"Well?" Felicia was leaning on her lump of clay, staring at me as though she knew something I didn't. A little smile played on her lips.
"I'm going to his house to go over the photos he took," I told her. "He wants my professional opinion."
"And is he going to stick his tongue in your twat again?"
I'm so proud I didn't blush at that. "We left that open-ended," I said. I gulped a few more mouthfuls of beer and got up. "See you on the flip side, ladies."
"Don't trip and fall on his cock by accident!" she shouted after me as I closed the door.
Don't worry, I thought. It won't be by accident.
I rang Malcolm Ward's doorbell about ten times before trying the knob and finding the house open. Reasoning that I'd been invited over, I let myself inside and shut the door behind me.
Immediately the claustrophobic atmosphere descended on me again. So much stuff, everywhere. There weren't actually piles of shit on the floor, but there were so many end tables and foyer tables from the beginning of the last century piled high with junk that there might as well have been. I allowed myself to stop and inspect the incredibly valuable sculpture he had just sitting inside his unlocked door where anyone could waltz in and take it, but the press of things on all sides and the musty smell of antiques soon drove me to the stairs.
I took them two at a time. "Mr. Ward?" I called at each landing until, faintly, I heard him from the fourth floor.
"Come up!" he yelled down.
I sprinted up the steps to the fourth floor and breathed a sigh of relief when I walked out into another large room like the one at the top of the house. This one was completely empty save for a luxurious bed at the back end and a desk at the front, looking out onto the street. Large windows let light stream in from the cloudy day outside, and Malcolm Ward was sitting at the desk, staring intently at the computer he had set up there.
My God. I was in his bedroom.
It's cool, I thought. I'd been in plenty of bedrooms before, most of them not even attached to either me or my partner. I'd just play it like I was totally fine. Because I was.
Totally fine.
Straightening my spine, I strode across the floor toward Malcolm, the low heels of my boots clacking on the wood. I couldn't quite make out what was on the computer screen since it was backlit against the windows. I squinted at it as I drew closer. Blurry lines slowly resolved until I was halfway to him, and then I suddenly realized what they were.
He was looking at pictures of me on his computer.
...Well, of course he was.#p#分页标题#e#
My footsteps slowed as I found myself overcome by embarrassment, seeing my face plastered across the screen. Then he began to zoom out, and I realized this was one of the pictures he'd taken as I'd slipped my panties off. My naked body came into view and I ground to a halt, halfway to the desk. Ward sat in his chair, hunched over and staring intently at the monitor. He didn't even acknowledge my presence.
I found it a bit insulting that he'd rather look at pictures of me when he had the real me standing right behind him, so I cleared my throat. It was too loud in the quiet of his room, but he turned. Surprise first crossed his face. Then pleasure. A wide grin broke over his face.
"Sadie," he said warmly. "Come over here. I'm afraid photography may not be our medium, but I believe there are some good shots hidden in here."
"Yeah?" I said. "No shit photography's not my medium. I could have told you that. I'm as photogenic as a dead pigeon." His welcome gave me the guts to continue walking toward him until I stood just over his shoulder, staring at the picture of me dragging my panties down my legs.
To my surprise, it wasn't a bad photograph. Despite the fact that I was on the ground, my head tossing and turning this way and that, Malcolm had managed to somehow capture an angle that didn't make me look fat or distended in some way. I was still the trashy tramp with small tits and a big ass covered in tattoos that I'd always been, but somehow I looked like someone who was a little more than that. I was still a long way from beautiful, but as Malcolm began to scroll through the pictures he'd taken, I started to see myself in a slightly different light. The planes and angles of my face became less harsh, more... striking. Bold.
Perhaps Malcolm did have some latent artistic ability after all.
I let my gaze slide down so I could study him from the corner of my eye. He wasn't wearing the same clothes I'd last seen him in; instead of pajamas he now wore a fine cashmere sweater and well-tailored slacks, though his feet were stockinged. A pair of fine shoes languished a few feet from the desk, as though he'd brought them over, meaning to put them on but had forgotten to do so. He'd also shaved, so that was good. It meant he'd probably taken a shower.