“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. At the shoot,” Tyler says when I walk into the front room.
I watch him walk to the front door. “You don’t have to. Go yet. I mean…” I take a deep breath. “You can stay. If you want to. For a bit.” I wrap my arms around my body, fear slicing through my words.
He turns, his eyes slowly finding mine. “Do you really mean that or are you just saying it?”
“Both. Maybe. I think.”
He smiles sadly and comes back to me, kissing me softly. “I’ll go.”
Two steps, and—“Don’t. I want you to stay.”
A long moment passes as he studies me over his shoulder. I swallow. My mouth is dry, my chest is tight, and my stomach is rolling in fear. This is a huge moment. For me, for him… For the dynamic of our so-called no-strings.
Just two days ago, I was yelling at him for buying me underwear. Now, here I am, asking him to stay after he fucked me.
Well, I already broke one rule and got to know him a little, so what’s breaking another?
Trust me, he said.
“This is me trusting you, Ty,” I say softly.
He takes my hands and pulls them away from my body. His arms go around me in a strong hug, and I rest my head against his chest.
“I’m hungry.” His chest rumbles deeply with his words. “The Big Bang Theory and a takeout?”
“Why not?”
I can feel his eyes burning into me through the camera lens. My body has been tingling for the past half an hour as he’s taken the shots. I’m not sure how no one else in this room can feel the tension.
I can. It’s zinging between us, coated in a sweet layer of lust.
“And we’re done,” Tyler says, lowering his camera. He turns away, and I take the robe offered to me by a wardrobe assistant. I’m tying the belt around my waist when he says, “Would you like to take a look?”
“I’d love to,” I respond, polite and professional. I join him at his laptop and take the seat in front of him.
He puts one hand on the back of the chair and one on a wireless mouse. He leans forward, and his breath flutters my hair, his thumb gently stroking my back. No one can see—they’re all too busy. This is a stolen private moment in an open, professional setting.
“Here we are.” He double-clicks a folder and a stream of images appears on the screen. “These are really great,” he says aloud. He bends down a little farther and whispers, “My cock is fucking hard right now. I hope you appreciate the torture I’m about to endure.”
I chew my lip so I don’t smile. “I really like this one.” I point to one where I’m sitting on the floor, leaning back on my hand. My head is tipped back, my eyes closed, my other hand in my hair.
He groans quietly. “Liv, you’re killing me, babe.”
“This one is good, too.” I’m standing, looking over my shoulder at the camera.
“Don’t drive to work tonight,” he whispers, leaning forward even more. His lips brush my jaw. “I’ll get you after.”
“Thank you for letting me see these. They’re great.” I stand, knowing that my indifference is pissing him off. Truth is, I’m not indifferent. I’m aching for him.
“It was my pleasure.” He takes my hand and leans in to kiss my cheek. “And my pain,” he murmurs. “Wear black.”
I smile to myself as I leave the studio. In the dressing room, I change into jeans and a chunky sweater and wrap a scarf around my neck. My phone buzzes and I dig it from my purse.
Tell me you pissed him off. Please,
Dayton texts.
He’s not going to enjoy the next few hours, I know that much,
I send back.
That’s my girl. I’m joining him for “experience” in an hour. Tried getting there for yours but he said no. Douchenugget.
I laugh loudly and climb into my car. Before I start her up, I email Sheila and tell her that I think it went okay. The pictures really did look good—but then again, I’m up against a few known names.
No one knows me. I’m still just Liv from Seattle, trying to get a late break.
I head toward the gym to work off the takeout from last night before work. Of course, if I put any weight on, I can blame Tyler because it was his idea to eat calorie-and-carb-laden food and veg around on the sofa for two hours. I’m fairly certain any calories were burned after those two hours when his hands started wandering, but I’ll still blame him because I can.
And because it’s easier to blame him than myself. Easier to blame him for calories than to blame myself for wiping out a line.
But it was nice. More than nice, actually. Spending the evening with him, mostly chilling out, reminded me how great it is to do that. How much nicer it is for someone to stay after sex instead of walking straight out.