“This setup looks pretty good already,” Zach said, assessing the way the light was hitting the backdrop Camila had set up in her living room.
The videos Camila had uploaded were doing well, but she’d spent a significant amount of her texts with Zach picking them apart.
Camila
Zach
Camila
Zach
Camila
Zach
Camila
He didn’t tell her he thought money was the difference between an enthusiast and a photographer, but at least a couple of people over the years commented on his Instagram asking where they could buy a print of something he’d posted. He let her know they could DIY a soft box and asked if she was free that night.
And now here they were, stretching a white cotton shirt over the open box they’d covered in aluminum foil. Camila had some stick-on LED lights she’d intended to use in her pantry but forgotten about. “I decided I needed to spend an entire paycheck at The Container Store to fix my life,” she said. “It didn’t.”
“I have a cart going there,” Zach said. “I can’t make myself check out. We should take a before and after to see if the box makes a difference.”
She grinned. “Sweetie, never in my life have I been a ‘before.’”
“Just sit your cute ass down on that stool,” Zach said, giving her ass a playful swat.
“So bossy,” Camila said. When she was seated, and had fluffed her hair out for a few minutes, Zach checked the settings on his Canon Rebel and snapped a few shots.
“This isn’t bad, but I see what you mean about the shadows,” Zach said. “Now let’s do some with the softbox.”
They turned on the LED lights and set up again. These shots were much better, with the soft, diffused light bringing out the radiance in Camila’s cheeks and the dimension of her curls.
“Beautiful,” Zach said. He showed her the shots.
Camila zoomed in on the display. “Holy shit,” Camila said. “These are the best photos of me I’ve ever seen. Can you send me these? I’m going to put these on my LinkedIn.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Zach said. “I can take a few more, if you want. You can use them on your page.”
“I’m glad you suggested that, because I was about to ask,” Camila said. “Do you mind?”
He checked the time. “Yeah, I’m good for a couple of hours. I have to go cook dinner.”
“You know,” she said. “You really should consider doing this professionally.”
He scoffed. “Being a professional photographer starting out isn’t doing anything cool like photographing beautiful models,” he said, gesturing at his present company. “It’s all herding bridal parties and watching babies smash cakes.”
Puzzled, she asked, “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s boring.”
She looked even more confused. “Not for the people you’re capturing those moments for. Good memories can be few and far between. It might be nice to help people hold on to them.”
He felt chastised. Was he really such a cynical snob?
“OK, where do you want me?” Camila asked.
Bent over the arm of the couch, is what he wanted to say. “Why don’t you sit on the arm of your couch and kind of turn your torso to me. Yeah, like that, but swing your legs over the other side so your feet are on the cushion.” He took a couple of photos and adjusted his settings, using a larger aperture to create a shallow focus.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Bring your back foot forward a bit, and put your elbows on your knees. Nice. Now head back like you’re fake laughing but don’t fake laugh.” Camila took direction beautifully and anticipated it, too, straightening her back right before he was about to tell her to, or changing the angle of her chin just so for each frame.
“Did you ever watch America’s Next Top Model?” Camila asked, adding a lovely arms-straightened pose and arching her back.
“No, never,” Zach said, before launching into a perfect Tyra impression that made Camila double over. He shot that, too.
“OK, my ass hurts. Can we try sitting on the couch?”
He could rub massage oil on her ass, really get in there. “Yeah, let’s do it. What vibe do you want to go for? Receptive therapist? Tough negotiator? Eh, I think we got that with the last pose.”
“I don’t want to lounge because that might read as seductive,” she said. “Well, we can do some of those, but it’ll be for my personal collection.”
“Interesting,” he said. “And what does one have to do to view this personal collection?”
“Oh, it’s an invitation-only gallery. Very exclusive. Very cloak and dagger.”
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you kinda thing?”
“Exactly. Gold star, Private School.”
Once Zach had taken, oh, 100 frames of Camila, he clicked through them with her and used the rating function to note their mutual favorites. He was miffed at the time — he had to go soon, but he wanted to find another excuse to stay. A very specific excuse, with poses suiting a different video site and involving way fewer clothes for both of them.
“Gotta go cook dinner?” Camila asked, and the disappointment in her voice hinted at wanting what he wanted.
“In a little. But I’ll get these pictures edited and send them to you tomorrow.”
“Oh, no rush.” She opened her mouth, closed it again.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. Thanks for the impulse photo shoot. I know you’re busy and I hope it didn’t mess up your day.”
Mess up his day? She was a firecracker popsicle on a day so humid, your clothes and body were just soup ingredients. She was a hammer through the wall that was the monotony of existing as a human being.
“You didn’t mess up my day,” he said. “I mean, you’re the one with hobbies and routines. I just work and go home.”
After thinking about this, she said, “My routines don’t leave much room for spontaneity, by design. So I guess I’m not very good at it. I’m not like a super fun hang, I know.”
He had a hard time believing that. Camila was one of the most fun people he’d ever hung out with. He also wanted to punch something over the suggestion Camila could be bad at something. There was no way. Camila needed to see that she was fun, spontaneous. He should show her.
He changed the subject.
“So you’ve got some video ideas?”
Camila chewed her lip. “Yeah, some. I mean it’s all very preliminary, but I did come up with a content calendar.”
“I always had a hard time with those when I was in marketing. Can I see?”
After swiping through to the right app, Camila gave Zach her phone to show him her elaborate color-coded plans for her videos.
“So ideally I would post three TikToks a day and one YouTube video every week,” she explained, “but I don’t think three videos a day would be sustainable for me, even if I devoted a day each week to recording them all at once. Right now I have it so I post one TikTok a day and one YouTube video per week, with a plan to devote no more than three hours weekly to recording and editing.”
She took a breath and continued. “It took me a while, but I color coded by subject matter and set deadlines for recording and posting. I can click through to write video scripts, and my goal is to eventually use the tags and view counts to figure out what performs the best by subject matter. I know making any money on this is extremely unlikely, but if I could monetize enough to justify a few extra dinners out a month, that would be cool.” She gave him an apologetic look. “I know it’s overkill.”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so turned on by another human being’s brain.
Zach guided her hand to set the phone down and pulled her to him by her hips. Her breath caught in surprise.
“So about your data collection?” he asked.
Voice just as husky as his, she asked, “Yeah?”
“Have you collected enough about me?”
She looked confused. “For what?”
He kissed her neck and felt her melt against him, squeezed her closer to make up for it. “To know if I’m a good, decent person or if you’re just projecting.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh. I think I’ve got some promising preliminary findings.”
“I want to make you come again,” he said, hands up her shirt to stroke the warm arch of her back. “The way that pretty mouth looked when you gripped my fingers, the way you shook. I want to feel you feel that good.”
She pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him like a lover she hadn’t seen in months. It wasn’t tentative or exploratory. It was a claiming.
When she pulled away, it looked like it cost her. “Where do you want me?” she asked, chest heaving.
He wanted to laugh at how he’d manifested this. “Bent over the couch arm.”
She was already pulling off her clothes. “I have condoms in the bedroom.”
“I have one,” he said, pulling out his wallet.
“How long has that been in there? You know they wear down with heat.”
He felt so exposed. “I just put it there today.”
Camila didn’t seem to judge that as presumptuous, since she was now just in her underwear, had gotten him shirtless, and was making quick work of his belt.
They made it to the couch in a tangle of lips and limbs. Camila ass-up over the couch arm looked even better than he’d imagined. He’d be imagining this again and again until the day he died. He pulled her underwear down, taking in the sight of her swollen and wet. She wriggled impatiently, starting to stroke herself.
“I’ve got it, sweetheart,” he said. He finished rolling the condom on and eased his fingers into her, and she sank back into them with a sigh before he moved his fingers to her clit.
“Rub it with your cock,” she demanded. As he slid against her, up and down, the tip flirting with her entrance, Camila’s breaths shallowed, her hips pushing into him. “I can’t wait another second,” she said, and the timing was just right because she was so goddamn soaked with need, he slipped.
They both cursed when he was in her all the way. The way her hips rolled into him was tearing him in two. He didn’t know whether to stay still and savor it, or pound into her and watch her full, luscious ass.
He chose the latter.
“Tell me what you need,” he choked out.
She started to answer and devolved to moans when his fingers started circling again. “Lie back. Me on top.”
It pained him to leave her body for even a second, but the agony was worth it when she crawled on top of him. What a fucking view, her arching and grinding into him, curls dancing, breasts bouncing as she rode him. She rocked against his fingers rubbing her clit faster, desperation mounting, and he was right there with her.
“You’re so beautiful, Camila,” he said. “I’ve got you. Let me feel you come.”
And oh, she definitely knew how to take direction, because within moments she was writhing in pleasure, and he felt it, saw it, heard it. He didn’t know someone else’s pleasure could sear into him like a brand, and he didn’t have time to process this unthinkable intensity because he was following her.
He might follow her off a cliff if this was the feeling that preceded jumping off the precipice.