I put the kettle on. Move to Holden’s room (he was so kind as to text me “please do get naked in my bed Skye. You don’t have to share the pics, though I’d love to see them. I just want to picture you there.”). Strip out of my street clothes. Don my black satin robe.
Clothes mean clothing lines.
I need those gone.
The instructions for this shoot are clear. Lingerie and jeans only.
Jeans aren’t really my thing—it’s impossible to find anything that fits both my hips and my waist—so it’s all lingerie.
Maybe a denim designer will offer me five grand for topless pics in jeans.
Until then—
The kettle steams. I move downstairs. Lose myself in the rhythm of fixing a matcha. Sift. Measure. Whisk.
Pour into warm almond milk.
Stir.
Add honey and vanilla extract.
There.
Perfection.
Hot, yes, but that’s a lost cause.
I take a long sip. Let the rich, sweet drink warm my lips, tongue, throat.
For a moment, my life is all green tea and honey.
Then Forest steps out of his bedroom in boxers and dark wash jeans.
Unbuttoned dark wash jeans.
He stands at the top of the stairs. Looks down at me like he’s Juliette on the balcony, searching desperately for Romeo. “You ready, Skye?”
No. But here goes nothing.
Chapter Nineteen
Skye
Forest leans against his bedroom door, pushing it closed.
I turn to the window. Pretend to check the light. It’s still afternoon. It’s still bright. I need to diffuse this.
The new white curtains are in place. They’re a little too sheer. They’re letting in a little too much light. But I can make that work.
I pull them closed.
Turn back to Forest.
Soft light falls over his face, shoulders, torso.
Mmm.
Must.
Stop.
Staring.
“Too tight?” he asks.
Right. His jeans. I need to make sure they’re okay. To make sure he doesn’t have any lines from his clothes.
Lines are a bitch to Photoshop.
I have to get closer.
I have to touch him.
No, I get to touch him.
It’s the same as pretending for Mackenzie. We’re pretending for the camera.
No big deal.
Totally not a big deal.
At all.
“Skye?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“My jeans?”
I’m leading this. I’m the photographer, the art director, the producer. Which means I need to push my lust aside. At least until I’m fully in model mode. “Come closer.”
“Oh?” He raises a brow.
I fight my blush. “I have to check for lines.”
He takes a step toward me.
Another.
Another.
His room is small. This is California. His house is a quarter-mile from the beach. It’s a big room, by those standards, but it’s not big enough for the desire racing through my veins.
I move closer. Until I can smell his soap. Mmm, pine needles. Of course, Forest smells like pine. It’s too fitting.
My fingers brush his stomach.
My eyes flit to his waist.
His jeans are unbuttoned. His black boxers peek through. Then the light skin underneath that. The dark ink on his hip.
No clothing indents.
“Perfect.” I press my palm into his skin. Fuck, he’s so warm and hard. It’s not like touching him for Mackenzie’s sake. It’s just us. It’s my skin against his.
“Where do you want me?”
I force my eyes to the bed. “Lying down to start.”
He raises a brow. “Having your way with me?”
“They’re not actually interested in you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Kinda. I drop my hand. Move behind my camera. “They only want pictures of me or us together.”
“My ego.”
“Is it bruised?”
He nods. “Maybe you’ll be the one rubbing arnica on me this time.”
Rubbing… Forest…
Jesus Christ.
I’m going to melt. I’m literally going to melt. Paramedics are going to find me in a puddle.
Death by desire. What a way to go.
“You’re uh…” Must. Focus. I look through the viewfinder. Adjust the angle. “On the bed.”
He sits.
“Flat.”
He raises a brow. “You never do what I ask.”
“And?”
“Why should I do what you ask?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll have to get Holden to help.”
He chuckles. “Fuck, that’s a terrible fate.”
“Yeah.” I watch him through the camera. “So learn some obedience. For my sake.”
“You sure your title isn’t Mistress Skye?”
“Oh my God.”
He lies on his back. Stretches his arm over his head.
God, he’s so long and lean and inviting.
Click, click. I snap a few pictures of him. “You’re sounding more like Holden every day.”
“You’re underestimating Holden.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah?” He turns to the camera. Shoots it fuck me eyes.
Click. Click. My breath hitches. My limbs buzz. My sex clenches.
Photographer.
In the moment.
Acing this.
“I’ll post some good ones of you,” I say. “So Mackenzie can see what she’s missing.”
He nods sure. There’s no enthusiasm in it. If anything, his posture stiffens.
I try not to question it. “Look at me like that again. But, this time, reach for your jeans.”
“Oh?” He raises a brow.
It’s perfect. Click, click. “You’re going to take off the pants sooner or later.”
“Usually women sound more excited about that.”
“Do they?”
“Yeah.” His voice is knowing. Like he’s back in a memory. Or a particularly vivid fantasy.
“Oh.” I am a photographer motivating a model. I don’t care who he imagines. Only that he pictures someone he craves. “Think about one. Imagine there’s a woman you want more than anything, staring at you, begging you to slide your jeans to your knees.”