Page 8 of A Man To Remember
I don't know how I know that, but I just know I do. He's gay and it wouldn't matter in the slightest if it weren't for his hand, currently pressed against my hip, his thumb resting right above the waistband of my jeans, sending sparks through my skin that definitely shouldn't be there.
I try to focus on the shoot, on being a good subject, on following directions like a proper model or whatever the hell I'm pretending to be right now. But my mind keeps wandering back to Austin's hands, to the way they felt on my skin, professional yet somehow intimate. To the way his presence behind me made my spine tingle with awareness.
"Turn your body about forty-five degrees to your right," Austin calls out from behind his camera.
I turn slightly left instead, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "Like this?"
"Other way," he says, still safely behind his camera. "More of an angle."
I make another adjustment, this time turning way too far, probably looking like a contortionist having a stroke.
I can see Austin's patience wearing thin.
I'm not sure I'm ready to admit that's exactly what a part of me was hoping for.
"Here, let me—" The camera drops from his face and he sets it down, moving toward me with purpose. My pulsequickens with each step he takes, like some sort of twisted countdown.
When he reaches me, one hand lands on my shoulder while the other finds my hip again. The touch is firm but not forceful as he guides my body into the correct position. I can feel the warmth of his palms through my skin, and I have to actively remind myself that breathing is not optional.
"There," he says, but his hands linger for a few more beats. "That's what I meant."
I manage a nod, not trusting my voice to come out steady. As Austin walks back to his camera, I'm already plotting my next mistake.
"Now, can you angle your chin down? Just slightly."
I tilt my head back instead, fighting the smile that threatens to break across my face. "This?"
Austin sighs. "No, down." When I maintain my best impression of someone who's never heard of directions before, he sets his camera down again. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
There's something in his voice—amusement? annoyance?—that makes my stomach do a slow roll. But before I can defend my complete lack of spatial awareness, Austin is there again, this time standing directly in front of me. He reaches up and cups my jaw with one hand, guiding my chin down to the perfect angle.
The touch is different this time—more intimate somehow. Maybe it's because we're face to face, or maybe it's because his thumb accidentally brushes against my lower lip as he adjusts the angle. Either way, I feel my breath hitch in my chest.
"Like this," he says softly, his hand still on my jaw. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I swear the air between us crackles.
Then, Austin drops his hand and steps back, clearing his throat. "Try to keep that angle."
I maintain the position he set, but my mind is racing a million miles an hour. What the hell am I doing? Why am I deliberately trying to get him to touch me? And more importantly, why does each touch feel like a live wire against my skin?
This isn't... I'm not...
But my body seems to have other ideas, because every time Austin's hands land on me, adjusting, positioning, directing, heat pools low in my belly. And now, standing here trying to keep my chin at the exact angle he placed it at, all I can think about is his thumb brushing my lip, and how for a split second I wanted to...
Oh fuck.
Fuck.
I can feel the unmistakable twitch inside my jeans, and panic floods my system. This cannot be happening. Not here, not now, not with him. This isn't—I don't—
"I think we've got enough for today."
Thank every deity that might exist.
"Great!" My voice comes out an octave higher than usual, but I'm already moving, practically sprinting to where I left my clothes in a pile. I grab my t-shirt and yank it over my head, grateful for the cover it provides as I try to get my body under control.
But even as I'm pulling my hoodie on, I can't stop thinking about his hands on my skin. About the way his touch felt both professional and intimate at the same time. About that fragment of memory that surfaced—a high school party, Austin, and something else.
Something just out of reach.
