He was definitely not expecting that.
To be honest, neither was I.
“You … want to be my object?” I murmur, attempting not to admire how firm his ass is, even through his loose, low-hanging jeans.
He bites his lip, as if to stop himself from grinning further. “You know that’s what I want, girl. If you wanna take charge … if that’s your thing, I’ll fuckin’ let you. I’m yours to play with.”
Even he has to take deeper breaths between his sentences. His eyes shimmer with excitement as his face creases with the amusement of about a hundred wicked ideas that I’m glad I don’t know—despite having a certainty in my gut of where each and every one of those wicked ideas of his leads.
I lift my chin, defiant and ready to put this camera boy right where he belongs. “Take off your jeans.”
The whites of his eyes flash. “H-Here?”
“Take off your jeans.”
Without pulling his face away from mine, his fingers leap to the buttons of his jeans and he fumbles, prying them open and letting them drop to the floor. Right here in front of these tall glass walls. Right here in front of the whole damn Abernathy street, despite there being no one outside yet to observe the show. The buckle of his belt slaps the tile so loud, it rings like a bell throughout the gallery. He steps out of them and kicks them to the side.
“Shirt,” I order next.
He glances nervously at the glass walls, then swallows and laughs away his hesitance. “I took off mine. When do you take off yours?”
“We’re making you into my object, remember?” I lick my own lips, pulling his eyes straight to them. Then I tilt my head, all my dark hair shifting with it. “Shirt, camera boy.”
He has fun with the removing of his shirt, still thinking he’s got a grip on our little scene. He grasps the bottom of it tightly, turning the maneuver into a little dance without music, then pulls it over his head and casts it to the side with a flex of his bicep.
I would be lying if I said that Brant isn’t one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. His slender, V-shaped, panther-like build is chiseled at every possible turn. It’s endless, the places in which he has definition, how his infinite abs turn into the two, smooth pecs of his chest, which rest under his taut, shapely shoulders, which lead the eyes up a neck and to a face that, even in his nakedness, still shows a striking confidence—as if he dares me to keep challenging him, testing him, pushing him …
And I will.
“Wish I could see yours,” he murmurs through a tightened throat. “Shit, it’s cold in here.” He glances behind him, then looks off to the side for a second. “Is there a showcase tonight or something?”
“It doesn’t start for another thirty minutes,” I assure him.
“Oh. That’s pretty soon, isn’t it? Won’t people start showing up?” Then he grins, his face lighting up. “On second thought, that’s plenty of time. So, tell me. Do you—”
I bring my face up to the side of his, which shuts him up right away. My lips trace—without kissing—the smooth, silky skin of his cheek as I slide ever so slowly to his ear. It’s there that my teeth find purchase, raking in his earlobe as I take a little taste.
He groans, his breath blasting the nape of my neck. “Oh my god …”
I run a finger up his body, starting just above the rim of his briefs—which are black, skintight, and leave very little to the imagination—and I trace up the insane hills of his abs, one by one. He bucks ever so slightly at the touch of my cold fingertip, then braces himself as I let my wandering finger slide up his core, stopping at his hardened nipple. I give it a pinch.
“Fuck …” he hisses into my neck.
My teeth let go of his earlobe just long enough to ask, “Feeling objectified yet?”
He doesn’t answer, lost in the ecstasy of what my finger’s doing to his poor nipple. Taking his silence for an answer, I reach down and grip the waistband of his briefs, then slowly start to slide them down.
That’s when he shakes from his trance and grabs my hands, stopping me. “Wait, wait, wait.”
“Yeah?”
“Not here. Someone could see,” he whispers, turning to look over his shoulder, then staring out at the empty gallery once again.
“No one’s seeing but me.”
“But someone else could just … People might come early and … One of the other artists might—”
“No one’s coming in. The student exhibit doesn’t open for another thirty minutes.” I meet his face with mine, reeling his bright, blue, worried eyes in. “Plenty of time, you said. Didn’t you?”