by Zoey Long
“Of course it’s round trip! What do you take me for? Jesus, Carrie.” He starts shaking his head.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I don’t think you’re kidnapping me or expect me to spend the night. Relax.”
I swear I can hear him gulp. I’m enjoying seeing him sweat just a little. I know he likes me as much as I like him. I know he’s conflicted. Pushing his boundaries makes me hot.
We get off the train at Grand Central and the station is completely abuzz with Friday night commuters. We hold hands so as to not lose one another, and besides, once we clear the train from Earnsley no one here knows who we are. Feeling his hand entwined with mine is exhilarating, exciting, so much so that I feel more awake than I have in recent memory, except when I’m on the stage. We weave effortlessly through the crowd toward the subway. I look at him and I’m proud to have him on my arm. This whole ordeal overwhelms me, and not in a bad way. I feel like a screen siren with a powerful secret, arm in arm with a gorgeous man. I squeeze his hand slightly.
“You hungry? Want anything before we head to Brooklyn?” he asks.
“No, not here. Let’s just get to your place.”
He nods and picks up the pace slightly, in a way that makes me think he’s hoping no one heard me say that, as if anyone could in the middle of this chaos.
We get to his apartment building, pretty close to the train. The door is painted a deep red with gold lettering. He looks around before turning the key in the lock, like I’m some forbidden treasure. We walk in and he flips on the light.
His apartment is small, about the size of my dorm room. I don’t know what I was expecting. I guess I have a romanticized idea about artists who live in New York City. I know it’s silly. The only people I know with spacious apartments here are kids with trust funds.
The minute we walk in, a small white and orange striped cat is meowing at us indignantly. Adam laughs.
“Hey, miss.”
He leans down and pets the cat and she quiets almost immediately, weaving herself around his legs and feet before starting to meow once again.
“This is Angie,” he explains. “It’s time for her dinner. Of course, if she had her way, it’d be time for dinner every hour. Isn’t that right?” he smiles at her, turning to hang his long wool coat in a nearby closet, removing his scarf quickly before hurrying to the kitchen.
I reach down and let Angie smell my fingers. She presses her pink wet nose into my hand before losing interest quickly, following Adam by trotting happily into the kitchen. He opens a cabinet above his head and swiftly pulls down a can of food to give to her.
I take this chance to notice that the apartment is basically one huge square with a tiny kitchen area attached to it. There’s an off-white, plush looking large bed in the center of the space with a deep navy blue blanket on it. It’s the clear focal point of the space, the elephant in the room. It’s not like he planned it this way though, he can’t help that it’s a studio apartment. I start fiddling with my scarf absent-mindedly, noticing the black and white portraits on the walls of women in various states of undress.
“Here, let me take your coat,” he offers sweetly, and I realize he’s standing behind me, close enough I can almost feel his breath on my skin. I undo the loose belt of my jacket and he slides it effortlessly from my shoulders, the fabric whishing quickly against my skin. I shiver. I can hear the sound of Angie’s tiny metal bowl sliding against the floor as she greedily eats her food. It’s the only sound in the room. He hangs up my coat and I turn to face him.
“Wow. My God, Carrie. You look...”
I know I look hot. I’ve felt kind of overdressed since I met up with him, but who cares. I feel good. I look down the length of my body, the satin material clinging to my frame, the outline of me, curving like the edge of a cello.
“I feel bad, like we should have gone out somewhere. We still can. You should be shown off. There’s a restaurant near here that plays jazz on Friday nights if you’re interested...’
I nod. “I really just want to see your photos. I wore this for you.”
The flirtatious line flowed out of my mouth without hesitation. My skin pricks at my own forwardness. I feel sexy and powerful in this moment. I move close to him then, putting my palm against his cheek. It’s cold from the outside and warms in my hand. His eyes are a mixture of sea and sky, warm and mesmerizing. I want to kiss him right now, but I’d rather if he made the first move, make him admit how much he wants this.
“Do you have anything to drink?” I ask him.
“You’re not twenty-one,” he says.
I start laughing. “I’m a month away from turning twenty-one. And please, tell me. Did you not drink in college? Or in high school? Ever? Also, look what we’re doing right now. Look where I am, Professor.”
“We are... simply... two artists... sharing with...” I laugh and he smiles. “I’m just kidding. You like red?”
He has a small wine rack in the kitchen, dark wood. I imagine it’s from a website like Etsy or Scoutmob.
“Nice rack,” I say. He chokes on his own spit. I raise my eyebrow playfully and pivot on my right foot. He’s perusing the various bottles on the rack now, trying desperately not to look at me.
“Like it? It was a gift from my best friend. She had it made. From some artist in Brooklyn. Do you like Montepulciano?” he asks me, holding up a bottle of deep red wine.
“I like red wine,” I reply. “The wine I drink usually comes out of a box, so I am quite sure that’ll be much more palatable.”
He opens the bottle, the cork squeaks. He pours it in a glass decanter.
“Are you serious?” I poke fun.
“Again, a gift. From Lana.”
The mention of another woman’s name makes me straighten up some. I guess he can see it. “Who’s Lana?”
“She’s my friend, we’re platonic friends. Completely. Like a brother-sister relationship at this point. She’s also my assistant on the photoshoots, and a makeup artist. You’d love her, actually. She’s really interesting.”
“All this fancy entertaining stuff, it’s mostly from her. She’s got a real hard on for aesthetics...”
He hands me the fanciest long stemmed wine glass I’ve ever seen. Slender stem leading up to a most voluptuously curved goblet. I wonder if he has a real hard on right now. I give him my sultriest stare before putting my nose over the glass and inhaling. It smells fruity and slightly leathery. I take a sip and close my eyes.
Chapter 8: Adam
Holy fucking shit. Carrie Desmond is standing smack dab in the middle of my apartment, far away from school, the administration, and anyone else who knows us at all. She’s mere steps from my bed. The subject of all my fantasies, both when I’m asleep and awake. I take a sip from my glass and permit myself to look her over. I have to give a slight smile, she’s gorgeous as always, but everything about her looks performative right now, like she’s putting on airs. She doesn’t need to. The way she’s standing in that black satin cocktail dress with her hips cocked dramatically off to one side, holding the glass like she’s on stage. She looks as if she’s playing the part of a fancy New York woman, breezily chatting it up after hours with the object of her desire, a vintage bottle of wine between them. Her flaming red locks fall gracefully over her creamy shoulders, and all I want to do is touch her again. She takes a sip, the deep cherry hue of the wine lingering on her bottom lip.
“Let me show you something,” I say, motioning her to take a seat on my bed. There isn’t really anywhere else to sit.
“But the... do I need a coaster or something?” she asks me nervously, holding the long glass out in front of her, away from her body and the white bedspread as she takes a seat.
I run to the kitchen and get a small wooden folding table, the one I use when I’m just sitting in my apartment with a cup of coffee. I open it and place it in front of her. She smiles and puts her glass down.
I head to my desk and pick up
my laptop and take a small book out of my messenger bag. I take a seat next to her and she shifts to make room, placing my own glass down on the table next to hers. I boot up the computer and show her some of my favorite shots, portraits that clients have agreed to let me add to my portfolios.
“Here, if you want to scroll through,” I hand her the laptop.
“Mm, this is great,” she says, perusing the set, stopping on images she finds most interesting. The photo is of a young brunette kneeling in a black negligee, the neckline showing an ample amount of cleavage. Her black hair is pulled into an updo with a large white flower above her ear. She’s pretending to be on the phone, a shiny, tomato red, vintage-style phone, the kind with the rotary dial and the thick winding cord that leads playfully up to the receiver by her ear. The red pops against the black, the background is a simple blue. She has red lipstick on.
Another is of a woman standing up in a 1950s-style flower print dress, with a big full skirt that stops at the ankles and a dramatically cinched waist. The large pink and yellow flowers on the dress dance over a cream colored background. She has shoulder-length blond hair, done up in curls at the bottom, turned under. What’s saucy about the picture, though, is that her right hand is lifting up the edge of the skirt, up past the top of her nude stockings.
“Ha!” Carrie exclaims. “I love the mix of the proper and the provocative in this. She looks like Betty Draper. Was that your inspiration?”
“Exactly, yes. The client was a huge Mad Men fan,” I smile. Except I’m not looking at the picture anymore. My eyes have wandered back to Carrie, first to her legs and upper thighs, which are dangerously close to my own, then to her neck, watching as her chest rises and falls gracefully with her breath.
“I wish I knew how to do those.”
“What, garters?” I ask.
“Yes. I struggle with those. When I did the photoshoot with Alexis that time, we were both laughing so hard because the back one kept popping open.”
“Yeah. It takes some practice. Especially if the belt itself is new, it needs some time to break in.”
She looks at me, her large eyes excited like a cat who is about to pounce. She looks at me, lips still stained slightly, cheeks a bit flushed to a peachy-pink hue.
“Damn it,” I exhale. “Can I kiss—”
But before I have a chance to finish the sentence, Carrie has put her lips to mine and we melt into each other, and I’m holding the back of her head through her hair, moving her in rhythm with the kiss. She’s moaning deliciously, and to my delight, she does smell like vanilla and sugar and cream. Like creme brulee, whipped up in my subconscious. She puts her hands on my shoulders, then reaches for the skin of my neck and chest. Her teeth nip my bottom lip playfully, and then my mouth is on her neck, right below her ear, kissing her there with moderate pressure.
She lets out a moan like she’s releasing into my mouth, pressing into me, excited. My teeth graze her neck and I bite down very gently, which gives me shivers and causes her to moan even louder. I let up on the pressure entirely then, and begin covering her neck in small light kisses, letting my lips linger against her skin.
When I stop and look at her, her eyes are wet and open, and she’s panting slightly, like she’s been waiting for this all night long. She’s looser from the wine, her arms and shoulders look relaxed, her perfect poise has a softened edge to it. Now that I’ve crossed the line, that delicious line that means we’re acting on our feelings alone in my apartment, I don’t want to rush it. I want to savor each and every moment with her. I don’t know what we will or will not do tonight, but the kiss felt so good that the anxiety that is to come is worth it. I bend down and reach into my bag, pulling out a small maroon colored book.
“I believe, when we were in conference, you expressed interest in this?” I say, handing her the little red portfolio she was eyeing in my office. Her large, moss green eyes light up immediately as she takes the book from my hands.
“Yes,” she whispers, letting her fingers gently move over the front of the book against the textured fabric.
“These are some of my best shots, a personal portfolio, if you will. Some of these were for clients, others are series that I created in collaboration with models.”
She nods and opens the book slowly, taking in the first picture. The first photograph in the portfolio is an 8x10 black and white print. A brunette with shoulder length hair is lying topless on a bed, propped up on her elbows, staring straight into the camera.
Carrie takes a deep breath in. Her eyes linger on the woman’s shapely breasts, her arched back and the the rest of her slender body. Her nipples are not erect, they’re about the size of nickels, her breasts slope delicately. Her expression is taunty, and there’s a smirk on her full lips as her fiery brown eyes look straight into the lens.
“Gorgeous,” she says slowly, biting her lip. “Who is this woman?”
Carrie boldly slides her pointer finger down the woman’s figure. I’m excited, I clear my throat.
“That was taken years ago, but her name was Viv. At least that’s what she told me. She wanted to shoot a set of boudoir photographs for her own modeling portfolio.”
Carrie nods, flipping to the next page in the book. It’s another shot of Viv, but it’s just her legs and shoes. The black stockings have old-fashioned back seams leading gracefully down to a pair of shiny black high heels.
“The same woman again,” she asserts, smiling.
The next photograph is in color this time, outdoors on a rooftop. A curvaceous woman with caramel skin and tattoos stands in a bright grenadine-colored bikini, holding a parasol over her head.
“Ha!” Carrie yells. “Fun.”
“Oh, I did a whole series on that rooftop. Just for my own portfolio. There are more.”
Carrie inches her free hand toward mine on the bedspread as she flips eagerly to the next page.
It’s another color photo from the rooftop series, this one of a woman standing in a polka dot retro one-piece bathing suit with ruching around the front and sides. She has dark red lipstick on and dark sunglasses with cateye frames. It’s Lana.
“That’s my friend Lana,” I say.
“Oh, that’s Lana. Cool. She’s lovely. Do you see her much?” Carrie asks, sipping her wine again and inching her creamy fingers toward mine on the bed until our hands are finally touching. We both ignore this fact for the moment.
“Not since I started teaching, really. I miss our photoshoots.”
“Do you do any shoots without her help?” she asks, fluttering her long, sooty lashes at me. I know what she’s getting at. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t desperately want to photograph her.
“Do you want another glass of wine?” I ask, filling up my own.
She nods, and I fill her glass and then go to the kitchen and see what kind of food I have. Thank goodness I went to Whole Foods recently. I was feeling ambitious, thinking I might entertain, so I have prosciutto and cheeses and olives and bread. I make up a plate with some cut up baguette. I really am taking hostessing tips from Lana.
I steal a look at Carrie from the kitchen through the breakfast nook. She’s lying back slightly, propped up on her forearms, her head dropping back toward the bed. Her hair lies in waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing black stockings with her black dress. It makes for a lovely picture against my white bedspread, just the hint of red hair falling over her shoulders in places. She’s pointing her feet out straight and rubbing her legs together playfully. Squeezing her thighs together maybe. God help me.
“Whatcha doing in there?” she asks. “Cooking? That’s hot.”
She said the last part under her breath, but I still heard it. I unwrap the last of the cheeses, put them out on an old wooden cutting board and bring the whole spread out to her.
“Geez,” she says. “What do we have here, Mr. fancy pants?” She’s smiling, that large joyous grin taking up half her face.
“I thoug
ht we should both eat something,” I say. That’s the truth, but I also wanted to break the tension a bit with something more than a kiss. It was getting a little thick in here.
She takes a piece of bread, breaks it apart, and puts a few slices of prosciutto on top and eats it. The crust crunches against her teeth. I start rattling off names for things.
“Those are pear slices, prosciutto obviously, mixed olives, a brie, and cheddar.”
She’s nodding and loading up her next piece of bread with fruit and cheese.
“It’s so pretty the way you laid this all out,” she says, eating eagerly. Even the way she eats is adorable. I smile. I sit next to her again and take some bread and cheese myself.
She finishes a bite, swallows, and looks at me again. In this light, at this moment, her eyes look more evergreen than moss green. She’s breathtaking.
“I have an idea,” she says.
“I think we’re having the same idea,” I say, swallowing more wine.
“I was just thinking...you should dress me. Maybe take my picture?”
I smile at her. “Yes.”
I’ve been waiting for this moment. Hoping that she’d ask me. She stands in front of me, I’m still sitting down on the bed in my charcoal suit pants..
“I’m not wearing a garter belt.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I have them.”
I let my fingers rest gently on her hips, the black satin encouraging me to touch her more. She leans into me and I run my hands up to her waist, she’s slick like an oil spill. She pulls up her dress until it’s up over her ass and resting on her waist. A flush of heat envelops my body and I lean back.
“Mmm,” I say, taking in the sight of her.
She’s wearing sheer tights. Underneath them she has on black panties, string bikini style, the small thin straps on either side resting on the lush part of her hips.
“See?” she asks, fully aware of how much she’s teasing me. The smirk on her face proves it.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I see.”
She leans down to kiss me and I stop her for a moment.