The Photographer’s Private Shoot - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading The Photographer’s Private Shoot, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of The Photographer’s Private Shoot.
My pulse skyrocketed.
Muffled voices drifted in from outside, sending a thrill of danger—and something darker—coursing through me.
When I squirmed, Adrian's grip turned punishing.
"Sophia, behave," he rasped.
My ears flamed.
He kissed me again, slow and filthy, until my back arched of its own accord.
His fingers slipped beneath the cheongsam's high slit.
The fabric stayed pristine, but the wicked hands beneath it left me panting.
A whimper escaped me.
Adrian only grew more relentless.
He hauled me upright, guiding me to straddle him, and—
My entire body shuddered.
Much later, when we finally came up for air, Adrian carefully smoothed the rumpled silk.
Thank God he hadn't fully undressed me—getting back into this thing would've been a nightmare.
He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
Then, ever the gentleman, he offered to drive me home.
Once there, he was shockingly well-behaved, lounging quietly on the couch.
Until I mentioned fixing him a meal.
His smirk was instantaneous. "Oh? You'll make me something?"
I recognized that tone.
Flustered, I bolted for my room.
When I returned, Adrian was asleep, his lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.
I draped a blanket over him.
Somehow, I ended up dozing beside him.
I woke to find myself crushed against his chest.
Something tickled my collarbone.
Glancing down, I realized I was sprawled entirely on top of him.
I tried to wriggle free—but Adrian dragged me into another soul-melting kiss before releasing me.
"Darling, you're addictive."
He hoisted me up effortlessly, carrying me to the bedroom.
Soon, the walls echoed with our recklessness.
Hours later, stomachs growling, we finally surfaced.
Watching him move around my kitchen, I felt something dangerously close to contentment.
Turns out, Adrian could cook—really damn well.
When I said as much, he grinned. "I've got other talents too. For example—"
I pointed my chopsticks at him. "Eat. No talking."
He laughed, piling more food onto my plate.
After dinner, he pulled me onto the balcony, holding me close as the city lights flickered to life.
Then, I felt it—that familiar, insistent pressure against my hip.
I tried to duck away, but his arms locked around me.
His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, and my knees nearly buckled.
After considerable negotiation, he finally agreed to retreat inside.
Where we proceeded to ruin the living room couch.
Muffled voices drifted in from outside, sending a thrill of danger—and something darker—coursing through me.
When I squirmed, Adrian's grip turned punishing.
"Sophia, behave," he rasped.
My ears flamed.
He kissed me again, slow and filthy, until my back arched of its own accord.
His fingers slipped beneath the cheongsam's high slit.
The fabric stayed pristine, but the wicked hands beneath it left me panting.
A whimper escaped me.
Adrian only grew more relentless.
He hauled me upright, guiding me to straddle him, and—
My entire body shuddered.
Much later, when we finally came up for air, Adrian carefully smoothed the rumpled silk.
Thank God he hadn't fully undressed me—getting back into this thing would've been a nightmare.
He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
Then, ever the gentleman, he offered to drive me home.
Once there, he was shockingly well-behaved, lounging quietly on the couch.
Until I mentioned fixing him a meal.
His smirk was instantaneous. "Oh? You'll make me something?"
I recognized that tone.
Flustered, I bolted for my room.
When I returned, Adrian was asleep, his lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.
I draped a blanket over him.
Somehow, I ended up dozing beside him.
I woke to find myself crushed against his chest.
Something tickled my collarbone.
Glancing down, I realized I was sprawled entirely on top of him.
I tried to wriggle free—but Adrian dragged me into another soul-melting kiss before releasing me.
"Darling, you're addictive."
He hoisted me up effortlessly, carrying me to the bedroom.
Soon, the walls echoed with our recklessness.
Hours later, stomachs growling, we finally surfaced.
Watching him move around my kitchen, I felt something dangerously close to contentment.
Turns out, Adrian could cook—really damn well.
When I said as much, he grinned. "I've got other talents too. For example—"
I pointed my chopsticks at him. "Eat. No talking."
He laughed, piling more food onto my plate.
After dinner, he pulled me onto the balcony, holding me close as the city lights flickered to life.
Then, I felt it—that familiar, insistent pressure against my hip.
I tried to duck away, but his arms locked around me.
His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, and my knees nearly buckled.
After considerable negotiation, he finally agreed to retreat inside.
Where we proceeded to ruin the living room couch.
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