Behind His Lens

by R.S. Grey

  “Wait.” His dark voice cascades over my skin and I clutch my eyes closed. Does he want her to stop too?

  Both Mrs. Hart and I twist back to look at him. He’s got his camera held deftly against his hip and he’s gesturing out with his right hand.

  “Only unzip the top, where Charley can’t reach. I want her to do the rest. The pictures will be more seductive if she’s undressing herself,” he commands. Jeez. His unyielding tone demands compliance. I know Mrs. Hart will agree with his idea, but I have a feeling she would go along with his instructions even if she didn’t. He has a sort of animal magnetism about him. He’s the type of guy that commands immediate respect and I doubt any female is very good at telling him no.

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Hart breathes, reaching up to pull my zipper down an inch or so, only until I can reach around and touch the zipper’s metal teeth with my fingers. Mrs. Hart backs away, off the set, so that I’m left alone to glance back toward Jude over my shoulder. Nerves bloom in stomach as I realize I don’t have a bra on beneath the dress. Not because I don’t need one, my c-cups definitely do, but it would have been visible through the sides of the gown, and Mrs. Hart opted to leave me without one. It’s not usual on sets, but today it presents quite the interesting predicament.

  Does he even realize? Probably not.

  He drags his fingers along his bottom lip and I study his gesture intently, losing myself in the beguiling sight. My lips part and I hear myself exhale softly as a wave of light-headedness hits me. His lips look just supple enough that I wish I could feel them on every inch of my body.

  “Listen carefully, Charley,” Jude begins, but then he waits until I offer a delicate nod before continuing. He wants all of my attention and I’m more than happy to give it to him. My body still faces away from him, but I’m twisting my neck to look over my shoulder with an arched back. The pose makes me feel alluring and I let the sensation wash over me as he stares me down.

  “I want you to keep your gaze on me. Never look away as I instruct you on exactly what to do. Understand?” His voice is hard and stern, as if he’s dealing with a child.

  I mash my lips together, feeling my heartbeat pound against my chest.

  “Charley, do you understand?” he asks again, more demanding this time. I chance a glance toward his blue eyes. They look like a summer sky—infinite and full of possibilities.

  “Yes,” I stutter, surprised by the desire laced through my voice. Can he tell?

  My entire body stands motionless as he turns back to the studio’s partition. “Switch the music, Jon. Put on that Charlie Mars CD I brought. “Nothing but the Rain” should be one of the first tracks.”

  A moment later, a soft melody fills the studio. It’s captivating and I find myself having to press a hand to my belly as a heady mixture of nerves and excitement floods my veins.

  “Don’t move your head, Charley,” he commands as our eyes lock together once again. The pure intensity radiating off of him makes me glance down. It’s as if I’ll go blind if I gaze into his blue irises long enough. “Reach up with your left hand and tuck your pointer finger under your right dress strap— like you’re about to push it off.”

  I do as he says, fingering the silky material until it begins to inch off my delicate shoulder.

  “Good, keep looking at me,” he goads gently, and I hear his camera begin to click. His expression is hidden behind his lens once again, but I want to know what he sees. I want to know if this is affecting him the way it’s affecting me.

  “Arch your back gently and push the strap all the way off your shoulder.” His voice is as steady, as if he’s asking me to clap my hands rather than strip off my clothing.

  The silky material causes goose bumps to rise across my skin as it slips down lower on my arm. I can’t help but glance down at the naked flesh. It’s completely erotic moving for him like this. Knowing he’s telling me to pull the strap of my dress down.

  “Good. Hold it.” The camera clicks in a quick succession. Each snap seems to be synchronized with the hurried rate of my heart. Click, click, click.

  “We’re going to move to the other strap now, but stop in the middle with your back to me,” I start to follow his instructions and he continues giving orders. “Close your eyes and tilt your head as if you’re in the throes of passion, Charley.” The way my name cascades off his tongue makes it so I barely have to pretend. As I twist my body, the gown’s strap falls down farther and I slide into the new pose with unbridled passion.

  My back arches even more and I lace my fingers through my hair, elongating my neck for the camera.

  “How beautiful, Charley,” Mrs. Hart comments, and I feel a blush tinge my cheeks. I’m glad I’m not facing them right now. This show isn’t for her, and if I think about her watching it’ll be harder to let go and hit the poses naturally.

  Jude doesn’t respond to Mrs. Hart. Instead, he clicks away through the shots with a professional cadence.

  “You need to remove the other strap now, Charley. Do it just the way you did it before, but I want you to bite down on your lip and make eye-contact with the camera while you do it.”

  His words make my legs feel like Jell-O, but I take a deep breath and force myself to turn toward him again. He’s standing up now, leaning on his right leg and angling the camera so that it hits me slightly from above.

  He must be six or seven feet away from me, but it feels like a hemisphere. My eyes lock onto his face and I watch his brow furrow intently as I push down the other strap. I take my sweet time, reveling in this fierce vixen I’m pretending to be.

  She would bite her bright red lips seductively just as I’m pretending to do. She would narrow her eyes invitingly on the man she’s about to go to bed with. I imagine we’ve just come home from some fancy fundraiser. He’s wanted me for months and tonight we’ll finally have each other. The thin strap slides down my arm and soon my entire back is exposed as the top half of the dress folds down over my hips in the front.

  The cold studio air sends a shiver through my body and my nipples tighten into little buds. I swear I hear Jude whisper, “Fucking beautiful”, but his expression still remains detached so I decide I’m probably imagining it.

  The top of the creamy fabric drapes around my legs, juxtaposed against my naked torso. My breasts are completely exposed to the world, but my body is still angled toward the back of the studio, so neither Jude nor Mrs. Hart can see them. Still, I reach my arms around, trying to conceal them with alluring grace. I bite my lip hard, never breaking eye contact with Jude, or rather his camera lens.

  A pool of lust settles within me, awakening every part of my body. I try to use the intimate emotions to my advantage as I focus on this dangerously sexy man pulling me out of my comfort zone with hardly any effort.

  “Pull your arms down around the front of your body,” he instructs hoarsely. My first instinct is to protest, but there’s no denying the whims of this man. My hands tremble as I wrap my arms around my body so that they hold my quivering stomach. But he doesn’t start clicking away like normal. He shakes his head “no”, places the camera down on the media table, and then turns back toward me with sharp focus.

  A sinking realization hits my gut. Oh god, he’s going to come adjust my pose.

  My stomach twists into a ball of anxiety as his footsteps echo against the studio floor. My eyes grow wide and I wonder if he plans on adjusting me from the front. Oh god, oh god. Relax.

  This is my job. Plenty of photographers and stylists have seen my naked body before. The photos never end up exposing anything, and I’ve never posed for anything too risqué, but I don’t know what will happen if Jude comes closer. I want him to touch me so badly, but I don’t think I’ll be able to hold up my facade if he does. I can practically feel myself wilting toward him and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

  I lick my lips instinctively and watch him step closer until he’s right behind me. His scent immediately invades my senses. It’s a hint of deodorant mixed w
ith his natural aroma. The combination is fresh and intoxicating. I immediately crave more. More of his scent overwhelming my psyche as his body presses against mine.

  His breath touches the back of my neck and I jump slightly, realizing that even in my heels he’s got a few inches on me. If he craned his neck a hair to the left he could see past my shoulders to my bare chest. But I think he’s letting me keep my privacy on purpose. Why?

  My eyes fall to the floor as I try to gather resolve, waiting for his touch. I focus on my slow exhale, trying to ignore his warm breath against my naked back.

  But his touch never comes. I flick open my eyelids and look up to see him standing inches behind me with his hands clenched to his side.

  His blue eyes bore into mine. “Unwrap your arms from around your waist, Charley.”

  My grip loosens immediately as if his vocal cords are connected to my body’s synapses, and I let my arms fall. I hadn’t even realized I was clutching the dress so tightly.

  “Interlace your fingers gently in front of your hips instead,” he instructs.

  I don’t break his eye contact even though his blue eyes seem to jar every nerve ending in my body. It feels like a challenge having him this close to me. Just as I move to lace my fingers together, my thumb trails across the sensitive flesh between my legs. Even though my skin is cloaked beneath my underwear and gown, a rush of pleasure forces my eyes closed as my body shutters. What the hell is he doing to me? I’m on set.

  His almost inaudible sigh tells me he’s aware of how turned on I am from this little game. He’s doing it on purpose. He wants a good photo and he knows what he has to do to get it.

  Just as I think he’s going to turn back for his camera, he leans in gently and whispers in my ear, sending chills across my flesh.

  “Bend your elbows a bit, the arc of your torso is alluring and I don’t want you to hide it.” He bites out the instructions as if angry with me for concealing it in the first place.

  I didn’t think he was going to touch me. I thought he’d walk away, which is why I couldn’t have prevented the soft moan from escaping my lips when his hands wrapped around the side of my torso. His warm palms ignite my skin, just under my shoulder blades. The tips of his long fingers hit the very sides of my breasts. His touch sets my skin on fire, and I close my eyes, wanting to block out every other sense. I’m not at a photo shoot. I’m not in a Dior gown posing for my photographer. I’m hardly sentient. His touch turns me into a pile of tingling sensations, throbbing need laced with adrenaline and lust. His touch is the only thing that matters. I love the difference in texture. My skin is soft and smooth against his strong, calloused hands. Hands that practically wrap around my entire body.

  “Do you feel that, Charley?”

  I feel nothing. Not the floor beneath my feet or the studio lighting against my skin. Only his touch.

  When I don’t respond, his hands slide slowly down the length of my torso, sending delicious shivers down my spine.

  “Yes,” I whisper so gently that I’m sure he didn’t hear.

  I clear my throat, trying to tamper the lust building within me. His hand gently squeezes my waist, demanding a reply.

  “Yes,” I murmur a little louder this time.

  “Show the camera what you feel, Charley,” he commands in my ear before dropping his hands and walking away. The moment he cuts off his touch, my surroundings rush back in like a crashing wave. My body cries out in protest as my eyes flash open and a deep inhale floods my lungs. Was I holding my breath that whole time?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Charley

  My apartment is eerily quiet this morning. Normally the sounds from the corner bakery next door drift up to my room, but I’m awake earlier than usual. I doubt the bakery has even unlocked its friendly-yellow doors yet.

  I’ve lived in Greenwich Village for the past two years. It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived before, including the sprawling town house on the Upper West Side that I shared with my parents for eighteen years. That place can’t be considered a home. Not anymore.

  My apartment, or rather tiny room, combines a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen into one open area. There’s no space for a real painting area, but I make do. The apartment is inside of an old townhouse that my landlord, Mrs. Jenkins, remodeled after her husband passed away. There are four separate apartments on the bottom floor.

  Mrs. Jenkins kept the second story for herself. She’s a sweet woman and there would be many nights where I’d go hungry if she wasn’t there tapping on my door with extra pasta or a casserole in tow.

  It’s not that I purposely forget to eat. I lost my appetite four years ago and most of the time I have to remind myself that I need to nourish my body. I should take better care of myself. Usually I’m lost in a painting and can’t be bothered, especially when I never feel hungry.

  The strange thing is, no matter how little I eat, my body still has the energy to run. It craves it. Every morning I get up and traverse my neighborhood streets. I have a strict route and I adhere to it like my life depends on it.

  Except on Saturday mornings.

  Every Saturday I drag Naomi to Central Park and we bask in the beautiful landscape as we do our weekly run together. I’ll admit, I usually have to persuade her to go, but she doesn’t fight much once we start.

  In an hour or two I’ll meet her outside her apartment and we’ll take the subway up to Sixtieth Street. We’ll hop out at the bottom edge of the sprawling green space, stretch out, and start our run.

  The only problem is, I’m not sure what to do to occupy my time until then.

  I have two hours to glance numbly around my empty apartment.

  I don’t like these gaps of time in my life. I keep my schedule filled to the brim with activities, carefully planning each hour of my day. These unforeseen quiet moments are when my thoughts drift toward the blackness I’ve fought so hard to leave behind. The phrase “an idle mind is the devil’s playground” repeats in my head as I glance down at my phone to see it’s only a quarter after five in the morning.

  I know I woke up early today because of him. Because of Jude. I could barely get to sleep last night. Every memory of the day replayed behind my closed eyes last night, keeping my senses tingling and my mind racing.

  After the gown ‘incident’, he practically ignored me. Mrs. Hart directed most of the remaining shoot, which ended up wrapping earlier than I was expecting. She loved the first shots so much that the next few outfits only took a few minutes to shoot. By the time I’d returned from scrubbing off my makeup and changing back into my clothes, the set had turned into a desert town. Jude’s assistants were meandering around, breaking down lights and packing up the diffusers – Jude was nowhere to be found.

  I guess his work was done.

  With a sigh, I roll onto my side to examine the early morning light casting shadows across my room. I would try to forget about him completely, but our photo shoot recommences on Monday after Mrs. Hart and her team finalize the Fall Fashion pieces they want to feature. Will he be there Monday?

  I was actually sad when I realized he was gone.

  But what was I expecting? He works with models all day, every day. It’s clear that any attraction felt was strictly one sided. I tug a hand through my hair to jar me from the embarrassing realization. Enough.

  Before my brain can protest, I jump up and throw on my black capri leggings and my blue Lululemon Runners pullover and lace up my sneakers. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll check my mail and then see if Mrs. Jenkins is awake. She’s always eager to chit-chat, especially when I agree to eat some coffee cake with her.

  …

  The red line is empty when we board at the Greenwich Village stop. Naomi and I plop down next to each other on a pair of orange, plastic chairs. She always lets me have the window seat so that I can stare out and watch the dark tunnel whip by.

  “I hate you, did I mention that already?”

  Breaking my trance, I smile over at he
r and pretend to look up toward the subway’s worn metal roof in recollection.

  “Umm, once when I dragged your ass out of bed. Then again when I literally had to tie your sneakers for you. And a third time when a tiny tear rolled down your cheek as you realized that today we have to run an extra mile to make up for last week.”

  Naomi has quite the flare for the dramatic. I secretly think she has to act so normal at her accounting job that she bottles up all of her craziness and unloads it all at once as soon as we’re together.

  My sassy list makes her crack a smile though, and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me toward her for a side hug.

  “I think that should suffice then,” she quips happily, apparently done with her pity party for now.

  “I should just let you get fat,” I tease, leaving my head against her shoulder.

  “Impossible. My mother’s English and my father’s Swiss and Nigerian. Due to my lack of fatass American genes, I will have this killer bod until the day I die.”

  I shake my head because sadly, I know she’s right. Naomi is sickeningly gorgeous. Her lightly tanned skin and warm, brown eyes are the kind that every girl covets.

  “Leave it up to the Swiss to produce a baby as cute as you,” I tease, pinching her cheek.

  She shoots me a playful glare and I sigh, happy to be in this element with her. Naomi makes me feel light, like nothing bad has every happened or will ever happen. I soak up her happiness like a sponge, hoping it’ll fuel me long after we’ve separated for the day.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes as she checks her phone and twists a finger through her glossy ponytail. As we get closer to Central Park, the subway steadily fills and once again, I find myself daydreaming out of the square window. The memory of Mrs. Jenkins’ cinnamon swirl cake from earlier almost puts a smile on my face, but then I remember what was waiting for me in my mail this morning. On the very top of the stack of bills and junk, lay a thick, eggshell white envelope engraved with my mother’s initials in swirly calligraphy.