Page 150 of Camera Shy

“I’m not upset if you talk to him. I am just so angry for you. But you’ve got an edge, baby. Maybe you should rip him to fucking pieces while I listen on speakerphone.”

Not that I’d say this to Finn, but I’m eternally grateful for Mason. It was a tough lesson to learn, but I needed him to string me along for four years. I needed him to make me doubt myself so I felt low enough to ask for Finn’s help. I was desperate enough to approach a man who I never would’ve unless I had absolutely nothing to lose.

“I don’t need to. I did what I needed to do, and now I’m not going to dwell on this any longer. I deserve better and Mason deserves…Palmer. There’s no greater punishment than that.” I laugh to myself. “And I don’t need to tell Mason what a huge mistake he made. His consequence is not getting to experience the best version of me.” I kiss Finn’s forehead. “I’m saving all that for you, babe.”

“You’re a queen,” Finn says, guiding my lips to his. “Such a fucking queen.” Our kiss deepens, and this time he reaches between us to adjust his erection, which has grown to mammoth proportions. He groans against my ear. “Are you feeling better? Can we fuck—”

“Wait.”

He exhales. “Sure, why not,” he grumbles bitterly. “That’s all I’ve been doing. I’m getting really good at it.”

“Are you actually pouting?” I burst out in a chuckle. “I just want to show you something, then you can fuck me like a madman, right on this couch.”

I dart to the kitchen and return to the living room with my box of photographs.

“You saw them?” Finn asks.

I shake my head. “Nope, not yet,” I say as I break the sticker seal on the box. “I want to look together.”

I’m nervous, but not for the reason I thought I would be. There’s one thing I desperately needed to get out of the summer and it lies within these pictures. It was never about Finn liking these…

It’s about me.

I open the box and dare myself to love what I see.

The pictures are stacked strategically so they tell a story. I see the studio first, black roses, scattered on the ground. I see the disturbed sheets and just my hand gripping them tightly like I’m in the throes of passion. And the first time I see my body—my legs, covered in the black stockings that rose a few inches over my knees, I gasp.

I hand the picture over to Finn, my eyes wide as I soak in picture after picture of my naked body, my most intimate parts, half covered by my hands, my hair, a rose. The look on my face in every picture is hauntingly erotic. Finn captured something I’ve never seen in myself.

Confidence.

“Finn…” I trail off as I hand him image after image after I look at them. My cheeks are burning, and my heart is thumping angrily. “Is this what you see when you look at me?”

He watches my eyes carefully as his brows furrow. “Yes. Avery, these are—”

“Amazing.” I finish for him. I want to be the one to say it. I laugh in joy and relief, proving myself to the one person who matters. “I look really, really good.”

Finn nods, examining the picture. “You look beautiful. So sexy.”

I nod in agreement. “Thank you.”

He sets the pictures I handed him on a neat stack on the coffee table. “Come on, I’ve seen enough. We can finish looking at these later.”

Actually, I want to keep going. The feeling of loving myself and appreciating the way I look is exhilarating. It’s my new addiction. But I take his hand and let him drag me up the stairs, knowing what these images have stirred up in him—a primal, lusty urge. This feels just as good…being the wanted girl.

“Closet?” I ask as we head to the master bedroom. “The big mirror?”

I watch his head shake from behind. He wordlessly pulls me through the bedroom, through the master closet, and into Dex’s bathroom. He lets go of my hand, opens the shower door, and turns on the water.

The energy between us is electrically charged. It’s like lightning struck and lingered. I stay still and revel in his masculine angst as he strips me down like I’m a doll to play with. He yanks down my shorts and panties in one pull. I step out of my bottoms obediently as he maneuvers his hands underneath my form-fitting shirt and unhooks my bra. He pulls the straps free of my arms and slides my bra out under my top but leaves it on. Then he drags me under the stream of the shower head, letting it soak me from head to toe.

He watches my shirt glue to my body, my breasts completely on display through my drenched white shirt. He peels off his shirt and tosses it on the bathroom floor, shutting the glass door behind him so we’re boxed into a different kind of wet dream.

He cups my chest delicately. “Before I met you, I swear I was an ass man. But these have converted me.” He pinches my nipples one by one before he spins me around, bends me over, and secures my hands on the built-in bench. He smacks my ass, hard. The sound is exaggerated by the echo of the shower.

“Then again,” he growls as he rubs his palm over the spot he swatted, “this gets me just as hard.” I groan when he slinks his thickest finger into my crease. “I bet this pussy missed me.”

“Yes,” I mumble.

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