Page 37 of The Photo
“Tell me what you’ll do with my dick before you stretch that dirty mouth of yours.” I can’t have her hands, so I use my own. I can’t have her mouth, but I hear the words leave her lips.
“I’ll spit on the tip.” She skates a nail into her mouth and sucks, leisurely drawing it out to make her lips pout.
“This is better than porn,” I murmur, gripping my erection. I need to fuck her so bad that my head is thumping, and my dick is aching.
“Then, I’ll drag my warm wet tongue from your balls to the tip. Spit on your hand, Noah. Feel my hot wet mouth on your dick.” A husky growl comes out like a groan of pleasure when she gives me the command.
Rowan instinctively gives me what I crave. Even though she’s not physically beneath me, I recall her soft skin, hot mouth and glorious taste—then I shoot my load.
Fifteen
My routine hasn’t changed that much, post Canada. I still check Noah’s social media account before I fall asleep, only these days I call himmyNoah. Yeah, that’s right. He’s mine, not Lucy’s.
I never imagined my stash of Noah photos would be relegated, or that I’d have the real deal with his accent and wicked demands. Every night, we talk face to face and shoot the realms of virtual fantasy to the next level.
We’re united under the same vast sky, brought together by internet magic but unconnected by touch. I don’t know how long a man like him will continue to want a woman who’s untouchable.
Tonight, he asked my permission to announce his social status as ‘in a relationship,’ but I thought it was safer to keep things as they are for now. I’m honored to be his secret girlfriend, if that's how you describe a long-distance modern-day dating situation, without sexual contact. However, it’s only been a month, and so much could change. My feelings for him will never fade, but there’s still a chance he’ll get bored with this unusual arrangement of ours. Then, everyone would pity me, and I’d be the girl who used to be his for an inconsequential fraction of time.
I scroll through the usual public pictures posted by his agent. Alexa always updates his account with pics she’s snapped of him on set. I’m combatting my jealousy. I don’t have any issues withheras such–just the fact she’s with him every day, sharing his life. As my mindless social media trawl continues, I spy a comment from Lucy in San Diego left on one of Noah’s recent posts. In her obvious excitement, she’s referenced a ‘hot as fuck’ article. She even added the link and her usual flurry of creative hashtags, #WeAllLoveBadBoys, #TameTheModel, #BeMine.
A whip of jealousy prickles my scalp. With a tap, I open the link. My eyes pop wide when I’m greeted by the sexiest man in the world, who thinks I’m kinda cool too. My man smolders on the pages with his chin lowered and his thick lashes framing intense eyes. He’s bare chested with a denim jacket slung over his shoulder, and the headline reads,“Killer Looks To Kill Hearts,”witha subtitle, “Bad Boy Behavior.”
A steady thrum kicks off, and my heart rate skyrockets. As I read the first paragraph, a weird grunt escapes from my throat, like disgust clinging to fear. There’s no way Noah would say any of that. It’s bullshit. He wants commitment. He told me himself.
I keep reading, irritated by the niggle of doubt dancing in my mind. Is he the faithful type? I’m here. He’s there. I’m alone and covered from neck to ankle in thick cotton pajamas, and he could be socializing with leggy models in bikinis for all I know. Why am I being so irrational? He told me himself he would be in meetings most of the afternoon and then training at the gym. Naked female models are not on the agenda.
I hate myself for overthinking the dumb headline and blowing this misinformation out of proportion. Perhaps if I wasn’t such a scaredy cat and had agreed to the public girlfriend announcement, then I’d be less insecure.
So why are my intestines twisted? Is it the fact he didn’t warn me about it, or that Lucy read and commented before I did? The rational half of my brain accepts the solid facts–every word written amounts to a heap of contorted lies. However, the female territorial side of my brain is hurt that he didn’t tell me about it, or maybe it’s because Lucy saw it first. Who the fuck knows? I’m upset, and he’s too far away to hug.
I’m in a state of confusion. He suggested we make our relationship public, so he’s definitely into me. I was the one who wasn’t ready for a public announcement that would fall flat on its face when he moved on. There will always be a Lucy, or a Sandra, or a Cheryl, and some of those women will write false statements about Noah. If we’re going to make a go of this, I better have faith in him, in us. I’m ready to stake a claim on my man.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, which means it's the evening in Ontario. I’m both exhausted and excited. I find his number and smile at the photo of us kissing. My little loved up heart swells and flutters.
After a few failed attempts to connect, an odd grunt vibrates from my throat. I’ve tried four times already, with no luck. When he’s not with me, it's like all the lights have gone out and the spectrum of colors in the rainbow can’t break through.
On the fifth attempt, his husky laid back voice instructs me to leave a message. I pause, thinking over the words. It’s not like I can come straight out with it and proclaim he’sthe one. Too quick. Too soon. That would be like slamming your foot on the gas and watching the car swerve off the road. Anyway, I’d rather see his face when I tell him I’m ready for the world to know we’re cyber courting.
“Hey,” I begin. “I wanted to chat about something… an article I read about you. It’s better if we speak face to face because I’ve realized something important.” I’m conscious recording time is mere seconds before the beep, so I rush a goodnight and then hug the phone to my neck.
I’m Noah Adams’s girlfriend, for real.
I roll onto my hip and plug my phone into its charger. A blanket of darkness swallows the room as the screen fades. I take a breath. What a day.
This afternoon, I met with the head of the Arts Department to discuss a work placement for after graduation. The college has a list of prospective job opportunities working as runners and assistants on set. On one hand, it will pay peanuts, and on the other, it will give me experience and valuable contacts in the industry. He asked if I was prepared to work anywhere. Immediately, I answered with a heartfelt yes, until I thought about the meaning of that agreement. I told him I had a preference and was considering relocation to Ontario. My heart sank when he shook his head. There aren’t any international placements available, only European.
I bury my cheek into the pillow and try not to think about the future. It would be moronic to pass off a work placement and run into Noah’s arms. This is so new, so fresh, so insane. It’s like walking a tightrope, only to slip off the second I reach him. I nestle underneath the duvet, close my eyes and think of his last filthy command.
BANG.
My eyelids flick open. I hold my breath. It’s so damn dark.
SMASH.
The sound erupts around my apartment, like shrapnel hitting walls. Glass shatters, and a heavy object thuds on tile floor. I jack knife to sitting, pinning the quilt to my chin. There’s an eerie moment of silence. My wide eyes cut to the bedroom door, staring at the black outline. My senses intensify. Quick breaths. Racing pulse. Hearing focused.
Splinters and crackles crunch underfoot as steps move around the room next to mine. Whoever is here has broken in through the kitchen window. Another bang makes me uneasy. I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress and huddle under my blanket cocoon. This flimsy quilt will not keep me safe. Adrenaline pumps inside me, and my mind goes into autopilot. Grab my laptop. Gather my photography equipment, then make a run for it.
