"We're going to do a lot of vignettes over the next few days,
and I'll pick the eight best. Some in a kitchen. Some at a desk. Some out in the world. Each one is supposed to tell a mini-story. And they build to a sensual climax--that's the dance. You'll still be anonymous, but you will need a mask for that. We'll film it opening night, and use that film for the run of the show."
"Do you need me to choreograph it?" The idea excites me. I've done choreography, but never with such an intimate purpose.
"Can you?"
I nod enthusiastically, and he smiles. "Well, then I guess we make a good team," he says, and I swallow a happy sigh.
"This is the lovers' vignette," he says, indicating me and the post. "He's gone away, and he wants to be sure she waits for him. So he binds her to the post." He slides his hand up my left side, his skin grazing mine so softly I have to bite my lip to keep from trembling.
And then, when his hand brushes the curve of my breast, and then strokes higher, teasing my nipple, I bite my lip even harder.
My breasts ache, and my nipple tightens, and I fight a whimper because I want his touch. But he doesn't satisfy my craving. Instead, his hand continues upward until he reaches my arm. And then, very gently, he raises it. Then he uses the sash of the robe to tie my wrist to the pole.
"Once bound, her lover goes away," Wyatt continues. "But he's gone too long. She's lonely. Frustrated. And her thoughts turn to what will happen when he gets back. But she's impatient and doesn't want to wait. With her right hand, she emulates her lover's touch."
Now, he lifts my hand and places my palm over my breast. His eyes meet mine, and as he moves my hand so that my palm lightly strokes my nipple, I see the flare of heat, and feel a corresponding tug between my thighs.
His lips curve up, as if he's perfectly aware of my reaction, and as he watches my face, he gently removes my hand and slides it down my belly until my fingertips graze the elastic band of the thong.
"She imagines his touch," he says, as he slides his palms down my thighs, urging them apart until I'm kneeling with my knees spread so far I'm almost doing the splits. He takes my right hand again, then places it on my inner thigh, covered by his own hand. "She strokes herself," he says, sliding my hand up until my fingertips graze the thin strip of material that is the crotch of the panties. "Teases and plays with herself as she waits for him, getting wetter and wetter and more and more turned on."
He moves my hand so that my fingers slide under the thin material and I'm cupping myself. "She's wet," he whispers, and I am, and I want him.
"So very wet. And she waits, longing for him. She closes her eyes," he says, as I do exactly that. "And as she thinks of him, she strokes herself. Teasing and touching and desperately wanting."
He pulls his hand away, but as he does I feel his breath at my ear as he whispers. "You're so lovely. Don't stop. And don't open your eyes."
I make a little whimpering sound, but I do as he says, feeling the bed shift slightly. My fingers slide over my slick skin, and I gasp when I hear the distinctive click of a camera. My eyes flutter open, but Wyatt shakes his head. "No. Don't stop. I want to watch you."
He lowers the camera, and there's a wild heat in his eyes that fires through me. I don't know if he wants me, or if he just wants the shot, but I'm so aroused now I don't care. I close my eyes again and do as he asks, feeling my body firing as the camera clicks and whirrs again and again and again.
When I'm close--desperately close--he tells me to open my eyes. I do, and find him sitting at the other end of the bed. "You're amazing," he says. "That was incredible."
"Oh." I press my thighs together, suddenly shy.
He comes to me, and I anticipate his touch. Bold and hard and demanding. His hands on my breasts. His mouth on my skin.
I expect him to finish what I started. To quell this need he's fired inside me.
I expect all that . . . but all he does is untie my hand. "I think we may have a good one among all those shots."
I frown, confused by both his words and by the fact that he's backed away to sit on the far side of the bed again. "Only one good one? I thought--"
"What?"
I swallow, blushing. "Just that I thought you were probably getting a lot of good shots."
"Definitely," he says, and there's so much heat and desire in his voice that I'm even more confused. "You were exceptional. But I meant good for the show. And for those, I'm incredibly picky."
I frown and he laughs. "Photography's a numbers game sometimes."
"Oh."
"Why don't you go get dressed?"
Disappointment cuts through me. "Um, okay. I'll change and head home." I'm feeling overly exposed, and confused enough that getting out of there seems like a good idea. "What time do you want me back tomorrow?"