He was guiding his hard cock into her before he knew it, pressing the head against her wet skin and pushing past her folds, into heat and pressure. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him in and sighing when he sank all the way to the root of his dick, his hips flat against her body.
The bed was old but solid. It didn’t make a sound as he fucked her with deliberate force, liking the way she clung tighter to him with each stroke. There was only the sound of rustling sheets and her breath, rushing through her parted lips.
By the time she arched against the bed with an internal tremor, the sheets were as hot as their bodies, impervious to the room’s cool temperature. He drove her hard down into them, pushing her climax as far as he could. She was stronger than he’d realized – his ribs ached a little in the grip of her thighs, and the pressure there matched the ache in his balls, urging him to come inside her.
He held out until she relaxed beneath him, her body suddenly soft and recovering from a wrenching peak that had stolen her breath and weakened her muscles. And then he held out some more, not wanting it to be over. Taking it slow, he resolved to go softly until he felt her legs wrapped tightly around his waist again, or maybe her fingernails digging into his back. Then he’d give her a third orgasm, leave her breathless all over again.
He’d go until the lure of finishing was stronger than the appeal of making what they were doing last. Because this was the last time they’d sleep together before she left for New York, and he knew the opportunity she’d earned there would broaden her horizons, show her the world that was waiting outside of Pittsburgh for someone of her skill set and tenacity. And if that world snared her heart, he couldn’t hold her back.
He’d just learned to let lost love go. What if the experience had been training, a test? It had taken him five years to fully come to terms with the fact that Alice was gone, and he might lose Karen in the span of a few days.
* * * * *
Natasha moved with a practiced grace, all long, slender limbs and cascading white silk, exactly the kind of model Karen was used to seeing in Marc St. Pierre bridal catalogs. She wore a lace stole over her shoulders and held a bouquet of deep red roses and white lilies – the effect was striking, especially in contrast to her long sable hair, which had been carefully styled, but left unbound. The winter bride look was gorgeous, and it would appear in the catalogs a few months from now, photographed by Karen. She got crazy, happy butterflies in her stomach just thinking about it.
Still, as she captured a shot that highlighted the graceful curve of Natasha’s shoulder and showed off the back of the gown, she thought of Mina in her wedding dress – a real one, for a real bride. There had been a certain charm, a certain thrill found in taking those photos, knowing she was capturing a beautiful moment in a beautiful life.
As exciting as it was to photograph a real New York fashion model in a real designer dress, the elaborate set was just an imitation of real life, and Karen was aware of that – aware of the fact that her job was to make it all look like a glamourized version of reality to the brides who’d open the Marc St. Pierre winter lookbook.
After Karen finished photographing Natasha alone, a groom walked onto the set. He was classically handsome with neat, dark hair and a trim build showcased by a perfectly-tailored tuxedo. He posed with a natural grace too, and together, he and Natasha looked beautiful.
Photographing them wasn’t like photographing a real bride and groom, though. The photos were about showing off the clothing, not the couple or their love, which of course didn’t exist. Karen kept that in mind, capturing images that would display the beautiful wedding wear to full advantage. The models were just perfect – just conventional – enough that they’d fade into the background, living canvases for high-end style.
Karen couldn’t help but think of the people she photographed most often back in Pittsburgh – the friends, the Hot Ink clients and the real-life bride and grooms – so many of whom had turned their bodies into canvases for artwork by artists like Jed and Eric.
The Marc St. Pierre winter lookbook would be a one-time publication, the fashions within fleeting. Taking the photos was a killer career opportunity, but ultimately, the images would find their way into recycling bins and garbage cans. No one would cherish them forever.
The realization stood in contrast to the highly-personal nature of the portrait sessions she often conducted back home. But hey, at least no one was peeing in the corner of the studio. Photographing fashion models might not be as meaningful as photographing tattoos or real-life people celebrating real-life occasions, but it was a heck of a lot better than trying to capture decent images of a spastic greyhound.