45. KAVI

45

KAVI

I followed him into his bedroom, and now we're facing each other. I don't know if he wants me here. The corner of his eyes have pinched.

But then, he smoothes out his expression. "Kavi."

"Dmitri."

I'm affronted by his outfit again. Those trousers, the collared shirt, all his tattoos from the ones on his arms to the one inching up the side of his neck. The hands I can't see because they slip into his pockets.

"Sorry," I blurt out.

He cocks his head, as if asking me what for?

"I know this is a lot," I rush out.

This barbecue is because of our bet, because it was the encouragement I needed in that dressing room to take photos, and now I'm wondering if it's pushed him too far. His apartment is louder than it's ever been. The peace is gone, replaced by laughter and chaos. For an introvert who may be shy, it's surely overwhelming.

"I can send everyone home," I suggest quietly.

"No."

"But you're here."

"I'm not hiding from them." Golden eyes swoop over me. Once. Twice.

I—I feel hot. Like I need to take my top off, that kind of hot.

We don't say another word for a long, stretched moment.

He finally speaks. "Will you ask about it? The social media position."

It's not a topic I expected him to bring up. My fingers hook around one another. "Do you think that's fair? Getting the job permanently with my lack of experience?"

"Have you looked at what you already posted? Have you logged in and seen your pictures online?"

"No." A laugh spills out of me. Self-deprecating, even to my ears.

His eyes darken, disapprovingly. Dmitri strides with purpose to stand in front of me. His hand snakes down, and dips into the front pocket of my jeans. Before I can tell my stalled heart to beat again, my phone is pulled out.

"Check," he orders. "While I watch you."

It's hard not to shiver at his tone. One you would imagine, especially standing in the bedroom I promised myself I would never enter again, applied to other scenarios.

Undress, Princess. Take off your clothes while I watch you.

Liquid heat pulses between my legs. I avert my eyes, mumbling, "I'm…. it could… not be good."

He cups my arm below the elbow, urging me to take the phone. My fingers curl around the device. "I will. Later."

"Now."

"Bossy."

"And? Afraid, Basra? I thought you were choosing yourself, finally. Don't you have to face yourself to choose yourself?"

His tone is mocking, lightly so. More encouraging if I listen carefully, which I won't do. Getting riled up to assume this man is being rude is easier. I'm buzzing even as my spine straightens. "Screw you."

"Check."

I do, too vexed to be anxious, as if I need to latch onto the push he's giving me to be brave. It takes a scary moment for this screen to refresh. All I hear is the pounding in my ears.

The numbers populate. The likes and the shares.

I wobble watching them go up, leaning back on my heels. "There it is," I whisper. "My work. It's online." My thumb scrolls. "And there are comments," I exclaim.

"Read them out to me."

I do.

When he tells me what to do exactly like this, it does, I hate to admit, actually help. I stop overthinking and fidgeting… and ride the surety in his voice. Going through the comments, I see people are being strangely nice. How there are SO many more fire emoji reactions than I'd ever think there would be. That my photos are being reposted and shared on stories.

"Can I see?" he asks.

I bite my lip.

Sure, he's snuck up and seen me edit photos one time when I was in the dark, but this is different. I'm handing my work over voluntarily. He'll have time and space to judge it.

Will he think the compositions are funny? That I shouldn't have blurred some backgrounds? That…

"May I?"

The doubt in my head recedes at his eagerness. I know it will come back later, but in this moment between us, I find myself offering him my phone.

He takes it, but before he can look, there's a knock on the door. Hughes' voice rings out.

"The team is in a food coma. I kicked them out before they fell asleep and drooled on your couches. I would stay, but I'm meeting Becka… or was it Brianne? Brittany? Hmm. I don't know. Bye, Kavi!"

I go to the door, but I'm not fast enough. Hughes is disappearing around the corner. I glimpse his brief backwards wave.

Looking over at Dmitri, I see his eyes are glued to my phone screen. He's scrolling.

Okayyyyyy…

I'm chewing the inside of my cheek. I posted ten photos to the Wings' social media account, which is a lot but also isn't a lot at the same time. He reaches the end and then holds my phone out to me. "I want to see more. Show me all of your work."

"It's boring," I reason.

"Not for me. And no, it's not."

"… Are you sure?"

"Show me, Princess. Come on."

Can I? I gulp as I describe where the hidden photography folder is on my phone.

"There's a lot on there," I caution. "Thousands of photos. You don't have to look at each one, of course."

He sits on the bench at the foot of his bed, patting the seat beside him. Mutely I join him and watch. He's studying everything. There's no skimming or rushing. Each photograph is examined as if there's going to be a test later.

It's mostly portraits, people caught in moments, whether it's mid-bite or mid-laugh or mid-emotion, before a polite society mask comes back on. There's the old grandma tanning wrinkles in the sun, and a woman in a beanie on a park bench with her eyes closed, covering her face as if needing to meditate. A man takes a frisbee to the park to play with his friends. Two fourteen-year-old kids bicker, about to break up on the train.

I want to ask Dmitri what he thinks, though I don't think I can bear to hear the answer. My limbs are twitchy. Almost like I need to run or hide, or to pry open his head because I do want to know his opinions on my work, maybe more than a little.

It takes time, but he reaches the end of the folder. I see he's about to scroll through it again, but my hand shoots out. I touch his arm. He glances over abruptly as if remembering I'm here, as if my work has the power to take him somewhere else.

His gaze sharpens on me. "Kavi Basra," he says slowly. "You are a photographer."

"I—" My voice is weak. Am I? Is that what he thinks? "Wait. Can you repeat that again? Please?"

"You were born to do this. You are an incredible photographer, Kavi Basra. Your work moves me."

Is he being serious? Completely honest?

Dmitri is always blunt.

You are a photographer.

The words make me feel a bit drunk, and more than a bit cherished.

I hug him, throwing myself forward. He catches me, arms tightening around my waist.

I'm smiling into his shoulder. "Um. Again?"

"You take soulful photographs, Princess."

I want to believe it's true. So badly. I'm all flushed now.

I kiss his cheek, full of reckless wonder and disbelief. He turns his head. Now it's lips against lips. A clumsy brush and yet the most guttural noise escapes Dmitri. Both palms trap my face, and his tongue drives along the seam of my lips. I instantly give in, shuddering so much that our lips part for a second. Too long for him, for now his mouth kisses along my chin. Neck. Clavicle. I'm gasping-moaning-crying out, fingers digging into his shoulders. My face tilts back, giving him more access. More, more, more…

I've never been consumed like this. It's desperate and skilled, awakening something inside me I didn't know existed. A starvation rears its head as I take hold of his hair and grip.

All I know is the pressure of his hard warmth against me, the shifting of some tectonic plates inside me, and how I need this to last. Every noise Dmitri makes brands me. I'm about to climb on to his lap because for me the world has ended?—

Except it hasn't.

My phone drops on the floor, the thudding noise sounding like a loud crack to our ears. We jerk apart and Dmitri swears, his eyes the darkest I've ever seen them. He's breathing heavily, brokenly.

"Fuck."

"Fuck."

We say it together, staring at each other.

I bend down to pick up my phone. And then we talk at the same time. For some reason we're both apologizing to each other, and there's a mumble about nothing changing, a continuation from this morning obviously when I said I wanted things between us to stay exactly the same despite the fact that he's seen my naked pussy and watched me get off last night. Dmitri says something about respecting me, and then I say I respect him, even though neither of us feels disrespected from what I can tell. No, we blame some artistic excitement for everything.

"The comments prove it," says Dmitri, subtly adjusting his pants. "How great your work is."

My brain is more feverish than logical right now. I pull up the social media comments again, latching onto this new conversation. "Yeah."

My eyes scroll through them…

I realize the Wings social media account tagged my personal account, specifically giving me photo credit. And?—

Someone has noticed the link, how it was me at their game, taking these photos.

There's a message waiting for me in my inbox.

TYLER:

YOU ARE WITH FUCKING LOKHOV??????

It's him.

Tyler.

He's found out where I am.