by R. Linda
Wren’s jaw dropped open and her cheeks tinged pink. “Me?”
“Si.”
“Oh, umm... I’m flattered but,” she looked down at herself and gave a sad smile, “I don’t think your designs would fit me.”
My stomach dropped. For the first time since I’d known her, she looked disappointed with her appearance. Which was total bullshit. She was fucking perfect the way she was.
Giovanni waved her concerns away. “Nonsense. I have a new line for real women with real figures. And you, bella, are perfect.”
His stylist returned then with a rack of women’s clothes and placed it beside the clothes I’d be wearing, and we were taken off to the side where he had a small beauty studio set up before Wren had a chance to respond.
The makeup artist ushered me to one bed and Wren to the other before placing a divider between the two beds.
“Strip,” she said with her strong accent.
“Excuse me?” Wren gasped, and I chuckled before removing my jeans and shirt. I’d been through this enough times to know what was expected, particularly from someone as prominent as Giovanni. He had clauses in his contracts that gave him full control over hair, make-up, and personal grooming. I’d read the contract and it stated very specifically that everything would be taken care of the day of the shoot.
“Strip,” the makeup artist repeated again.
“Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?” Wren asked. “Or maybe tell me your name at least.”
I barked out a laugh.
“She’s a funny one.” Giovanni chuckled. “This is Innes. She doesn’t speak much English, so you’ll have to forgive her, caro.”
Wren sighed, and I heard the rustling of her clothes as she stripped too.
We received the full treatment. We were primped and preened, waxed and plucked until everything was perfect in Giovanni’s eyes.
“Oh my gosh. You do this for a living?” Wren’s voice called from the bed on the other side of the divider. “Ahh,” she screamed before I could answer. She hissed out a breath and panted, “I think you just ripped my vagina off.”
I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing, suddenly grateful I was a male and only needed to make sure my chest was smooth. That was until Luciana, Innes’s helper, pointed to my boxer shorts and signaled for me to drop them.
I shook my head. She nodded.
I broke out into a cold sweat. Guessed that’s what I got for finding Wren’s discomfort amusing.
Maybe she’d just tidy things up. That I could handle. That I’d done before when I modeled for an underwear company. I closed my eyes because I couldn’t watch.
“Wren,” I choked out, barely able to talk. “Tell me a story.”
“Kind of busy over here being mutilated,” she bit out.
“And I’m about to be. Come on, I need a distraction. Right now.” I peeled open my eyes. Luciana stood beside me stirring the wax pot. Shit. “Please.”
“What do I get out of it?” Wren called thoughtfully.
“Anything you want. Just distract me.” I squeezed my eyes shut again and covered my junk with my hands as if that’d stop the sadist from torturing me.
Wren was silent. Luciana had stopped moving beside me. Yet I was too afraid to open my eyes. I held my breath and waited. Why was nothing happening? Had they decided not to go through with it? Material—a towel, maybe—was draped over my hips and I flinched on instinct thinking it would be hot wax.
The scent of strawberries and coconut filled my nose. Wren? And warm hands cupped my face before her soft lips captured mine. Her breath was hot as her fingers slid into my hair, pulling and tugging on the strands. My hands found her waist through the silky robe she was wearing and pulled her as close as I could without physically dragging her on top of me.
She was the perfect distraction.
I barely noticed when Luciana removed the towel from my waist. Didn’t even flinch when she covered my junk in hot wax. All I could focus on was Wren’s taste and how desperately I wanted to slip my hands inside her robe, and then...
“Motherfucker!” I tore my mouth away from Wren and screamed. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
Not even Wren’s perfect mouth and sweet taste was enough to distract me from the fact my balls had just ripped from my body. I sucked in a breath and grit my teeth as the sadist spread more wax.
“God no.” I cringed, and Wren laughed softly. I opened my eyes and was pleasantly surprised to find her hovering over me, smiling. I wrapped a hand around the back of her and pulled her down to me while Luciana continued extracting my manhood from my body one strip at a time.
Chapter Twenty Six
WREN
I was beat. Physically and mentally exhausted. After spending the entire day in Giovanni’s studio being waxed bare from head to toe, not to mention the makeup and hairstyle changes; my scalp hurt, my face burned. All I wanted to do was sleep for a week, but we still had to get back to our hotel.
The photoshoot was long and stressful. My art looked beautiful on display in the background, though. Giovanni had it set up to look like an art gallery. Tate looked like a god modeling the suits. He looked every bit the art connoisseur posing in the mock gallery.
My heart beat out of my chest, and I could envision my art on display in my own gallery one day.
The shoot itself was harder than it looked. The clothing changes, the ridiculous poses. Tate was a pro, though. He didn’t complain once. He twisted and turned and contorted his body any way Giovanni asked him to. He smiled. He scowled. He smoldered.
Holy cow did he smolder.
It was a look I’d never get out of my head. The photographer had told him to make love to the camera. I snorted at the incredibly cliché line, but Tate’s eye locked onto mine, and I just about burst into flames. There was no making love to the camera, but I felt it in his gaze.
He was making love to me with his eyes.
And the photographer and Giovanni loved it.
That was the moment they decided to shoot me with Tate.
I was nervous enough just putting on Giovanni’s gorgeous designs, let alone attempting to pose and look sexy. I couldn’t smolder or make love to the camera like Tate could.
I just looked constipated.
Having Tate there helped, though. He eased my fears, talked me through it, had fun with me, and before I knew it, we were laughing and joking and not at all paying attention to the photographer’s request, but Giovanni ate it up.
“Pure gold,” he said as he walked us out to the driver who was waiting for us. “You two are magic together.” Then he shook Tate’s hand and whispered in his ear.
Tate nodded and smiled. “I will,” he said and stood back for Giovanni to kiss my cheeks.
“You are an angel.” He released me and opened the door for me to slide into the car.
Once I was in, I slumped back in my seat and waited for Tate to climb in next to me. I yawned and rested my head on Tate’s shoulder.
“So, no exploring tonight?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?”
He lifted his shoulder. “No.”
“I want to sleep for eternity after that. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Used to it I guess.”
I stifled another yawn.
“Get some sleep,” he said, and he didn’t need to tell me twice. I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep before we’d even left Giovanni’s incredibly long driveway with Tate’s fingers tracing circles on my knee.
I woke to darkness. Sitting up, I felt around me for Tate. I was no longer resting on his shoulder. Nor was I being jostled around in a moving vehicle. I was in a bed. Reaching over, I fumbled around until I found the light switch.
I was in my room.
When did that happen? How did that happen? I didn’t remember getting out of the car or walking through the lobby.
Had Tate carried me?
I located my phone and checked the time. Two a.m. It was too late to call him now, wasn’t i
t?
Yes. It was definitely too late.
As I placed my phone down on the nightstand, I saw the notification for a text message. Pulling it open, I read the message from Tate.
Tate: Text me when you wake up
I couldn’t text now. I didn’t want to wake him.
I stared at my phone. Chewed my lip.
Got up and grabbed a glass of water.
Walked out onto the balcony and looked up at the stars in the cloudless sky.
It was a beautiful, clear night. Still warm.
“You didn’t text.” I jumped out of my skin at the sound of Tate’s voice.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” I turned and walked over to the barrier between us.
He was sitting there, shirtless again, in nothing but gray sweatpants and a whiskey glass on the table beside him.
“I’m awake.”
“I can see that.”
“You should have messaged.”
I rolled my eyes and walked back inside. If he wanted a message so bad, I’d give him one.
Me: I’m awake.
Tate: Thank you.
Me: Happy now?
Tate: Yes.
I grabbed my pizza t-shirt and got changed.
Tate: How was your sleep?
I poured myself a wine and settled back onto my bed to respond.
Me: Wonderful. Did you carry me to my room?
Tate: Yes.
Me: Why didn’t you wake me?
Tate: You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.
Me: Thank you, and thanks for today. I appreciate it. And I’ll never be able to repay you.
Tate: I can think of a few things.
Me: Like what?
Tate: Why don’t you come over and find out.
Were we flirting? This felt a lot like flirting.
Tate:
