Adrian's arm moved to the curve of my back and the shift in his grip changed everything. It was no longer placement. It was hold. His arm took my weight as he guided me into the lean, controlled and unhurried, my spine curving back and my throat opening toward the light, his face angled over mine.
I was looking up at him from below his jaw.
He was looking down at me.
The room went very quiet.
I was aware of his arm as a single continuous warmth across my back, of the steadiness of his hold, of the fact that I was entirely dependent on him and that he had not wavered. I was aware of how close his face was. Of the way his chest expanded on a slow breath he was taking some care to control.
"Perfect," the photographer said, somewhere far away. "Hold that. Don't move."
The shutter clicked
