Page 57 of Heated
I frown.
And there goes another flash.
“Zora,” I growl.
“Sorry,” she says, lowering the camera and not sounding the least bit sorry. Her fingertips glide over the lens, and the touch strikes me as oddly sensual. Or that’s how my body interprets it. A sheepish smilecurls one corner of her mouth. “You’re very photogenic. Since the first time I saw you, I’ve been itching to catch you on film.”
“That right?”
Why do I find that hot?
“Yes, it’s your face. All those sharp angles and slants. The symmetry is perfect. But then you have the tiniest nick through the end of your eyebrow, and in the sunlight, you have the faintest of freckles across your cheekbones. And your mouth, while beautiful, has a hint of hardness about it. It’s those tiny flaws that take your face from boring perfection to wonderfully interesting.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or to feel like I’ve been pinned to a corkboard and eviscerated,” I say dryly.
“Both are forms of admiration, so why choose?”
I snort; seeds of curiosity burrow deep, their roots spreading and digging for purchase. And finding it.
“When was the first time you saw me?”
She bows her head, fiddling with her camera before lifting it once more and firing off more shots. A heaviness settles on my shoulders, my chest. So she’s not going to answer. Maybe that question is filed underpersonal...
“Val showed me a picture of you.” She exhales, and though it’s soft, I catch it. In the dying light of the day, and with splashes of orange, purple, and dark blue streaking across the sky, across her, I want to taste that exhale. She raises her eyes from the camera to meet mine. “I thought you were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.”
I don’t say anything; I can’t. Because I’m certainForget this concert. Get in the car so I can take you back to my house, where I’m going to fuck you until even your soul walks funnywon’t go over well.
But that’s the ferocity of the lust roaring inside me right now.
All due to her thinking I’m beautiful. Not that I haven’t heard that before from women and men, for that matter. But most of thempossessed an agenda or wanted something from me, even if it was a fuck. None of them were Zora Nelson.
“I should put this back in the car. I don’t think they allow cameras in during the concert,” she murmurs, squatting down again and avoiding looking at me.
Quickly, she packs up her equipment, and by the time she stands again, I’ve located my voice.
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.”
She huffs a laugh. “That’s a bit overstated. Could you unlock your car for me?” I press the key fob, and she stores the bag in the back seat. “I love photography; I have since high school. But I’m not a professional. It’s just something I enjoy doing.”
“Those photos of City Park hanging up in your living room. Those are yours, aren’t they?” Her head sharply swings my way, eyes narrowed. I arch an eyebrow. “You didn’t think I’d notice? News flash, Zora,” I murmur, stepping closer, and she turns in the opening of the back door. “There wasn’t one thing in that house that I didn’t study seeking more clues into who you are. My hands are tied in asking you personal questions, so I’ve become somewhat of a student in everything Zora Nelson.” I cock my head, spying the flicker of emotion in her eyes. “That scare you?”
“What have you learned so far?” she asks instead of answering my question.
As a diversion tactic, it’s a good one. But it’s not going to work. Nothing can erase that from my head. We’ll be getting back to that.
“From your house?” She nods, and I shift closer still, erasing the remaining space between us. Lowering my head, I stare down into her eyes, silently demanding she not look away from me. Because I need to see everything—every feeling, every thought—that moves through them. “That place is your sanctuary. It’s obvious from the care with each detail no matter how small. From a figurine to the cedar hutch to the perfect complementary fireplace poker set right to putting your ownstamp on it with your photographs. You’re about comfort, ease, and being secure in a place you call yours. How am I doing?”
Once more, she nods.
“You don’t like to cook, but the meal-delivery service schedule on your refrigerator tells me you pay attention to what you eat. That fancy coffee maker is a dead giveaway about a full-blown caffeine addiction, as is the complicated espresso machine next to it. Looks like something out of the space station. You love to read, and your go-to are thrillers and suspense with some horror thrown in. That reading nook with the cramped and overflowing bookshelves off the dining room is a dead giveaway.”
“You were pretty busy while I was taking a shower.”
I shrug a shoulder. “Never pretended I wasn’t going to snoop.”
“Anything else?” she whispers.
“You didn’t buy your house only for you.”There it is.That glint of ... something. “With most people who buy a home with more bedrooms than they could use or sleep in, I would say it’s about show, status. But you’re not most people, and you don’t give a fuck about show. But there’s at least two bedrooms on the second floor with an upper level that wide, and there’s another on the main level. Which means you likely bought this home with your brother and sister in mind. Giving them a place to stay if they ever needed it.”
