Page 26 of Daring the Bad Boy

“Absolutely,” she said. Then rose up on all fours. “One blow job coming right up.”

He laughed as his cock surged back to life. But he cupped her face to pull her upright.

“I’m sure as hell not going to say no to that, but that’s not the favor I was talking about.”

Her tiny huff of disappointment improved his humor and had the tension easing out of his gut.

“I want you to sit for me. I want to photograph you.” He let his gaze skim over her curves. “Nude, if I can get away with it.”

“You’re kidding? You want to photograph me? Here? Now? Naked?” She looked so astonished, he wondered why. Surely she knew how beautiful she was?

“Yes you, and yes, now. And yeah, naked.” His cock twitched in agreement. “But not here. In my studio. It’s downstairs.”

His eagerness unsettled him a bit. He’d never photographed a woman he was sleeping with before. Had never wanted to. But that didn’t have to mean anything either.

“You’re a photographer?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He held out his hand, feeling kind of dumb having to introduce himself, but enjoying the shock on her face. “Cal Landry at your service.”

Her eyes widened. “Caleb Landry?”

“You’ve heard of me?” he said, flattered by the awestruck look. He wasn’t exactly a celebrity, except in photographic circles. He had certainly never sought fame or validation for his work. Any press he got was only useful if it got him an interesting commission. But right at this second, he was glad she’d heard of him, because it would mean getting her to sit for him should be that much easier.

“Of course I have,” she said. “You won the Pulitzer two years ago.”

There was that.

She glanced at the photographs he’d put up a couple of weeks ago on one of the rare occasions when he’d had some downtime between assignments.

“I saw your exhibition at the Tate Modern last year. I knew there was something familiar about these photographs…” She paused to chew her lip, making his erection perk up some more. “But I had no idea you’re…. Well, you…”

She sounded so impressed, he had to check the size of his head, and not just the one in his shorts, because it was growing at an alarming rate. But he wasn’t averse to using her reaction to his advantage, his fingers itching now to get hold of his camera. He wanted to record that look, her skin flushed from their love-making, the fluttering pulse in her collarbone.

He wanted to capture what made Rosie unique. Not just to him, but to anyone who took the trouble to see what he could see right now. This wasn’t personal, not really. His feelings for her would pass as quickly as their liaison. The only reason this fling had felt like more for a moment was because of all the blood that had drained out of his head an hour ago – as soon as she’d strutted into the apartment in her hot dress and killer heels – and the crap he’d had to deal with in the last week.

This wasn’t even about her – it was about him and what he’d been through. But he was out the other side. He’d put his father to rest, his real father, dealt with his loss and his guilt. Because the truth was he’d lost Dan Landry twelve years ago, when he’d left West Daley without a backward glance.

“This is my personal work,” he said, suddenly more determined than ever to establish that barrier between them. The barrier that had always sustained him as a teenager. Viewing life through a lens had made him feel strong and separate. He’d just forgotten that for a little while was all.

“I don’t sell this stuff,” he added, because she looked delightfully confused and unsure of herself. “Any pictures of you would remain private if that’s what you want.” He’d done a couple of exhibitions with his more personal stuff. Could already envision a whole exhibition of pictures of Rosie. But he’d have to suck it up if that made her uncomfortable. “We’ll go through the files when I’m finished and you can decide which ones we keep.” Although he already knew he would want to keep them all. “I’ll delete anything you don’t like.”

“You’re serious?” She hiked the sheet up higher, her skin now a dull red right up to her hairline. “You really want to take my picture? But why?”

His lips quirked, confused by her surprise, even though he could see it was genuine. Like pretty much every else about her.

“Why wouldn’t I want to take your picture?” he said, because the best way to avoid a question you didn’t want to answer was to ask another. And the very last thing he wanted to do was examine the burning urge too closely.

Capturing the essence of Rosie, all the things about her he would miss when they parted company, made sense. That feeling of aching emptiness a moment ago, and the belief that only she could fill it, not so much.

*

Why wouldn’t you want to take my picture? Because you’re Caleb Landry and I’m a timid, overweight art teacher whose last boyfriend thought she was a chore in bed. Duh.

>

But as the many and varied reasons to deny Cal’s request spun through Rosie’s mind – she saw them for exactly what they were. Insecurities. And excuses. Excuses not to take a risk. Not to move outside her comfort zone. Not to be bold rather than a doormat.

She’d let Vince call the shots in their relationship. And decide whether she was or was not worthy of his commitment, because she’d never had the guts to demand more of him. Maybe this was just a booty call with Cal, but it already felt like something more than that to her. He’d looked at her with such longing a moment ago. She had no idea why, but something inside of her had wanted suddenly to hold him, to tell him she cared, that whatever was wrong she could fix it.

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