Page 32 of Daring the Bad Boy

Strong hands settled on her shoulders. “Here, let me.” The strained voice rippled across her nape, as the rasp of the zip echoed around the room.

She tried to envision all her stupid wayward emotions being zipped back up too. Confined behind a wall of scarlet lycra, squeezed into submission with her curves.

He turned her to face him, lifted her chin with his knuckle. Until she was looking into those chocolate eyes again. His emotions controlled behind a wary smile.

Had he actually been crying? It was hard to believe looking at him now.

Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she’d imagined the whole thing? Hadn’t Tash always said that was her problem? She was attracted to men’s weaknesses, pandering to that idiotic desire to create a connection where there wasn’t any.

Was that why she’d really been attracted to Cal, not because he was handsome and super hot and the god of BJs, but because she’d sensed the sadness in him all along and wanted to sooth it?

When he didn’t want to be soothed. Not by her anyway. He’d made it clear he didn’t do relationships and still she’d thought…

He kissed her on the nose, the soft peck guarded and tense. “I’ll call you,” he said.

But how could he? He didn’t even have her number.

She nodded, pretending she believed him. “Thanks for a fun evening. And for posing for my class this afternoon.”

“Same goes. I’ll contact you about the shots I took.”

“That’s okay, use whichever ones you like,” she said, knowing he was unlikely to want to use any of them.

Given how edgy he looked right now, she doubted he would want any reminders of her.

He lifted his finger, as if he were about to tuck a curl behind her ear, the way he’d done so many times already that day. But then he hesitated.

She swallowed. The bubble of hope, the longing for that simple affectionate gesture, that small sign that maybe this had meant more to him too, pressing down on her larynx.

He shoved his hand into his back pocket without touching her.

And her heart cracked open in her chest – the foolish optimism flowing out to be replaced by that aching sense of loss and vulnerability.

They’d shared a few confidences, and a couple of great orgasms. And she’d over-reacted. So what else was new?

“You want me to call a cab?” he asked.

“I’m good,” she said, backing away; she couldn’t wait that long to get away from her latest mistake.

Turning, she rushed to the metal staircase, the sound of her heels clicking on the polished boards drowned out by the hollow pain tearing through her chest.

Chapter Eleven

‡

“How did the final exam go today? You ready to grab a coffee with Imo and me?”

Rosie looked up from stacking the sketchbooks on her desk, to see Tash – bright, lively, devil-may-care Tash – standing in her doorway.

“The exam went well,” she said, wearily. “Everyone signed Mick’s cast once he was through posing.” And a couple of the female students had asked after their previous model. But Rosie had managed to deflect their interest – which she suspected had nothing to do with their art. She still got that raw feeling in her throat, whenever she entered the studio and imagined Cal’s magnificent body arranged on the dais six weeks ago – but surely that would pass eventually. It had to soon – it had been well over a month since their disastrous fling.

They’d spent exactly twenty-four hours together. Her and Cal. And their affair had been short, scorching hot, and completely meaningless, give or take the odd emotional blip.

Because that was all it had been. A blip. He hadn’t called, just as she’d known he wouldn’t, even though she’d checked her phone every five seconds for days afterwards. She needed to get over him and move on. But somehow she’d managed to turn this blip into a major roadblock. Who knew she had such a propensity for melodrama?

The man had been grieving. Of course he’d leant on her for a nano-second. He’d wanted company, company of the orgasm-inducing variety. And she’d supplied it. Willingly. Any connection she’d felt between them in that short space of time had been down to bad timing on his part and her over romantic imagination.

Maybe she needed to get herself a puppy, to feed that apparent need she had inside her to nurture unsuitable men.

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