Page 3 of Picture Perfect

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.”

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