After Lunch

The remnants of our desserts sit before us. Kate drags her fingertip through the melted chocolate left at the edge of her Dame Blanche glass, attempting to leave nothing behind to our decadent meal. She produces a thick, matte black file folder and slides it over to me.

Just as I reach to open it, her fingers press gently down on the cover.

“You might want to look at those in private,” she says, voice low, protective.

I glance at her, then the folder.

“The studios sent over a few models they think could heighten the sensuality of the explicit campaign,” she continues, a curl tugging at the corner of her lips. “Totally optional. You don’t have to use them. But they’ve offered to foot the bill for their fees... should you want to bring in... reinforcements.”

There’s a glint in her eye that tells me exactly what she’s thinking: how far will I take this? And more importantly, what might I unlock?

“They’re all seasoned in this kind of performance. Comfortable. Confident. The studios thought it might free you up to push your limits.”

I nod, sliding the folder into my bag without looking inside. I catch Iris’s raised eyebrow over the rim of her glass. She's intrigued... and she’s not alone.

I don’t say much. I don’t need to.

But in my head, I’m already flipping through memories from my Domain. Buffy kneeling before me, fingers dancing along my abs, Faith straddling me like a beast let off her leash. Kate... her double... on top of me, moaning as we fucked under the carribean sun, my cock shooting thick streams of my load into her clutching, trembling pussy.

Those experiences now inform every pose, every lens choice, every breath of these new shoots.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, deliberately neutral.

Kate doesn’t push. But the way she smiles says she knows.

We walk her to her car, Iris just a step behind. Kate’s rambling excitedly about the coming days.

“I’m nervous,” she says suddenly. “Like… what if I can’t let go enough to model like that? What if I freeze?”

“You won’t,” I say, meaning it.

Iris adds, “You knew we wouldn't blink when the suggestion of the other shoots came up.”

Kate laughs, a little shy, a little thrilled. “I just... I've pushed it before in photoshoots... but never this far.”

I nod. “Me too.”

She stops at her car, a deep obsidian Lexus LC 500 Convertible, glinting like it was forged inside Mount Vesuvius. Sleek, angry, impossibly sexy. She pops the trunk and reaches in, producing a black-and-gold gift box, ribbon tied tight.

“This came from Hustler,” she says, handing it to me. “They’ve been following your work. Thought your upcoming shoots might benefit from a little… tech upgrade.”

I undo the ribbon, lift the lid—instantly, my breath stops.

Inside is a Phase One XT IQ4. A fucking god-tier digital medium format camera. We’re talking 150 megapixels, real-time light metering, pixel-level clarity. The kind of beast that edits on the fly, eliminates flare, captures contrast better than the human eye. It can focus after the shot. A cinematic god machine.

If I even thought of buying it myself, a chunk of my bonus would’ve evaporated in seconds.

I blink.

“Fuck off,” I say. Not to her. Just to the universe.

Iris freezes. Her mouth splits into a shocked grin.

Kate crosses her arms. “Excuse me?”

I shake my head, laughing now. “I’m sorry... I mean... fuck off. I... this is…”

I can’t form words. I’m smiling like a lunatic.

Kate laughs. “I get the sentiment. You deserve it.”

I finally close the box, clutching it like it might vanish.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “You’re going to spoil me.”

She shrugs, casual. “Good. Spoiled men do their best work.”

Silence lingers a moment.

Then Iris, ever the closer, slides back into charm mode. “Thank you for lunch, Kate. You really didn’t have to.”

Kate waves her off. “Please. It was my pleasure… and I love to eat.”

She winks, then slips into her car with feline ease and purrs the engine to life. We watch her pull out into the daylight, tires whispering over the concrete as she disappears into Midtown.

I exhale slowly.

Iris and I turn to each other. No words. Just a mutual look that says: Holy shit.

We hug. Tight. Long. Like teammates after the final bell.

“This job just keeps getting bigger,” I murmur.

Iris pulls back. “Do you think you can handle the new elements?”

I deadpan. “Did you really just ask me that?”

We both laugh. Her hand brushes my arm as she turns toward her car.

“Go home,” she says. “I’ll handle the office. You need a weekend of nothing but sketchpads and headphones. Think. Plan. Build.”

I nod. “Thanks, Iris.”

She stops, glancing back. “Hey…”

I look at her.

“You know you’re the reason I’ve stayed this long, right?”

I smile. “Funny. I was just about to say something similar.”

I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out a smaller envelope. She eyes it suspiciously, then takes it from my hand and opens it.

Inside: a cashier’s check for $25,000.

She stares.

“I talked to Emily. We agreed—you’re getting ten percent of this project’s bonus up front. You’ll get ten percent of the backend, too. From the explicit campaign. From the freelance deal. From the partnership with Kate. All of it.”

She blinks. “Are you serious?”

I nod. “I owe you way more than that.”

She launches forward, hugging me again... harder this time. Her voice muffled in my neck.

“God, I love you guys.”

I grin into her hair. “It was either this or Emily was gonna poach you for her paralegal team.”

She snorts against my chest. “Over my dead body.”

She wipes her eyes, tucks the check carefully into her bag, then pulls herself together with a slow inhale.

“I’d better go,” she says. “Before I get all emotional and ruin my eyeliner. Go. Enjoy your weekend. I’ll call you Monday.”

She slides into her car, and drives off... leaving me standing there in the parking lot with a high-end camera in one hand and a job ahead that’s going to change everything.

I head for the elevator, mind already swimming with new ideas.

Time to plan a revolution.