Page 11 of A Man To Remember
I deliberately turn my back to the door, positioning myself so I can't see him even in my peripheral vision. I have work to do. A shoot to complete. A reputation to maintain.
I won't let him derail me again.
CHAPTER 8
JESSE
I'M PRESSED AGAINST the wall like I'm trying to become one with it, which might actually be preferable to dealing with the fact that my entire nervous system has apparently decided to throw a rave. Every nerve is firing like the Fourth of July, and all because Austin is over there doing his photographer magic on some guy who probably bench-presses small cars for fun.
His hands move over the model like he's sculpting him from clay, adjusting a shoulder here, angling a hip there.
Professional. Clinical.
Except there's nothing clinical about the way my skin burns every time I remember how those same hands felt on me yesterday. The grip on my shoulders. The thumb that brushed my lip like he was testing whether I was real.
I shift against the wall, trying to find a position where my jeans don't feel like they're cutting off circulation to important parts of my anatomy. This is ridiculous. It was just a photoshoot.
A weird and confusing one, but still.
"Nice." Austin's voice cuts through my mental breakdown. "Can you get hard for me?"
I'm sorry, what now?
The model just nods like Austin asked him to turn slightly to the left and starts palming himself through his underwear with the casual efficiency of someone who's done this more times than I've had hot dinners. Austin fiddles with his camera settings, giving the model privacy while staying completely professional about the whole thing.
Meanwhile, I'm having what can only be described as a full-scale psychological event.
The model's dick thickens under the fabric, obvious and unapologetic, and my face burns like I've just accidentally walked in on my parents. This feels voyeuristic as hell. Like I should excuse myself and go contemplate my life choices in the hallway.
But Austin keeps shooting like this is Tuesday at the office. Moving around his subject, capturing angles, treating the guy's obvious boner like it's just another element in his composition toolbox.
And that thought? That thought goes straight to my cock. The idea that this is Austin's normal. That he's used to directing people through various states of arousal, used to capturing these intimate moments with that steady, unflappable calm.
What really fucks with my head is how artistic it all looks. The model's erection hits me with its pornographic realness, but somehow Austin transforms it into something that belongs in a museum. Light and shadow dancing, careful composition turning raw sexuality into actual art.
Dangerous territory. Because now my traitor brain is painting me into the model's place. Me under Austin's gaze. Me with his camera pointed at me while I'm...
Nope. Absolutely fucking not.
"Alright, I think we've got it," Austin announces. "Great job, man. We'll wrap for today."
The model reaches for his clothes, already switching back to normal human mode, and that's when it hits me.
It's my turn.
My stomach drops somewhere around my ankles. What the hell was I thinking? After witnessing that masterclass in professional intimacy, after seeing the level of vulnerability Austin expects, how am I supposed to just strip down and—
Fuck me sideways.
Austin's already resetting his equipment. Backing out now would be worse than following through. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti as I push off the wall, each step toward the backdrop feeling like a march toward my own execution.
Or rebirth. Jury's still out on that one.
The door clicks shut behind the model, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Quieter. Like all the oxygen got sucked out with him, leaving just me and Austin and enough tension to cover my arms with goosebumps. And that'll look great in the photos...
I stop in the middle of the space, unsure what to do with my hands, unsure which piece of the floor I should occupy. None, probably. The smartest thing would be to not be here at all.
Austin approaches with a small bundle of black fabric. "Here," he says. "These should fit."
