Dirty Shots by Marissa Farrar

that I had taken things too far, or that I misunderstood what you said to me. In the position you were in, you wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop me.”
    Her mouth fell open. “You worried that you’d ...” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words. “Forced me?”
    “No! Well, yes ...” He ran his hand through his dark hair. “Hell, I don’t know what I thought.”
    “What about afterward, how you held me? Do you really think I would have stayed and let you hold me if that was true?”
    His shoulders sagged. “You’re right, of course you are. I just ... I’ve lost track of time in the past, not known what I’ve been doing for hours at a time when I’m lost in my work.”
    “Is that how you think of me still? As your work?”
    “You are my project,” he said, his dark eyes meeting hers and focusing on her with a passion she almost found frightening. “You’re so much more as well, but you and this photography are the most important things in my life right now.”
    Her heart contracted, her stomach flip-flopping. While part of her wanted to be at his very center, his focus purely on her, the other part of her was intimidated by his intensity. But then she’d known he was like this. Eric Rutherford, the photographic genius who would vanish from the world to work on something, only to emerge months later, exhausted and missing half his body weight. His bouts of depression were well documented in fine art magazines. Though he was reported to have fought and beaten the black dog with regular exercise and a strict healthy eating regime, in that moment she glimpsed the person he might have been in those darker days.
    He must have caught the expression on her face. “I’m sorry,” he said again, his full mouth curving at one corner in a bashful smile. “I’m freaking you out. Please don’t freak out.”
    The smile made him seem more like himself again. She took a big gulp of the wine—expensive and delicious—and felt herself relax. “I’m not freaking out. I promise.”
    He took a drink of his own wine and placed the glass on a small side table. “Good. Then where shall we start?”
    “Do you still want to photograph me?”
    He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you want to be photographed?”
    During her time with Eric, she’d never felt so sexy or in control of her own sexuality. It made her feel powerful, as if the whole world was focusing on her through the lens of Eric’s camera.
    She nodded.
    He took the wine glass from her hand and set it down beside his. “How do you feel about being penetrated, Anya?”
    She suppressed a smile. “After last night, I’m surprised you need to ask that question.”
    “It’s something that came to me while we were ... you know.”
    “Having sex?” she offered, widening her eyes in mock innocence.
    He grinned again, that boyish charm. “Yes, that.” He crossed the room to the leather box with the lid—the type someone might use to store work folders in—removed the lid, and delved inside. She watched with curiosity, her stomach tight in knots of trepidation. She trusted that he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do one hundred percent, but she still didn’t like the idea of having to tell Eric ‘no.’
    He found what he was looking for and straightened. In his hand was a slim box in royal blue. The exterior held no clues as to what was contained inside. He flipped open the lid. She almost expected to see a designer watch, but instead a silver cylinder met her eyes, wider at one end and then tapering off, with a flat end on the thick part.
    “Is that what I think it is?”
    He studied her face, as if trying to gauge her reaction. “It’s a butt plug. Have you used one before?”
    She stifled the giggle that tried to burst from her lips. She wanted him to think of her as experienced, but she couldn’t lie to him. “No, I haven’t. Will it hurt?”
    He gave a shy grin which made her want to jump him. “I’ve never had one