Chapter 7: The Photographer's Request
The morning light was different. Softer, cleaner, painting everything in a pale gold that made the wood grain on the floor gleam and the dust motes dance like slow sparks. It fell across the wicker chairs, the empty teacups, and the three of them, still naked, wrapped in a shared, lazy quiet.
Isla stretched, a long arc that made her ribs stand out, and reached for her camera from the windowsill. She turned it over in her hands, her thumb brushing the lens cap. Her eyes, when she looked at them, were bright with a new, focused energy.
“Don’t move,” she said, her voice a hushed command.
The shutter clicked. A soft, precise sound.
Aidan, lying on his back with Catriona’s head on his chest, tensed. His arm tightened around his wife. “What are you doing?”
“Capturing the morning after,” Isla said, not lowering the camera. She took another step closer, her bare feet silent on the wood. Click. “The way the light hits the bite mark on your shoulder, Cat. The way his hand is just resting on your arse. It’s perfect. It’s real.”
Catriona lifted her head, her curls a chaotic halo. She looked from Isla’s intent face to Aidan’s wary one. She smiled, slow and easy. “Let her. She’s an artist.”
“I’m not a fucking exhibit,” Aidan muttered, but the heat was gone from his words. It was just a reflex, the last twitch of a private man’s boundary.
“You’re not an exhibit,” Isla agreed, finally lowering the camera. She tilted her head. “You’re a subject. My subjects. And I want to make something beautiful with you.” She chewed her lip for a second. “I want to photograph you together. Properly. While it’s still fresh.”
Aidan exhaled. He looked at Catriona, at the open trust in her face. This was her gift, too. Her exploration. He nodded, once. “Alright. But no faces.”
Isla’s grin was instantaneous and wicked. “Deal. Faces are overrated anyway. It’s all about the lines, the tension, the story in the muscles.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Okay. Up. Against the window. Cat, you stand in front of him. Back to his chest.”
They moved, the quiet of the morning shifting into something charged. The light was warm on their skin. Aidan stood behind Catriona, his hands settling on her hips. He could feel the faint tremor in her, not from cold, but from anticipation.
“Aidan, look down at her shoulder. Not at the camera. Like you’re about to kiss her skin there. Cat, arch your back a little. Just a little. Yes. Perfect.”
_Click-whirr. Click-whirr._
The directions came softly, steadily. She had them shift, turn, kneel. She captured the curve of Catriona’s spine, the powerful line of Aidan’s thighs, the way his big hands completely spanned her waist. It was strangely intimate, this silent orchestration. It made him hyper-aware of every point of contact, every breath Catriona took.
“Now,” Isla said, her voice dropping lower. She was closer now, the camera held steady. “Aidan, turn her around. Kiss her. Really kiss her. I want to see your hands in her hair.”
He did. He cradled her face and kissed her, deep and slow, a morning rediscovery. Catriona melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck. The camera whispered, capturing the swallow of her throat, the flex of his bicep.
“Good. That’s so good.” Isla’s breath was quicker. “Now… take her from behind. Right here. Against the glass.”
Aidan froze mid-kiss. He pulled back, searching Catriona’s face. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Isla…” Aidan began, a warning rumble.
“I want the shot,” Isla murmured, her own cheeks flushed. She wasn’t just a photographer now; she was in the room, a fourth presence, potent and demanding. “I want to see where you belong. I want to capture the moment you finish inside her. The intimacy of it. The possession.”
Her words were a direct current. Catriona turned, bracing her hands against the cool windowpane. The garden beyond was a blur of green and colour. Aidan stepped close, his body aligning with hers. He entered her in one smooth, relentless push, and they both groaned, the sound swallowed by the quiet room.
Isla circled them like a shark. The camera was a part of her. _Click-whirr._ The sound of their joining. _Click-whirr._ The desperate clench of Catriona’s fingers on the glass. _Click-whirr._ The savage focus on Aidan’s face as he moved.
“Yes,” Isla hissed. “Just like that. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.” She was right beside them now, the lens pointed low, capturing the obscene, beautiful conjunction of their bodies. “I can see it. I can see how deep he is, Cat. God.”
Her free hand reached out, not to touch them, but to hover near Catriona’s hip, as if feeling the heat. Then it drifted to Aidan’s lower back, tracing the tense muscles there. The touch broke her.
With a frustrated sound, she let the camera, still on its strap, fall against her chest. It thumped lightly between her breasts.
She didn’t ask. She just moved.
Her mouth found Catriona’s, kissing her with a hungry, open-mouthed desperation that mirrored the rhythm Aidan was setting. Catriona cried out, the sound muffled against Isla’s lips, her body rocking forward with each thrust.
Aidan watched, the sight of their mouths together, of Isla’s small hands coming up to frame Catriona’s face, driving him to a brutal, final pace. The coil snapped. He slammed into Catriona, holding her hips so tight he knew he’d leave bruises, and spilled into her with a choked, guttural roar that fogged the window.
He stayed there, buried, pulsing, as the aftershocks racked him.
Isla broke the kiss, breathing hard. She looked down, where they were still joined. Then she dropped to her knees beside them, her face level with Catriona’s stomach. She watched, mesmerized, as Aidan slowly pulled out.
The evidence of his release spilled onto Catriona’s inner thigh, a thick, white trickle against her skin in the pure morning light.
Isla didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to Catriona’s skin, cleaning the path of it with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue.
Catriona shuddered, a full-body convulsion, and her legs buckled. Aidan caught her, lowering them both gently to the sun-warmed floor in a heap of tangled limbs.
Isla sat back on her heels, the camera hanging between her breasts. She licked her lips, her eyes never leaving them. A slow, dazed smile spread across her face.
“Now that,” she whispered, her voice raw with wonder, “that is a fucking photograph.”