My heart beats like a steady drum in my chest.
I watch her carefully, my skin prickling with awareness at her proximity.
I feel so exposed as she takes my picture.
Stripped bare and splayed raw.
But I don’t stop her. I don’t want to.
She sinks down onto my lap, straddling me, and murmurs, “Touch me.”
I wrap my finger around her choker necklace.
“Take a picture,” she says breathlessly and hands me the camera.
I take it from her and snap a photo of my fingers tangled in the black cord.
I release it and grab her neck.
Click.
Her eyes flare with desire.
Click.
She bites her lip.
Click.
I grab her hair.
Click.
I snake my fingers under her shirt.
Click.
I lift her shirt off.
Click.
I aim the camera at her bare collarbone.
Click.
Then her stomach.
Click.
She takes the camera back.
“My turn,” she says, her voice thick with desire.
She takes a picture of my belt buckle.
“Aren’t these getting a bit X-rated for school?” I comment.
She grins like the cat that ate the canary and leans forward, pushing her breasts into my chest so she can whisper in my ear, “Some are for me.”