Page 34 of Whiskey Weather
“I already told Fletch we’d meet him in the morning,” he admits with a low chuckle.
“What! You let me ramble on like an idiot when you planned for another night the whole time?”
“Maybe.”
My hand lands on his ass with a loud slap, and his chest rumbles with a low laugh. My words come out filtered through uninhibited giggles. “Put me down, you brute.”
“No.”
We pass through the doorway to his bedroom, and my elbow bumps into the jamb.
“Shit. Sorry,” he mumbles through another laugh of his own.
A second later, I’m thrown a few feet into the air, landing with several bounces on the center of the bed.
The brim of his hat lands with a soft tap on the top of the dresser. His hoodie stays on, and I set the camera a few feet away on the comforter. I fist the hem of his soft sweatshirt as he crawls onto the bed and leans over me, hands on either side of my head.
“I couldn’t pass up getting to witness you on your knees and then begging to stay all in the same day.”
“That was not begging,” I argue just before he lowers his mouth to mine. His lips are so soft compared to the rest of him. It’s a kiss drenched in lust, and I exhale deeply through my nose, making no attempt to conceal the relief of knowing I’ll get to do this for the rest of the night.
When he pulls away slightly, I tug the bottom of his hoodie up and over his head so that he’s finally shirtless above me. Mymouth lowers to the contours of his jaw, then down to his neck and finally to the tips of the black ink trees scattered across his broad chest. Hovering my lips over each one, my hand roams over every inch of skin on his upper body.
“How’d we end up with me almost naked, and you with all of your clothes still on?”
I smirk, gripping each of his shoulders and pushing him to the side. Before he has a chance to push back, I roll my body along with his, landing on top of him.
“You kind of started that when you decided to take your pants off by the front door,” I joke.
His eyes narrow while he grips either side of my hips. “Fair enough.”
Something about the intensity in his expression, the light leaking in from the doorway, and the tattoo artwork covering his body has me itching to capture it. I slowly reach for my camera, keeping my eyes trained on him. While I adjust a few settings on the back, he removes one of his hands from my hips, lifting it to relax behind his head.
“It’s an impulse,” I explain, lifting the camera to my eye.
The lines on either side of his mouth crease from a closed-lip smile. I take a picture instantly, not waiting for him to fix his expression to something more serious or unnatural.
I love when he’s in charge. But straddling him now feels like a delicious exchange of control, and my skin tingles at the sight of him on his back underneath me.
“Is this okay?” I ask softly.
He nods, shifting his hips. I gasp from the friction of his hard length between my legs. His jaw flexes and his grip on my hip bone tightens, digging deeper into my flesh. My full weight settles down on him, and I tilt the lens to change the angle ever so slightly.
When his lashes cast down to focus on where we’re connected, I snap another picture. Pulling the camera away from my face and checking the result on the review screen, I bite my lower lip.
I don’t know if it’s the authenticity or his sculpture-like body that makes the raw image so alluring. Our eyes meet as I lift my gaze to his again. For a minute, we stare at each other through the loudest silence I’ve ever heard.
Eventually, he lifts his hips, sliding his thumb under the waistband of his briefs and pushing them down his legs. I hover above him until he kicks them off and to the side, then slowly lower myself back down. The thin fabric of my leggings is all that’s separating us now, and I instinctively roll my hips with an unencumbered moan.
In true Ledger fashion, he remains silent. Though, his breaths are coming heavier and more frequently. I study the rise and fall of his chest, then lower my eyes to the deep V of muscle underneath me.
Scooting back, I expose the top of his hips, just enough to let the deep groove of his Adonis belt get the moment it deserves. His stomach flexes on instinct while I trail one palm down his abdomen. With one hand holding the camera and the other on his bare skin, I auto-adjust the focus and snap a picture.
A half-laugh, half-sigh leaves my mouth. God, he’s stunning. Feeling him harden underneath me and taking his picture with my hand on his body at the same time is by far the best photo shoot I’ve ever been a part of. And it’s not even close. I can feel the heat and energy through the lens, and it has my heart thumping loud in my chest.
There’s always a subtle vulnerability when I capture moments of someone’s entire essence through the lens of my camera. Never as much as there is right now, though. Hisexpression is more unguarded than it’s ever been, and I mirror the barely-there curve of his smile.
I take a few final shots, lingering on the stripped-down details that make him so impossibly handsome to me. The tousled lock of hair covering one side of his forehead. The faint brown freckles on the tops of his strong shoulders. The shadows across his face from the bold contours of his brow and bone structure.
