Page 3 of Pose for Me

Moving with calculated steps, I make my way down the hall. I reach the entrance of her bedroom, and there, I stop, taking in the sight before me. She’s fast asleep, her form wrapped in a loose sheet, her dark hair spilling over the pillow like ink against its soft fabric. The steady rise and fall of her chest is hypnotic, her breathing slow and deep, oblivious to my presence.

My eyes fall to the small bottle of pills next to her glass of water on the bedside table. I recognize them easily enough: pain meds that are effectively a mild sedative. A small smirk tugs at my lips—no wonder she’s so deeply under, her breathing steady and untroubled, her face softened in the haze of sleep. I let myself savor the moment, watching her chest rise and fall, a slight shift in her limbs betraying the ease and warmth of her slumber. It’s a vulnerable beauty, one that pulls at a desire I’d kept under wraps until now.

The faint light filtering in from the window barely touches her, but it’s enough. I peel off one of my gloves, wanting to feel her warmth directly against my skin. Tentatively, I reach out, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. Her skin is smooth, warm, and as my fingertip trails down the curve of her cheek to her jaw, a quiet hum rises in my chest. Gently, I trace along her neck, savoring the softness, lingering just a moment longer to feel her pulse, strong and steady beneath my touch.

The sheet has slipped down, exposing the gentle slopes of her body, and though it covers her, it’s thin enough that the silhouette of her figure is still visible. My fingers drift lower, tracing over the sheet where her collarbone meets the swell of her breast. She sighs in her sleep, her body shifting slightly, and I pause, watching for any sign that she might awaken. But she doesn’t stir beyond that gentle sigh, and her chest rises again, the steady rhythm of her breathing undisturbed.

Beneath the sheet, her nipple hardens at the slightest graze of my finger, and I let my touch linger there, skimming over the peak. The response is immediate and delicate, a slight tremor in her body that brings a faint flush to her cheeks.

I let my hand drift lower, tracing the shape of her body, taking in every subtle line and hollow. The rise and fall of her chest is a steady, unguarded rhythm, her breath warm and sweet. Leaning down, I let myself get closer, close enough to breathe her in fully. Her scent is stronger here, filling my senses—lavender and something uniquely hers, delicate and calming, yet potent enough to pull me in further. I hover over her, my face so near that the faint brush of my lips against hers is almost inevitable, a whisper of a touch that she’ll never know happened. Her breathing remains steady, her lips soft and slightly parted, and I allow myself the faintest pressure, feeling the warmth of her breath.

I know I shouldn’t linger, that being here is already pushing too close to the edge, but I can’t tear myself away. The vulnerability of it, of her, sends a thrill through me, but I know the risk. The allure of this moment is intoxicating. She has no idea of the intensity of the attention she’s drawn, no knowledge of the dangerous shadows circling around her now, the killers that have been pulled into her orbit.

My control teeters at its edge, and with a ragged breath, I force myself to step back, dragging my glove back on with deliberate movements. My time is slipping away, and I know I must make use of it. I take a look around her space, absorbing the details now that I’m close enough to see them without the filter of distance.

This space is a stark contrast to her photography studio, a quiet refuge that serves as a distinct boundary between her work and her life. The elegance is understated, filled with touches that are deeply personal yet inviting. A small mirrored dresser catches the muted light, its surface adorned with trinkets that tell stories I’m not yet privy to. I wonder what secrets those little objects hold.

Against the wall, a bookcase stands, the bottom shelf crammed with books on art history and photography. Titles that I can only assume are filled with knowledge she cherishes and draws inspiration from. My eyes scan the other shelves, and I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips—most of the spines are dark, well-worn, hinting at stories that are anything but sweet romances. She seems drawn to tales with edges, narratives steeped in conflict or darkness, and I find myself intrigued. Perhaps she might be more receptive to my attention than I first imagined.

I drift closer to the bookcase, fingers trailing over the spines, absorbing the details, each title a small window into her soul. There’s something about the way she curates her space that resonates with me—a quiet rebellion against the sweetness that so often pervades life. It paints a picture of a woman who embraces the complexity of emotions, who finds beauty in the darker corners of existence.

Just as I’m lost in the allure of her space, a flicker of movement catches my eye. The cat, curious and emboldened, stalks back into the bedroom, its amber gaze sharp and watchful. In that instant, I know my time is up. A rush of adrenaline surges through me; I can’t afford to be caught here, not now, not when I’ve come this close to her.

With a last lingering look at the dark-haired beauty sprawled across her bed, I let my feet carry me silently from the room, each step calculated and light. I can’t help but steal one final glance back at her, the way her dark hair frames her face, how serene and unaware she is, a world apart from the dangers that hover so very close to her.

I retrace my steps back to the entrance of her apartment, moving with the precision of a dancer who knows the stage well. The soft thud of my heart mingles with the low hum of silence around me as I keep my focus sharp, every sound amplified in the stillness. I can feel the pulse of the moment—so fragile, so electric.

I lean down, retrieving the catnip pouch I’d left for the curious feline, slipping it back into my pocket. I take a moment to ensure there is no evidence of my presence left behind. I don’t want her to know just yet. Soon, though, she will. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me.

Soon.

Chapter 3

Rayne

Istifleayawnas I change the opacity of the editing brush I’m using to refine an image on my screen. It’s one of the galleries from the previous week, where the client took their time deliberating over the images they wanted as part of their final package. I can almost feel the weight of their expectations pressing against me, the mix of excitement and anxiety that always accompanies a client’s choices.

The day is dragging, and it doesn’t help that I woke up unexpectedly in the middle of the night. There was something lingering in the back of my mind, an itch I couldn’t quite scratch, keeping me from sinking easily back into sleep. I tossed and turned, trying to recall the thread of my dreams, but they slipped away like sand through my fingers. Eventually, the restless hours crept by until morning light finally broke through my curtains, forcing me to rise early for errands I couldn’t skip. My schedule is packed tighter than ever with the newly added shoot tomorrow, and the thought of falling behind sends a small wave of panic coursing through me. Mentally I tell myself not to stress and even if I do fall behind, the schedule is lighter after next week anyway.

I contemplate getting my groceries delivered but dismiss the idea as quickly as I usually do. There's something about the personal aspect of wandering through the aisles, getting lost in the crowd of people bustling about doing their own errands, that I find oddly comforting. I enjoy the little moments of choosing fresh produce, feeling the weight of a ripe avocado in my palm, or the crispness of a head of lettuce before deciding to place it in my basket. It’s not that the delivery service is hard to come by—there are plenty of apps that promise convenience and speed, a true perk of living on the outskirts of a bustling city—but I just prefer to do some things myself.

I focus on the screen, the vibrant colors of the images providing a welcome distraction. Each photograph tells a story, and I pour my energy into enhancing them, trying to capture the essence of the moments I froze in time. As I work, I can feel my eyelids growing heavy again, the day’s exhaustion settling in like a thick blanket. I take a moment to stretch, rolling my shoulders back and inhaling deeply, hoping to shake off the need for sleep that still clings to me.

Getting up from my desk, I shuffle over to the little coffee station I’ve set up for clients, even though I use it more for myself than anyone else. The compact machine hums softly as I pop in a coffee pod, the promise of liquid gold fueling my motivation. In just a few minutes, I’ll have a steaming cup to revive my senses. As the aroma wafts through the air, I toss in an extra spoonful of sugar, craving that sweet kick to help jolt me awake.

As I make my way back to my desk, my computer chimes with a notification, pulling my attention away from my editing. The alert catches my eye, and my heart races as I bring it up on the screen. The headline jumps out at me: "Gruesome Murder Shocks Local Community." The title is enough to grip anyone's attention, and it sends a shiver running down my spine.

The article loads slowly, the vague details about the brutality of the crime emerging piece by piece. There’s something haunting about the lack of concrete information—no photos, no specific victim mentioned, just a collection of ominous statements about the violence and the absence of leads for the police.

I narrow my eyes and read through the article again while taking a sip of my coffee. It gives no more detail than it did the first time, leaving only unsettling hints of the horror that had unfolded nearby. Frustrated, I search for more articles, but after sifting through a few more sources, I come up just as empty. It’s clear the authorities are keeping the details under tight lock and key—no images, no additional information on the crime, and not even a suggestion about whether this was an isolated event or something larger. The ambiguity hangs like a weight, leaving a question mark over the event. There aren’t even any statements from the investigators on the case

I lean back in my chair, my fingers tapping against my coffee cup. It’s almost worse for the community this way, not knowing if the threat is contained or still lingering in the shadows. Like an open question of should we all be looking over our shoulders? Just the thought has a dark thrill going up my spine, one I’m sure a normal person wouldn’t have but this sort of thing had always fascinated me.

Pushing the thought aside, I return to my editing. I pull up the photos I was working on, focusing on the colors and shadows, losing myself in the familiar rhythms of my craft.

I manage to work for a few uninterrupted minutes before my phone starts ringing, the sharp sound jolting me from my thoughts. Glancing down, I see an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen and after a brief pause to regain my professional mask, I pick it up. But the voice on the other end catches me off guard—it’s deep and slightly rough, carrying a faint edge of familiarity.

“Good afternoon, Rayne. This is Knox. We have a booking with you tomorrow evening.”

---