strangled my courage, but I knew I was on the knife’s edge of breaking and I couldn’t give in without knowing.
It had been years since I contacted the lead detective who’d handled Kiera’s case, but I knew his number by heart. I backed out half a dozen times before finally placing the call, and waiting through two rings to hear the gravelly voice bark out, “Bradford,” and nothing else.
“Detective Bradford,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound like mine, “this is Donovan Gabriel, and I need a favor…”
***
I was running out of time. Marie was harassing me daily, asking if I had a picture yet. It pissed her off when I ignored her emails and calls, but I couldn’t take any more from her. While unpacking over the weekend, I had discovered Donovan’s photography stash in the spare bedroom while searching for somewhere to keep a few boxes of books and paraphernalia from college. He hadn’t said anything when I’d carried the boxes into our bedroom and left them sitting on top of the bureau, right below where he’d hung Brandon’s picture of me.
That was Saturday. Sunday I’d taken the cameras and lenses out of the box. He pretended not to notice me checking them over for damage, despite the fact that they had been meticulously stowed. A few were film, while most were digital. I’d learned enough about cameras over the last year to pick out the newest ones and match them with the correct lenses. They were all high quality, but I knew there had been significant improvements in digital photography since Donovan had walked away. I wondered as I sorted through everything if it would push him or set him back to have something newer and updated.
Posing the question wasn’t easy.
I knew he had seen the comments on his picture of me. He refused to mention them, or what his reaction might be. I suspected he’d gotten personal messages as well, because Marie had been hounding me, wanting to know if he’d been in contact with any of the galleries who’d offered to host him. When he hadn’t responded, they had likely reached out to Marie as well, and there was no way she would dissuade them.
Sitting in my o
ffice on Wednesday afternoon, I was losing faith in my ability to talk Donovan into picking up a camera and had begun working on a backup plan…just in case. It wasn’t any desire to win against Marie that was pushing me. If the prize were anything else, I’d be more than happy to let her have it. Donovan was too important. I still had no idea what she intended to do if I didn’t succeed, and I was terrified it would break him open.
I stewed for several more hours, moving images around and feeling guilty for my deception, until it was finally time to go home. That word alone eased my tension. I had fought him on moving in together. It still scared me some days that we had moved so fast, but I had a very difficult time denying how happy I was with him. Even my dad had noticed and found the guts to comment on it the last time he’d called. I couldn’t have been more shocked when he mentioned driving to the city soon to meet Donovan. He had never done that before, not even with David in the entire year we dated. It made me giddy, and positively terrified.
“Hey, babe…”
I gasped and nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of Donovan’s voice. Thrown into panic mode, I stared at him, acutely aware of what was on my computer screen and hoping he couldn’t see it from his angle.
“Sorry,” he laughed, “didn’t mean to scare you.”
Chuckling nervously, I tried not to look guilty. “Just super focused, I guess. Didn’t hear you come in.” I took in a deep breath and steadied myself. “Did you need something?”
His brows arched and a smile played on his lips. “To take you home. It’s already after six.”
I glanced at the clock and grimaced. “Oh, sorry, I lost track of time. Give me a couple of minutes to save everything and close down, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, before frowning and pulling out his phone. His frown deepened as he read the message. I wasn’t sure what to make of his jaw tightening for a moment before relaxing. “Brandon needs help with something in the studio. Meet me down there when you’re done?”
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