The Viewfinder

A Bonus Scene from The Hot Neighbor Problem
by Aurora North

⚠️ This scene takes place three months after the epilogue and contains explicit sexual content. Intended for readers 18+. Spoilers ahead.

The camera was Jenna’s idea.

Not the sex — the sex was mutual, ongoing, and showed no signs of diminishing despite three months of cohabitation-by-adjacency and a dog who had opinions about bedtime. The camera was the addition. The variable she introduced on a Tuesday night while I was reading a brief at the kitchen island and she was sitting across from me editing gallery prints with a glass of wine and the particular focus that meant she was about to say something I wasn’t ready for.

“I want to photograph you,” she said.

“You photograph me constantly. I’ve stopped fighting it.”

“Not like that.” She set her wine down. “I want to photograph you while I’m making you come.”

The brief in my hand became suddenly irrelevant.

I said yes in four seconds.

We did it in her studio. The north-facing window, the good light, the room where she’d first lifted me onto the editing desk and scattered prints across the floor. She’d prepared. The daybed was pushed against the north wall. A single softbox angled low. The camera sat on the nightstand.

“Take off your shirt,” she said.

I pulled the shirt over my head. The shutter clicked — once, twice — each click felt like a touch.

“Now the bra.”

I unclasped it. Let it fall. She circled slowly, the shutter clicking in measured intervals, and I felt each frame land on my skin like a fingertip.

She kissed me until my breathing changed. Pulled back. Raised the camera. “That’s what I wanted. A woman who just stopped thinking.”

She undressed me completely. I was naked on the daybed in the north light and she was still in her jeans, the imbalance deliberate.

“Spread your legs,” she said. Her voice was low, steady, the voice she used when she was working.

“Touch yourself,” she said.

My hand moved between my legs before my brain caught up. I was wet — had been since she said making you come at the kitchen island. She photographed that too: my fingers against my own skin, the shift in my expression.

“Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”

I looked at her. Through the lens, her green eye was sharp and bright and the shutter clicked and I stroked myself while she watched through a viewfinder and the combination — being seen, being documented, being desired through glass — was more erotic than anything I’d experienced with my clothes off.

She put the camera down. “My turn.”

She settled between my thighs and replaced my hand with her tongue. Flat and firm — the way I liked it. She licked me in long, slow strokes. Then narrowed — just the point, circling my clit. She slid two fingers inside me, curling forward, finding the spot she knew by heart. She worked me with her mouth and her hand in tandem, building a rhythm that was deliberate and relentless.

She reached for the camera with her free hand.

She photographed me while she fucked me. One-handed, her mouth still between my legs, her fingers still curling inside me.

“Eyes open,” she said against my skin. “I want to see you.”

I opened my eyes. She was between my thighs with the camera in one hand and her mouth glistening and her green eyes locked on mine through the viewfinder, and the image — the sight of this woman photographing me while she ate me out — detonated something in my chest.

“Come for me,” she whispered. “Let me see it.”

She pressed deeper with her fingers. Sealed her mouth over my clit and sucked — firm, pulsing, timed to the rhythm of her hand — and I came with my eyes open and her name tearing out of my throat and the shutter clicking in rapid bursts. The orgasm was violent and long, rolling through me in waves that she chased with her tongue, drawing it out until I was gasping and oversensitive and pushing at her shoulders.

“Now I want to do something,” I said. “Give me the camera.”

She hesitated. Jenna Moore — who had spent her entire life behind the lens — understood what I was asking. I was asking her to be the subject.

“Terrified,” she said. “But you did it. So.”

She handed me the camera.

“Take off your clothes,” I said.

She stripped. Slowly. Nervous in a way that made her more beautiful. I photographed her — the lean muscle, the tan lines, the tattoos, the freckle on her hip.

“You’re beautiful,” I said.

“You’re holding the camera wrong.”

“Noted. Spread your legs.”

Her breath caught. The instruction — delivered in my courtroom voice — landed on her like a physical touch.

I set the camera on the nightstand and put my mouth on her.

She was wet before I touched her. I licked through the slickness in one long stroke and she moaned — the real one. I used my tongue the way she’d taught me. Flat and firm at first, then focused — the point circling her clit in the rhythm that made her thighs shake. I slid two fingers inside her and felt her clench around me. I curled my fingers forward and pressed the spot that made her spine arc, and I sucked her clit and added a third finger because she was wet enough and open enough and the stretch made her grab my hair and say yes, more, right there, don’t stop.

I reached for the camera. One-handed, braced against her thigh, my mouth still working. I looked up through the viewfinder and found her face — every wall down, every performance over. The woman behind the lens, finally in front of it, undone.

I pressed the shutter.

She came. Her thighs clamping around my head, her back arching off the daybed, a sound that started as my name and dissolved into something formless and shattered. I stayed with her through every second of it.

She scrolled through the frames. Stopped at the last one. Her face, captured by a woman with no technical skill and total emotional commitment.

“You’re a terrible photographer,” she said. Her voice was thick.

“I know.”

“The framing is off. The focus is soft. The lighting is—”

“Jenna.”

Green eyes, wet.

“It’s the best photograph I’ve ever been in,” she said.

I kissed her. The camera stayed on the nightstand. The images stayed between us. The wall was thin and the studio was warm and the viewfinder, for once, was pointed in both directions.

We deleted nothing.

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