At the end of the day, RB is going to collect her paycheck, we’re going to part ways, and I’ll never hear from her again. It pains me to vocalize the truth; to bulldoze the strong foundation we’ve built and reduce it to a pile of rubble, no trace of emotional connections surviving. That’s the reality of our situation, even if we talk about movie nights and hanging out normally. We’re doing a good job at playing pretend for a future outside the four days I’ve hired her for.

I fucking hate pretend.

“What was the photo?” Patrick asks.

“Pardon?”

“The photo that made you moan when you saw it?”

“I wasn’t moaning!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you have to tell yourself.”

“It was a generic, nondescript photo.”

“She sent you a nude?!”

“No!” I practically holler, blushing deeply at the implication.

I’m not sure I want to receive a nude photo from her. Sure, objectively, I wouldn’t be disappointed. I’m already convinced she’s a stunning woman.

Have I considered lifting her up, pinning her against a wall, and ravishing her? Yeah. Repeatedly.

I’ve also dreamed about pulling her hair and driving her wild, learning all the things that make her want to lose control. I told her as much the other day.

Fuck, I want to taste her. All of her. So fucking bad. Her mouth. Her skin. What I would give to eat her out for hours, devouring her wicked flavor again and again until she was a spineless, withering mess, the aftermath of her orgasms dribbling down my chin as I beamed with pride and awe.

I wouldn’t bother cleaning up.

Those are all far-off ideas, though; fleeting desires and passing musings. If I ever was fortunate enough to be with her intimately, I would want to discover her body for myself.

I’d want to study every curve of her muscles, and the way they move and ripple when my fingers trace over them, learning the sculpted, defined lines of her body. I’d like to memorize the number of freckles she might have, counting them one by one like constellations and creating an art project out of their locations. Perhaps there’s one on her inner thigh I could kiss, up near her hip bone. Or behind her ear, near the column of her neck. I’d take my time, going slowly, steadily, appreciating her skin under mine as my palm runs across the expanse of her beautiful shape.

One stupid nude wouldn’t be sufficient.

It would be like trying to capture the wonder of the star-covered sky with your phone. The photo never does it justice; the lighting isn’t perfect. It’s grainy. A little dark and a little hazy. The final product doesn’t encompass the sheer splendor of nature’s beauty, failing to highlight the best parts you’re unable to put into words.