“Help me out, will you, Maeve?” James says. Maeve knows the drill as well, and they both quietly leave.
Alone with Finn, the studio space becomes unnaturally quiet, and I can hear the conversations ebbing and flowing in the kitchen. I need to put the client at ease. Usually, I can do this without any problem. But that hasn’t been the case here. Finn Mannus is surprisingly hard to read.
Setting my camera down, I move to the iPad that has my music setup.
Finn watches me with a guarded expression. “Please, not the music. I will lose it if you expect me to go all Zoolander.”
He sounds weary to the core, and I give him a small smile. “I’m not expecting Blue Steel from you, don’t worry. And no fast beats, I promise.” I glance toward the kitchen and then incline my head as if I’m confessing a secret. “It’s just, I have a headache.” Which is true; it’s been building all day and is finally here to fuck with me. “Playing some low, easy music helps to drown out all the background noise.”
Also true. But it will hopefully relax Finn as well. I select a slow song by Lana Del Ray.
The hard set of those broad shoulders eases a touch, and he nods shortly. “Half my life is fighting headaches. You have my full sympathy.”
Looking at Mannus, it’s easy to forget that he’s more than a pretty face, that he uses his body as a tool, battering it and stretching it to the limit for a living. I wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of pain. But he does. They all do. It’s that strength and vulnerability that I want to capture.
He turns more my way. “Is it bad? I have some ibuprofen in my bag.”
Of course he does. I don’t know how to deal with nice Finn. But I try. “I took something before you came in. But thanks.”
He nods again, still uneasy, but focused on me, at least. “Should we reschedule this?”
So hopeful.
It’s like kicking a puppy to have to say no. “I think it would be best for both of us if we just get through this, don’t you?”
His deep blue gaze darts over my face, every muscle in his body going so tense, they stand out in perfect, glorious relief. Then he sighs and his hard stance sags in defeat. “Yeah. It would.”
But he doesn’t move.
“You can keep the towel on,” I say in the awkward silence. “We can do a torso shot.”
That gets his attention. His brows snap together, and I’m treated to a focus that is laser sharp. This guy, I can see leading a team down field. This guy is intimidating without even trying. “It isn’t that,” he says, deeper now. More in charge.
“Look, I know we got off on a bad foot, but—”
“I hate photoshoots,” he cuts, color flooding the high crests of his cheeks. “All right? I don’t know why. I just do. I know it’s a part of my job, but it never gets easier. There’s something about them that makes me feel…” His shoulders lift in a helpless gesture.
But his gaze is defiant, as if daring me to tease. Okay, I guess I earned that. I haven’t hidden my disdain very well. But that’s not what I’m feeling now. “I hate having my picture taken too,” I tell him truthfully.
His quirks a brow at me, and I lift my camera with a faint smile. “Why do you think I’m on the other side of this thing?”
“Wanna trade places,” he asks with a little brow waggle.
I am not going to find that cute. No way. I have to focus. “I’m fairly certain sure no one is going to mistake me for you.”
A slow smile lifts the corner of his mouth and those pretty eyes warm. “Absolutely no possibility of that, Chester.”
And there’s the flirt I knew was lurking below the surface. My stomach flutters, and I kind of want to kick myself.
He runs his hand over his face so hard that I can hear the scratch of his palm over his stubble. “Fuck it. Let’s do this.”
“Excellent. Do you want to wait for James to get back? Or start now?”
I’m guessing the latter. And he doesn’t disappoint.
“No, I’m good.” He clears his throat. Almost as if he’s moving in slow motion, his hand goes to the knot of the towel and tugs.
And even though I’ve put on music, I swear it’s so silent just then that I hear that towel slither to the floor.
Jesus.
Like that, my heart pounds against my tight ribs, and I want to sit down, find my breath, because it has fled. Heat swamps between my legs and down the backs of my thighs.
Professional. You are a pro-freaking-fessional.
The voice in my head is tiny and faint, drowned out by the rushing in my ears.
Mouth dry, I stare at the man before me, our eyes locked, the silence so thick I can taste it on my tongue. I see the whole of him, utterly exposed, vulnerable yet so powerful that I can’t think straight.
His skin is smooth and golden, but holds a tinge of rose to it, like a man who’s been out in the sun a bit too long, or one who might be blushing.
He’s the third nude man I’ve seen today, and yet I’m the one who feels like blushing just now, as if he’s the first naked man I’ve ever seen.
There’s just so much of him.
Sculpted chest, strong thighs, tight calves, and elegant feet; I take all of it in with a glance. But that’s not where I really want to look. Unable to help myself, my gaze glides down.
I’ve been trained not to stare at a man’s penis while working. It’s rude, objectifying, unprofessional.
And here I am, staring.
My cheeks burn, my heart thumping out of control. I grip my camera tighter than necessary.
He’s beautiful. From a nicely trimmed nest of dark brown hair, his penis hangs thick, long, and dusky rose, over a pair of weighty balls.
And that’s enough, missy. No more gawking.
I take a deep breath, look away from the illicit view before I start imagining his cock getting thicker, harder, plumping up with heat and want…
A shiver goes over my skin, and I meet Finn’s eyes. Guilt swamps me, because he doesn’t seem to have noticed I’ve been perving on him. He’s expression is intense, but pained.