by Cara McKenna
“Do you want me to run the final shots by you, before I choose one to use in the show?” Normally she wouldn’t be so confident that she had a winner after just one session and only three hundred frames, but she knew she did. This time, the challenge would lie in narrowing down the choices and picking just one. The boy was a diamond—startling from every angle.
“It’s your show,” he said.
“Text me your e-mail all the same, and I’ll send you the finals.”
“Does this conclude our professional relationship, then?” Mica asked, his gaze hot and pointed.
She swallowed. “I suppose it does.”
His attention dropped to her waist, and slowly, he reached out one long, toned, tattooed arm and hooked two fingers into the belt loop at her hip. Her heart stopped.
“So now I can ask you something I’ve been wanting to all night,” he said, tugging playfully.
“I suppose you can.”
But he didn’t ask her a thing. He simply tightened his hold on her belt loop and said, “Come home with me.”
Her heart was pumping again in a blink, all that blood rushing, sending heat and heft and the hum of alcohol to her fingertips, her cheeks, between her legs. Fuck, when was the last time a man had looked at her like that? She’d forgotten how good it felt, feeling somebody’s crosshairs on her.
It was a bold move, considering they’d not kissed—nor even really flirted, explicitly. But he had to sense that she wanted him. Even with the camera between them, he’d surely felt the heat of her stare on his face and body. And she knew her answer, after all. Thirtieth birthday presents like this one didn’t come along every day.
She nodded. “Okay.”
He smiled that devil’s smile, eyes crinkling, and set the wine bottle on the counter behind him.
Clare’s body was hot and buzzing, like she’d emptied that bottle herself. She’d never been propositioned by a guy so shamelessly before. Some unsolicited DTF? messages from a couple of half-assed attempts at online dating, sure, but nothing quite like this.
Coming from most any other man, she’d have been put off by such bluntness, but she’d been fantasizing about this chance from the minute she’d first laid eyes on Mica. This was a birthday wish granted, and she wasn’t about to waste it by playing coy. Now all she wondered was how quickly she could get herself alone with this man.
“I haven’t seen Vaughn,” she said, scanning the kitchen.
“We can walk. It’s not far.”
And, mentally blessing herself for having worn practical shoes, Clare agreed.
CHAPTER THREE
It was one of those nights that smelled of magic—unseasonably warm and with spring on the breeze, cherry blossoms and damp grass blending with the city’s harder smells. About a block into their journey, Mica took Clare’s hand without a word.
She’d been saying something—answering some question he’d had about the gallery or the show—but the second his fingers twined around hers, all coherent thought fled. Gone like a snatch of music from a passing car, gone like the bones in her legs, it felt.
His hand was as rough as she remembered—from the climbing, surely—and it felt just as she’d fantasized it might, holding hers this way. Dry and cool and strong. He’d made the move without even seeming to have glanced at her, yet another effortless gesture from this man who seemed so natural, so fluid in every way.
“So the end of August?” Mica prompted, catching her gaze. His eyes were black in the streetlight, the planes of his face sharp and thrilling.
“Yeah. If I get it—which I think I will—the opening is going to be the last weekend of the month, and it’ll be up until mid-September. I forget the exact dates. I forgot what I was saying just now, actually,” she admitted, lifting their hands. “Got distracted.”
“I’ve been distracted all night, waiting to see if I’d get to take you home.”
Something inside her lit up at the possibility that he might feel even a fraction as eager for all of this as she did. It gave her a little edge, a little confidence, made her feel just a little mischievous. “Poor baby,” she teased.
His thumb stroked her palm, something needy or hungry in the contact. A tiny bit pushy, like he couldn’t wait for them to get where they were going. He was a forward guy, Clare was discovering, though she wouldn’t have expected it, considering she’d been the one to approach him. What would he be like in bed? she wondered. Pushy there as well? The thought gave her an unexpected thrill. Clare didn’t consider herself especially kinky, though she knew that strong, outspoken men excited her, and that something inside her was wired to respond to male confidence.
Then again, tonight was the ushering in of an era. She was turning the calendar page on a new decade; perhaps thirty would be the year she discovered she was freakier than she’d given herself credit for.
She asked Mica what the biggest differences were between LA and Pittsburgh, enjoying the sound of his voice as he told her about his old neighborhoods, enjoying the warmth of his hand, enjoying the promise of sex that had her body winding up tighter and tighter with each block they put behind them. Enjoying this anticipation and this daring version of herself, one she hadn’t indulged in far too long.
They reached Mica’s building and she missed his hand when it dropped hers. He let them in and led her back up to his apartment.
Though she’d stood in this kitchen only hours before, it felt almost unrecognizable. She set her camera bag on the table, thinking how the last time she’d been in this room, she’d been nervous to simply see him again. Now she was a far different flavor of shy, a far richer, darker persuasion of uncertain.
“Drink?” he asked, unzipping his jacket.
“What have you got?”
Mica opened the fridge. “Beer . . .” He perused the freezer next. “Vodka.” He shut that and looked in the cabinets. “Cheap merlot.”
“Cheap merlot, please.”
He set two nice wineglasses on the counter and filled them generously. Though white was usually her scene, Clare liked a glass of red to set the mood, and the way it multiplied all that heat and buzz of a flirtation. She tapped her glass to Mica’s, then followed him into the den.
“Where’s the bathroom?” she asked.
“Down the hall, first door on the left.”
She set her wine on the coffee table. “Be right back.”
When she returned, Mica was crouched in front of the stereo, flipping through a nylon binder of CDs before sliding one out. It was some kind of jazzy, soulful R&B, an artist Clare hadn’t heard before. All she knew was that it was good make-out accompaniment, and she gave Mica a mental check mark in the Decent Taste in Music column.
They settled on the couch, close, sipping their wine and exchanging eye contact—bold on Mica’s part, a little less so on Clare’s.
“Get what you needed tonight?” he asked, and goddamn if his voice didn’t make that question sound filthy. It occurred to her, perhaps naively, that maybe he’d only agreed to let her shoot him with the hopes that he’d get in her pants.
Funny how that possibility didn’t offend her in the least.
She nodded, toeing off her shoes. “Yeah, I think I’ve got plenty to work with. And don’t let me leave without giving you your fifty bucks.”
He waved the notion aside. “I would’ve gone to that party anyhow. No hardship on my end.”
“Oh, well, if you’re sure.”
He smiled, reaching out to slip her glass from her fingers. He set both on the coffee table, then angled his legs, cupped her far elbow. Tingles chased up her arm from the touch, and then he was leaning close, his gaze on her mouth.
She welcomed him, no hesitation, and he was bold. His lips toyed and taunted only a moment before his tongue delved to stroke hers, slick and sensual. Her fingers found his hair, thumbs pressing into his cheeks as
he took more. His kisses were a perfect mix of masterful and aggressive, riding that sharp edge between brazen and overwhelming but never crossing over.
Everything about this man was so nearly too much, yet it felt like she couldn’t possibly get enough.
She tasted wine in his kiss, the same vintage lingering on her own lips. She smelled his cigarettes as well, though it wasn’t a scent she minded. Tobacco smoke had always triggered nostalgia in her, and she knew there would be new memories attached to that fragrance after tonight.
Goddamn, he could kiss. He made Clare feel things she hadn’t in ages, and ruined a budding theory she’d been cultivating about younger men being nicer to look at than to actually fuck.
She matched what he gave, his energy generating the same inside her, the aggression humming in her belly feeding off his tense muscles, hungry mouth. She felt wild, overheated, crazy. Their breathing grew heavy and hot, two panting mouths turning ravenous.
Bossy hands palmed her waist, urging her to move, to get in his lap. She did as they asked, thrilling as her skirt rose to her hips and she felt his jeans and belt against her naked inner thighs. The position broke their mouths apart, but any heat lost from the kissing Mica made up for with his voice, his words.
“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he breathed, lips teasing her throat.
“So have I.” Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him.
“You’re so fucking sexy.”
You’re one to talk. She slid her hand under his collar to feel his back muscles flexing. Everything about him was lighting her up. His smell, his voice, the power of his taut and trim body, the strength his hands promised in the way they held her jaw and waist.
Clare wasn’t a prude, but she’d only had a single one-night stand in her life and only once slept with a guy on the first date. Still, if ever she was going to go a little slack in the self-control department, this was the man to go there with, and this was the night.
Happy fucking birthday.
“Should we go to your room?” she whispered. She couldn’t say it any louder—it felt as though he’d stolen her breath.
“Soon.”
With his mouth on her skin as it was, she wasn’t going to argue. She memorized the faint, needy moans warming her neck, felt her palm growing damp against his skin, and imagined the both of them naked, grabbing, grasping, writhing. Imagined his weight on her and imagined sliding her palms all the way down his long back, over his hips and his ass. Imagined the view if she could peek between their two bodies, imagined what his cock might look like, and how he might take her. Quick, rough? Slow and explicit? Whatever the case, she had no doubt he’d fuck the same way he seemed to move through the world—with perfect, fluid instinct. No hesitation and no shame.
One of his hands slid south, palming her ass and urging her closer. She was right up against him now, tight enough to feel his excitement. A silent gasp hitched her chest, a head rush chasing when his kisses dropped lower, warming her collarbone. She needed him. Deep inside, as soon as possible. Needed this excited, strong body against hers, needed the lights on so she could watch, needed the low humming in his throat to turn to grunts and groans in her ear. Hell, if not for the annoying formality of protection, she’d want his fly open and her panties ripped to shreds and his cock inside her right here, right now.
“Let’s go to your room.” She was near to begging and didn’t care if he knew it.
He made a warm noise against her neck—a chiding sound, like he found her desperation amusing. He whispered, “Okay.”
Clare got to her feet, and he led her by the hand down the hall to the room at the very end. A string of Christmas lights outlined a single tall window and were already lit—white, just like those that had lit him on the fire escape and in her photos.
His room was small and sparsely furnished. The bed was full-sized, made up hastily with a red comforter. Beside it sat an IKEA-looking little table, strewn with a couple of books, a phone charger cord, an empty glass, and some change. No lamp, as the bed was positioned under the window and its halo of tiny lights. Across the room sat two mismatched dressers with a hamper between them. A shirt was draped over the lip of the latter, but other than that, it was a tidy scene. And good—Clare didn’t trust guys past college age who couldn’t be bothered to keep their rooms clean. What did her mom like to say? A woman’s home is a reflection of her head. Messy brain, messy house. That went for men, too. Clare remembered her dad’s dumpy apartment in the wake of her parents’ divorce, and how she’d done endless loads of dishes and tried to make it homey, nagged him to get his dirty clothes organized so they could go to the Laundromat together, because, frankly, he’d smelled kinda nasty. She hadn’t registered for another fifteen years or so that he’d been depressed, not lazy.
What did Mica’s room say about him, then?
That he traveled light and didn’t mind blank white walls. That he could pack his life up in less than an hour and be on his way.
She didn’t know him well, but the assessment resonated. Clare was a nester. Mica was migratory. Didn’t bother her a jot, though, because all she was after was a night in his bed, not forever. Not even next week. Maybe a coffee in the morning and some dirty text exchanges if the sex went well. Some fond X-rated memories, but nothing more.
He sat on the edge of the bed and she shut the door and joined him. He’d never look more right than he did in this particular light, bathed by the pale golden glow of three dozen miniature bulbs. She lay with him, both on their sides, kissing, legs locking.
“You have condoms, right?” she whispered against his lips.
“Yeah.”
“Not to be presumptuous.”
He laughed, and his smile lit her up.
With a guy she’d known for a couple of dates and not yet gone to bed with, she might’ve felt candid and familiar enough to ask him what he was into, sex-wise. But this was all so spontaneous, the question didn’t feel quite right. What felt right was instinct and impulse. She slipped her arms from her jacket and let it flop to the floor. Under it she had on a tee and her bra, and little else. The cool air tensed her skin, making his palm feel all the hotter when it stroked its way up her bare arm.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re sexy.”
She blushed, thinking she couldn’t hear that too many times from this man. “Thanks. So are you.” She studied him, memorizing his face—his long and regal nose, his stubble, the tilt of those gorgeous eyes and the planes of his cheeks. He let her touch him. She traced his lips, his ears, touched the thick-gauge silver hoops he wore in both lobes, toyed with his dreads. The whole of him was bathed in that calm, warm glow, so perfect she couldn’t help herself.
“Could I photograph you again?” she asked. “Now? Just like this?”
He smiled, white teeth flashing. “Sure.”
She left him to pad down the hall and fetch her bag from the kitchen table. Back in the bedroom, she knelt between his ankles and lifted her camera out, adjusting the exposure, taking a light reading, getting comfortable. She framed the composition, and snapped. Snapped and snapped and snapped, one shot after another as his expression shifted from amusement to curiosity to something altogether seductive. She captured the furrow of muscle between his pecs, framed by the unbuttoned collar of his henley. The color of his skin, set off by the black of the leather cord around his neck and the bright white glint on the silver beads. The shade of his lips, darker than his face, paler than his stubble. Every contrast, every shadow. Every detail, while they were still hers to peruse.
She set the camera aside at long last, and he drew her against him, touching her hair. She let him free her pom-pom of curls from its headband, watching his eyes darting as he played with them.
“You’re a natural blonde, huh?”
She nodded. “My dad’s side is crazy Irish. Got my freckles from him. Curls are from my
mom.”
“I like it. I like it all. Every mismatched thing about you.”
She glowed, bit her lip, feeling shy and flustered, pleased beyond measure to feel like he got her, like he found her differentness and the features she’d taken nearly thirty years to truly love herself attractive. “Ditto.”
He replied with his body, gently rolling on top of her, bracing his forearms at her sides and his knees between her legs. She touched his shoulders and back as he kissed her, welcomed his hips as they lowered, forcing her skirt up high on her thighs. Her fingers slid low and found his hem, eased his shirt up his back until he stole his mouth away and sat back. She watched with open fascination as he peeled the cotton up and over his head, exposing all that golden brown skin, all those glorious shapes.
His hobby was chiseled down his arms—long, trim muscles flexed with every tiny movement. His half-sleeve tattoo stretched from his elbow up, hugging the swell of his strong shoulder. This body could have been carved from stone if not for the vital shifting of tendon and bone beneath his smooth skin. A little chest hair. Small, dark nipples, and moles scattered here and there from his throat to his hard belly. She watched each breath swell and contract his trunk, hypnotized. He grinned, seeming charmed by her scrutiny, and leaned over to grab her camera and pass it to her.
“That obvious?” she asked, feeling like a dork.
“I don’t mind. I like how you look at me.”
She took just a couple shots, not wanting to be greedy. But he’d been right—she wanted this proof; souvenirs of the man who’d knelt before her this way, smiling down with his perfect body looming. There were a hundred filthy promises scrawled all over him, and she didn’t want to forget a single one.
When she next put the camera aside, Mica took the reins. Their clothes began to disappear—her top, her skirt, his jeans and socks—until they were locked together in their underwear, hands feasting. She palmed his ribs and the muscles woven along his sides, then the smooth, hard crest of his ass, the dent at his hip. He clasped her wrist and led her hand brazenly between his legs, closing it around his stiff cock, through his shorts.