by Iris Blaire
I scoff. “Of course. I liked them, hello.”
“And I was jealous I hadn’t once seen that side of you.”
I open my mouth, but his confession catches me off guard. “You what?”
“So, I took the most feminine thing I could find in your bathroom and I embarrassed you with it.”
My head is reeling. “That is… wow. So misogynistic.”
“Tell me about it.” He rubs his hand over his head as he stares at me. “This isn’t an excuse, but no one ever told me how to treat girls when I was a teenager. I thought I was doing alright.”
I laugh in disbelief, shaking my head.
“And then I had a couple of hard slaps with reality and I learned the truth really damn quick.” He sighs. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Wow, Jaime.” I inhale deeply, tuggineg on the end of my braid. “That took some guts to tell me the truth.”
He sits on the bed, clasping his hands in between his legs. “You really shouldn’t forgive me.”
“Probably not.” I quickly change the subject. “So why did you steal my underwear and hang them on the fence?”
He slowly raises a dark eyebrow. “I’m pretty wrung for confessions at the moment.”
I push myself away from the desk, brushing my fingers along the waistband of my jeans. Slowly, I pop the button and unzip my fly.
His jaw drops.
“I think you made a promise.”
He watches as I slide my jeans past my hips and step out of them, leaving them in a pool on the floor. My heart’s hammering in my chest, but I can’t stop now.
I have to go through with this.
When I reach him, I slide onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. He looks like he’s trying to formulate words, but nothing is leaving that gorgeous mouth of his.
The light of the chandelier catches his eyes, and for the first time, I see how many earthy colors are inside of them.
“Brit, I… I can’t do this.”
I cock my head. That was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“Cameron would murder me.”
Oh, please.
I don’t say that, exactly, but I know he can read my face. I trace my finger along his soft bottom lip, and he shudders. “Here’s a little lesson in feminism.” He rolls his eyes as if he knows where this is going, but I continue. “I’m twenty-two and completely capable of making my own decisions. I’m also not Cameron’s property. Got it?”
“Brit…”
I trace my finger down the center of his chest, and his eyes flutter shut. “I’m not asking you to fall in love with me, Jaime.” I lean forward, my nose brushing his. “You’ve been at this game for far too long, and I’m finally showing you that two can play.” When his eyes open, I whisper, “So play with me.”
It’s enough. He cups the back of my neck and pulls my mouth to his. It isn’t like the kiss we shared last night. He’s rough and needy, biting my lip, sliding his tongue into my mouth and tasting me over and over.
His hand slides up my shirt and he softly palms my breast. I release a sharp gasp when his thumb rubs against the fabric covering my nipple.
“Oh, God,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Oh, God, this can’t be happening.” He cups both of my breasts and looks down at them. “You know, I’ve fantasized about touching you this way.”
I lean into his ear. “I have some clues for you now.” I press a kiss to his neck. “Clues about my fantasies.”
Just like that, I slide off of him, turning to retrieve my pants. When I’ve slipped them on and buttoned them, he says breathlessly, “I give up, Brit. What do I have to do?”
I study him. He looks so helpless, leaning back on his hands, begging me with his eyes, his erection straining against his jeans. I nearly melt into a puddle at the site of him. I’ve never seen him look so desperate. Not in twenty years.
“You’ll get them with your next apology,” I say, turning on my heel and walking out of his room.
When I’m halfway down the stairs to the second floor, I press my hand to my chest, feeling the thrum of my heart. And then I laugh to myself.
This might be the best idea Evan has ever had.
Chapter Eight
Evan
Every time I return to the house, Britain finds somewhere even more disturbing to shoot.
This time, it’s the gardens.
You wouldn’t normally think gardens to be creepy, now would you? But the Veda gardens are different. First of all, they’re monstrous. The staff here is only hired seasonally, and because the gardens aren’t open to the public, only the outer, visible edges of them are really taken care of.
Once you get in closer to the center of the gardens, they are wild and untamed. The hedges have grown high enough to block out any direct sun in the part of the garden that Britain chose.
Appropriately, the section of the garden we are going to be shooting in has a huge, aged gargoyle statue watching over it. In the center is an old three-tiered fountain, stagnant water covered in algae and moss. The unruly plants are mostly bare, but still make my insides twist when I look at them. The gnarled, spiky vines have dominated the space because they’ve been left unattended for so long.
Dallas and I will be partaking in a gothic-Victorian style shoot. The dress I am wearing mimics the style of the old Victorian dresses, but mine is thinner and entirely made of chiffon, meaning that it’s completely see-through.
And, of course, I am wearing nothing underneath. The only thing that’s keeping me from not being exposed to everyone right now is the jacket I have wrapped around me.
Dallas has it much easier. He is wearing an older rendition of what he wears practically every day—beige pants and a white button-down shirt.
“Is it weird being naked in front of your ex?” I turn. It’s Ella. We’re both watching as Britain and some of the AA crew set up the portion of the garden—throwing cold buckets of water all over the ground to make everything really muddy.
Oh, joy.
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m naked in front of everyone always.”
She shrugs. “I know that. It would still bother me, though.”
Being naked in front of Dallas isn’t the issue. It’s being on top of him while I’m naked that is. While the set is undergoing maintenance, Dallas stands next to the gargoyle with the other male models. He keeps his eyes off me as they talk, casually sipping the coffee in his hand.
“What a douche.”
“What?” says Ella.
“What? Nothing.”
“Is he really a douche or are you just saying that to make yourself feel better?”
“Shut up, Ella.”
She grins and slyly runs her finger over my arm. “We could always make out again and make him jealous.”
I scoff. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, no. They don’t deserve to see that.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, and struts away.
I turn back to the boys, who stand around the gargoyle like they’re the cool kids in town. Dallas’s eyes catch mine. He stoops to pick up something from behind the gargoyle, then, to my surprise, walks toward me.
He hands me a cup of coffee. “Soy latte. I know you like it warm instead of hot so I waited a bit to give it to you.”
I hesitate before taking the coffee. “Umm… thank you.”
He grins. His eyes are focused on me to the point where I have to look away.
“Your makeup looks amazing,” he says. He reaches forward like he’s about to tilt my chin to get a better look, and then retracts his hand. “I’ve never seen it like this before.”
The artist told me today that Britain wanted an all-natural look, which is much unlike all of my other shoots from last semester, being that I was still trying to hide who I really was. My makeup was always super dark and gaudy.
“Your hair, too.”
I roll my eyes.
“What?”
/> “They didn’t do my hair today. Britain said they didn’t need to for some reason.”
He smiles, and I wish he wouldn’t. Oh, I wish he wouldn’t. “Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”
I don’t say anything back to him. I can’t, really. Instead I just drink my coffee—which is made perfectly—until Britain tells me to take off my jacket and walk over to her.
Dallas grabs my coffee for me and I strip off my jacket, walking to the fountain where Britain and a couple of other crew members stand. They all have buckets.
“Oh, no.”
Britain winces. “Sorry.”
“Oh, no, no.”
“Close your eyes and hold your breath. I promise it won’t be too bad.”
“You suck,” I say before holding my breath and shutting my eyes, but the shock of the cold water surprises me, and I end up gasping and choking.
I can hear the rest of the models cheering and whistling as I’m blinking water out of my eyes. Britain pounds me on the back a bit and says, “You got this, champ.”
The dress was see-through before, but now it looks like I’m wearing nothing but Saran-wrap. Britain has me lie down in the mud for a couple of solo shots, wallowing in the grime like I’m some strange dirt-loving Victorian chick.
“This shoot is the strangest thing you’ve made me do,” I say amidst her instructions.
“Shut up and do as I say,” she barks. “Tilt your head to the right. More neck. There.”
Britain’s acting high off of something. Determined and manic. “Okay, you’re naked, but I still want you gothic and sweet all at once. Can you do that?” she says as though her life depends on me nailing this image—an image I know for a fact A.J. won’t even want.
“I get it. Just shoot the damn pictures,” I tell her.
She doesn’t have me posing solo for long. Thank God, because I’m starting to freeze my ass off and could use a little body heat, even if it is Dallas’s.
The second I think this, I want to take it back, because he starts to walk over and I can’t handle this.
I start to shiver.
He looks almost as determined as Britain, which is terrifying. It’s like he’s asking something from me and I have no idea what.
In order not to lose my mind, I keep my eyes off Dallas and turn to Britain. “What do you want us to do?”
For the first time today, she lets her camera fall. “I want the two of you to do what you do best, as insensitive as that sounds. I want you to make chemistry.”
I wince. The other models have stopped talking, all of them staring at us. I know it’s because they’re aware we’ve broken up, which makes this shoot the juiciest thing they’ll see the entire time they’re in Boston.
All Dallas has to do is brush my jaw with his knuckle and his skin is shooting wild electric currents through my body. As we kneel in the cold mud, his eyes keep me scorching hot. He leans into my neck and says, “This is just work. I promise I’m not seducing you.”
His slick tongue rolls up my neck, and my eyes flutter shut in ecstasy.
“Don’t do this to me,” I plead in a whisper so no one else can hear us.
“I have to.” His teeth graze my earlobe.
Our lips meet in a wild frenzy. I open my mouth. He moans into me, and I know he has to be lying. This isn’t just work for him. This isn’t just about the camera.
He pushes me back into the mud and straddles me. I lift my arms over my head and arch my back, his name on my lips.
“We’re just working,” he mutters again, unbuttoning my dress and peeling it off my breasts. He slides off of me and pushes my legs open, situating himself in between them. Then he lowers his head, his mouth catching my nipple. The ache between my legs triples. I’m soaked. My body is desperate for him. His teeth graze my sensitive flesh and I bite back my moan.
Suddenly his lips are trailing lower and lower, over the fabric of my dress, my navel. He places a soft kiss on top of my covered clit.
Oh, fuck him. Fuck him and his fucking fuck work ethic.
He lifts my dress and spreads my legs further, thumbs massaging circles on the inside of my thighs. It’s like he’s getting ready to eat me out, except he lets the cold fabric of my dress pool where my legs meet. Leaning forward, he kisses the inside of my knee, and then moves upward, licking and sucking my flesh. I can’t breathe anymore. I know he smells me—know he’s aware of how much I need him. He bites down hard—maybe to punish me—and my fingers sink down into the dirt as a whimper escapes my throat.
“Again.” I mutter the word so softly that I don’t think he hears me until I feel the pinch of his teeth—closer this time—so close that I know he must be tasting my arousal. I thread my fingers through his hair to pull him closer. I don’t care who is watching—maybe it turns me on even more. This coyness is killing me.
But he doesn’t, because Dallas, at his core, is a tease. Not because it’s in his job description. Because he gets off on it.
Pushing away the fabric of my dress, his tongue swipes right along the edge of my center, just hidden enough so no one can see. And then he pulls away.
“We’re good,” I hear Britain say, and I open my eyes.
Dallas kneels above me, staring at me. Slowly, he licks his bottom lick, then reaches forward and pulls my dress back over my chest, buttoning it.
I do nothing to help him, just watch as he works with each button, his face deadpan.
Doing my best to not act like a spaz, I try and control my breathing. I glance around at the other models. To my surprise, they’re all standing or sitting on stone benches, completely silent and enthralled by us.
“So, folks,” Britain says, turning to the models. “Learn anything today?”
Ella is the first to tear her eyes away from us and speak up. “You really can’t force the chemistry, can you?”
“What do you mean?” Britain asks.
“What she means,” Jaime begins, “Is that it isn’t about acting, or even about modeling. It’s about sex. And romance.”
For the first time ever at a shoot, I flush. I can feel the burn in my cheeks and know my face is turning bright red.
Britain shakes her head. “No, it’s not about sex. It’s about foreplay. Teasing out the foreplay. Elongating it, expanding it, enjoying it.”
A straight-faced Dallas stands and helps me up. I would think he wasn’t affected by the shoot at all if it weren’t for his impossible-to-hide erection. He grabs my coat for me and drapes it around my shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“I have to clean up,” he says, and makes his way toward the house, alone.
^^^^^
The one good thing about the shoot is that we’ve inspired the other models. So has Britain.
“Think of a story,” she says. “Imagine a romance between you and your partner, and play it out. Like role play.”
The weirdest, albeit still-sexy shoot that takes place today is the vampire shoot with Miguel and Delilah. Not because vampires aren’t seen as sexy, but because of all the fake blood that would instantly be a total turn off for me. Luckily, Delilah isn’t distracted by the gore, and she and Miguel make it work.
I’m only able to catch glimpses of the other shoots as I study in the corner for the rest of the day. Dallas’s presence is not existent—I wonder if he’s hiding out in whatever room he was given. I don’t even know which room he was given.
I decide that attempting to study here, especially as Britain starts the next shoot with Patrick and Jessica powdered up as ethereal ghosts, is next to impossible. So instead, I make my way back to the dorms, hoping that Miles will be in his room. What I really need now is a blissful, chaste distraction of studying, coffee, and maybe a little flirting.
I knock on Miles’s door. He opens it, and I study the book in his hand.
“Thoreau… really? Bleck,” I say before stepping into his room.
“Care for an evening of fine studying?” he asks, sitting on his bed. “Thore
au is the worst to read without a pretty girl right by my side. All of those heavy, illicit sex scenes… so hard to pick through alone.”
“Hardy har,” I say, sitting at his computer chair. But his joke gets me thinking—and not because Thoreau is like, the least sexy read in the history of literature.
“Where are your books?” he asks.
“I… I didn’t bring them. Actually, Miles….” I comb my fingers through my hair nervously. “I’m here to clarify something with you.”
He drops his book. “Sounds intense.”
“You were really joking when you asked if I was a porn star from the East Park magazine, right?”
His eyebrows furrow like he has no idea where I’m going with this. And then he laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Have you been thinking about that all this time? I totally didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t think you’re a slut or anything.”
The word stings like a slap to the face. “Slut. Right.”
“Are you okay, Evan?” The boy does look really concerned. I guess I’m probably not making a whole lot of sense to him.
“Do you think all girls who pose naked are sluts?”
He pauses before answering. He must know it’s a trick question. “Well, maybe not sluts. Maybe they had a rough childhood that lead them to that life. Maybe they have daddy issues.”
I swallow. “You don’t think they’d do it just because they like to?”
“You thinking about posing naked or something, Evan?” He laughs as he tries to pull it off as a joke. “I’d pay money for that magazine.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You’d pay money for a magazine to look at a bunch of girls you deem as sluts in your head?”
He grows defensive, dropping his book and raising his hands. “Hey, now. They’re the ones who are taking their clothes off. Not me. What’s all this about, anyway?”
“Research,” I answer quickly.
“Biology research?”
“I have to go check out some books from the library, but I’ll be back, okay?”
“Umm… sure, Evan.”
But I don’t come back. I won’t ever come back. I never want to speak to Miles again.
I close his door and lean against the hallway wall, clenching my fists and trying not to cry. Slut. Miles thinks I’m a slut.
