What the fuck have I just done? And more, what have I just let him do to me?
I want out—need out, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to shove him off of me. Out of me. Not because he hurt me, not because he did something I didn’t want. But because he gave me exactly what I did want—before I even had a clue that I wanted it.
But if I do that, if I push him away like some virgin in distress, he’ll know. Know that he got to me. And worse, know that he—no, not him, this—matters. And so I don’t buck him off, don’t try to roll out from under him. Don’t do anything but lie here and wait for him to move first.
It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Eventually, he does, sliding out and off of me in one smooth move. Then he’s padding across the kitchen naked. Disposing of the condom in the trash compactor. Grabbing a bottle of water off the counter and taking a couple of long swallows.
And I’m left staring at his naked ass and wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
Oh, I know my reputation—hell, I cultivate it with every bat of my lashes and flash of my tits—but one of the first things you learn in this town is that reputation isn’t fact. That whatever face you show the public is very rarely actually your own.
I’m no different. In fact, I’m one of the worst. For while most of the world believes I nearly always have a man in my bed, the truth is, I rarely do. And when I do, it’s never of the one-night—or afternoon—stand variety.
Not that I’m about to let Ian see that. How can I when I’ve gone to such great lengths to ensure he doesn’t know anything about me that I don’t want him to know? To ensure that whatever he writes in that article of his is exactly what I want written.
With that thought in mind, I push myself off the table. My knees are still weak, my body still trembling with the aftermath of the first orgasms a man has ever given me. My hair is falling down out of the decadent style the hairdresser had put it in for the ballroom shoot and it makes me feel vulnerable. Which is ridiculous, I know, considering I’m standing here completely nude after letting Ian do all manner of things to me.
But I’ve been nude before—in front of tens of millions of people, in fact—and it is no more intimate than I want it to be. After all, there is no vulnerability in having a beautiful body. No vulnerability in being exactly what men want.
I wear it like armor, in fact. Use what I look like to hide what I don’t want others to see. Use it to hide all the ugly pieces of the even uglier truth.
But with my hair falling down around me—a reminder of both what I let him do to me and just how imperfect I really am—I feel more than vulnerable. I feel exposed.
Which is something I will not—cannot—tolerate.
And so I reach up, bury my fingers in my hair and pull out every remaining pin that I can find.
I have a ton of hair and it all comes tumbling down at once, in a mass of waves that cover my shoulders, my back, the top of my breasts. As soon as I do it, I feel better. Armored. Even before Ian turns around and catches sight of me.
His eyes go wide, which is all the confirmation I need. And now that my armor is in place, I think about the next step. About what Marilyn would do in this situation. What Sophia or Lana or Mae would do. And then I do it.
I smile at Ian—a little wickedly, a little wantonly—as I close the space between us. Once we’re close, I make sure to brush my breasts against his biceps, my hip against his stomach. I walk my fingertips slowly, slowly, slowly, up his arm until I get to his hand. Then I reach for the half-empty bottle dangling from his fingertips.
I drink the water down in several long, slow sips, keeping my eyes locked on his the entire time. When the bottle is empty and my thirst is quenched, I shove it back into this hand and give him the look that’s graced dozens of magazine covers—and nearly as many movie posters.
“Thanks,” I tell him, reaching up to stroke a finger across his bottom lip. “I needed that.”
“Did you?” He looks more amused than dazzled, which definitely will not do.
“Absolutely. Photo shoots can be so tedious, after all.” I reach my hands into my hair and then up, over my head. Stretching, stretching, stretching. His eyes go to my breasts—of course they do—so I hold the pose for several, long seconds, letting him look his fill.