toes look good enough to suck. I don’t even like feet!—feet are gross! Why the hell am I even thinking these weird thoughts?
Boston’s not pissy anymore. He pulls up his spreadsheet and shows me all the shots he’s checked off, a few he’s changed, a few he’s deleted. I agree with all of it. Then he shows me some of the pictures from today, warning me a thousand time that these are “raw” (whatever that means) and “still need to be edited” so I need to remember they’re just starters.
When he shows me the one of him on the bike, I feel a surge of moisture between my legs. I wish I had gone out there now, to watch. This is art and erotica and it belongs in a museum. His lean, strong body is stretched out along the bike, he’s naked except for boots that are unlaced and up on the handlebars. His head is tossed back over the seat, his body curves along the bike, sexy and sinuous and sinful. He looks like he’s in the throes of passion, and the only thing blocking the full Monty is his hand and arm, casually, accidentally in front of his groin. As in the club, I know my eyes are wide, and I’m staring, but his picture is so beautiful and sensual that I can’t even—I can’t even.
“Boston!” I say. “This—this needs to be the cover. Oh, my God. This is fantastic. I don’t even know how to tell you how amazing this is.”
His voice is reverent. “Yeah. It turned out.” He sounds proud. Then he gets critical. “I should have asked Chelle to use a slightly smaller aperture but it’s okay because everything’s pretty much in the same frame, and if I sharpen nobody will notice the softness on the tip of the boots. I wish I’d had my hand a little more relaxed but it’s okay. I’m going to have to do some dodging and burning and—”
I grab his hand on the mouse. “Boston. It’s perfect.”
My eyes meet his and there’s a spark. He leans in. “Abby.” His lips are full and sensual and soft. I remember that mine are not and lick along my bottom one, automatically checking for more rough skin, and he sucks in a breath. “Abby.” His voice is rough.
“Yes?” My voice is soft, shy, but I can’t look away. His eyes are so nice, the lashes are long, the color clear and bold. The look he gives me is different from that cocky, confident stare the other day, when I ended up teasing him about the blow job. Today it’s something fiercer, but softer at the same time, a request and a question.
He strokes my bottom lip with one thumb and smiles, and that sends spires of arousal through my pelvis. His eyes burn into me, and then he brushes his lips over mine, a soft swipe, just a slight moment without tongue or pressure, but it’s enough to make me moan.
He pauses and rubs my lip again, back and forth, and I stick out my tongue and lick along his thumb, a sensuous path that says more than words.
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, then his lips are back, harder, and his tongue is in my mouth, and we’re kissing for real. It’s hard and hot and unbelievable.
He stands up and pulls me to my feet, and it’s déjà vu to the club, when he took my hand and asked me to dance, but this time I move into him instead of back into my chair, and press my chest and hips to his. He puts his hands behind my head, wraps his fingers in my hair, and pulls my mouth to him and we kiss again, a long kiss, our bodies so close there’s no air between us, our mouths so close we’re sharing the same oxygen and getting dizzy because we’re not taking any time to breathe.
And then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. He lifts his head and steps back. I widen my eyes and brush the back of my hand across my lips, wiping my spit and his. “Boston?”
But he looks away. “See you tomorrow, Abby. Okay?”
“Uh… yeah. Sure. Tomorrow.” My mind scrambles to keep up. Apparently we’re done kissing, and I need to leave. Okay. I pick up my laptop bag and purse, but turn back at the door, my hand on the knob.
Boston’s not pissy anymore. He pulls up his spreadsheet and shows me all the shots he’s checked off, a few he’s changed, a few he’s deleted. I agree with all of it. Then he shows me some of the pictures from today, warning me a thousand time that these are “raw” (whatever that means) and “still need to be edited” so I need to remember they’re just starters.
When he shows me the one of him on the bike, I feel a surge of moisture between my legs. I wish I had gone out there now, to watch. This is art and erotica and it belongs in a museum. His lean, strong body is stretched out along the bike, he’s naked except for boots that are unlaced and up on the handlebars. His head is tossed back over the seat, his body curves along the bike, sexy and sinuous and sinful. He looks like he’s in the throes of passion, and the only thing blocking the full Monty is his hand and arm, casually, accidentally in front of his groin. As in the club, I know my eyes are wide, and I’m staring, but his picture is so beautiful and sensual that I can’t even—I can’t even.
“Boston!” I say. “This—this needs to be the cover. Oh, my God. This is fantastic. I don’t even know how to tell you how amazing this is.”
His voice is reverent. “Yeah. It turned out.” He sounds proud. Then he gets critical. “I should have asked Chelle to use a slightly smaller aperture but it’s okay because everything’s pretty much in the same frame, and if I sharpen nobody will notice the softness on the tip of the boots. I wish I’d had my hand a little more relaxed but it’s okay. I’m going to have to do some dodging and burning and—”
I grab his hand on the mouse. “Boston. It’s perfect.”
My eyes meet his and there’s a spark. He leans in. “Abby.” His lips are full and sensual and soft. I remember that mine are not and lick along my bottom one, automatically checking for more rough skin, and he sucks in a breath. “Abby.” His voice is rough.
“Yes?” My voice is soft, shy, but I can’t look away. His eyes are so nice, the lashes are long, the color clear and bold. The look he gives me is different from that cocky, confident stare the other day, when I ended up teasing him about the blow job. Today it’s something fiercer, but softer at the same time, a request and a question.
He strokes my bottom lip with one thumb and smiles, and that sends spires of arousal through my pelvis. His eyes burn into me, and then he brushes his lips over mine, a soft swipe, just a slight moment without tongue or pressure, but it’s enough to make me moan.
He pauses and rubs my lip again, back and forth, and I stick out my tongue and lick along his thumb, a sensuous path that says more than words.
“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, then his lips are back, harder, and his tongue is in my mouth, and we’re kissing for real. It’s hard and hot and unbelievable.
He stands up and pulls me to my feet, and it’s déjà vu to the club, when he took my hand and asked me to dance, but this time I move into him instead of back into my chair, and press my chest and hips to his. He puts his hands behind my head, wraps his fingers in my hair, and pulls my mouth to him and we kiss again, a long kiss, our bodies so close there’s no air between us, our mouths so close we’re sharing the same oxygen and getting dizzy because we’re not taking any time to breathe.
And then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. He lifts his head and steps back. I widen my eyes and brush the back of my hand across my lips, wiping my spit and his. “Boston?”
But he looks away. “See you tomorrow, Abby. Okay?”
“Uh… yeah. Sure. Tomorrow.” My mind scrambles to keep up. Apparently we’re done kissing, and I need to leave. Okay. I pick up my laptop bag and purse, but turn back at the door, my hand on the knob.
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