Dirty Shots by Marissa Farrar Page A

inserted, so I couldn’t say for sure. But they’re supposed to be for pleasure, not pain. If at any point you felt uncomfortable or you weren’t enjoying what we were doing, all you’d need to say is stop.”
    “Aren’t we supposed to have some other kind of special word?”
    “I’m not going to beat you, Anya.”
    “I know. But what if I say ‘don’t stop’ and you mishear me?”
    He laughed. “Very well. What would you like to use?”
    She thought for a moment and then said, “How about elephant?”
    “Elephant? Why elephant?”
    She shrugged. “You’re not likely to get that mixed up with anything else.”
    He seemed to be trying to suppress another smile. “Okay, elephant it is. I think if you yell that in the middle of everything, it’ll be enough to break the mood anyway.”
    They grinned at each other, and Anya relaxed further. Perhaps it was the wine, but she suspected it was that they could still be at ease with each other. He still wanted to photograph her, and she still wanted him to. Yes, they’d had sex, but that didn’t mean their situation had changed.
    Something occurred to her. “Um, Eric. The butt plug hasn’t been ... umm ... used before, has it?”
    He frowned. “No, Anya. Of course not. Everything here is all for you. I went out and bought it specially. I would never use your props on another woman.”
    She breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t admitted there might be other women, but at least she didn’t need to worry about whose skin the handcuffs had last been pressed against, or whose breasts the ropes had last bound.
    “So when do you want to get started?”
    “I’m ready now.” She picked her glass back up and gulped down the last of her wine, feeling the slight burn down the back of her throat, the flush of color the alcohol brought to her cheeks. The studio was set up much as it always had been, with the white paper rollers providing the background, and more white paper on the floor. Eric never needed to photograph her with any other kind of background. It was her body he was interested in, nothing else.
    She’d worn a fitted black dress and a pair of heels. She was normally a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl, but she’d wanted to make an impression. Where the previous times she’d been to his apartment she’d felt like she was going to work—albeit wonderful work—this time she’d felt more like she was going on a date. Her clothes reflected that, and the fact he’d poured her a glass of wine. Even so, it was like no other date she’d ever been on.
    Eric stood close behind her, the heat of his body filling the inches between them, his spicy aftershave in her nostrils. His hands reached up and swept her hair to one side to expose the zipper holding her dress together. He rested one hand on her shoulder, as if to keep her grounded. With the other he took hold of the zipper and slowly pulled it down. Her breath caught in anticipation, the comparative cool of the apartment kissing her skin. She wished he could have removed the dress to discover her without underwear, but her curves meant there was no way she’d go out in public without a bra.
    He pushed the straps from her shoulders, allowing the dress to slide down the rest of her body and puddle around her feet. Anya stepped out from the circle, so she stood in just her heels, lacy black bra, and matching thong. Eric caught her hand and slowly turned her back around to face him. His dark eyes ran across her skin, drinking her in. She fought her natural instinct to cover herself, remembering who she was in Eric’s presence, how he’d given her the confidence to show off her body in a way she never had before. She’d always been so self-conscious, thought of herself as being too small, too curvy. It had taken all of her self-control to act the way she had in front of Eric in order to get the job as his model. She’d known who he was, known he’d need someone who was comfortable with her body. The way she’d