Hands to Myself ➰ M.D| ✓

Photographs

Matthew had lost track of time. His muscles were loose and relaxed as he opened his eyes. Sunlight peeked through the blinds. It might have still been Friday late afternoon. Maybe it was Saturday morning by now. Or Sunday. He and Camille had enjoyed every inch of each other's bodies until they'd both collapsed in a heap of sweaty, salted limbs and whispered confessions of love. And then they slept. And then they woke and did it all over again.

He turned to wrap his arm around her, pull her close, and hopefully make love to her again. Nice and slow. Perfect for a lazy afternoon. Morning? What time was it anyway? It didn't matter right now. There were more important things that needed tending. He reached for her, but she wasn't there.

Well, that sucked.

He forced his jelly limbs to push himself up to sitting. She wasn't in the room. She wasn't in the bathroom either. Matthew frowned. He wanted to cuddle.

It took effort to get his legs off of the bed and a bit more to find the strength to slide on his boxer shorts. Once he got them on, he left the bedroom in search of his girl.

He paused at that thought. Camille was his girl. It wasn't just something he said jokingly to get a rise out of her anymore. She was his. She loved him. She'd said it just about every possible way imaginable as he took on the mission to make her forget her own name in favor of his. He smirked at that. That was fun, but nothing compared the the way she whispered it in the moments before she fell asleep.

He loved her. He was hers for as long as she wanted him.

He walked toward the living room. It was a really nice bungalow. Her place in Toronto was nice too, but it was generically attractive, a temporary place to stay while she was working. This island was her home. He could see touches of Camille all over the place. The color scheme reminded him of California sunsets and the extra hints of yellow everywhere made him think of sunflowers. He paused in the hallway to study a series of framed photographs of zoo animals. They lined the light gray wall and the sheer number of them made him curious about what they meant to her. He wondered what she would be curious about when she come to visit his place in New York.

The back patio door was open, and that's exactly where he found her. Standing in the doorway, he watched as she pasted something into a book, closing it tight and then opening it again. She looked delicious. She was wearing the t-shirt he'd worn when he arrived. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun. It showed off the long neck that he enjoyed kissing so much. Each time she shifted he caught a glimpse of her butt cheeks peeking out a pair of blue lace-trimmed panties. It was a damn fine view.

She didn't notice him standing over her until she heard his deep voice, "Move over?" Camille jumped slightly, but immediately relaxed and looked up at him. His hair was a mess, sticking every which way in every direction. A thin layer of stubble covered his face, and he suddenly seemed older then he really was. No shirt, no pants, just a pair of boxers, so she could take in his entire form. She smiled and shifted to the side so he could sit. He sat next to her, but the chair made an ear-wrenching squeal as he did. They both looked down at the canvas chair, but it seemed stable enough.

"Good morning,"

"Good morning,"

"What're you doing now, Warhol?" he asked her, flicking at a page of her book. It was a scrapbook, filled with pages of hundreds of different photographs.

"I'm just doing some crafts," she said. The page was turned to a photograph of Camille and her mother, probably taken twenty-or-some years ago. Camille looked to be about four years old, and her mother had a mirth of youth in her face, and there was a man holding them. He had the same smile that Camille did, he held the both of them on a beach, most likely the beach the two of them sat on the other night.