I blink again and again, finally noticing but not understanding what she has on the screen.
As I roll to the side, the sheet drapes over my waist and leaning my elbow on the mattress, I prop my head on my fist. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
She flinches at the sound of my voice as she cranes her neck toward me. “How?”
“You never told me that you were into porn.”
Her face inclines before she spins the chair toward the bed.
Before I can speak, I’m struck by her expression. No longer is it the blissful one I saw as she cuddled against my side, laying her head on my arm and drifting off to sleep. From the illumination of the screen, I see her anguish. It isn’t only visual. Fuck, I feel it vibrating through the air as I scramble from the covers to look closer.
“No,” Sami says as she stands, her small frame trying to shield the screen. “Please, Marsh.”
I’m fully nude and that fact isn’t even on my radar. All I can concentrate on is Sami as I reach for her shoulders. “What the fuck, Sami?”
Letting her chin fall to her chest, she takes a step to the side.
I stare, my eyes glued to the woman on the screen.
Porn isn’t new to me.
My education started young, sneaking peeks at Bruce Jefferson’s dad’s stash ofPlayboyandHustlermagazines. He kept them hidden in the attic of their detached garage.
When I was older, Robbie Thompson discovered pay-per-view. Every Friday night I and a few other boys would spend the night. That didn’t last long, only until his parents received the detailed billing.
Next, I figured the internet was safe until I learned about a thing called browsing history. That led to an interesting conversation with my mother, one that neither of us wants to remember.
I could blame my viewing on curiosity or even hormones; however, no matter the root cause, as I became older, I found the real flesh-and-blood version far surpassed images or even movies.
I’m hardly a prude. I enjoy a woman’s body for the amazing creation it is, and right now, the woman standing and staring up at me is so racked with emotion that it takes me a minute to understand.
I blink my eyes again, certain my mind is playing tricks on me.
Perhaps I’m still in bed and this is some kind of erotic dream.
One more look at Sami confirms that one person’s dream is another person’s nightmare.
My focus leaves the screen and goes to Sami.
“What the fuck? Did you pose for that? Are there more?”
A tear slides down her cheek as she shakes her head. “There are more. I don’t know how many.” Her words come out staccato, punctuated by her rapid inhalation.
That fucking prick.
“Did you pose?” I ask.
“No.” She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know.”
“Are all the pictures of you?”
“No.” Her volume rises. “Oh hell no. Based on quantity alone, I’d say I wasn’t his favorite model.”
I’ll take her raised voice to tears any day of the week. “You have every right to be pissed.” I point to the screen. “You’re saying he took that picture and others without your consent.” I didn’t phrase it as a question, yet she answered.
“Yes. Without my consent. Without my knowledge.”
Sami spins around and enlarges the picture. Though it becomes very pixilated, I finally figure out what she’s showing me, the bed. I turn toward her bed. My memory is fuzzy.