Model Behavior

by Tamara Morgan

  He grabbed her free hand—the one not holding the cup of hot liquid she could potentially toss into his face—and tugged, pulling her into his lap. Before she could offer so much as a squeak of protest, he had his arms around her, binding her in place against him. To look at this woman, you’d think holding her would be like caging a bird. She’d flutter and peck, all bones and beak, until you let her go again.

  The reality was so much better than that—so much better than he’d allowed himself to imagine these past five years. Her long limbs weren’t bony at all, her plumage an expanse of skin so silky it made him long to sink inside her and never leave. He wanted to bury his nose in her long black hair and memorize the way she smelled. He wanted to bury less visible parts inside the softly parting thighs on top of his, giving pleasure in equal proportions to taking it.

  And instead of fighting him, she was curling into his body, her hands exploring his chest and shoulders as if taking the measure of him as a man.

  She was faking, of course.

  He knew it, and he also knew why. She thought that if he gave in and fucked her before the napkin’s list of requirements was up, it somehow didn’t count. As if hot and messy sex, sex without consequences, would nullify his feelings.

  He gripped her thigh with an intensity that probably surpassed the situation, his fingers firm as he moved upward toward the heated space between her legs. “Is this what you want, love?” he asked, his voice raspy. Even though his goal was to get her away from his lap, he wasn’t immune to the pressure of her ass against his groin. “Do you want me to slip my fingers inside you right here at the breakfast table?”

  “That’s a good start.” She growled and opened her legs farther, allowing him to move up her thigh to the tiny strip of lace that made up the only barrier between him and the bliss of her cunt. “Although what I really want is for you to throw this tray to the floor and fuck me properly.”

  “I’d be happy to comply,” he murmured, nuzzling his nose along the side of her neck. He planted a slow, leisurely kiss along her jaw and worked up to her ear, his lips savoring the taste of her the entire way up. “But first, I’m going to tell you how you make me feel.”

  She pulled away, her legs clamping tight around his hand. He laughed at the idea of that being a punishment—being forever encased between her glorious thighs—and used his free hand to brush the hair from her nape, his fingers skimming the incline of her shoulder. With a tiny nudge, he dropped the thin strap of her dress away, leaving him free to run his touch across the softness of her upper breast. That gentle swell of skin and flesh rose and fell in an erotic dance as her breath caught.

  “No, don’t fight it,” he said, when she made a move to jerk away. “We got up early enough that there’s plenty of time. I have all morning to talk about my feelings.”

  “They better include the words turgid and throbbing, or I’m plugging my ears.”

  “Hmm, that could be a challenge, but I’ll try.” He twitched the fingers currently clamped between her legs, eliciting a squeak of protest and a slap on the arm. “Before I met you, my veins were turgid, swollen with my own importance. I thought there was nothing in this world that could fill me with a throbbing happiness the same way my work does. But I was wrong.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You aren’t doing it right.”

  “No?” He was unable to suppress his delight at the scowl that settled over her face. For a model, Livvie had very few facial expressions—she usually bounced between annoyed and only slightly less annoyed—and he liked them both the best. “How would you phrase it?”

  “I want to stick my turgid, throbbing cock inside you.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I think that covers the gist of it.”

  “It’s not very creative.”

  She got up out of his lap with a sound that was both a laugh and a huff. “All right, then. Have it your way. We’ll spend a long, leisurely morning at my apartment instead, where I plan to gather my nearest, dearest and most gorgeous friends.”

  “I’m not going to ogle them.” He picked up his bacon once more. “I only have eyes for one woman.”

  “Too bad the rest of your body parts haven’t been as selective over the years.”

  He schooled his features to give nothing away, though he felt his jaw tighten at the accusation. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Livvie turned things into a numbers game. “You’re jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “Then what are you, Livvie?”

  She grabbed the bacon from his hand, crunching it between her twin rows of perfect, glinting teeth. “I’m a realist. You forget that I’ve seen you work your magic before. You’re good at telling people exactly what they want to hear—great at it, in fact. You’d say anything if you thought it’d make it easier to reach your goals.”

  He had to laugh. “You think this is easy for me? You think I woke up yesterday morning and thought, Today’s the day I try to get into Olivia’s pants—I wonder if I should get a haircut first?”

  She held his gaze with a ferocity he couldn’t help but admire. “I think you underestimate how attractive my friends can be when they pull out all the stops. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, darling. We models have a way of bringing a man to his knees.”

  He smiled sweetly. “If you want me on my knees, all you have to do is ask.”

  Predictably, she didn’t.

  Chapter Four

  As it turned out, her friends were useless. Every last one of them.

  “Mal—what are you doing?” Livvie hissed. Her friend Mallory, a willowy, dark-skinned beauty she’d known longer than anyone, came into the kitchen with an apology on her face. “He’s supposed to be drowning in a sea of eager pussy by now. It sounds like you’re discussing Nietzsche in there.”

  “That’s because we are discussing Nietzsche.” Mal reached for the coffeemaker and poured herself another cup, careful not to splash on the purple satin robe that was the only thing separating her from the air. One would think that three tall, gorgeous women in various states of undress would make a man at least a tiny bit unsettled, but Ben was standing in the living room, chatting politely with Nicoletta, his eyes not once straying below her neckline, even though she was immodestly covered in a tank top and tap shorts. “He was asking about the quote Megan Fox had tattooed on her rib cage. He said he was thinking about getting one himself. It’s funny—he never struck me as an inked sort of guy before.”

  Nuh-uh. No way. He was not in her living room discussing tattoo options right now.

  “Some friends you are,” Livvie said. “And how can he not be drawn to Nicoletta’s rack right now? I can’t even be around her for very long without wanting to give her tits a squeeze. They’re fantastic.”

  “Maybe he’s not into redheads.” Mal took a sip of coffee.

  Oh, he was into redheads. He loved redheads. At least three of every five women he dated were topped with some sort of vibrant hue of orange. Livvie didn’t know Nicoletta that well yet—she was the newest addition to the agency they all shared, a Midwesterner oozing down-home appeal—but she’d invited her over with the firm belief that Ben wouldn’t be able to resist her ginger charms.

  But he was resisting them. He was resisting them so hard.

  She stormed into the living room, taking a moment to glare at Perdita, who’d not only tossed a long T-shirt on over her bikini but sat with a sketchpad on her lap, busy with her pencil and paper. She was only a blonde, but she had a sweetly Southern twang that drew most men in like honey.

  “Oh, hey, Perdie. Nice to see you hard at work. Don’t let me get in your way there.”

  Perdita just laughed and patted the couch next to her. “Don’t get
your panties in a twist, Liv. We tried our best, but there’s only so many times a girl can shake her derriere at an uninterested audience before she starts to lose her self-confidence. Are you sure he’s not gay?”

  “He’s not gay.” She sank onto the couch cushion, mentally crossing off the third item on the napkin list. She’d obviously overestimated the efficacy of riling a man up before sending him into an apartment of scantily clad women. “The erection he had pressed against my ass this morning was very much the product of a heterosexual mind.”

  Even though he couldn’t hear them from the other side of the room, Ben looked over at her, an amused lift to his brow. She brought a finger to her temple and lifted it in a gesture of mock salute. He could have this one. The day was still young.

  Mallory flopped on Livvie’s other side and peered across her to where Perdie was engrossed in her drawing. “Ooh, did you finish it yet?”

  “Almost.”

  Livvie leaned in interestedly. If Perdita ever decided to stop modeling, there was no doubt in any of their minds she could become an artist. She spent most of her free time with a sketchbook in hand, and she never failed to blow them away with her talent. “What are you drawing?”

  Perdie flipped the pad of paper so she could see. “I don’t know that I approve of a man with a tramp stamp, but this one’s kind of badass, right?”

  Her heart sank. He was going to do it. He was really going to walk into a tattoo parlor and permanently mark his skin in the mistaken belief that it might somehow change her mind about them. Number four. Get a tramp stamp. A big one.

  And with...”Is that a unicorn?”

  “A badass unicorn,” Ben corrected, coming to stand over them. “Do you mind?” he asked politely, and took the proffered paper when Perdita murmured her assent. “I figure I might as well go all the way if I’m going to do it. If I really wanted to push things, I’d go full butterfly, but I think that might break my mother’s heart. What do you think, Livvie?”

  She groaned. A unicorn with dragon wings and a robustly flowing mane was still a unicorn. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Here—maybe we should test it to see how it’ll look.” Without waiting for any of them to stop him, he lifted the dark blue sweater that clung to his skin as if it were grafted on and the even tighter T-shirt he had on under it. Mal and Perdie let loose some catcalls while Nicoletta blushed from afar, but he didn’t seem to register any of them.

  Livvie had seen him without his shirt on before, of course, at various pool parties and during an incredible weekend at the Hamptons with friends a few months back, but the sight of him was so much worse now that she’d kissed him. And now that he’d had his hand so far up her skirt she could have sneezed and felt his fingers inside her.

  From a purely physical perspective, Benjamin Meyers was everything she’d ever wanted in a man. Nothing and no one could compare to the way he looked in the middle of her living room right now, effortlessly comfortable in his own skin. He was showing off, yes, the muscles of his abdomen rippling as he twisted to press the paper against his lower back, but that didn’t make him any less glorious a sight to behold.

  If anything, it made him more. He looked good, and he knew it. And he was proud of it. And he was willing to mar that perfectly golden skin with a hideous unicorn prancing across his lumbar region.

  “Put the stupid drawing away. You’re not getting a unicorn tattoo.”

  “But it’s cute!” Nicoletta said.

  “Yeah,” Perdita protested. “I worked hard on it.”

  “If I met a guy with that on his back, I’d assume he either had a great sense of humor or was a hell of a fun drunk. No matter which, he’s getting laid.”

  “Mal—you’re not helping.”

  “What?” She winked at Livvie, thereby solidifying herself as worst friend of all time. “I’m just saying. I like a guy who can laugh at himself.”

  “So we’re all agreed?” Ben asked. “Unicorn trumps random Nietzsche quote?”

  “Yes.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, fuck yeah.”

  “Livvie?” He turned his falsely innocent gaze her way. “You get the final say. You’re the one who’s going to have to look at it for the rest of your life.”

  All the emotions of the past twelve hours came rushing to the surface, rage and lust and irritation and the overwhelming sensation that the entire world was spinning out of her control. Of course she’d always planned on seeing Ben for the rest of her life—that was a given. They were supposed to be well preserved and fabulous into their eighties, still meeting every two months for dinner and drinks as if nothing could ever change between them.

  But things were changing. Things had changed. Even now, she felt a strain in his presence that hadn’t been there before, a heaviness in the air that threatened to choke her.

  This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t fun.

  “You can get a hundred unicorn tattoos if you want. I don’t care. It’s not going to erase the fact that the two of us together is a bad idea.” There. She’d said it—almost shouted it. It was out and there was no taking it back, not even when Ben let the paper flutter to the ground, the room suddenly so silent they could hear it brush the floor. “I’m sorry, Ben. I know you think me playing along with this is going to somehow magically change my mind, but we’re still the same people we were yesterday and the week before that and the week before that. I love my job and my freedom. You love your money and your position. That’s not the foundation of a great romance. That’s the fast track to a ruined friendship. To nothing.”

  Although none of her friends dared move—not even to breathe—Ben sighed and looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself here?”

  She thought at first that he meant the two of them, that she was seeing too far into the romantic future than the moment warranted, but he spoke again, softer this time. “We’re only on the fourth item. We’ll get to the rest in due time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Number four is the task where you want me to prove that I’m not just some self-obsessed pretty boy, right? That I can let myself go enough to be present in the moment?” He grabbed his T-shirt and pulled it back on, adopting the same casual air he’d had when he disrobed. “Well, then, I accept. I can understand why you might have reservations on this score. I admit I spend a disproportionately large amount of time in front of the mirror.”

  Mallory snickered, bringing Livvie back to a sense of her surroundings. “That’s not what I—”

  “I am a self-obsessed pretty boy, and I’m sorry for it. I’ve always put too much stock in building my image, in filling my bank account and my passport instead of the things that really matter. You, love. You’re what really matters.”

  He grabbed her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. She watched, mesmerized, as he dropped a light kiss on those digits, sending ripples of sensation through her. Like their kiss—that first kiss, that romantic kiss—this gesture was designed to soothe and put her at ease.

  It didn’t work. Although she noticed a quiver in her knees and up her spine, ending with a throb between her legs, ease was the last thing she felt right now.

  “I can tell you this much for sure. If you’re still not convinced by the time we get to the end of the list, if you still think you could never see your way past our friendship, then we’ll call it off. No napkin. No sex. Eight rounds of laser tattoo-removal treatment.” His smile wasn’t understanding this time so much as it was blinding in how well it knew her. “We’ll go back to exactly the way things were before. You have my promise on that.”

  Yes, but did he have hers? He might be able to go back to sitting across from her and casually discussing his latest female conquest or six-month international sojourn, but she was
n’t so sure she could go back to hearing about it. Not without losing a part of herself in the process.

  “Well, I like it.” Mallory jumped to her feet, clapping her hands and jolting Livvie out of her stupor. “So the unicorn wins?”

  Livvie had never felt so trapped in her life. Ben wouldn’t let this drop. Her body wouldn’t let her forget. And her heart would never be the same.

  Fortunately, the sound of doors being closed all around her was one she knew well. It was sink or swim. It was survival of the fittest. It was move forward or die.

  “No way,” she said firmly. “If I get to pick, Ben darling, you’re going full butterfly.”

  Chapter Five

  “Ouch.” Livvie looked down at where Ben clutched her fingers, squeezing so hard she could feel her blood flow coming to a halt. “You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He loosened his grip enough to intertwine his fingers with hers. She chose to ignore the meaning behind it, this holding of the hands, the way he seemed to want to force affection for nothing more than affection’s sake. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain as thousands of tiny needles pierce the skin of my lower back. Is this better?”

  She made a big show of peeking over her shoulder to where the short spiky-haired woman who’d introduced herself as Dee continued to fill in the tattoo’s outline. It was hard to believe that those fluttering wings would flap across Ben’s spine for the rest of his life, but he’d laid down the money for the tattoo without a moment’s hesitation.

  This was a decent tattoo parlor—clean, from the looks of it, featuring several celebrity visages beaming next to bared body parts on the wall—but she’d balked at the door, wondering if it was too late to rethink the wisdom of making a break for it.

  There was just so much permanency in a tattoo. Ben couldn’t call up his assistant later and demand she take it away, and no number of his charming smiles would turn back the hands of time. Tomorrow morning, he’d wake up and look at himself in the mirror, realizing what that tattoo meant.