The Photographer’s Private Shoot - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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My thighs snapped together instinctively as he moved closer.
"Miss Laurent," he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, "perhaps I should assist you." Before I could protest, his strong hands parted my legs with effortless ease.
I gasped when his fingers brushed my inner thighs—my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My arms wound around his neck of their own accord as the camera clicked between my spread legs.
Heat flooded my cheeks, then lower when my gaze accidentally dropped to the unmistakable strain against his slacks. I jerked my head down, pulse hammering in my ears.
Adrian adjusted my pose with clinical precision—one hand guiding mine upward while the other splayed possessively across my bare thigh. "Arch your back," he commanded, and I obeyed, though his dissatisfied hum told me it wasn't enough.
Then his calloused palms were sliding higher, rough skin catching on delicate flesh. My breath hitched. My legs fell open wider without permission.
When his thumb grazed that aching spot, a broken sound escaped me. Shame burned through me as warmth pooled between my thighs, the evidence undeniable.
He withdrew abruptly, returning to his camera like nothing happened. I nearly sagged with relief—until the lens focused again and I scrambled to hold position.
"Close-ups now." His fingers replaced mine at the lace edges, moving with ruthless efficiency where I'd fumbled. Every brush of his knuckles sent electric jolts through me.
Then—cold camera metal pressed flush against my heated skin. I bit my lip raw as the shutter clicked in time with my racing heart, leaving angry red marks in its wake.
"One final adjustment." His request sounded polite, but those hands left no room for refusal. When his palm cupped me fully through the damp lace, I nearly sobbed.
His voice dropped an octave. "You're showing through."
Mortification turned my skin scarlet as I realized—the sheer fabric betrayed everything. My frantic attempt to cover myself only made it worse, the friction drawing another whimper.
Adrian peeled my hands away, his darkened gaze drinking in the sight. "Let me help you," he growled, and the promise in those words coiled heat low in my belly.
"Miss Laurent," he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, "perhaps I should assist you." Before I could protest, his strong hands parted my legs with effortless ease.
I gasped when his fingers brushed my inner thighs—my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My arms wound around his neck of their own accord as the camera clicked between my spread legs.
Heat flooded my cheeks, then lower when my gaze accidentally dropped to the unmistakable strain against his slacks. I jerked my head down, pulse hammering in my ears.
Adrian adjusted my pose with clinical precision—one hand guiding mine upward while the other splayed possessively across my bare thigh. "Arch your back," he commanded, and I obeyed, though his dissatisfied hum told me it wasn't enough.
Then his calloused palms were sliding higher, rough skin catching on delicate flesh. My breath hitched. My legs fell open wider without permission.
When his thumb grazed that aching spot, a broken sound escaped me. Shame burned through me as warmth pooled between my thighs, the evidence undeniable.
He withdrew abruptly, returning to his camera like nothing happened. I nearly sagged with relief—until the lens focused again and I scrambled to hold position.
"Close-ups now." His fingers replaced mine at the lace edges, moving with ruthless efficiency where I'd fumbled. Every brush of his knuckles sent electric jolts through me.
Then—cold camera metal pressed flush against my heated skin. I bit my lip raw as the shutter clicked in time with my racing heart, leaving angry red marks in its wake.
"One final adjustment." His request sounded polite, but those hands left no room for refusal. When his palm cupped me fully through the damp lace, I nearly sobbed.
His voice dropped an octave. "You're showing through."
Mortification turned my skin scarlet as I realized—the sheer fabric betrayed everything. My frantic attempt to cover myself only made it worse, the friction drawing another whimper.
Adrian peeled my hands away, his darkened gaze drinking in the sight. "Let me help you," he growled, and the promise in those words coiled heat low in my belly.
End of The Photographer’s Private Shoot Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to The Photographer’s Private Shoot book page.