Page 3 of The Golden Hour

Her voice, a unique cross between melodic and raspy, wraps around my chest like a band. Something like relief sits in my throat—she ran away from me like a startled doe, but she came back. I’m hoping she couldn’t help it. That she feels this chemistry like I do.

I take my time looking up, framing her in pieces before appreciating the whole. Delicate fingers with short, unpainted nails. Small wrists and arms encased in a long-sleeved black shirt. Narrow shoulders—high and tight like she’ll run again any second—and a slender throat that swallows as my gaze touches it. Her jaw is tight with tension, the line sharp, almost feline. Two spots of color sit on her cheeks, highlighting cheekbones people pay money for. Dark, sloping brows. Straight nose with a slight point.

I save the best for last. Her eyes. Irises of starless black, or a deep brown only full sun would reveal, and tilted up just slightly at the edges. The thin black frame of her glasses enhances rather than detracts from her allure.

My fingers clench around the tumbler, bereft without a camera. Another first in a while—the desire to photograph something. Or rather, someone.

And her skin… I close my eyes, imagining that pale canvas red from my hands. Captured on film. Glowing against crimson silk.

“Are you… feeling okay?”

The soft question opens my eyes, taking my focus away from my stiffening cock. I’m being a lecherous asshole. And rude. My mom and sisters would box my ears if they knew what I was thinking, a thought that nearly cripples me—I shove it into a metal box and slam the lid closed.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve been on planes or in airports for two days. Severe jet lag. Ignore me.”

Don’t ignore me. Let me mark you with my teeth and fuck you so hard you see God.

I shift on the stool in an attempt to discreetly adjust my erection. This woman is turning me into a teenager. Months of stress and worry have rendered me incapable of self-control.

Leaning back on the barstool, I rub my face roughly with my hands. When was the last time I ate?

“I need to sleep,” I say, only partly for her benefit.

“Why don’t you?”

Her voice comes from directly before me. Curious, but also hesitant, like she doesn’t want to talk to me but can’t help herself.

She might be the answer to my unvoiced prayers.

“I’m avoiding responsibility,” I tell her, a bit surprised by the truth coming out of my mouth.

Dark, limitless eyes flicker over my face. “Family?” she guesses.

With a wry smile, I nod. “What else?”

“Do they live here?” she asks, then blushes. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“A few of them,” I answer, then tilt my head. “Isn’t it in your job description? To chat with customers so they stay longer and spend more money?”

She looks down with a small, stilted laugh. “Then I’m not a very good bartender. I don’t normally make small talk. I’m not good at it.”

“You’re doing fine right now,” I tell her, mostly to see if I can make her blush again. Pride swells my chest when her cheeks darken.

When was the last time I made a woman blush? Or even tried to seduce someone?

I can’t remember. Most of the women I meet in my line of work are models and actresses. Jaded. Confident. Predatory. I take their photograph, and in many instances, also take them to bed. The transactions are always mutually beneficial, but they’re just that… transactions.

Void of emotional intimacy.

“What are you frowning about?” asks Snow White.

Taking your photograph.

Your skin in the soft light of dawn.

Avoiding her eyes, I finish my drink. There’s honest, and then there’s straight stupid. I need to pay and leave, crash for a solid ten hours, think about tomorrow. About who I have to see.

But I can’t make myself move.

---