Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(42)

       
         
       
        
Stop it, Kels, I order. Don't even go there.

I slide my hands into my pockets, wiping the sweat off my palms in the process. "So is that where you want me?" I tilt my head toward the bed, my voice as casual as I can make it.

I draw two breaths before he answers, and when he does he looks right at me, his gaze never wavering as he answers, "Yes," that simple word about as loaded and dangerous as a word can be.

For a moment, I'm lost in the past, remembering a time when there was nothing harsh between us. When it was just longing and sweetness, conversation and desire. When it was all new and full of possibility. When we hadn't hurt each other.

Before I hurt anyone at all.

I take a deep breath for courage and start to walk to the bed, but I stop when he holds up his hand. "Not yet." He steps back from the tripod and heads toward the far side of the room, indicating that I should follow him.

He's all business now. Any heat that might have been in his voice earlier has either vanished, or I was imagining it all along. "You need to understand what I'm doing. These images aren't for shock value any more than they're meant for some prurient purpose." As he speaks, he begins pulling the drapes off the covered images that line the walls. "I want to tell a story as much as I want to make a statement."

"What kind of statement?"

"About the strength of women. About beauty and sensuality. About how women are seen and how they see themselves. And," he adds, as he pulls off the last drape and looks directly at me, "about the freedom and power of acknowledging that sexual allure."

I bite my lower lip as I look back at the images. I'm not entirely sure I understand what he means by all that, but I know that I like the pictures. There's no shame on these walls. No fear inside these girls that they're being naughty. That they're breaking the rules.

Not one of them is hiding the secret fear that the universe will punish them because they've been so bold as to flaunt their sexuality. And looking at them, I can even believe it myself.

I want to believe it. And most of the time, I really do believe. But then my old fears seep into my mind. My father's voice telling me that bad girls get what they deserve. That being bad ruins everything. That it's like a curse. On me. On my family. On everyone I love.

I turn away, blinking rapidly to stop the tears that have begun to prick my eyes.

"Kelsey?"

I turn back, forcing a smile, hoping he can't see what I've been thinking. "It's wonderful. Truly. These images-I already told you how incredible the three I saw earlier are. Now that I've seen more, I'm even more impressed." I want to kick myself. I sound so formal. But I can't do what I want, which is to go to him and hold his hands and let him feel the truth inside me. 

"I've grown up around some incredible women. And I've known women who melted my heart with a combination of sweetness and sensuality," he adds, turning away from the canvases to look at me. "I want to celebrate that. But the show's got an edge, too. I want to take the audience full circle. Because there are women who use sex as a weapon. And I want to show that, as well. Ultimately, it's all about the power of allure and seduction." His mouth tilts up into a smile. "I want to seduce the audience, Kelsey. And to do that right, I need you."

I nod. "That's what you keep saying. But, well-"

I lick my lips and try again. "How?" I ask, then cringe, realizing as the word passes my lips that I'm afraid he's going to answer in detailed, intimate fashion.

Wyatt, however, is in pure business mode as he indicates the photos on the walls. "All of these images are the prologue. A way for someone viewing the exhibit to become familiar with the theme. But you're the star attraction. One woman, one series of eight photos designed to explore the core theme while still playing to the overarching concept of the show. Innocence. Sensuality. Seduction. Eroticism. Debauchery. Confidence. All that and more."

I listen, entranced by the passion in his voice. The certainty of his vision. I can hear him in Santa Barbara all those years ago telling me that he intends to be a photographer, famous in his own right, and not because of his family. And from what I've seen of both the paintings and the man, I am certain this is the project that will launch him.

"It's why you're W. Royce," I murmur, speaking more to myself than to him.

"What?"

I shake my head. "Nothing. Except that I think it's going to be spectacular."

"So you understand?"