Page 84 of Sinful Desires
Luckily, I’d spent three hours yesterday with Victoria getting my skin worked over like a spoiled peach. Facial, mask, steam, extractions, and a therapist-level pep talk.
Because being half naked and bare faced in front of a camera? That’s not effortless. That’s guts and lighting.
The backdrop was plain white. I sat on a barstool designed by someone who’d never had an ass.
Lucía only allowed two people in the room: her assistant, and a guest of my choosing.
I could’ve picked anyone. But after last week? After the silence, the stares, and the fact that he’d been acting like I didn’t exist?
I wanted LeRoy’s attention on me.
So, I’d said I felt weak. Claimed low iron. Maybe I’d faint. Better have security nearby just in case I hit the tile.
He hadn’t said a word when I’d walked out in nothing but a towel, skin still damp, lips bare. Stared in silence. He hadn’t looked away in an hour.
Perfect.
“Estás divina,cariño! Now we’re going to tie the towel lower on your hips and do a semi-topless shot?—”
A noise came from across the room.
LeRoy.
He shifted in his chair like it had suddenly grown spikes, stood halfway, and started inspecting the windows. Which were closed. And spotless. And absolutely not in need of his attention.
“Okay, so you’ll press your hand here,” she said, gesturing to my chest, “just enough to cover. Gloría, kill the fan. Fix her hair so it falls across, but keep it sexy, messy.”
Gloría stepped in, muttering about angles and shadows.
“Please turn back to us,cariño, so I can help lower the towel.”
I did what I was told. I got up, turning slowly. Her hand found the front of the towel, and I let it go without a word. My hands came up to cover my chest while she adjusted it, pulling the fabric low around my hips and tying it like she was wrapping a gift.
She spun me back around, her fingers in my hair, fluffing it.
The room’s tension was palpable, all emanating from one large, repressed, and unfortunately mute Frenchman who’d been trying not to eye-fuck me to death for the past forty-five minutes.
Poor thing. Must have been exhausting trying to act unbothered when my towel was practically begging to fall.
“Perfecto!You can sit now.”
I sat. Not exactly how Lucía had asked, but close enough. The towel might have ridden a little lower; my back perhaps arched a bit more.
Sue me.
She told me to close my eyes, then open them. Smile. Don’t. Be sexy. Be bored. Be high on nothing.
I gave her all of it. For thirty minutes straight, I put on a show. Every now and then, a flicker. A brief break between poses. And without fail, they always found him.
Each time they did, I swore my nipples got harder under my palm.
I hadn’t slept since the club. Not properly. Not when I’d known he was just down the hall. A few doors away. Close enough to hear the bed creak, close enough to hear my breath when I thought about him.
How he’d kissed me. How he’d touched me, like he hadn’t known if he wanted to fuck me or break me.
And the French.Jesus.
The next morning, after we’d gotten back home, we’d had to leave for some board meeting about my label. I’d hoped—stupidly, I know—that he’d say something. Just a word. A look.Anything.
