Behind the Camera

Leyla keeps her camera steady, tracking Angel Rivas across the lens. Tasteful work, that’s the rule. Except tonight the angle shifts without warning. Angel raises her arms, and the small motion makes Leyla’s hands falter. She sets the camera down. The silence stretches between them. She crosses the space, eyes on the curve where Angel’s hip meets her ribs, and she drops to her knees. Taste fades fast; mouths find better purpose. Leyla’s tongue traces the center line of Angel’s stomach, tasting the faint salt she somehow expected. Lower. Angel opens wider, breath catching. Leyla leans in, tongue deliberate now, tasting where warmth pools and slick gathers. Every flick is measured, then impatient. Angel’s thighs tighten around Leyla’s head, heels digging at the small of her back. Leyla moans once into wet skin, feeling the tremor roll through Angel’s body like an echo that might never stop. There are no more shutter clicks—just heat, breath, and the steady pull of need answered.