Riley shudders as my fingers blur across her whole center, swiping at her clit with each stroke. In seconds, she’s writhing, moaning, and calling my name. “Noah, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
As if I would.
She goes tense and quiet, a silent scream trying to escape, and then she detonates. Her juices flow over my hand, mixing with mine, and I spread the entirety of us all over her, wanting her messy with the pleasure we’ve made.
“Yesssss,” she hisses.
As the shudders slow, I kiss her shapely calf, nibbling there gently. “Nom-nom-nom.”
Riley opens one eye, her dazed gaze looking at me in surprise. “Did you Cookie Monster me?”
“Soul cookies,” I answer, and she laughs.
I join the laugh but in a whoosh become aware of an odd sound.
“Oh, shit!! The water’s still on!” I yell, scrambling from the bedroom to the bathroom.
The sight that greets me is straight out of a cartoon. The tub is piled high with white bubbles, each piled on another as they climb the tile surround of the tub. Luckily, the overflow valve is keeping up with the amount of water . . . mostly.
“Towels!” Riley shouts, opening the cabinet and grabbing them as I turn the water off.
In a total moment of ridiculous comedy, we’re both buck naked, on the floor, trying to sop up the water with what I’m guessing are her good towels.
“I’m sorry. I kinda forgot about the bath when I saw you naked,” I try to explain.
Riley laughs. “Well, that’s a good compliment if ever I’ve heard one. It’s okay. This cleans up, and so will my sheets.” Her brows knit, and then she starts laughing again. “Where did you get the ducky?”
I look to where she’s pointing and see the yellow rubber duck I found in the cabinet. “Under there, with the bubble bath.”
“Oh, that’s uh . . .” Riley blushes. “That’s Raffy’s bath toy.”
“He has his own bath toys?” I ask, and Riley’s lips twist in humor. Answering my own question, I say, “Of course he does.”
With a shrug, I drop the nearly sopping towel I’m using to the floor and call out, “Hey, Raffy, want a bath? It’s all ready for . . . you.”
And like the spoiled little prince he is, he comes trotting into the bathroom like he knew all along what was happening in here. And that it was entirely for him.
Chapter 18
Riley
“Thanks again, Mike,” I tell the diner owner as he stands back, his arms crossed over his big belly.
He’s been very understanding and gracious in letting me have a photo shoot at Big Mike’s. I hadn’t even considered that when Noah and I had our date here, but when a well-known photographer contacted me saying she’d be in the area today and would love to collaborate, I knew the diner was the perfect spot.
“No problem, Miss Sunshine . . . uh, Riley? Yeah, I’m gonna go clean the kitchen or something,” Mike says awkwardly and then disappears.
“Don’t worry about him,” Wayne tells me with a wave of his hand. The helpful waiter offered to come assist with anything I needed today when he found out about the photo shoot. “He doesn’t know how to deal with celebrity.”
I laugh at his comment. “I’m not a celebrity. Just someone trying to make the world a bit brighter.”
“M’kay, Little Miss Sunshine. I see you acting humble, but you’re the biggest celebrity I’ve ever waited on, so I’mma need you to own that so I can brag appropriately.” He wags his yellow-painted nails—in solidarity, he told me—to highlight his point.
When I was here before, Wayne had no idea who I was. I doubt he truly does now, either, but when people hear ‘photo shoot’ they go a little crazy. Even me. I’m a bit starstruck by the photographer whose work I’ve followed for years.
“Riley?” India, the photographer, says, getting my attention. “Let’s get you sitting on the bar, feet on the barstool.” She bends down, looking through her camera to check the setup.
There are lights on tripods, and India has an assistant with a reflector board, but earlier, India explained that she mostly wanted to use the restaurant’s neon and overhead lights so that the images have that ‘authentic diner feeling’. That had sounded perfect to me.
I nod, climbing up ungracefully to the bar top. I strike a few poses, flipping my yellow tulle skirt this way and that and showing off my white T-strap heels and yellow lace bobby socks. It’s not quite a pin-up costume, but it’s heavily inspired by that vibe while staying true to my brand of sunshine yellow and fresh white. I had to rush ship it to get it here in time for India’s visit, but as soon as I put it on, I knew it was absolutely worth it.
“And kick your right leg out,” India instructs me. I do that, and then we start truly flowing, neither of us needing direction. It took me a long time to know my best features and how to highlight them. I had to study posing the same way India studied aperture. Together, we work our way all over Big Mike’s, taking shot after shot until India’s phone dings.
“Oh, shit, that’s my alarm. My husband will be here in fifteen minutes so I’m afraid we need to call this a wrap.” India smiles, her thick lips glossy and teeth bright white. She could be a model herself with her high cheekbones and striking dark eyes, but she’s utterly fabulous behind the camera. “This has been amazing, Riley. Thank you for being my model today!”
I gush back, “Are you kidding? Thank you for being my photographer! I can’t wait to see everything.”
I climb down from the jukebox where we took our last shots and give India a big hug. “Can I help you clean up or pack?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, no, nobody touches my gear but me. I don’t even let my husband touch my babies.” She holds her camera to her chest protectively, though she smiles as though she’s kidding.
“We’re opening in thirty minutes,” Mike calls through the window to the kitchen.
“They’re done,” Wayne calls back. “We’ll be ready to open in twenty.” He’s been watching the whole thing, offering water here and ideas there. Some of his placements were really great, actually. I don’t think I would’ve thought to do photos in the men’s room, especially since I’d never been in there, but it’d been fun acting like I was doing something sneaky and naughty for the pictures. And the men’s room had a whole row of posters of female icons from decades past, from Marilyn to Tina Louise, Farrah Fawcett to Brooke Shields.
A school bus pulls up outside, and India turns. “There he is, ready to get on the road.”
“The bus?” Wayne asks, looking out the window like a pack of feral school children are going to rush the place demanding chocolate chip pancakes and cream sodas while overwhelming any sense of order there might be.
As if feral kids would be on a school bus anyway.
India nods. “Yeah, we converted the bus to be our home on the road. It’s not fancy, but it’s ours.” To me, she says, “I’ll work on editing while we’re traveling to the next stop, so I’ll send you everything tonight. Do a check-through for approval, and then we can do a coordinated post to release them to the public in a couple of days.”