What happens when two people are forced to act like they’re attracted to one another–and they really are? When two cover models act like they’re turned on, what happens when they really are?
It wasn’t supposed to feel real…
I know not all my readers like teasers, but if you do, here’s the first part of Picture Perfect, and it goes live at midnight tonight! 🙂
Oh…18+, please. This gets a little, um, steamy. 😉
Excerpt from Picture Perfect
This gig had started like any other…but it moved to awkward really fast. “Ivy, take off your bra, please.”
Long story short—I was a grad student and, even though I earned a little bit of money teaching classes, let me tell you there’s a reason why they call your earnings a stipend. It’s a mere pittance, rather than an actual salary for the work you do. And I get it. I really do. You have to have someone overseeing your work—or, at least, that’s the point of it all. The idea is that you’re also learning.
But it wasn’t enough to pay for housing and food and all the things I loved and wanted. Clothes were my thing, but cosmetics and toiletries, fragrances, hair care products, music, books, my car—those were also things I liked and believed I needed. Sure, I could have gotten by with less, but when you’re in school as long as I’d been and you just wanted to start adulting already, you did what you had to do. I already had two roommates to share the expenses, too, so that helped.
So I had my stipend and I also worked a few hours every morning at a nearby coffee shop. The tips were nice. Between my stipend and fifteen hours a week at the coffee shop, my basic needs were covered.
My fun money, though…that came from the local modeling gigs I did. It all started when I was still an undergrad. One of my friends opened a shop on Etsy to sell her jewelry, and she needed a hand model. She’d been selling a few things already, but she believed (and who was I to argue?) that having a human model increased her sales exponentially. At first, I was modeling bracelets, but soon I was covered in necklaces and earrings. She paid me more for my time than an hour at the coffee shop.
When her business took off, she moved back home with only one semester left to finish her degree. But my work as a local model didn’t dry up. She’d passed my name on to another friend with an Etsy shop. This lady made hand-knitted sweaters—and she told me I had a model’s body.
She also paid me a little better.
Unlike my first gig, this girl had done her homework. We signed a rudimentary contract and I signed a release, giving her permission to use my image and to not expect further compensation once I’d been paid for a shoot.
I saw the potential.
I’d just applied and been accepted for grad school by then, and so modeling was still just a side thing for me, but I saw it as a way to keep the money flowing. I started putting little free and low-cost ads in the student newspaper and the town’s weekly free shopping guide. I also started networking through social media and, before I knew it, I had two or three gigs a week. Had I wanted, I could have stopped working at the coffee shop altogether, but I instead forced myself to start socking money away. After all, I was going to have to pursue a PhD when all was said and done, and those student loans were going to kick my ass. A nest egg sounded like a great plan. I was modeling for all kinds of local businesses, from furniture stores to pizza places, eBay vintage sales and more Etsy shops—you name it—and word about me spread quickly. My face was selling local products and businesses, from the tractor/ farm store in town with pricy saddles to the local candy maker who had a huge fall sale on fudge. My face was getting recognized around town, so you could say I was even almost in demand.
So the first time a guy called and asked if I’d be interested in posing for a book cover, I jumped at the chance—especially since he offered more than my usual going rate. This guy’s name was Greg, and I didn’t know it at the time, but that was his thing. He was an indie photographer and he not only sold pictures online for other purposes, but his main source of income was selling photos for self-published authors’ book covers. The first time I worked with Greg, about eight months earlier, I’d had to get comfortable fairly quickly. I was clothed, but he had me try on some scantier clothing—lingerie—for a few of the shots. He took some photos of me by myself but he mainly took shots of me and a really cute guy—an undergrad, a senior who played football, who was in amazing shape and planned to coach the sport at whatever high school hired him in the near future. So it felt awkward at first but I realized fairly quickly that we were all professionals. We all wanted the pictures to look amazing because, after all, if someone bought an exclusive shot (which, Greg told me, could sell for anywhere from two to five hundred bucks a piece), he had a satisfied and, he hoped, returning customer, and the more pictures that showed up on covers, the more business he got. A good many book designers had begun working with him because Greg’s shots were different—and, I realized when I perused his website one evening, hotter than hell.
Even I looked hot.
But, after a while, it became second nature. It was easy enough to strip down to my underwear (yes, I bought expensive designer underwear especially for working with Greg after my first few outings) and gaze lustily into the “hero’s” eyes, placing my paws on his chest or back, draping myself on him. And it didn’t feel strange having his hands all over me, either. After all, it was only business.
I hadn’t thought much about it, but I learned along the way that I was considered pretty and Greg told me I had a great body and should consider modeling as a career.
While I had nothing against models, I preferred thinking over doing. In fact, during some of those gigs, I was plotting out essays in my head, doing all the hardest work while pretending to be enjoying a chicken fried steak at the local BBQ restaurant or acting lusty in the arms of some weight-lifting guy. But even though I didn’t see it as a permanent career, I did want to make the most of it. I bought a gym membership and worked out every other evening before sitting down to do homework. I dated on occasion but nothing serious—and I wasn’t ready. Even though I’d met some good guys in grad classes, none of them really flipped a switch. Neither did the guys I modeled with or any of the men in suits who came in for lattes every morning during my shift.
I really had become all work and no play.
But I was happy enough. I went out once in a while with my roommates, too, so it wasn’t like my social life suffered. Besides, there’d be more time for it once I was teaching college as a profession. For now, I had a lot of irons in the fire and I was actually having fun—and making enough money by this point that I was comfortable.
Life was good, as they say.
It was early April when Greg called me for another shoot. Greg’s book cover business had continued to grow and he had super successful indie authors requesting specific models and images. He had a new male model, a guy whose day job was in business. I found that odd and couldn’t wait to hear his story, but Greg had had a request to have the two of us together in a very specific pose. “I’ll pay you more than the usual,” he’d promised, asking for two hours of my time.
I would have done it for the usual fee, but for a bonus? “Just tell me when.”
* * *
I arrived at Greg’s studio a few minutes early. He had an old garage on the end of town, one I suspected had housed a car dealership long before I was born. The front end had huge windows, one on the front that he left free and clear with no ornamentation. In fact, the only place his info was found was on the door itself, just above the bar that served as a handle. In gold script, it said Greg Smithey, Photographer, Entrepreneur, Artiste. Very Greg. Underneath had the words Available via appointment, followed by his phone number. There was no Open sign or hours of operation, but I knew from years of working with him that the door would be unlocked until our shooting session began, so I pushed on the door and entered.
In the front, it looked like a small business. There was a door off to the side that housed a tiny office but I was standing in a snug lobby area. When I’d first met Greg, there had been movable partitions separating the waiting area from the one where the work happened, but he’d recently had walls built and painted an off-white color. There were a couple of chairs and a tall plant beside them, but I couldn’t tell if the plant was real or fake. It was a strange looking tree and every time I stood in that space, I pondered its state. This time, I was moving over to touch the soil it was potted in to try to find out once and for all when Greg appeared in the doorway. “Ivy. Come on back. Shane’s already here.”
Apparently, I wasn’t the only early bird.
I followed him into the back where all the magic happened. The front section was a variety of screens and props and lights on poles. The back area—where the garage door still hung but had since been drywalled over (visible from the outside, though)—had bigger “set pieces,” for lack of a better word. There was a bed, two sofas, a variety of chairs, a motorcycle, and all sorts of other large props, half of which I’d posed with or on, as well as a shelving unit crammed full of smaller props, like handcuffs, masks, and other items I was sure had been used for at least one book cover, but nothing I’d seen. There was also a small area in the corner with a mirror and makeup table as well as a screen for changing outfits. Greg had already told me that, after we finished the requested shoot, we were going to do some other shots as well. He usually made more money off the extra shots that were available on his website than he did from the ones done on demand and, since we models were paid by the hour, he might as well get his money’s worth.
I was wearing a denim jacket, red camisole underneath, jeans, and black boots, per his shooting request, with my makeup and hair done to perfection. He said, “I told you we’ll be shooting outside first, right?”
He grinned and shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose like he often did. “Eh. Sorry. We’re just gonna do it on the east side of the building.” Where the garage door was? Okay. “There are several places we can do it but the light right now is perfect, so I want to get started. Oh, by the way,” he said as I felt my mouth filling with saliva while my eyes took in the hot guy standing nearby, “this is Shane.”
Shane was…wow. He was tall. For the shoot, he wore a black leather jacket with a gray t-shirt underneath, black combat boots, and jeans that fit just right—not too snug, not too loose, but my imagination went wild. The man had short black hair and a light beard and mustache. He was smiling but his dark eyebrows had a brooding quality. I learned quickly that, when his face was at rest, he looked like he was contemplating heavy thoughts…a face that was perfect for a guy modeling to be a romantic hero.
I couldn’t find any words in my throat or my head, but I heard Greg’s voice as though it were echoing in a cave. “Shane, this is Ivy.”
Shane extended his hand to me, one that looked warm and strong, and I slipped my tinier one inside his. I managed with a “Nice to meet you.” I hoped I looked as calm as I was managing to act.
His smile grew larger as the left corner of his lip turned up more than the right. “Pleasure’s mine.”
I felt a grin grow on my face as my inner flirt revved up. But I had to behave. This was business. No goofing around. And Greg took care of that anyway. “Got your paperwork over here, guys.” We followed him to a small table. I glanced over it but it was the usual—an agreement that he could use and sell my images and today’s pay would be my only compensation, et cetera, et cetera. Shane spent a little more time on the contract but signed shortly after.
“Daylight’s burning, guys. Let’s go.” Greg already had a camera and tripod in hand and stood at the doorway. Shane held out a hand, offering for me to go first, and we walked outside. The sun seemed bright after only a couple of minutes in the back of his studio, so I blinked a couple of times as my eyes adjusted. We walked around to the side of the building where the sidewalk was now in partial shade, so Greg’s shots would benefit from sunlight, but it would be indirect.
Greg never told models exactly what shot he was looking for—if, in fact, he or the author had something very specific in mind—but he always wound up getting what he wanted. Sometimes, it felt like he was doing “warmup” shots, just having us do a few less intimidating ones while we models grew more comfortable with each other. Once in a while, I might have wanted him to get on with it, but I was paid by the hour, not the shot…so it was up to him how he wanted to spend that time.
He took a few pictures of us in standard poses with standard facial expressions, but he wasn’t quite happy with the way the photos were turning out. While he was fiddling with the camera and we were at his mercy waiting, I decided to break the ice with my fellow model. This guy I was posing with was so damned hot, it had taken every last nerve to act cool and calm. Getting to know him as a person would take the pressure off. Besides, I never knew which models I might work with again, so it didn’t hurt to be friendly. “So what do you do when you’re not gracing the cover of a book?”
Shane flashed his white teeth, safe for the moment, because Greg was immersed in his camera. “I’m an account manager.” I nodded with a slight smile and raised my eyebrows, letting him know I was impressed. “A junior account manager. And I hate it.”
“What do you do?”
“Okay, guys, I need you to move just a few inches to the right.”
The shoot was back underway and Greg began taking more pictures. I wanted to answer Shane’s question, but I also knew my face—my lips and my eyes—wouldn’t look right if I were animated and talking about myself. Another quick expression let my partner know my mouth would be shut for a while.
A few minutes later, though, and Greg had us move a few feet so we were in front of the garage door that seemed so out of place on the building but would work well as a background. Greg had told me once that he’d considered painting it a cream color to match the rest of the exterior and changed his mind when he realized it could be a great backdrop. Nowadays, his main concern was keeping the graffiti off. As he adjusted the camera, I asked Shane, “So, junior or not, account manager sounds pretty important.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it? It’s not, though. But I’m committed for a while.”
Greg started giving directions again and we got back into “character.” “Shane, can you lose the jacket for a minute?”
“Yeah, sure.” The tall man next to me did as asked, dropping the jacket to the sidewalk behind him. And if I’d thought I’d been smitten before, I’d had no idea. Half of his biceps peeked out of the sleeves of that gray shirt and I felt my throat constrict. To say the guy did a good job maintaining his body would be like saying Everest is a big mountain. Both statements were true but didn’t quite communicate the scope.
As if Greg had read my mind, he said, “Okay, Shane, pull her into an embrace. I need you guys to look like you have a deep, undying love, and this is the last time you’ll ever see each other.”
I loved the man’s directions. He could have been generic—“act like you love each other”—but, instead, his instruction put a specific emotion in my head I wanted to capture on my face. Shane didn’t hesitate. I was in his arms pressed into his body before I had a second to consider how to do it.
First…let me assure you I don’t believe it love at first sight. That notion is bullshit. Lust? Yes. You usually know, like I did with Shane, if you think someone’s attractive right off the bat. But there was something about his eyes—the sincerity, the warmth—that made me feel something…
Something close to an emotion I shouldn’t have been feeling.
And it was immediate. There, in his arms at the moment, I felt my breath dissipate, and that was okay. I suspected we had the exact shot Greg needed, because I believed Shane’s face. Had he brought his lips to mine at that moment, I would have responded, and it would have felt as natural as the sun coming up in the east.
In that position, my hands were pressed against his pecs, confirming what I’d already known. The man was in stellar shape. His muscles were firm underneath the fabric, and as I allowed myself to appreciate that sensation, I was able to draw air into my lungs once more.
But why was my heart beating so rapidly in my chest?
As if by instinct, as I could hear the little clicks of Greg’s camera and I knew he was getting the shots he needed, I let my left “upstage” hand slide up Shane’s chest toward his neck. If this scenario had been real, it would have been something I’d do, so I was just going to let myself do what felt natural until Greg told me to stop.
But he didn’t. Instead, I heard the occasional “Good” or “Yeah, that’s it,” encouraging me to continue. I searched Shane’s eyes, playing my role to the hilt, as my fingers touched his neck. In his embrace, the real world just kind of seemed to stop. My body felt nothing but his, not even the sidewalk underneath my feet or the spring breeze against my cheek or through my hair; I couldn’t smell blossoms in the air, only his masculine cologne wafting into my nostrils, making me a feel a deep hunger I’d never known before, in spite of the fact that I’d had my fair share of boyfriends and lusty emotions. He was all I could see and Greg’s voice was all I could hear, but my right hand against his chest felt his heart beating and the rest of my body became keenly aware of the fact that the two of us seemed to fit together pretty well, clothing or not.
So it wasn’t love at first sight…but it was safe to say I was fully smitten with the man holding me.
I don’t know how much time passed as we finished the outside part of the shoot, but I was enamored for the remainder, appreciating every little detail of that man. My jacket came off at some point too, and I could tell by Greg’s pondering near the end that he was debating if he wanted us to take our tops off. The town might not have cared, but I think Greg finally decided that realism was key—and most people refrain from lewd activities in public, at least in the light of day.
When Greg announced that we were heading back inside, Shane and I picked up our jackets and began following him. Greg was deep in thought when Shane asked me, “So what do you do for a living?”
I let out a small chuckle. “This is my most lucrative activity, but I’m a barista at The Coffee Stop.” As he nodded, I added, “And I’m a grad student…working on my doctorate.”
He raised his eyebrows, and I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or incredulous, but it was then that he held the door open for me. “What’s your area of study?”
This was where I lost most people. “English.”
“Yeah? So what are you working on?”
I wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking, so I simply said, “PhD.”
Then I knew he was at least a little bit fascinated. “So what all is there to study for a PhD in English?”
Oh, man, could I go on and on about that subject, effectively boring the shit out of anyone nearby, but I was going to try to keep it simple. I started to respond when Greg said, “All right, guys. I’ve still got you for two hours. We’re going to take some intimate shots in front of the screen. For that, Ivy, I’ll need you to remove your shirt.” That wasn’t an unexpected request nor was it difficult. I’d done many shots in bra and panties before—with Greg—and I’d grown used to it. If Shane were any kind of professional, he’d be accustomed to it as well.
But this was entirely new to him. Like a gentleman, he turned his head while I walked over to the corner, draping my jacket on the chair and then my shirt over the screen. While I was in the midst of that, though, I heard Greg say, “And same with you, Shane. Lose the shirt.”
Shane walked closer to where I stood, but I could tell that he was making a careful effort to not look at me.
I wouldn’t have minded. And, truth be told, I couldn’t wait to see what he looked like underneath the fabric, either. Greg was setting everything up and I knew it would only be a matter of a minute, but poor Shane. He didn’t look or act nervous; I just got the vibe that he was. As someone who’d been there before, I wanted to break the ice once more. I just needed to get his attention, keep him distracted.
“Did you say outside you hate your job?”
He finally looked over at me, making eye contact. The look on his face was one of resignation. “Yep. It’s true. I got an MBA and found out pretty quickly that it’s not for me.” He cleared his throat. “They’re not my people.” I found that concept interesting and wondered exactly what he meant. “So I hope you know for sure what you’re getting into—with your degree. All that time, all those student loans just kind of lock you in. Starting out your life doing something you loathe isn’t the way to go.”
Wow. I liked this guy more and more with every sentence that came out of his mouth. Maybe it was a leap, but I got from his words an underlying sensitivity that most men I’d met before didn’t have, not on the surface anyway—it wasn’t necessarily kindness, but awareness. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions then—and I had even more than that in reserve. As I geared up to begin the onslaught, Greg interrupted my thoughts once more, reminding me of the purpose for the meeting in the first place. “Okay, guys, I need you under the lights.”
We walked over to the space and inside I congratulated myself on successfully taking Shane’s mind off our partial nudity. I’d managed to forget that myself, but once we faced each other at Greg’s request, my eyes couldn’t help but scour his skin. Yes, he had a lovely body—tight and toned without much hair—but it was the hidden ink that made my jaw drop. There wasn’t a drop on his arms, meaning he could get away with wearing a button-down shirt for business and even roll up the sleeves, but that hadn’t stopped him from indulging in artistic expression.
His entire chest and part of his abdomen were tattooed. Absolutely beautiful. And I would have loved time to examine them, much as I’d wanted to probe his mind moments earlier, but I instead had to succumb to his embrace.
Several shots later, Greg asked us to give him a moment and he walked off into the other room. I was dying to ask Shane about his tattoos and his whole damn life, but one question in particular begged to be asked. “So how’d you wind up here?”
He smiled then, that perfect, captivating expression lighting up his features. “I play basketball for fun—to kind of burn off the steam of the week, you know? I was just shooting baskets with a buddy of mine a couple of weeks ago, waiting for the rest of the guys, and I’d said something about being tied to a job I dislike.” Almost as an aside, he said, “I must talk about it a lot.” Shane grinned and then continued. “John told me about Greg, that he’s always looking for guys in shape who are willing to take off their shirt and show a little muscle—mostly for book covers, but for other stuff. He told me it might be a great way to earn some extra cash to throw at my student loans while I figured out what I really wanted to do with my life. I was skeptical at first, but—”
Greg came back in the room with a black footstool, announcing, “Okay, ready.” In seconds, he was next to us. “Shane, I need you facing forward, toward the camera.” While he obeyed, Greg plopped the footstool behind him and told me, “I need you here, Ivy, and I’m going to have your hands snaking around his body for several poses.”
No problem. I got up on the stool and I still wasn’t as tall as Shane, but I was a lot closer. No tats on his back, but he was young like I—he had plenty of time to decorate the rest, and until he left the job he hated, he’d have to leave his arms untouched.
The rest of the hour went quickly as we struck various poses for Greg—face to face, a close embrace. Shirts back on, then with jackets, slowly stripping down again. By the beginning of our second hour, I was in my underwear—the black floral lace bra and panties that would pair well with anything. We also changed location within the room various times so that we were in front of different screens with different lighting, but the poses were standard, nothing out of the ordinary, and both Shane and I, I think, were becoming comfortable and relaxed with one another.
That is, until Greg said, “Ivy, take off your bra, please.”
My body tensed up and I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end. I froze, like a rabbit hoping its predator wouldn’t see it quivering next to the bush and go away. But I knew, rationally, that I couldn’t just ignore his request—I had to either refuse or comply. Even negotiation was a possibility.
As I sucked in a breath of air trying to figure out what to do (taking off the bra would have been too simple, I guess), Greg said, “I know I’ve never had you topless before, but I want to assure you, Ivy, it’s purely professional. I’ve seen a lot of the more risqué covers with partial nudity and some of them sell really well—and I think I could take some beautiful pictures.” He took a deep breath before adding, “I promise you that your nipples won’t end up on a cover—but I don’t want to Photoshop your bra straps out. I want it to look natural.”
I could see the sincerity in his eyes. He had a vision and he was asking me to see it through with him. Add to it Greg had never broken a promise to me. I had no reason not to trust him. And Shane? Well, I was on the fence there. There were pros and cons to this scenario. At least when I’d been wearing my slightly padded bra, Shane wasn’t able to feel my nipples, erect from the cool air in the large room, digging into his chest or back. Granted, as we’d been moving around, the temperature hadn’t been as noticeable and I’d warmed up a bit, but I knew my nipples would become alert once more when I removed my bra.
But surely the men would make all effort to avert their eyes…make it at least appear like they weren’t staring, right? And, bottom line, I was getting paid for this. Paid well. It would take me two weeks, tips and all, to make what I was going to earn during this two-hour shoot. Before I could nod my assent, Greg said, “I have no problems paying you extra, because I realize this is more than you signed up for. It’s just…you’re the perfect model for what I have in mind.”
Like anyone else, I respond to flattery. Yeah, he could have done better in that department, but it was enough. I nodded my head and took a deep breath before reaching around my back. Greg was all business again, returning to his tripod. I sensed more than saw Shane. He had stepped back a little, in effect, trying to give me a little privacy, as much as someone can give another person out in the open.
The bra loosened its grip around my ribs and I slid it down my arms. My nipples noticed the cool air immediately and responded in kind. I tossed the bra toward the dressing area, and my first inclination was to cover myself up with my arms…but I resisted. Now I just wanted to get on with it.
And Greg must have known that. “Okay, first shot. Shane, I need you behind Ivy. Ivy, I want your back up against his front.” Greg examined the scene, a clinical expression on his face, before he said, “Ivy, you’re going to reach up and behind and put your hands around his neck.” I forced myself to comply. It had to be quick and precise, because if I hesitated, I would stop. Down deep, I knew that. So up went my arms and, after I intertwined my fingers behind his neck, I noticed my elbows naturally curving out away from my head. Nipples erect? Yes. But this time, something strange was happening and, rather than fight it, I chose to go with the flow. I could fight it the whole way and be miserable or I could just ride the waves and see where I landed.
“Shane, I want you to cup her breasts.” Holy shit. This was getting real. Like I had, Shane moved quickly. Maybe he was feeling the urge to cover me up, too, and I wouldn’t have doubted it, because he’d felt like a gentleman in the hour we’d already worked together. He had that good guy feel, and I was going to trust in it.
His warm hands felt like heaven against my cool breasts, but—more than that—my nipples digging into his palm felt…arousing. Oh, that wasn’t good. But going with the flow, right?
Fortunately, Greg kept barking orders and that helped me stay grounded to a degree. “Ivy, turn your head. Give me the look of foreplay, guys.”
I wasn’t sure what the hell he wanted exactly, but I could turn my head, no problem. He began snapping pictures then and asking us to make slight adjustments. I obeyed, of course, but I could no longer deny that this pose was…well, it was hot.
No. It was making me hot.
It could have been cold and professional, but I got the sense that Shane was feeling it, too. No, I didn’t feel his cock hardening behind me. There was nothing physical that I could put my finger on that made me feel like he, too, was getting revved up. Or maybe there was. Maybe it was the sensual way he touched me. He could have been cold and quick as his hands moved over my body; instead, he felt aware and careful. Yes, it could have been that he was simply trying to be courteous and respectful, but I chose to listen to my instincts—and they were telling me that this whole thing was a turn on for us both.
That also meant I was being unprofessional as hell, and I hoped it didn’t show, but I couldn’t resist letting myself enjoy my baser desires. So what if my back arched a centimeter so that my nipples dug into his warm, sensuous hands? What did it matter if I no longer had to act to achieve the facial expressions Greg was looking for?
It was time to change poses. Maybe because we’d been compliant so far, Greg decided to take full advantage, and he put us in every single pose he could imagine. The next shot, he had me turn around so that Shane and I were facing each other. In spite of the fact that I found the guy to be insanely hot, that position felt awkward as hell at first. Fortunately, I think Greg sensed that and eased us into it. The biggest problem, of course, was making sure my nipples didn’t show. Provocative and suggestive were great for romance and erotica book covers; pornographic, even if just the tiny bit, was usually considered taboo. Greg muttered something about not wanting to waste a shot he knew would never sell so, while he could have indiscriminately snapped away, he didn’t. He had us pose in ways that hid my naughtiest of parts while still hinting at titillation (so to speak) all along.
There were a lot of shots of my back and side, oftentimes from an angle so my face was involved in some way. After having us gazing and courting each other with our eyes, he then had us move into what would look like the throes of passion, so we got closer, our bodies touching each other more. It was at this point that I no longer felt the coolness of the air, because our body heat was keeping me plenty warm.
“Turn your neck a little, Ivy. Shane, I want you to kiss her there. Make it look like foreplay, guys. This needs to be hot.”
Once more, I felt a little awkward—until his lips hit my neck. In all the shoots I’d ever done before, the men I’d posed with faked the kisses when they could. I didn’t take it personally and it actually kept a little distance there, but Shane was actually kissing my neck. The nipples that had relaxed and warmed now grew pointy again in response, and when they brushed up against his hot skin, I knew he had to notice….
~ ~ ~
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