Chapter 23: The Photographer's Gaze
The studio smelled of dust and stale incense, with an undertone of chemical developer. Catriona stood just inside the door, her cardigan buttoned tight. Aidan’s hand was a steady pressure on the small of her back.
“Relax,” he murmured. “It’s just a room.”
The photographer, Leo, was Dave’s cousin. He was tall, rake-thin, with glasses and a distracted air. He waved them toward a faded chaise lounge draped in a rumpled velvet throw. “Hi. Yeah, just... make yourselves not at home. Equipment’s over there. We’ll start simple.” He gestured to a rack of garments. “There’s stuff if you want. Or not. Your brief was... atmospheric.”
Atmospheric. The word hung in the air. Aidan squeezed her side. “Go on. Pick something.”
Her fingers felt thick and clumsy. She pushed through silks and laces, her practical mind recoiling at the textures. At the back, she found a simple white chemise. It was sheer, long-sleeved, almost virginal in its cut. She held it up.
“That’ll do,” Aidan said from behind her. His voice had changed, deepened into the one he used when they were alone. “Put it on.”
Leo was adjusting a large, old-looking camera on a tripod, his back tactfully turned. Aidan didn’t move. He watched as she unbuttoned her cardigan, folded it neatly over a chair. She unzipped her skirt, let it pool at her feet. The cool air raised goosebumps on her thighs. She pulled the chemise over her head. The fabric was a whisper against her skin, translucent. She could see the dark shadows of her nipples, the faint triangle of hair below. The collar was starkly visible against her throat.
“Hair down,” Aidan instructed.
She pulled the pin from her bun, letting the honey-blonde waves fall around her shoulders. The act felt more exposing than removing her clothes.
“Okay,” Leo said, turning. He looked at her with a clinical eye, not a sexual one. It was worse. “Stand by the chaise. Just look at the floor. Think about... I don’t know, something sad.”
She obeyed. The chaise’s leather was cracked, cold against her thigh. She focused on a stain on the concrete floor. The shutter clicked. It was a soft, definitive sound.
“Good. Now, touch the collar. Like it’s a necklace. But heavier.”
She raised her hand, her fingers tracing the familiar edge of the leather. The lock was a small, cold circle.Click.
“Look at me now.”
She lifted her gaze. Leo was behind the camera, a black shape. Beyond him, leaning against the wall shrouded in shadow, was Aidan. His arms were crossed. She couldn’t see his expression, but she felt the weight of his stare like a physical touch.
“Think about why you’re wearing it,” Leo said, his voice monotone.
Her breath hitched. The reason was in the shadows.
Click. Click.
The session became a slow, surreal dance. Leo directed her onto the chaise, onto her knees beside it, her back arched, her face turned away. He spoke of lines and light, of composition. His detachment was a sterile glove. Meanwhile, Aidan’s silent presence was a building heat. She could feel him getting closer, a predator growing impatient with the observer.
“Turn over. On your front, head toward me,” Leo said.
She lay on the velvet, the rough texture scratching her skin through the chemise. The position lifted her hips.
“That’s good. Hold.”
Click.
Then Aidan moved. He pushed off the wall, his footsteps quiet on the concrete. He stopped behind the camera. “Let me,” he said, his voice low.
Leo straightened, shrugged. “Your show, mate.”
Aidan didn’t touch the camera. He walked around it, straight to the chaise. His hand landed on the curve of her raised backside, possessive and rough. “This is what we’re here for,” he said, not to Leo, but to her. His fingers hooked into the hem of the chemise and rucked it up, baring her completely. The cool air touched her skin. Click went the shutter behind them.
“Look at the camera,” Aidan commanded, his hand splayed on her spine, pressing her down.
She turned her head, her cheek against the musty velvet. Leo was a blur. The camera lens was a black, unblinking eye.
Aidan’s other hand smoothed over her skin, then parted her. She flinched, a small, involuntary jerk. Click. He leaned over her, his body heat enveloping her. She heard the rustle of his jeans, the sound of his zip. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of him, not where she was wet and waiting, but lower, at a place that made her tense.
“This is the record,” he growled into her ear, his voice for her alone. “Of how I use you.”
He pushed, and the stretch was a bright, shocking ache. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the velvet. Click. He sank in, impossibly deep, a slow, relentless invasion. The chaise creaked. Her fingers clawed at the fabric. Every inch was documented by the mechanical whisper of the shutter. It wasn’t pleasure, not yet; it was a claiming, a visceral proof. Her body adjusted, the pain melting into a devastating, full sensation. He began to move.
“Eyes open,” he snarled. “Look at it.”
Tears blurred her vision, but she forced her eyes toward the lens. She saw herself reflected in Leo’s glasses—a pale, strained face, a body being taken apart. Aidan’s pace quickened, his hips slapping against her skin. The sounds were obscene, wet and sharp in the quiet room. She was unmoored, a thing of nerve endings and shameful, crawling heat. The coil in her belly tightened, sparked by the sheer audacity of it, by the camera’s witness.
He came with a harsh groan, shuddering deep inside her.Click. He held there, buried, for a long moment before pulling out. The aftermath was a messy, physical reality. He turned her over onto her back. She was boneless, dazed, the chemise twisted around her waist.
He stood over her, looking down. Then he brought his fingers to her mouth, slick with his own release. “Clean it.”
The taste was salt and bitterness and him. She licked his fingers, her eyes locked on his. Click.
He smeared the rest across her lips like a corrupt gloss. “Now smile.”
Her lips trembled. She bared her teeth. It wasn’t a smile; it was a grimace of surrender, of complicity.
Click.
Leo lowered his camera. “I think… I think we’ve got it.”
Aidan nodded, not looking away from her. He pulled the chemise down, a mockery of modesty. “Yeah. We have.” He bent, kissing her filthy mouth, a hard, brief stamp. “My beautiful, filthy girl.”
He helped her up. Her legs were water. She dressed mechanically, the wool of her skirt scratchy against sensitized skin. Leo was already packing his camera away, his professional calm undisturbed.
“I’ll send the edits in a few days,” he said to Aidan, as if they’d just concluded a business meeting.
Outside, the night air was a shock. Catriona leaned against the brick wall, trembling. Aidan lit a cigarette, the match flaring in the darkness. He took a long drag, then offered it to her. She shook her head.
“You were perfect,” he said, smoke curling from his lips. “Those pictures… they’re going to be something else.”
She finally found her voice, hoarse and small. “What are we going to do with them?”
He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the streetlamp. “We’re going to look at them. And then,” he said, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under his heel, “we’re going to make more.” He took her hand, his grip warm and sure. “This was just the test shoot. The real work starts now.”
He led her toward the car, and she followed, the memory of the shutter’s click echoing in the hollows of her bones, a sound she knew she would crave in the silence of the library stacks.