Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“I know nothing about boudoir, but I’m a fast learner. Tell me what you need me to do,” he says, his voice steady, a ballplayer ready to step up to the plate.
“Katrina isn’t doing a typical couples shoot—she’s not part of a couple anymore. Most of her shots will be solo, traditional boudoir shots, focusing on the woman, so we won’t need you the whole time. But since the whole point of the shoot is empowerment, when we bring you in, we want you to focus on her. Only her. Even if she’s not interacting with you. Or looking at you.”
My goal is to make her an object of desire rather than to show the interplay of desire.
“Got it,” he says with a nod, like he’s recording these details. “Where do you want me?”
I take a beat to let the double meaning roll over me. “For a few, we want her sitting in this chair.” I gesture to the plush red chair that screams luxury. “And you’ll be on the bed, shirtless and in jeans. The bed is just a few feet away, and most of the time, she won’t be entirely in focus. The shot will be about…” I stop, collecting my thoughts, before I give him the specific direction, “It’ll be about your desire for her. The way you look at her. Like she’s beautiful. Like you can’t look away. Like you want her desperately. Okay?”
He nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “Like I want her desperately,” he repeats.
The air crackles and it’s so clear he’s not talking about another woman.
But I stick to the plan. “You’re comfortable with that?” I ask. It’s important that he understands the type of photography I do—the consent and trust involved. It’s not pornographic; no one will be having sex, of course. But he needs to be comfortable with the heightened sexuality in the shoot.
“One hundred percent,” he says. “What else do you need?”
For you to stop turning me on with the way you listen.
“I want some shots where…” I pause then explain, “you’re getting up, like you’re prowling toward her. Same idea. You need to have her.”
His dark brown eyes lock onto mine, deep and mesmerizing, flecked with gold at the edges. There’s a line between his thick eyebrows. I bet he’s ten years older than I am. I wish I didn’t find it so sexy, the age difference. But I do, especially his intensity now here in the studio, even though it’s unnerving too. I know I can use it in the photos if he can channel it, and that’s what matters. “And I want to feel that in the photos. Can you do that?” My voice sounds breathy as I ask it. Too breathy.
A slow smile shifts the corners of his lips. “I think I can, Leighton,” he says, low and raspy, but still deliciously deep. “Should I just think about something I really want?”
The fucker. He knows what he’s doing to me. His gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s something about the way he looks at me from behind those glasses that seems like he knows things a man should know. I feel like my panties are slipping off from the way he’s looking at me.
“Yes,” I manage to say, trying to hide the way I feel since I don’t know what to expect from him.
Maybe that’s why I walked away from him the other day. I wasn’t sure if he meant it when he asked me out on a date. First dates are their own kind of hell. I don’t love to spend an hour with a stranger—let alone share with him the things I don’t love sharing. That’s why I don’t jump at the chance to have tea with strangers, even ones as tempting as Miles. Getting to know someone takes trust. I trust my family, my sister, and my friends. Above all, I trust myself. But anyone else? Not so much.
I snap back to the present and continue. “The goal with this shoot is for Katrina to feel like she’s the star of the show, and you’re here to shine a light on her.”
“I think I can do that,” Miles says, his voice as steady as ever. “I can definitely get the hang of that.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if the sparks between us were real the other day. But they’re so real now, shimmying down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly.
This is bad. I can’t start a boudoir session feeling turned on. I can’t be thinking about a model while I’m shooting Katrina. I push the lust away, praying he can’t sense it. But the fact that he’s so focused on me—it’s unraveling me. And I can’t afford to unravel.
I tug at my neckline, adjusting it, looking for something tactile so I can stay rooted in the moment. “I hope you wore your best underwear. If not, I’ve got black boxer briefs in all sizes,” I say, as clinical as possible. Yet discussing what he’ll wear—when he soon takes off other clothes—feels anything but professional. “I’ll go grab them,” I add quickly, turning to the wardrobe, hoping he didn’t notice the way my skin heated just being near him.