Page 62 of Hot Shot

“I thought you charged that movie star a bunch of money.”

“Well, yeah. But that’s just one job. I sell some images at Anna’s gallery, but I don’t think there’s enough demand for them. I also sell some of my images through a few stock sites . . . the kinds of things I take pictures of are sort of whimsical. I post them on Instagram and people like them, but are they going to pay for them? Not likely. So I make a few dollars here and there, but actually earning a living probably isn’t going to happen.”

“After you come back from Spain, what will that get you?”

“I don’t know. I hope I learn some things that will make me a better photographer and then maybe I can charge more.”

“Plus you’ll have accumulated an inventory; you can print and frame a bunch and sell them.”

“M-maybe . . .” I roll my head in a circle to ease the tightness in my muscles.

“How about a shoulder massage?”

“Oh Jesus . . . that would be amazing.”

“You have to shut down your computer for a few minutes.”

“Ack.”

“You can do it. Sit on the floor in front of me.”

I put my laptop to sleep and close it, then slide onto the floor and shift over between Marco’s legs. My hair’s already pulled up into a messy knot on top of my head and Marco sets his hands on my shoulders. Warmth seeps through the thin cotton of my T-shirt as he digs his fingers into the muscles there.

“Oh God,” I moan. “That’s so good . . .”

“Good. Damn, you’re tight.”

“So you’ve said.”

He chokes out a surprised laugh. “Carrie, you dirty girl.”

I smile, my head dropping forward as he massages. My rigid muscles ease at his touch, relaxation slipping through my body. Along with a few tingles.

I have so much to do, but Marco’s here, and he’s touching me . . . making my muscles soften, making my breasts feel heavy, making me ache between my legs . . . damn him.

“It can wait,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I’m helping you with the art studio.”

“Yes,” I mumble. “You are.”

His hands slide down over my upper arms and back up to my shoulders, then skim down my chest to cup my boobs.

“Marco, you bad boy.”

He chuckles. “We’re a pair—dirty girl and bad boy.”

“Yessss.”

He squeezes my breasts then resumes massaging my shoulders. My nipples tighten into points, pushing out through my thin bra and T-shirt.

His fingers slip under the wide neckline of my shirt and smooth the bare skin over my pecs, fingertips pressing into those muscles, too.

“Damn, that hurts!”

He pauses. “Want me to stop?”

“No, no! It hurts good.”

“Ah.” He resumes kneading. “All these muscles are connected. You’re really tight here too.”

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