I say nothing to that. Just accept that it’s true.
A little while later the moon appears above us, but it’s not fully dark yet. “Soon,” Spencer whispers.
“Are we done painting?” I ask.
“We’re done painting, baby. We’re just waitin’ on the moon now.”
With each passing minute the moon travels closer to the apex of the atrium and the sky grows darker.
It’s a full moon. And I realize that it’s bathing me in its light.
Spencer stirs and then leans in and kisses me on head. “Stay here,” he whispers. “Be right back.” I tilt my head as he walks off into the little office room off to the side. He emerges a few minutes later with an armful of camera equipment, including a tripod, which he sets up a little ways off from where I lie still. He mounts the camera and presses some buttons which make a beeping noise.
And then he stands up and walks towards me, reaching down.
I take his hand, carefully, mindful of the paint. But he doesn’t pull me to my feet, only a sitting position. I stare up at him and he puts his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he breathes softly.
And then he lifts the hem of his shirt and drags it up over his abs. Over the muscles of his chest. Then, in one swift movement, over his head.
I’ve seen Spencer Shrike’s amazing body plenty of times over the past couple weeks. He’s been in display as our life drawing model in art class.
But with him standing here, in this magical room, bathed in moonlight—well, I’m breathless just looking at him.
He unbuttons his jeans and drags the zipper down, the sound a break from the nighttime song of crickets against the backdrop of a flowing river on the other side of the glass walls. He steps out of the pants, completely nude, and then picks up his clothes and takes them back into the office.
When he comes back out he stretches out his hand again and this time he pulls me all the way up to my feet.
The camera beeps. Spencer leans into my ear and whispers, “Stay still now, Bomb. I need a long exposure time to catch the moonlight on your body.”
As soon as the silence is back, it’s broken again with the programmed click of the camera. It’s positioned beneath us, looking up. And I realize that this photo will capture my shimmering body being held in the arms of Spencer Shrike in the moonlight, the view of the apex of the geometric glass over our heads, and the branches of the tree in each shot.
The shutter clicks and Spencer’s hands come up to my throat and he kisses me. The beep sounds and we freeze, mid-kiss.
I can feel his breath inside me.
I feel nothing but him.
The camera shutter clicks and we change positions again. This time Spencer maneuvers me in front of him, one hand greedily squeezing my breast, the other flat against my throat as his mouth claims the tender spot on my neck, just below my ear.
Beep. Freeze. Click.
He turns me around again and now I can feel his thick hardness against my leg, but not for long, because he reaches around to my ass and lifts me up. I instinctively press my sex against his and wrap my legs around his waist.
Beep. Freeze. Click.
We move again. This time he eases inside me, and I throw my head back as he fills me up.
Beep. Freeze. Click.
I have never.
Been f**ked.
So slowly.
In my life.
I have never felt every movement so clearly.
And who knew that an orgasm could obey the laws of moonlight photography exposure times?
I drag myself out of the daydream and turn into the DMV parking lot. I park the bike and take my pack off as I walk into the building. My phone begins ringing inside the pack. I check it.
Spencer.
Shit. I cannot talk to him right now. Not after I just relived that first day in the atrium. I feel weak all over again. How the hell can this man affect me like this across time?
I need some f**king space. So bad.
I let it go to voicemail and then take a number and sit down in the hard plastic chair to wait my turn. It’s not busy, so I don’t expect it to take long. My phone dings a message.
Did you find me a place to live?
Shit. I totally forgot about my assignment today. I probably should find him at least one place to see. I text him back.
Yes. Will send details later.
My number is called and I go to the counter and ignore the next text. I’ve got everything in order, so I hand over my bill of sale, my insurance card, and my license. The woman doesn’t even say hello, just does her thing and asks for her money. I hand it over and ten minutes later I’m walking back to my Shrike Bike with the biggest f**king smile I’ve had in ages.
It’s really mine now.
It’s all mine and no one can take it away.
I smile all the way back to my apartment. But when I pull up to the crappy building I’m accosted with trucks of construction workers blocking most of the alley and my parking space to boot. I weave the bike between the men and the trucks and park in front of my stairs. I slip my helmet off and a prickle goes all the way up my spine as my eyes seek the cause.
And there he is. Standing on the small concrete landing that serves as my front porch, his knuckles in mid-air, like he’s caught in the process of knocking.
“Miss Veronica Vaughn?”
“Yes?” I answer back hesitantly. A man in a dark suit looking for me cannot be good.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Nine
SPENCER
Ford’s phone dings as I enter the Shrike Bikes cafeteria where the guys are kicking back eating the catered lunch. That’s one thing they really love about doing the show. Not that they don’t love the money, everyone got a raise this time around. Hell, Rook is making a quarter of a mil and the boys are all pulling close to two hundred K themselves.