Free Best Erotic Romance 2014 by Kristina Wright

meter in my bag and start to walk around the room again. His shouting seems to have shattered something and the atmosphere feels less sacred, less stifling. There is dust and crumbled debris everywhere.
    George is the more finicky of the two of us—although, by long tradition, he would say that I am just messy. When he comes back, he carries a foldout table for the equipment, gives me a look and picks my bag up from the floor. He dusts it off and puts it on the table. I poke my tongue out at him and push middle and ring finger under my thumb in the universal rock-and-roll sign. He sighs, shakes his head and leaves for more stuff.
    We were in college together. Back then, we just happened to hang with the same group of people—photography is impossible to do on your own. He was the handsome, jock type although he never played sports; he just looked like that with his tall physique and his naturally broad shoulders, the wavy dirty-blond hair. He still does. I was the chubby, nerdy one with the glasses and the shy, quiet voice, which I tried to make authoritatively deep. We weren’t close but somehow we both ended up in Boston after college. His studio is just ten minutes away from mine andit’s good to have friends who get it, friends who actually enjoy spending an hour driving around Connecticut to sneak into a long-abandoned building. Neither of us can afford an assistant.
    I can hear him pottering around with the equipment behind me, but I’m still walking around, looking at the walls in the different rooms. From time to time, a little bit of dust falls from the ceiling and my heart beats a little faster. I try to be more graceful.
    â€œFirst impression?” George asks coming up behind me. Less body conscious, he touches everything, hangs against the moldy doorjamb in a way I would never dare.
    â€œThere’s something here,” I say slowly and shrug. We both know that we’ve been to more impressively abandoned places, but this one has a solemn quality all its own that will be difficult to catch on camera. George hums in assent and we start to walk around, to try and find these special spots in which the natural light provides enough eerie illumination. Too much artificial light would ruin it, I think. I stroll back to the table and exchange my lens for a more light-sensitive one. It lies heavy in my hand and I almost drop it when I hear a loud crunching, dragging sound from somewhere in the bowels of the building. Just for a moment, I am sure this is when the zombies finally attack, but then I come back to reality, screw the lens on my camera and go to investigate.
    George is dragging something over the floor, with a sound like a hundred tiny bells, and when he emerges from the shadow I see his broad grin and the ancient chandelier he’s dug up from somewhere. It is dusty and broken in many places but it’s still gorgeous, some herald of older times.
    â€œWow,” I say—if just because it makes him grin with self-satisfaction as he gently drapes it into a shaft of sunlight.
    We start shooting, find the best angle, the one that contrastsglittering light against squalor. My heart is beating faster; finally something is coming together.
    If I wasn’t used to George, he would be distracting to the point of annoyance. As it is, I smile and let him get on with his athleticism. I have long found that George just enjoys using his body—it makes him feel better about his photos. He crouches on the floor, then lies down completely, moving over the debris like a war-zone journalist through the sand. I am more stationary; I squat in place, fumble with the controls, find the perfect aperture settings. I am more given to placing the camera on the floor and snapping away with a remote than performing acrobatics. But I find myself momentarily entranced. From my vantage point, he is half hidden by the sparkling bits of polished glass and he stares at them with such a concentrated