Page 87 of To Catch a Firefly

Before he can spot me, I turn around and jog out the way I came. When I step into the silo for a second time, Ellis notices my arrival.

I hold up my camera bag. “Can I take your picture?”

His head tilts, but he nods before going back to his work.

I remove the camera from its case, attaching the proper lens before slipping the strap around my neck. Ellis doesn’t seem remotely concerned by my presence as I start snapping pictures. His eyes meet mine once, but then he continues his craft, rolling the hot, melted glass and blowing into the end of the rod. His hands are deft as he works, his focus steady.

I make sure to stay out of his way, but the heat from the oven has me sweating quickly. Ellis is faring no better. His hair is damp, dark strands curling, and the sheen above the collar of his shirt draws my eye more than once.

When Ellis is done, he taps the creation off the rod onto the table. It’s a small, rounded robin. An ornament, if I had to guess.

“It’s lovely, El.”

He grunts his thanks, storing his tools and making quick work of putting out the flames. My pulse is firing by the time he’s done, and he stalls, looking at me in question.

“Could I photograph you nude?” I ask.

He blinks at me once, twice, before nodding. I swear my heart misses a beat.

“No one will see the pictures but me,” I assure him.

“Trust you, Luck.”

I blow out a steadying breath. “Take off your shirt.”

He does as I request, tugging the slightly damp material off over his head. He lets it fall to the surface of the wood table, watching me, waiting.

I step toward him slowly before coming to a stop a foot and a half away. I bend down a little, finding the angle that makes him look like a ruggedly ethereal god, lit in the soft glow from overhead and flanked by colored glass I blur with my lens. His skin looks golden, dark hair covering his chest and trailing down the middle of his stomach.

I circle him, taking a few more pictures before I have him sit on the ground, legs bent, knees apart. I crouch between them, heart pounding. My finger flies on the shutter release.

“Pants,” I tell him next.

Ellis obliges, standing up to rid himself of his dusty jeans. He removes his boots and socks, too, leaving him standing in nothing but black underwear. His cock, although soft, presses against the front of the fabric in a way that has my mouth pooling with saliva. I move Ellis back until he’s leaned against the table, his hands bracing the wood behind him and accentuating the muscles in his arms, and then I step away, bringing the camera up in front of my face.

“You’re gorgeous, Ellis.”

He doesn’t say anything as I continue to photograph him, and I can only hope he believes me. That he knows how much I want him,allof him.

“Underwear,” I tell him, stepping further back.

Ellis slips his boxer briefs down his legs, his cock hanging heavily between his thighs and swaying as he lifts his feet to remove the fabric. He sets it with the rest of his clothes, completely unabashed in his nudity. His legs are thick and dusted in hair, like his chest and arms. His ass is round and so damn bitable I have to chew on my lip to temper the urge. His cock is nestled in dark curls, and every single inch of him, fromhis beautiful brown eyes to his trimmed toenails, is perfection in my eyes.

I store this memory—just like the Aurora Borealis and the parrotfish in the Caribbean Sea—in a place I can always return to. But I know, no matter how many pictures I take of the man before me, nothing will ever compare to standing in his presence.

“Turn around,” I request, my voice hushed. Hoarse.

He does, giving me his back and planting his elbows on the workbench. He bends one knee slightly, putting his ass and the strong, broad lines of his back on display. He’s pure art, and I take a dozen pictures before abandoning my camera for the man himself.

“El.”

He turns, and I reach for him, my hands curling behind his neck. I tug him down to me, catching his lips, whimpering into the kiss as I find myself hauled against the hot length of his body. My hands travel downwards, over shoulders, down arms, around to the tight swell of his ass. I moan as Ellis’s cock thickens against my hip.

“Want you,” I whisper.

His fingers tighten in my hair.

Ellis doesn’t object as I spend a good, long minute at his mouth, our lips inhaling, tongues playing. He doesn’t object when I break the kiss, either, lowering myself slowly in front of him. His fingers stay threaded in the strands of my hair, and his eyes remain locked on my own as my knees hit dirt. His dick brushes my cheek, and I turn my face, kissing the side of it.

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