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His thumb pressed into the nerve bundle at the base of my skull, and for a second, the world went white-out.
He told me to stop posing like a woman with a mortgage and start breathing like someone who had just committed a crime.
The studio smelled of ozone and expensive dust, a sterile environment where he planned to dissect me with a high-definition lens.
His thumbs found the knot in my shoulder with the practiced, ruthless precision of a man shucking oysters for a hungry crowd.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
I was supposed to be checking the histogram but all I could see was the way the sweat pooled in that little dip above her tailbone.
He tracked the line of her throat like a melody he’d been humming for a decade but finally found the words for.
The condensation on the tent wall was freezing into a map of stars, but her skin felt like a heatwave against my palms.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.