October 11th, 3:22 PM

From: Elias Thorne (ethorne@thorne-landscapes.com) To: Margot Vance (margot@vance-visuals.com) Subject: The photos (and a minor confession) Date: October 12th, 10:14 AM Margot, I’m sitting here in my office, staring at the proofs you sent over this morning, and I’m having a hard time focusing on the drainage plans for the Miller project. You told me when we started this—when I hired you to do the ‘rugged professional’ shots for my landscape architecture site—that I would hate being in front of the camera for the first twenty minutes. You were right. I felt like a massive, awkward redwood tree trying to look ‘natural’ while you barked orders at me to tilt my chin and stop clenching my jaw. But that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing because I can’t stop thinking about the moment the light changed at the trailhead. We’d hiked three miles up that basalt ridge in the Gorge, and you were swearing at the clouds for being ‘too flat,’ and then the sun just... cracked open. You didn't even look at me. You just grabbed my wrist to pull me into the frame, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. Your hand was cold from the rain, but your grip was so steady. I told myself it was just the adrenaline from the climb. I told myself it was the professional intensity you bring to your work. But when we reached the falls and you told me to take off my jacket because the flannel looked ‘more authentic,’ and you saw me shivering and stepped in close to fix my collar... Jesus, Margot. The air between us didn’t just feel like Pacific Northwest dampness. It felt like a live wire. I know we’re supposed to be keeping this professional. I’m the client, you’re the artist. But the way you looked at me through that lens—like you were seeing every single defense mechanism I’ve spent a decade building—it did something to me. I think we should talk about what happened after the sun went down. Or maybe I should just say thank you for the photos. They’re incredible. I look like a version of myself I actually like. Best, Elias *** From: Elias Thorne (ethorne@thorne-landscapes.com) To: Margot Vance (margot@vance-visuals.com) Subject: Re: The photos (and a minor confession) Date: October 12th, 11:45 PM Margot, You’re a menace. ‘I don’t recall anything unprofessional happening, Elias. Unless you count the part where you almost fell off a cliff.’ That’s all you’re giving me? Really? Fine. If we’re playing it that way, I’ll be the one to say it. I didn’t almost fall off the cliff because I’m clumsy. I almost fell because you were standing on that mossy outcrop, your hair plastered to your forehead by the mist, and you reached out to steady me. Your palm went flat against my chest, right over my heart, and I’m fairly certain you felt it hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I could see the exact moment your pupils dilated. The camera was hanging around your neck, forgotten for once. You looked up at me, and that ‘breezy’ professional mask you wear finally slipped. You looked hungry. Not just for a good shot, but for something else. I remember the smell of the damp earth and your shampoo—something like cedar and citrus. I remember the way you didn't pull your hand away. You left it there, your fingers digging slightly into the wool of my shirt, and the heat from your skin started soaking through the fabric. I wanted to grab you right there, in the middle of the trail, with the roar of the falls drowning out everything else. I wanted to see if you tasted as sharp as you talk. We stood there for what felt like twenty minutes, but was probably only ten seconds. Then you cleared your throat, adjusted your bag, and said, ‘We should keep moving, the light is dying.’ You’re a liar, Margot. The light wasn't dying. We were both just terrified of what would happen if we stayed still for one more second. I’m not sending this to your business email. I found your personal one on your website’s contact page. Don't sue me. Elias *** To: Margot Vance (personal) From: Elias Thorne (personal) Subject: October 11th, 3:22 PM Date: October 13th, 2:15 AM I can’t sleep. I just opened the full gallery you uploaded to the private server. I saw the ones you didn't include in the proofs. The ones from the cabin when we finally got back to the truck and the sky absolutely dumped on us. You didn't edit these, did you? They’re raw. I can see the goosebumps on your arms. I can see the way my hands are shaking in that one shot where I’m trying to help you dry off your lens. Let’s stop pretending. I remember exactly how it went down once we got inside. You were shivering so hard your teeth were literally chattering, and I felt like a failure as a human being for not having a dry towel in the truck. I told you to get in the back, that I’d crank the heat. You climbed into the cab, your jeans soaked through and sticking to your thighs in that dark indigo way that made me realize just how long your legs are. You were sitting on the edge of the seat, trying to peel off your socks, and I just... I couldn't handle the distance anymore. I reached over and grabbed your ankles. Your skin was like ice. I started rubbing your feet, trying to get the blood moving, and you let out this sound—half-laugh, half-whimper—and said, ‘Elias, you don’t have to do that.’ ‘Shut up, Margot,’ I said. I wasn't being mean; I was just vibrating with the need to touch you. I moved my hands up your calves, feeling the hard muscle there. You’re so much stronger than you look, carrying all that gear up those trails. My thumbs pressed into the backs of your knees, and you gasped. Not a professional ‘oh, that’s a good angle’ gasp. It was a visceral, grounding sound. Your head hit the headrest, and your eyes went wide, fixed on mine. I pulled you toward me. You slid across the leather seat until you were right at the edge, your knees framing my hips as I stood between the open door and the truck. The rain was drumming a frantic rhythm on the roof, creating this tiny, pressurized world just for us. I put my hands on your waist, my fingers dipping under the hem of your wet shirt, feeling the incredible, searing heat of your stomach. ‘Elias,’ you whispered. It was a warning, or maybe a prayer. I didn't give you a choice. I leaned in and kissed you, and it was like a dam breaking. You tasted like rain and salt and the coffee we’d had four hours earlier. You tasted like every frustration I’ve had with my life for the last three years. Your tongue met mine with this aggressive, desperate energy, like you’d been holding your breath for the entire hike. You wrapped your legs around my waist, pulling me flush against you. I could feel the hard ridge of my cock pressing through my damp khakis into your crotch, and you groaned into my mouth, your hands flying to my hair, pulling me closer, deeper. I felt your nails scrape against my scalp, and I swear to God, I almost came right then and there just from the sheer relief of being touched by you. I reached down and found the button of your jeans. They were so tight from the water, such a fucking struggle to get open, and we both laughed—this frantic, breathless sound—as I fumbled with the metal. Finally, they gave way, and I slid my hand inside. You were so wet, Margot. Not just from the rain. You were slick and hot, a total contrast to the cold air hitting my back. I found your clit through your lace underwear and you arched your back, your fingers digging into my shoulders so hard I knew I’d have bruises. I didn't care. I wanted the bruises. I wanted the evidence. I pulled your jeans down just far enough, my breath coming in ragged chunks. I didn't even take my pants off; I just shoved them down, my cock springing free, thumping against your thigh. I looked at you—really looked at you—and your face was flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes dark with the kind of focus you usually reserve for your lighting grids. ‘Now,’ you said. It wasn't a request. It was an order. I lifted you slightly, my hands under your ass, and guided myself in. You were so tight, so incredibly welcoming. The first thrust was slow, deliberate, feeling the way your body stretched to take me. You let out a long, high moan that was lost to the wind outside. I buried my face in your neck, breathing in the scent of you, and started to move. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't ‘literary.’ It was loud and messy and frantic. The truck was rocking on its suspension. Your heels were digging into the small of my back, urging me deeper. I could hear the wet, rhythmic slap of our bodies meeting, a sound that seemed to synchronize with the rain on the windshield. Every time I hit your G-spot, your whole body convulsed, your internal muscles clenching around me like a fist, pulling more out of me than I knew I had to give. I watched you come. I made myself stay still for a second just to see it—the way your throat worked as you swallowed a scream, the way your eyelids fluttered and your fingers splayed out against the glass of the window. You were beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful you capture in your portraits, but something much more terrifying. You looked undone. And then I lost it. I shoved myself into you one last time, bottoming out, and felt my own orgasm rip through me. It felt like my entire nervous system was being recalibrated. I shook against you, my forehead pressed against yours, both of us gasping for air as the fog from our breath clouded the windows, hiding us from the rest of the world. We didn't talk afterward. Not really. We just got dressed in the dim light of the cabin, our movements careful and heavy. You touched my cheek before you got into your own car, a soft, lingering contact that felt like a promise of a different kind of adventure. I’m looking at the photo now—the one where I’m looking at you through the truck window right before you drove away. My eyes look different. I look like someone who has been found. I don’t want to just be a client, Margot. I don’t think I ever was. Tell me when I can see you again. And bring your camera. Or don’t. Actually, don't. I just want you. Elias

October 11th, 3:22 PM

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