Fake Model by Cassie Mint
Nine
Coral
Two years later
My husband likes to take photos of me.
Intimate photos.
Sometimes he wanders into the bathroom in our house on the cliffs, the windows overlooking the beach where we first met. I’ll be stretched out in the tub, chin deep in bubbles, and he’ll wink at me as he raises his camera. I’ll smirk and prop my heel on the tub, showing off my bare, soapy leg.
Sometimes he finds me when I’m dressing. Hooking my bra strap into place; tugging the scraps of my lacy panties up my thighs; the soft light of our walk-in closet painting me gold.
He sinks down to his knees, eyes hungry behind the lens, and tells me to seduce him. To show the camera what I’ve got.
Sometimes I’ll flick open one of the books in his office and a photo of me will slither out. They’re everywhere in this house—inside books, propped on shelves, beneath Archer’s pillow. Some arty, some erotic. The most intimate, he hides away, just in case prying eyes come over for dinner.
He can’t get enough. He calls me his muse. The only woman he ever wants to photograph.
The day after we met, he stopped photographing models. It was always professional for him, but even so—he says his inspiration has moved elsewhere.
Now he photographs beaches and landscapes. Bright festivals and cultural events.
And me. Always me.
I smooth a palm over the hard swell of my belly. Soon there will be more of us to photograph.
“What are you doing?” Archer’s warm voice slides around me, enveloping me like honey. I pause at the kitchen counter, smiling down at the cupcake I’m icing. His hands grip the counter on either side of my waist.
“Working on a new design.”
He hums, trailing his lips up my neck.
There’s one more thing Archer photographs—the designs for my cake decorating business. His gorgeous photos are half the reason it’s such a success, though he’d never let me say that.
“All work and no play.” Archer tuts, gripping my earlobe between his teeth and tugging gently. Heat flares in my core, an ache building in my clit.
“What are you going to d-do about it?”
These days, I only stutter around Archer when he turns me on.
So, you know. All the freaking time.
His palm smacks against my ass without warning, and I jump, squeezing the edge of the counter. I nudge my legs apart, rocking my hips back against his jeans, and Archer chuckles, the sound smoky in my ear.
“So eager.” He thrusts against me, his length hard against my ass. “You’re wearing me thin, sweetheart.”
I huff out a laugh. “Poor baby.”
“I know.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “But what a way to go.”
It can’t be real. Sometimes I think that. There’s no way anyone can be this lucky, this happy, this deep in love.
But then Archer proves me wrong every single time, squashing every doubt before it has time to fester.
He loves me, this handsome photographer. The Norse god with the camera. He’s mine.
And I am his.
I turn in his arms and prove it to him.
THE END
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