The Light Between Us

The studio smelled of dust and fixer chemicals, the kind of smell that gets into your clothes and stays. Rain streaked down the tall windows, turning the grey afternoon light into something soft and silver. I was adjusting a softbox when I heard the door open, and I knew it was her before I even turned around.

"Still using that old Hasselblad?" Lena said.

I looked up. She stood in the doorway, rain beading on her leather jacket, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Five years since we'd split. She looked the same, except for the lines around her eyes, and the way she held herself now — like she'd stopped apologizing for taking up space.

"Still shooting film," I said. "It's honest."

"Unlike you."

I laughed. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She walked past me, trailing the scent of wet wool and her perfume — something amber, something I remembered too well. She ran her fingers along the edge of a backdrop, leaving a smudge.

"Your portfolio's still up on the site," she said. "The nudes."

"That was your work, mostly."

"Mine and yours." She turned. "That's the problem."

I set down the light meter. "Why are you here, Lena?"

"Because I'm thirty-six, I'm getting divorced, and I wanted to see if the thing we had was real, or if I just imagined it." She unzipped her jacket, let it fall onto a chair. Underneath she wore a thin grey sweater, no bra, and I could see her nipples harden in the draft. "And because I wanted you to photograph me. One more time."

My throat went dry. "You want to do this now?"

"I want to do it before I lose my nerve."

She stepped out of her jeans, kicked them aside. She wasn't wearing underwear. Her pussy was shaved clean, and the sight of it, the memory of it, hit me in the gut. She walked to the white seamless backdrop, stood in front of it, and pulled the sweater over her head in one motion.

"Show me," she said. "Show me what you remember."

I lifted the camera. The viewfinder framed her — pale skin, dark hair, the soft curve of her belly. I hadn't touched her in five years, but my hands remembered. I shot a few frames, the shutter clicking like a heartbeat.

"Closer," she said.

I stepped in. She reached out, took the camera from my hands, and set it on the floor. Then she pulled me to her by the belt loops.

"You're shaking," she whispered.

"Fuck, Lena."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Her mouth was hot, insistent, tasting of coffee and something sweet. Her hands found the back of my neck, pulling me down, and I felt her tongue slide against mine. I pushed her against the backdrop, felt the paper rustle. Her leg came up around my hip, grinding against me, and I was already hard, aching in my jeans.

"I missed this," she breathed. "I missed your hands."

I slid my palm down her stomach, between her legs. She was wet — soaked, actually, her slickness coating my fingers as I circled her clit. She gasped, bucking into my touch.

"Please," she said. "I need you inside me. Now."

I fumbled with my belt, her fingers helping, impatient. When my cock sprang free, she grabbed it, stroking me once, twice, and then she was guiding me to her entrance. I pushed inside her — slow, agonizing, feeling every inch of her tight, wet heat. She moaned, head falling back against the paper.

"God, you feel... you feel the same," she said.

"Not the same," I said, thrusting deeper. "Better."

She laughed, then gasped as I hit bottom. I held still for a moment, feeling her pulse around me, then I started to move. Slow, deep strokes at first, watching her face change — the way her lips parted, the way her eyes went dark. I cupped her breast, thumbed her nipple, felt her shudder.

"Turn around," I said.

She complied, bending over, bracing her hands on a stool. The position was perfect — her ass lifted, her back arched, her pussy glistening. I slid into her from behind, and she cried out, a sound I hadn't heard in years, raw and honest. I grabbed her hips, set a rhythm, faster now, harder, the sound of our bodies slapping filling the empty studio.

"Yes," she moaned. "Right there. Don't stop."

I reached around, found her clit with my fingers, rubbing in tight circles. She started to tremble, her inner walls clenching around me.

"I'm close," she gasped. "I'm so close, baby, don't stop—"

I slammed into her, deep and relentless, and she came with a scream, her body convulsing around my cock. The feeling of her tightening pushed me over the edge. I pulled out, spun her around, and stroked myself twice before I came — hot, thick ropes across her stomach, her thighs, her cunt. She watched, her chest heaving, a smile spreading across her face.

"Still honest?" she asked.

I laughed, breathless. "More than ever."

She pulled me close, her body sticky against mine. The rain had stopped. Golden light spilled through the windows, catching the dust motes in the air.

"So," she said, wiping her belly with her sweater. "That was real."

"That was real." I kissed her forehead. "Want to go get coffee?"

"After you photograph me properly."

I picked up the camera. And for the first time in five years, I knew exactly what to say with it.

CATEGORIES: [Sensual sex, Ex-Girlfriend, Photography, Studio, Just the Two of Us]