Page 71 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

It's me looking back, but it's not. I'm someone new. Someone I've wanted to be for a long time and wrong or right, I'm hell bent on keeping this girl on my cock and in my life from here on out.

I drag the wardrobe rack to center and hang up the pieces I took from the box in my closet where I've been collecting things for too long.

Things that made me think of her. There's a champagne silk camisole, a white button-down of mine, black lace bralette, sheer black thigh-highs, a gray silk robe.

I'm adjusting lighting and checking my lenses when she appears in a towel. Her wet hair around her jaw, bangs plastered dark against her forehead.

"Sit." I point to the stool. She sits, knuckles white on the terry cloth. I pick up the Leica—not the Canon I haul to other people's weddings. The Leica is personal. The Leica is mine. I crouch in front of her. "Drop the towel."

"I haven't even brushed my hair—"

"That's the point. You don't need to be anything other than this, right now, who you are with me. Now drop the fucking towel."

She does as I say and I lift the camera to my eye and take the shot before her self-consciousness catches up.

Jesus, she's a masterpiece of bare shoulders, water still beading on her collarbone, her eyes holding something unguarded she's about to smother with a deflection if I don't capture it now.

Click. Click.

My entire world captured in the push of a button.

I snap off a hundred shots or more. Each one more breathtaking than the last, then I'm ready for some perspective.

I step in front of her, admiring her hard little nipples, the scratches and deepening marks on her body I've left, my boner no less demanding than it was an hour ago. "Now we dress you up."

I start with my button-down. Oversized, hem brushing mid-thigh. I stop her three buttons in. "Leave it like that." I position her with one knee drawn up on the stool. "Turn your head. Look at the wall. Don't smile."

She obeys and I shoot. My cock throbs. I adjust my stance and pretend the camera is the only thing with an aperture problem right now.

"Good girl."

I walk over and show her the screen on the back of the camera, letting her see what I see. "That's me?" She traces the image looking back at her. "I look—"

"Stunning." I finish, then add the next instruction. "Unbutton it. All the way."

I keep shooting. Full body first, then I move in. The indent of her waist. The flare of her hip. Closer. Collarbones. The lower lip she's been biting raw for the last ten minutes.

"Over there. Sit on the edge of the platform. Open your legs."

She does. Her arousal shines on her inner thighs.

"Grant—"

"You're my muse, baby. I'll never get enough of you." I step between her spread thighs and set the camera down. Run my palm up the inside of her thigh, see the goosebumps that follow. "Every shot I've taken today is proof. You're not what he said you were. Not broken. Not frigid."

Her chin trembles. "Then what am I?"

"Mine." I drop to my knees.

She falls back on her elbows as my mouth finds hers. My cock swells as her flavor spreads over my tongue, pressing against my zipper hard enough for the teeth to score the flesh. I'm a man who's spent twenty years finding the perfect frame through a viewfinder, and none of it has ever wrecked me the way this single image does. My face between her thighs, her fingers sliding into my hair, the studio lights gleaming from the liquid fire slick on her pussy.

I drag the flat of my tongue over her clit, and she jolts.

Her fingers twist in my hair. She holds my mouth exactly where she wants it, while I lick in long, slow, thorough strokes, top to bottom and back, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips roll, what makes her thighs try to clamp around my head.

"Daddy—oh god—"

I suck her clit between my lips as a deep, guttural sound rumbles from my chest, and her sentence dies on a soft, gasped mewl.