“In London.” He swallows, stepping towards me with a hand reaching out to take the photo.
“Is this it, or is there more? More of the photo, I mean.” I dig my fist into my cocked hip and wave the photo in front of me. “Have you taken pictures of me naked?”
“Steph, I’m not a sick fucking perv,” he growls, pulling his wet hair back from his face. “I wouldn’t take photos of you like that.”
I frown at him, knowing his track record with photographs. My stomach twists thinking of before. “You got Dean to take those other photos. I wouldn’t put it past you.”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I told you I was sorry about that.”
“I want to see your phone.” I hold my hand out for him to hand it over. “What other photos do you have of me?”
He steps closer. “Steph, you didn’t come here to argue with me about photos.” His fingers stroke my neck and his thumb brushes against my cheek, making my pulse quicken and my body tremble. “You’re not going to begrudge me one fucking photo, are you?”
“If it is one photo and no naked ones, let me see your phone.” My voice waivers as he continues to stroke my cheek, and I feel myself crumbling under his touch, as I always do, but I stand my ground and hold my hand out between us for his mobile and tap my foot while I wait.
“Fine.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks the screen as he hands it to me in a huff.
My head throbs along with my heart at what I’ll find on his gallery. As I scroll through his photographs, images of his gorgeous girls light up the screen; those big brown eyes and raven hair, olive skin, radiant smiles. Mostly candid shots, capturing them laughing and playing, unaware of the camera and then some posed with Cal taking funny selfies.
I smile inwardly at how adorable he is with his girls, but it’s short-lived. Anxiety creeps up my throat, and I gulp down the prickling lump as I scroll past all the Christmas photographs, knowing the London trip will be up next.
My breath hitches when I see pictures of me at the work Christmas party. I’m smiling talking to Kelly, holding a glass of champagne. The next one of me is in London, walking around the art gallery. He’s captured me from the side looking at a painting and another of me laughing and looking down, then there’s the one of me sleeping. The duvet covers my breasts and thankfully you can’t see anything, makeup is smeared around my eyes, and I look natural.
There are a few he took of me like this and then I see some from work, sat at my desk working and another reading my book. All natural unposed shots, then a few from the club event of me dancing with Kelly. I look ridiculously sweaty. My heart swells that he would take so many pictures of me, knowing that’s all I’ll ever be to him; a picture and a memory.
“I’m sorry.” I hand him back his phone with a heavy heart. Why did I make such a big deal of the photo? Of course, I don’t begrudge him photos of me.
He takes the phone from me and places it on the worktop. “Are you satisfied?”
My body tenses as I hold back my emotions and stop myself from throwing my arms around him to feel his body against mine. I want to kiss his lips and have his tongue slide into my mouth. I want him to make me feel all the things I haven’t felt for so long since the last time I was here.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t come here to argue with you. I wanted to check you were all right, and thank you for the journal.”
He steps closer, his hands graze the thin fabric of my slightly damp navy blouse, running his fingers down my arms, awakening the goosebumps that have been dormant for so long. He never fails to elicit something deep within me, even when I’m still mad at him.