Through His Lens
Through His Lens
pt. 1
The air in the studio felt heavier than it should have.
Maybe it was the faint scent of autumn he dragged in with him — leaves and leather and something sweeter I couldn’t name.
Or maybe it was the way he was looking at me. Like he was staring through me. Into me. His patchwork jacket clung to him like a secret — good cotton, old soul, a man who knew how to find something real in a world full of fake, hands rough and sure around the camera he lifted without a word.
I shifted my weight on the tall stool, my wings brushing softly against the backdrop, feeling stupidly underdressed in lace and feathers compared to how casual and preciously regal he looked. He hadn’t said much when I walked in. Neither had I. Months of silence didn’t melt away in an instant, even if the tension between us seeped into my bones, sweet and aching, like a memory I hadn’t lived yet.
“Gimme somethin’ real,” he finally said, light and husky, as he adjusted the lens. The sound of his voice wasn’t just a sound — it was a summons, a tug on something ancient and sacred threaded through my soul.
I rolled my eyes on instinct. “You think you’re ready for that? Last time you disappeared when it got real.”
A flash of a smirk behind his camera.
“Funny,” he murmured, barely loud enough for me to hear. “I was thinking the same thing.”
His eyes never left mine, even as he clicked a few test shots. The sharp scent of him, the way the afternoon sun caught in his honey-dipped locks, the loose way he stood there like he had all the time in the world — it made me want to claw my way into him and run at the same time.
I crossed my legs, feigning boredom, feeling the delicate threads of my outfit pull against my skin. I knew exactly how I looked. And he did too. His jaw tightened, just slightly.
He lowered the camera, finally.
“You mad at me, Angel?” he asked, voice sliding somewhere between mocking and sincere.
I hated pet names — hated how easy they felt, how cheap — but he always found a way to make them sound s3x. And I hated that even more.
I tilted my head, my curls bouncing rebelliously as if they had an attitude all their own. “Mad? Nah. I’m just allergic to bad decisions… and you’re flaring me up right now.”
A dangerous gleam flickered in his dark eyes.
He closed the space between us in a few slow, measured steps. The camera hung forgotten at his side, swaying with the movement of his body — but all I could see was him.
Those damn eyes — soft, deep, a little sad, the kind you could fall into without meaning to and never find your way out. They crinkled faintly at the corners, warm and tired and terrifyingly familiar, like the feeling of stepping over a threshold and realizing you were already home.
His hands flexed at his sides, strong and steady — the kind of hands built to lift, to build, to ruin — and something low in my stomach tightened in answer.
His fingers brushed a loose curl off my forehead, an uninvited intimacy that made my breath catch.
“You lie so pretty,” he whispered.
I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just stared back, letting him read every bit of the chaos he left behind in me.
“Come down,” he said, motioning for me to get off the stool.
I hopped down without thinking, heart hammering as I landed a little too close, chest brushing his arm. He caught me lightly by the waist, steadying me like I was fragile, like he hadn’t been the one to break me in the first place.
“You always gotta act like you don’t need nobody,” he said, thumb ghosting over my hipbone. “It’s cute.”
I scoffed, smacking his hand away half-heartedly. “You sound obsessed.”
His smile sharpened — wolfish, wicked.
“Maybe I am.”
Before I could react, he was kissing me.
Not gentle. Not careful.
Like months of tension and longing and unsaid things had combusted all at once. His fingers tangled gently in my hair, sending a shiver down my spine as my wings folded clumsily behind me, anticipation hanging thick in the air.
His lips crashed onto mine with an urgency that sent my heart racing. He tasted like late-summer peaches and stolen moments — fresh, sweet, and so good it made my heart ache. I felt his hands exploring, tracing the curve of my back before pulling me closer. Our bodies collided with the wall, a jolt of excitement surging through me as if we were caught in a storm. My fingers tangled in his hair, and I could feel the heat radiating from him, a primal hunger roaring to life between us. The world around us faded away; all that existed was this electric connection, raw and unrestrained, igniting every nerve in my body.
The world shrank down to the heat of him, the rough drag of his calloused fingers against my thighs, the soft growl vibrating in his chest as he pinned me between the ruined backdrop and his body, the air thick with lust and linen.
He dragged his lips from mine, trailing slow, burning kisses down the side of my neck. A breathless, quiet laugh escaped him, rough against my skin.
“I’m gonna taste every prayer you’ve ever whispered for a man like me,” he murmured.
The words knocked the breath from my lungs.
I gasped, feeling the fragile lace I wore grow damp with my need, clinging to me like a second, desperate skin.
His mouth moved lower — down, down — until he found my nipples through the sheer fabric, his lips closing around them with a wicked tenderness that made my knees tremble.
At the same time, his fingers mapped the path along my waist, slow and deliberate, before slipping between my thighs, where my heat and wetness greeted his strong hands with shameless welcome.
At some point, the camera clattered onto the floor, forgotten. His jacket followed, a careless offering to the chaos we were creating.
His hands roamed with agonizing slowness — not claiming, not conquering, just
learning.
He traced the curve of my waist with the back of his knuckles, letting the heat of his palm ghost over the places I craved him most, but never giving in, never fully touching. His mouth found the hollow of my throat, teeth grazing lightly against my racing pulse, breath teasing my skin until my knees nearly buckled.
My hands moved without permission — mapping the lean muscles of his arms, feeling the wild drumbeat of his heart under my palms. It felt like every inch of him had been sculpted just to fit against me. To torment me. To undo me.
He pulled back just enough to look at me — breathing hard, eyes dark and molten, dragging over my body like he was memorizing me cell by cell.
“Look at you…” he murmured, voice rough and thick with something dangerous.
“Already dripping for me, and I’ve barely touched you.”
I blinked up at him, stunned, heart twisting painfully in my chest at the rawness in his voice.
His hand cupped my jaw with a reverence that stole the air from my lungs. His thumb brushed my bottom lip like he was asking permission for something far deeper than flesh.
“I prayed for somethin’ real,” he said, so quietly it felt like a confession meant for the stars more than me.
“Something I’d have to fight like hell for. Somethin’ that scared me.”
He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth — not claiming, not consuming — just belonging. A silent vow stitched into the air between us.
His forehead rested against mine, breath hot and uneven between us. For a moment, neither of us moved, like even the air was afraid to break the spell.
His hand slid down from my jaw, fingers curling lightly around the back of my neck — holding me there, steady, like he was gathering the strength to speak the next words out loud.
“I… I haven’t had a woman in my bed for a while, as you know” he rasped, voice stripped bare. “You’ve been the only one yet to come close.”
The confession hit me harder than any touch. Not because of the fact that he’s continuously remained celibate — but because of the weight he put behind it.
“This—” his forehead pressed tighter against mine, his free hand gripping my waist like he needed the anchor, “—this wouldn’t just be fucking for me.”
His thumb stroked slow circles into the curve of my hip, grounding us in a way words couldn’t.
“If we go there,” he said, softer now, like a vow sealed in breath and trembling want, “you know it isn’t just tonight for me.”
His lips brushed mine again, featherlight — a kiss that asked a question without forcing an answer.
“Why do you think I’ve been away?” I breathed, looking straight into his eyes. “I want to be worthy of all of you.”
Slowly, deliberately, I slid the lacy panties down my thighs — the delicate fabric drenched in my passion for him.
His gaze followed every movement, hungry and reverent, until it landed where I was bare and glistening, an open offering of everything I felt but hadn’t dared say.
His hands reluctantly left my body as he fumbled with his belt, urgency simmering beneath the restraint, until he freed himself — thick, aching, ready for me.
As he stepped out of the last of his clothes, his voice dropped into something almost broken, almost holy.
“I swear to God,” he whispered, “you’re everything I ever prayed for… and more than I deserve.”
The last of the distance vanished.
He lifted me effortlessly, pinning me against the wall with a strength that made my breath catch, his body pressed flush to mine.
I felt the thick head of him teasing at my entrance — testing, savoring, letting the unbearable anticipation stretch one second longer — before he pushed inside in one smooth, devastating thrust.
I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled me, every inch of him claiming places inside me I hadn’t even realized were empty until he touched them.
For a moment, he didn’t move. He just held me, chest to chest, heart to heart, hips pressed firm and steady, like he needed to feel all of me wrapped around him, memorizing it.
His mouth found mine again — softer now, slower — the kiss messy and tender as he began to move, grinding into me with a deep, deliberate rhythm that made my toes curl.
As the music thrummed louder in the studio, so did he — his thrusts building from slow, savoring rolls to deeper, faster strokes that wrung helpless cries from my throat.
My favorite position — pinned, suspended, helpless in his arms — made the pleasure build too fast, too bright, until I shattered around him, clenching hard, my body exploding like fireworks.
He groaned low in his throat, feeling me tighten around him, but he didn’t stop — he kept going, driving deeper, dragging out every aftershock, wringing more pleasure from me until I didn’t know where I ended and he began.
I was drowning in him — in us — lost in a storm that had been brewing for far too long.
When he finally set me back down, my legs barely holding me upright, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or awake anymore.
Only that I never wanted it to stop.
