His bedroom was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling steel factory windows, glossy white trim. The walls were white too, and the dresser white-stained oak in a matte finish. The king-size mattress was on an oak platform and covered in a white duvet and pillows. It was the kind of room where a lot of sex would take place, a room where children definitely were not allowed.
My garment bag was hanging on a bare rack in the middle of the room. I decided to throw on my gold blouse, not one I usually wore to work because it plunged a bit, but I was feeling, I don’t know, like being noticed. Like being looked at, by him.
When I entered the work area again it was quiet, no gaffer, no camera assistants, just the blond assistant neatly laying out makeup brushes in front of a lit-up mirror.
I took a seat and crossed my legs.
“We’ll just focus on the eyes, I think,” she said, looking at me through the mirror. “Make them pop. You don’t need much. You glow on your own.”
She was talking about me, not to me, and yet I still blushed.
“Is this blouse okay?” I asked the assistant, suddenly feeling flustered and self-conscious, like the blouse was too low, or maybe not low enough.
“It’s lovely,” she said, picking through the brushes. She didn’t seem to have a great handle on the tools of her trade, let alone the colors. I soon began to look a little garish. When she pumped the mascara tube ominously, I had to stop her.
“Look. I know photos require a bit more makeup than usual, but I am not sure this lipstick suits me.”
Her face fell. She was clearly nervous. “Normally I do my own eyes at the network,” I said. “Do you mind?”
“Yes! I mean no, by all means, I don’t mind. We just want you to feel totally comfortable and sexy.” She exhaled, utterly relieved.
“I just … want to look like myself.”
“Right, totally,” she said, backing away as I wiped off some of her enthusiastic work, reapplying it with my lighter touch.
Why would someone with Erik’s profile hire such an incompetent makeup artist? What was also weird was how quiet everything had suddenly become. I hopped off the director’s chair and poked around the partitions looking for Erik, for anybody. I found him measuring the light in front of a large green screen, onto which the newsroom and a cityscape were projected.
“There you are,” he said. “Shall we begin?”
Erik expertly positioned me where I’d appear on the billboard, my elbow resting on a block, an appropriate stand-in for Bill Rink. Erik wasn’t shy, placing his hands on my shoulders, moving me this way and that. And I was … enjoying it. I found it almost … relaxing.
“That’s good. Commanding. Yes, perfect,” he muttered into the viewfinder, clicking away. “Now arms crossed, that’s right. Shoulder to me. Nice. That’s it. Nice. Very nice. Smart. Good.”
I was posing for the camera as I had done a million times before, but I was also posing, a little bit, for Erik. He was pulling a certain kind of sexiness and daring from me.
“Lovely, Solange. Let’s try another look.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
I skipped (skipped!) back to the bedroom and threw on my red shimmering blouse, returning to position myself in front of the green screen. This all felt so girly, heady, model-y. I was having fun.
I hopped back onto the stool while Erik concentrated on placing a light just so. He stepped in front of me, awfully close, to move a lock of my hair … just … so. When he was taking pictures, looking at me through a viewfinder, I felt fine. But now, standing there looking down at me the way a man looks at a woman, his hip cocked, one hand holding his massive camera like it weighed nothing, his other hand scratching the back of his head, I became wobbly on the stool.
“You’re a natural in front of the camera. I mean, that’s evident from your work. But you’re also incredibly easy to photograph. Lovely at every angle.”
Click, click, click.
“Oh. Thanks. I guess,” I said. Was he stepping over a line? It felt like it and yet I couldn’t help but feel flattered.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me? No, I’m not offended,” I said. “I think … sometimes I wrestle with compliments like that.”
“Why?”
Click, click, click. He moved back and forth in front of me with the camera, crossing my sight line like a pendulum.
“I don’t know. I guess I just want to be taken seriously.”
He snapped more pictures, this time stepping closer. “You don’t think a woman can be sexy and taken seriously?”
“Of course,” I said. But did I believe that?
He was smiling into the viewfinder.
“It’s easier doing this without my work colleagues around,” I admitted.
“People on their own are far less inhibited. They’re more themselves. That’s why I prefer to do group shots this way. Photoshop everyone together later. Okay, I want to get a few more before we lose the sun,” he said, peering over his camera, a lock of wavy hair rakishly falling over one of those gray eyes.
I noticed long shadows tracing along the wood planks. The day was drifting by. I also realized the blond assistant wasn’t around anymore and low jazz music was wafting from hidden speakers. Are we alone? I put my hand on my stomach, feeling a little dizzy, hungry maybe. Where was that canapé table? Didn’t Marsha mention food?
“Solange, I’d like to see you in something other than your work wear.”
What?
“Oh. Well, I didn’t bring anything else but—”
“Something that shows off your true self. Away from work.”
He regarded me intently, like this was a dare.
“Like I said, I didn’t bring casual clothes. Why would I?”
This was becoming strange.
“I have some things you can try on. They’re hanging in my room. See if anything strikes you.”
What the hell? He seemed so nonchalant, adding, “If you’ll accept the Step, that is.”
He snapped a picture of my face just then, no doubt revealing the shock registered there. The room was completely silent except for the creaks and knocks from the surrounding lofts. Oh, and my heart rattling around inside my chest.
“Are you one of the men from …?”
He nodded, his face serene. He regarded me thoughtfully, his camera down, resting against his thigh.
“Don’t you normally sleep with supermodels?”
“I can assure you, I never kiss and tell. So?”
“So.”
“So … do you accept the Step, Solange?”
When he smiled, his skin crinkled around his mouth and eyes. I slid off the stool. My legs were liquid.
“Which Step is it again?”
“Courage,” he said, his free hand now traveling under his T-shirt to his stomach. Maybe he was nervous too?
“I could certainly use more of that right about now.”
“This is one way to get it.”
“Okay then. Why don’t I go and slipintosomethingmorecomfortable?” I said it really, really fast as I made my way to his bedroom.
I shut the door behind me and took a deep breath. This was all moving fast. The first fantasy was on home turf, and that was nice. This was really close to work and it made me a bit nervous. My eyes scanned the room. Something was different. The rack that had held my work blouses was gone, replaced by a row of fancy, flimsy, sheer things, festooned with feathers, lots of lace, a bow or two. Closer examination revealed mostly black and nude bras and panties, with splashes of red and white here and there. It was all lingerie—elegant stuff, expensive stuff, teddies, sheer wraps, a long see-through black gown and beneath, on the white-painted floor, a pair of gorgeous black feathered mules. A thick, white terry-cloth robe lay across his bed. On the dresser was another blessed glass of chilled champagne, which I downed (impressive, for me) in almost one gulp.
What was I about to do? I was about to have sex with a sexy-as-hel
l war photographer, but not before he took some sexy shots. Of me. Wearing this sexy stuff!
I pulled out the sheer gown, held it up to the window. Holy shit, I’d never buy something like this for myself. When would I wear it? I thought back to Julius when we were married. If I’d shown up in our bedroom wearing this, he’d have laughed. Not in a mean way, but in a way that said, Baby, you don’t have to put on a show to get to me. I imagined my hurt. Why would he laugh at a time like that, when all I was trying to do was be sexy for him, like that expensive marriage counselor had suggested way back?
And just like that, I was having an imaginary fight in my head with my ex-husband, feeling all that old familiar rage, the kind that would have sent me storming back into the bathroom, slamming the door on him, yelling, “Forget it!” to which Julius would have replied, “Solange! Come ooooon. I was just kidding! You looked beautiful!”
Screw you, Julius.
I snapped out of my fight. Dammit, this is not for Julius, and truth be told, not even for Erik. This is for me!
I tore off my work clothes, selecting the full-length, black sheer negligee, carefully slipping it over my head, surprised at its sturdiness. The gauze tumbled over my legs, the empire waist cinching tightly under my breasts. I could barely look at myself in the mirror, but I forced an appraisal.
Wow. Okay.
I not only looked sexy, I felt it.
I can do this!
A step closer changed my mind. I could see my nipples press through the material! I covered myself instinctively.
Actually I can’t do this. I can’t just step out there like this.
I gazed over at the rack, at all the other lovely, sexy things. I thought of Erik, his arms, my fingers running through his hair. I looked at myself again in the mirror. All those years of being single, and a mother, and a working mother, and a hard-working mother, meant I had lost the ability to just play.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
“Solange? Are you okay in there?”
The champagne was warming my skin.
“I’ll be right out.”
I slid my feet into the heeled slippers, counted to five. Look at you in that black negligee. Are you seriously going to go through with this? At the last minute, I reached for the bathrobe and threw it on, covering myself up.
Baby steps.
Go! Just go. Carefully in those heels, I walked to the door and opened it. I could see the light from the setting sun coming through the windows.
“I’m over here, Solange.”
I followed the sound of his voice, the heels making a hollow clacking sound on the wood floors. I peeked around behind the partition and found Erik bent over the top of an elaborate-looking camera mounted on a tripod, different from the small one he had used for the earlier shots. The backdrop was different too, this one dark blue, with large colorful pillows and throws strewn about a sectional that barely rose above the floor.
“Hi,” he said, looking up, his face soft.
“Hi,” I said, barely cracking a smile.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
Clutching the robe, I walked over to the pillows and cleared a space on the sectional, lowering myself like a big chicken settling into a nest. Definitely not sexy.
I was still in my bathrobe when Erik began to take pictures.
He looked over the top of the camera again. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” I said, looking around at the dark shadows, feeling horribly self-conscious. The sky was the blue of deep dusk.
“This is only my second fantasy.”
“And what about this scenario had you fantasized about?”
I cast back to the day I had filled out my folder on my kitchen table. What had I written about Courage? It wasn’t specifically about having sex with a handsome photographer, but I had written something about “watching myself, seeing myself” as a desirable woman.
“It was about being … watched, seen, feeling beautiful,” I said.
“Why’s that hard for you?”
“I don’t know … in my business it can distract as much as it attracts. The more beautiful you are, the less, it seems, you’re taken seriously.”
“I’m certainly taking you very seriously right now,” he said, peering over the camera intently at me. Click, click.
“Can I ask you something? Why are you doing this?”
“Why would you ask that?” he asked back, half laughing.
“It’s not like you’d have any problem meeting girls.” There I go. The journalist in me is about to kill the chemistry.
“No problem meeting girls. They’re everywhere.” Click. “On the other hand, I don’t really meet a lot of women,” he said, adding, “How about this. Instead of telling you why I’m doing this, let me show you.”
My head swam with that proposition.
“Starting with that bathrobe. Let’s lose it, Solange. And then I want you to just ignore me. And relax back onto the couch.”
Maybe it was how commanding he was, or maybe because the light was dimming and flattering and the puffy sectional so comfortable, but I found myself tugging free of the terry-cloth robe and tossing it to the side. I rested on my side, on an elbow, in that black negligee, my hand on my still-churning stomach.
At first, I didn’t know where to look, how to be. And then … I began to relax. I closed my eyes and lay back against the pillows. After I’d stretched and lounged for a few minutes, he stopped and flopped next to me on the sectional holding the camera. He smelled delicious, a deep citrusy musk. His warm arm brushed against mine as he positioned his viewfinder in front of me, cueing up images.
“I want you to see yourself.”
And there I was, or someone resembling me, now bathed in a gorgeous light; my skin seemed to glow, velvety shadows hugging my curves. Then I saw my dark nipples pressed against the sheer fabric. I covered the viewfinder with my hand, my pulse racing.
“Wow,” I said. “You realize because of my job, you’ll have to destroy these.”
He smiled.
“I wanted you to see what I see when I look at you. Let’s do some more,” he said, springing off the seat next to me.
There was that familiar tug, that ache behind my belly button. I was becoming aroused. Having the courage to reveal this side of me to someone was turning me on.
“Feeling a bit bolder?”
I nodded.
“Do you want to try something else on? Or take something else off?”
What a choice!
“I’ll … check out that rack again,” I said, unsure if I wanted to delay, or draw this out. What did it matter? I was getting into this.
I practically trotted to the bedroom and flicked through the rack feeling a little more daring. I pulled out a pale pink bra laced with gray ribbons and matching bottoms. The bra gave me the kind of cleavage I normally never flaunted. I threw on a matching gray gauzy wrap over the ensemble, deciding to go barefoot with this outfit. That’s why he didn’t hear me approach the partition, behind which he was now tinkering with filters, adding some kind of scrim over the lightbox.
He looked up. I let my hands drop to my sides, allowing the wrap to gape open so he could take me in.
Courage.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, nodding to indicate that I should take my position on the sectional again.
His eyes never left me as I folded down into the pillows. When he approached the sectional, I rolled onto my back, locking my gaze on his. He stood over me, his camera clicking away.
“Open the robe,” he said, his voice guttural, urgent. “Good. Now move your hands down your body.”
My eyes closed, I let my hands drift over my breasts and down my sides.
“Like that … yes.”
My hands moved across my stomach then stopped at my panties. I opened my eyes and met his gaze again. He was kneeling before me. Reaching out with his free hand, he clasped my fingers and pressed them under my elastic band, urging
me to touch myself. I slid my fingers down, astonished at how wet I was.
“Tell me what you feel like,” he said, now nearly straddling me, snapping pictures.
I stretched back, embarrassed, pressing my face into a pillow next to me, and all the while my fingers were moving around under my silk panties.
“I’m … wet,” I mumbled, finally. “Very.”
“Yeah? Show me,” he said, his eyes on my hand.
I hesitated.
“Those pictures. You can’t ever …” I warned.
“They’re yours. Don’t worry. When we’re done, you get every frame. I promise. Remember, courage, my love.”
I eased my panties off, pushing them down my thighs, kicking them to the floor. My knees together, I placed my hands inside my thighs and turned my head away again. I just … couldn’t believe I was doing this! Marsha would be shocked! Let alone Julius!
Erik positioned himself at the foot of the sectional. As I spread my legs, he began to click his camera, transfixed. My hands drifted back up. I shrugged off the gray wrap. Then I arched and undid the bra, tossing it over my shoulder. My hands replaced my bra and I found myself squeezing my breasts and writhing, his reaction to this surprisingly turning me on.
“That’s it, Solange. That’s it,” he murmured, inching closer.
I sat up feeling emboldened.
“What about you, Erik?”
He stopped and placed the camera back on the tripod next to us, adjusting the lens to face us, clicking on a button.
“We’re rolling video on this, okay?”
I took a deep breath. Could I do this? Yes. I could. I nodded and he drew his hands away from the camera. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, showing off a smooth, rippled torso.
“Take everything off,” I said, in my voice, with words coming from my mouth. Courage indeed.
He gave me a wry smile as he undid his jeans, stopping momentarily to fish a condom out of the front pocket, tossing it next to me. For such a large man, his body was lean, compact, smooth. He had a smattering of scars, a dramatic one on a pectoral, just below his rib cage. He noticed me noticing it.
“I was a fencer,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“A shitty one,” he added.
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