“Then finish it.” He comes closer, the lens still at the forefront. I’ve never felt such scrutiny before, never been the subject like this.
I pick up the glass and drink the rest of it, holding it between my fingers, feeling the cold fragility of the stem. I try and concentrate on that feeling instead of everything else that’s going on.
“How do you feel now?”
“Buzzed,” I admit. “Better. But I still don’t know why you’re not taking any photos.”
“Because I don’t believe in wasting shots. I’m waiting.”
“For what?” I ask thickly. He’s shooting on fucking digital.
“To see you.”
I rub my lips together nervously, watching as a low cloud skirts the top of the Transamerica Pyramid. “You don’t see me?”
Again he doesn’t answer. He puts the camera down gently and walks over to me until his thigh is pressed up against my arm.
My breath stills in my throat. I slowly raise my head to look up at him, trying to steady myself so I don’t fall backward onto the armchair.
He reaches down and carefully runs his fingers across my collarbone, soft like feathers, until his hand slips behind my neck. He holds it gently, firmly.
I can barely breathe. Not because he’s choking me, but because the feel of his palm at my neck is rendering me incapable of anything. Any thought. I’m just here and he’s here, and I’m feeling everything sink into my skin.
“There,” he murmurs, his voice so rich and low that it coats me from head to toe. “This is you. No thoughts. No inner world. No voices. Just you. Here with me. This is the you I want.”
“You want?” The words leave my lips in a whisper.
“Si,” he says. His hand goes up to the base of my ponytail and the other holds the back of my head still as he slips the elastic band off until my hair is cascading loose around my shoulders.
I have to admit, I feel better with it down, like it’s armor.
He then crouches until he’s just below me and reaches for the hem of my dress, slowly raising it above my leggings.
“What are you…?” I start to ask but then realize there’s no point.
“I want to see all of you,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine as he brings the hem of the dress to my waist.
I should ask him what time dinner is. I should tell him things are getting out of hand. I should probably stop him.
But I don’t want to.
I want things to get out of hand.
I’m scared to death of everything that’s happening.
And I’ve never wanted it more.
His hands slip under the dress, hitting my bare stomach, and I gasp. My skin is sensitive, feeling the warmth of his palm like a searing sun.
He keeps his eyes on me as he moves them up, stopping just short of my breasts.
“Lift up,” he whispers, tugging at the dress again.
I take in a deep breath, a long pause, before briefly raising my hips off the arm of the chair as he pulls the dress up. I sit back down then raise my arms straight up.
Vicente stands, lifting the dress up and over my head, over my arms until I’m sitting on the edge of the armchair in just my bra. I automatically lean over, trying to shield my stomach rolls from his eyes, even though my leggings are high-waisted.
“These too,” he says, going for my boots now. He crouches down at my feet and unzips them, one by one. He does it all with such patience and ease, like he’s enjoying every second. “Don’t feel self-conscious in front of me. Let all of that go.”
Easy for him to say. It’s been forever since I was half-naked with a man.
“Trust me,” he whispers, pulling off the boots and setting them to the side. Large hands run up my calves, my thighs, until they settle around the waistband of my leggings. His fingers curl around it as he slowly pulls them down.
I’m breathless as I watch him teasingly expose me to the room, to the city, to him. My skin erupts in goosebumps from head to toe, a contrast against my bra and underwear, gold silk trimmed in black lace.
What am I doing?
“Just like this,” he says, his voice still low and settling over me like velvet. He picks up his camera and peers through it.
Finally, a click.
I don’t even know what face I was making.
“Just relax,” he says again. “Tell me about your tattoos.”
Tattoos? I can barely remember them. I have to look down at my body to see them.
“Uh, I just got this dinosaur. Thought he was pretty cute.”
“Dinosaurs,” he muses gently.
“I was pretty obsessed with them growing up.”
“Mmmm. Tell me about the snowflakes,” he says. “On your shoulder. Do you think you’re an ice queen?”
I give him a shaking smile, looking over my shoulder at the small ones that ink down my back.
Click, click, click.
I try my hardest to bury the self-doubt and I take a deep breath. “I was tired of being called a special snowflake for most of my life.”
He lets out a small laugh but keeps shooting.
“You don’t seem so cold to me, Violet.”
“It’s not because I’m cold,” I tell him, staring off into the distance, hoping he’s getting my profile and not a double chin. “In America, we call someone a snowflake if they’re especially sensitive. Because snowflakes are seen as fragile and weak. And I’m, well, you know...”
“Snow is rare in Mexico. I’ve only seen it in other countries.” This makes me wonder how many countries he’s been to. “To me, a snowflake is precious and beautiful. Not fragile, not weak. You have enough of them, you create an avalanche.” He pauses. “And besides, even if they’re delicate, even if you’re delicate, how is that an insult at all?”