Free Best Erotic Romance 2014 by Kristina Wright Page A

intensity, I just have to take a picture. He doesn’t resist. Years of training and spending time with other photographers have ground photo shyness out of both of us. I find a different angle and click again, check the image on the screen. It is a beautiful portrait. I feel that rarely reoccurring flash of affection, the memory of a long-abandoned crush. When I let the camera sink, he smiles at me and returns the gesture, click, my thoughtful, aching face. I have that sudden childish urge to throw my hands in front of my face and launch myself in his direction to grab the camera and delete all evidence, but I stay there, squatting, hugging my knees for balance.
    I give him a half smile instead and raise my camera. We regard each other through the viewfinders, only seeing shiny black surfaces where eyes and nose should be. Photography robots. The two clicks are almost simultaneous. Just like back in college.
    â€œYou know what would make this better?” he asks, carefully raising himself from the ground, mindful of the expensive equipment in his hand. I raise my brows, encourage him to go on.
    â€œNudity.”
    I snort and roll my eyes.
    â€œRight, because the only real contribution women can make to photography is to take their clothes off…”
    George just grins, above me now, my face at the level of his crotch, and he touches the tip of my nose. Just for a moment I want to be a different me, in a different body, and go right ahead. But then he shakes his head.
    â€œYou and your assumptions,” he chides with that naughty schoolboy grin on his face. “Who said I was talking about you?”
    My mouth falls open, just for a second, and my eyebrows seem intent on trying to disappear under my hairline. George laughs and offers me a hand to pull myself up from the floor. I accept. His hand is warm and I bite at the side of my lip, feeling lumpy in my long, shapeless sweater-dress and tights I’m wearing for comfort of movements.
    â€œIt would make good pictures,” I agree, frowning as professionally as I can at the scenery. George seems satisfied. He hands me his camera and pulls his sweater over his head. It is a careless gesture only people with beautiful bodies, people without shame could be capable of. I place the strap of his camera around my neck and raise my own. In the first picture, he is unbuttoning his jeans; in the next he has pushed them to his knees. I snap the next of the curve of his back. In the shaft of lights, the tiny knobs of his spine are visible though his sleeveless shirt.
    â€œI’ve always liked your portrait work,” he says casually when he has finally liberated his jeans from his sneakers. My heart beats faster and I grin, not even capable of waving the compliment away.
    â€œThanks,” I manage, and I catch that glimpse of stomach in the sun as he is pulling up his shirt. There is a fine light-brownline of hair that runs down into his tight boxer-briefs. It is just a shade darker than his hair. I exhale a shallow breath; send a prayer to the god of professionalism. But then he meets my eyes and he holds my gaze, fierce and serious in a way I have hardly ever seen him. I know he’s pulling down his boxers but my eyes are arrested, held in place. Almost in panic, I throw my camera between us and manage a picture of that expression before it fades.
    He doesn’t cover himself; I wet my bottom lip and wordlessly direct him into the light. It throws beautifully stark shadows over his chest and face: planes of light and dark, all angles and masculinity only the magic of light and shadow can create. When I finally dare a glance at his crotch, I hardly manage to take it in before I tear my eyes away. He is not aroused—but I am. Tingling and nervous.
    He looks like a god in the tiny preview screen. I ask him to pick up the chandelier and hold it up next to him: a hundred lights sparkle over his chest. I want to render these in black and white, I