He changed his lens, then changed it back, then realized he couldn’t procrastinate any longer. He took the camera off the tripod and went to kneel in front of the bed, taking a series of shots as he moved.
“Probably won’t make it in the show,” he said, feeling centered again now that he was seeing her through a lens, “but I like it. You look fresh. Innocent.” He stood. “It’s a study in contrasts,” he added, then tilted his head down so he was speaking more to the camera than to her. “We both know that looks can be deceiving.”
Even with his head down, he could see the way her hands tensed, clutching the mattress on either side of her. Good. They needed to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The way she’d deceived him. The brutal game she’d been playing. That bullshit Hollywood game. That goddamned fascination with celebrity.
That was the mindset that had killed his father. And she was a living, breathing reminder.
Not that he needed a reminder. Hell, his life was a reminder. Wasn’t that the whole point? Why he was Wyatt Royce now, and not Wyatt Segel? Because he had to prove to his family what his father never could? That he was one of them, even without the name?
“Wyatt?
“Lay back,” he ordered, gratified when she complied. But it wasn’t quite right, and so he slung the camera over his shoulder, then crossed to the bed, his head tilted as he looked her up and down.
As he watched, she drew a breath, which turned into a yawn.
“Is this boring you?”
“I’m tired,” she snapped. “It’s well past my bedtime.”
“Good. Stretch out. Pretend you’re about to sleep.”
Her brow furrowed, as if she wasn’t certain he was serious. Then she did as he commanded, scooting up and pulling the covers down.
He almost stopped her, but a sudden vision of her naked body entangled in a sheet stopped him. “That’s good,” he said, leaning over so he could toss the bedspread off. “But I need you to take the robe off.”
She did, staying under the sheet the entire time she squirmed out of it, then dropped it on the floor beside the bed.
“You’re still just a little too covered.”
The thin, red sheet was all the way up to her chin, and she bit her lower lip, her body going perfectly rigid as he drew the sheet down, exposing her neck, then her shoulder, then her breasts. He let his fingers graze her skin as he did, telling himself he was only doing that so that he would drive her a little crazy. After all, this was about sensuality, and he wanted the image to show her arousal.
All of that was true, of course, but the bigger truth was that he wanted to touch her. He wanted to feel her heat, the way she shivered under his touch. Wanted to know that she was responding to him. That she wanted him.
“Good,” he said, when she bit her lip so hard that it turned white, then turned her face away from his. Her cheeks were pink, and her nipples tight. Slowly, he reached down and cupped her breast, then felt himself grow hard when she gasped audibly.
He ran his thumb around her nipple, amused when she squeezed her eyes shut. But that amusement faded to something much more dangerous when she opened her eyes and met his full on, because the expression of longing he saw there just about slayed him.
“Is this punishment?” she asked, and he almost melted on the spot.
“I guess that’s for you to say.”
She licked her lips, and he felt the quickening of his pulse. “I thought you were going to take my picture.”
“That’s definitely on the agenda. But I need to set the stage first.” He whispered the words in her ear even as he reached down with his other hand and slid the sheet back over her leg, his palm stroking her smooth skin until only a sliver of material covered her.
Then he stepped back and examined what he’d created—and he had to admit she was perfect.
She was on her side, her head resting on her bent arm. Her other arm was draped over the curve of her waist, just above the swell of her hip. A bit of rumpled sheet rested on her hip, a small section of which hung down to keep her modestly covered. But just barely. Her thigh was exposed, as was her calf, and he liked the fact that though she was essentially naked and facing him straight on, he couldn’t tell if she was waxed. But only that one intimate area was covered, and that added a punch of allure to the overall composition.
“Just like that,” he said, raising his camera, then moving slowly as he took a variety of shots from different angles and with different exposures. “Now slide the sheet all the way off and cover yourself with your hand. Actually,” he amended.
“Don’t just cover yourself. Spread your legs and press your hands on your cunt. And close your eyes, Kelsey. I want to see you get off. I want to capture it.”
He wasn’t even trying to yank her chain—not anymore. She was so damned beautiful. So ripe and strong and alluring, and he wanted that shot. Knew it would be perfect. A woman alone, exploring her body. He had to capture it. Had to pull it into the show.
He was so sure of the perfection of the image that it took him a moment to realize that she’d frozen. He bit back a sigh of frustration, knowing damn well that he’d moved too fast. Whatever he’d told her about punishment, he didn’t mean it. Not really. Not if it meant losing the shot.
“Sorry,” he said, and watched as her eyes fluttered to his.
“That was wrong of me.”
“I don’t have to pose like that?”
“Not now. I get that it’s too much. We can work up to it. Tomorrow. Or even the next day.”
“But you want it.”
“Hell, yes. It’ll be stunning. I mean, come look at what we got right now, and it’s only the first day.” He turned to the monitor he kept set up on the far side of the room, then looked back to make sure she was following.
His breath hitched as he watched her slip back into the robe and then hurry toward him, her cheeks beet red. “You see?” he said when she arrived.
He stepped aside so that she could see the monitor and the incredible, sensual images of her he’d managed to capture.
She drew in a breath, then whispered, ever so softly, “I’m sorry.”
“Are you kidding? These pictures are amazing. And we can get more tomorrow. You’re right. It is late.” He shoved a hand into his pocket, feeling almost like a teenager again. “I’m sorry if I’ve been an ass.” He wasn’t entirely sorry, and he still didn’t trust her. But he was absolutely certain that with her in front of the camera, he’d be able to blow this show out of the water.
“Wyatt,” she began.
“It’ll get easier as we go on.”
“Wyatt,” she repeated. “I’m really sorry.”
He froze. He just froze. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“I thought I could. But I was wrong.
I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it would be like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, but she just shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I just can’t do it.”
14