“Carla?” A booming voice suddenly appeared, Vance Galligan offering a giant hand, as leathery as it was large. “How’s it all going?”
“Great!” I lied, Kellan stayed glued to my side like a sexy shadow. “Just wrapping up a few last minute details before we start the show.”
Vance was tall, athletic and nearly seventy years old. Still virile and fit, he’d come to designing outrageously sexy designer sportswear late in life, after his wife of thirty years left him for a younger man the same year his parents died in a plane crash in the Swiss Alps.
Devastated and beyond wealthy with his parents’ inheritance, Vance had emerged after a year of mourning to discover he had an aptitude for designing and he had the money to start his own line without any investors. Now, four years later, he was one of Miami’s hottest designers—and my biggest client.
“Crowd’s getting restless,” he said, insistently, as he had the last three times he’d popped backstage just to “see how things were going,” as he liked to passive-aggressively put it. “Is Hector here yet?”
I was about to explain when Kellan reached out a hand. “Hector’s chosen to work for another designer,” he interjected, making me want to leap in with my hands around his throat. “But Carla here has chosen me to replace him at the last minute. Is that…okay?”
Knowing it would look unprofessional of me to step in now, I merely held my breath and waited for Vance to blow his stack, fire me, call off the show, silently wondering how much of my deposit I could get back and would it be enough to rent a trailer at the Shady Pines Motor Court when all was said and done.
“Is that right?” Vance asked instead, looking from me to Kellan and back to Kellan again, giving him a good study. We both stood, anxiously, the music was throbbing, the other models clattering, their makeup and hair curlers on the nearby vanities. I could literally sense the crowd’s anticipation beyond the billowy white curtains separating backstage from the catwalk and, apparently, so could Vance.
“Then what are you waiting for?” he asked, clapping Kellan on the shoulders before giving me a glance that could only be described as withering. “Show’s about to start, kid. I hope you like short shorts.”
Remembering Kellan’s skin tight boxer briefs from the night before I couldn’t help but add, “Oh, he’s a big fan of them, right Kellan?”
As Vance disappeared to press the flesh with the various reporters, photographers and department store reps lining the catwalk, I followed Kellan to the rolling wardrobe, featuring several outfits bearing Hector’s name. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Kellan,” I huffed, ignoring his hairless chest and flawless abs as he quickly changed into a pair of metallic track shorts that would make a porn star blush.
“Putting on pants is pretty easy,” he said, wriggling into them as if they were made for him.
I slapped his bare bicep playfully, forgetting where I was and blushing under the attention of several of the other models. “You don’t blindside your boss like that in front of a client, you know?”
He shrugged into a sleeveless red life jacket, a size too small and all the better for it. “You call it blindsiding, Carla,” he mused cockily, grabbing the mask and snorkel that would complete his outfit. Leaning in, he had the good sense to whisper quietly, “I call it saving your sweet, sexy ass...again.”
With that, he turned around and joined the line of models just behind the curtain that, given the signal from the stage manager, magically opened onto a catwalk made to resemble a South Beach boardwalk.
I held my breath as the first few models advanced, tossing a shimmering, bling beach ball amongst themselves in bikinis so small, I could literally hear the crowd gasp—then applaud.
And thankfully, they never quite stopped.…
Chapter 8
Kellan
I looked for Carla first, the minute I was backstage. Amidst the bustle of the other models, each patting me on the back, I found her sagging against the nearest rolling wardrobe, her face flushed with relief.
Turning slightly to watch the other models drift away to swipe off their glittery makeup, I squeezed her hand amidst a rack of hanging plastic and asked, “You still mad?”
She snorted, squeezing my hand before releasing it just as Vance returned. “Jesus H. Christmas!” he bellowed, clapping each male model on the back before hugging the girls. “I’ve been waiting for this day for years and thanks to you kids, I couldn’t be happier?”
“You mean that, Vance?” she asked, accepting his grateful hug and being swallowed up by the virile old man.
“With every fiber of my being, sweetheart,” he said, winking as he turned back to me. His eyes narrowed beneath scrunching gray eyebrows. “And you, my friend. Might I have a word?”
Hand extended for a shake, he took it and gently dragged me behind a stack of cardboard boxes marked “beach balls” in hasty handwriting. “Sir?” I asked nervously, surprised by his sudden grouchiness.
I’d watched him from the catwalk when I could, between the snapping flashes and whirring cameras, that is, and saw nothing but smiles coming from his silver fox face. So why was he acting so cagey all of a sudden?
He leaned closer, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell me you were persona non grata at every other modeling agency in town, Kellan?”
“You…know about that?” I asked, shame-faced.
He clapped a big hand on my shoulder, his scowl turning to a grin in seconds flat. “You think I’m going to let someone parade around in my clothes and not check them out first, kid? I did a little digging while you were getting ready and the only dirt I could find is some BS about an incident when you were a kid?”
I literally sagged with relief. “I…it was years ago, sir.”
“Don’t tell me, kid,” he chuckled, a slight wheeze to his laugh. “Did a little time in the pen myself, while my friends were in college.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” he exclaimed. “Thought it would be fun to boost a car and joy ride around town while high on moonshine one night. Turns out it was the mayor’s car, and he didn’t take too kindly to me driving it into a ditch after I passed out. So don’t tell me about making some bad choices as a kid, ‘cause I’ve already got you beat!”
“That you do,” I said, relief making me cocky. “But if this fashion design thing doesn’t work out for you, we can always go on a mad crime spree to make some quick cash.”
He croaked out another wheezing laugh, punching me in the arm like a man half his age and leaving it sore for minutes after he breezed off. I watched him go, taking a moment behind the cardboard boxes to collect myself before emerging to find half the models gone, the other half going.
Only Carla remained behind, cataloging outfits for Vance’s staff to return to the warehouse properly. “What did Vance want?” she asked nervously, grabbing my sleeveless hoodie as I took it off to hang on the rolling wardrobe rack.
“Just to tell me he was a former jailbird too, once upon a time.”
“Really?”
I nodded and turned around, to slip out of my striped baggies and into the pair of track pants I’d worn backstage. When I spun back around again, I found her studying me curiously. “That must have meant a lot to you, Kellan, after getting so much shit from all the other modeling agencies in town.”
I paused, suddenly realizing that…yeah, yeah it had. “All the other agencies?” I teased her, sliding into my V-neck T-shirt. “I seem to remember a certain last-ditch effort modeling agency forcing me to be her Boy Friday until I saved her ass.”
She blushed, reaching for her purse as I slid on a pair of leather sandals. “I do feel bad about that, Kellan. And to apologize, I’d like to buy you dinner tonight.”
“No shit?” I asked, reaching for my backpack and eager for a shower. “Where at?”
“My place,” she giggled, scribbling something on a white envelope bearing the Sidelines Sports Apparel logo. “The address is on the back. Meet me there
at nine?”
“Sure,” I murmured, turning the envelope over and finding Hector’s name scrawled on the front. “Love to, but…what’s this?”
She was already breezing toward the door, turning with a whimsical smile. “Hector’s payout for the show,” she said, winking. “Don’t say I never gave you anything, okay?”
I chuckled, drifting in the opposite direction.
Word spreads quickly in a town like South Beach and the news of the Sidelines Sports Apparel show spread like wildfire. The text came on my way to dinner with Carla, from none other than her biggest competitor, Florida Faces.
I felt guilty even reading it, but sex was sex, and business was business. “Heard you had a great show,” the text began innocuously enough. “Congrats! We’re looking for fresh faces, so come join an agency that can take your career to the next level. Signed Devon Williams, founder and CEO, Florida Faces.”
I winced at the terrible timing. Three days ago I would’ve jumped for joy, let alone at the opportunity. Now, on the way to what I’d hoped would be a romantic dinner with Carla, the text left a sour tang on my tongue. Florida Faces was the Neiman Marcus to Carla’s discount store of a modeling agency. They had all the biggest names, the prettiest faces and the best clients. Would my feelings for Carla be enough to keep me with Miami Models when an agency like Florida Faces wanted something, anything, to do with me? The answer would have to wait, at least until after dinner and—if I played my cards right—after breakfast, as well.
Chapter 9
Carla
“More wine?”
Kellan nodded. He looked extremely hot in his royal blue t-shirt over pinstriped, grey front panel shorts. He wore loafers, expensive and Italian. A gift, he’d explained, from a designer once upon a time.
I topped off his stemless wine glass with more of the expensive red I’d picked up on the way home from the fashion show, along with the assorted array of light to heavy hors d’ouvres we’d been enjoying since he arrived two hours earlier.
“I can’t get over your place,” he said, admiring the view of downtown South Beach from my funky patio, featuring ivy-covered trellises and a mismatched table and chairs set, jar candles flickering in every corner. Six stories below, traffic still oozed down Ocean Beach Boulevard in an endlessly snaking convoy of bright lights and long convertibles. “This place must cost a fortune.”
I shrugged, sinking down into the chair across from him. “We had a client a few years back, a big shot realtor who’d hire a few of my models to come by her open houses every weekend.”
Kellan laughed—an open and breezy sound—fresh. “Whatever for?”
I shrugged. “She just liked pretty, young people to be there, to attract other pretty, young people. She’d hire photographers as well, and posted it on social media, live tweeting it, stuff like that. Apparently, it worked and, as a ‘thank you’ present, she gave me a good deal on this place.”
He seemed impressed. “I imagine you in some high-rise condo in Miami Beach,” I sighed, drawing my knees up under my chin on the cozy wicker chair I was sitting in. I’d worn a long beaded skirt, saddle brown, and soft white panties I knew he could see if he wanted to.
He clucked his tongue, and rolled his eyes. “I might be,” he snorted over his wine glass, “If I didn’t piss through my money so easily.”
“Ah, the follies of youth,” I chastised him, teasingly.
“What are you talking about, Carla? You act like you’re sitting in a wheelchair or something.”
“I’m older than you by a good click.”
“A few years, maybe,” he said generously.
“Look,” I said, putting my wine down on the faded wooden table. “I think I’ve made it pretty clear you’re getting into my pants tonight, Kellan, so…you don’t have to sweet talk me.”
He arched one carefully manicured eyebrow, licking his lips wickedly. “Maybe I like my women older,” he purred, sliding a hand out to cover one knee. It was warm to the touch, soft and tender, and I couldn’t wait until I had it on my bare, trembling skin. Any minute now, I thought to myself, enjoying the pleasant anticipation of wet panties on my gleaming mound.
“I hope so, Kellan, because I like my men younger.”
He laughed, the velvet tones doing something magical to the butterflies already dancing in my belly. “I’ve noticed.” He turned, sliding the other hand on top of my knee and, gently, tugging my skirt up along my legs. “Now, where would you like to begin thanking me for saving your ass today? Out here, in plain sight, or somewhere more…private.”
“Why the rush?” I asked, finding it hard to sit still myself.
He reached for his wine glass, polishing it off dramatically. “The food was wonderful, Carla. The wine exquisite, but I’ve become addicted to your pussy, and I’m ready for a nightcap!”
By the time I’d finished laughing, we were standing with my head against his shoulder, his arm around my waist, drifting off the rooftop patio and into the living room.
We passed the coffee table, half-empty platters of Kalamata olives and feta cheese, brie en croute and sugared grapes, ricotta cheese and crackers still littering the top from our long, lingering dinner for two.
I slid my hand down into his, leading him past my home office and down a short hall, covered with framed photos of my hottest models on their most popular magazine covers, and into the bedroom.
It also featured candles on every available surface, filling the room with the warm honey glow of natural light as soft, billowy white curtains fluttered in the open window above the bed.
The tropical air was humid, my skin was already sticky, and his palm moist as I led him to the bed. It was a queen size, covered in soft white sheets, a different colored scarf already tied to each corner of the metal head and foot boards.
“Someone’s been busy,” he said, nodding toward them.
I reached for the top button of his shirt. “Not as busy as she’s about to be, Kellan.”
He jutted his chin out to strike a dramatic pose. After only knowing him a few days, it was one of my favorites. “It’s my ‘thank you’ gift, right Carla? Shouldn’t I be tying you to the bed right now?”
I finished unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it slowly off each shoulder before dragging it to the floor. “Oh, you will. Later. Much later. But I’m still hungry, Kellan, and you’ll make a delicious appetizer.”
His smile was breathtaking. Or would have been, that is, if I’d been able to breathe in the first place. “Later, huh? Don’t we have to work tomorrow?”
I bit my lower lip and shook my head, kneeling to slip off his loafers before unbuttoning his shorts. “I always give my models the day off after a show,” I explained, looking forward to the long, languid night—and morning—I had planned for the both of us.
“How generous of you,” he murmured absently.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, lover,” I teased, unzipping his pants. He was hard, stiff, and ready as I pulled down his shorts, the outline of his long, thick cock prominent against his European low rise briefs.
I would have loved to tease and tempt him over the briefs, but once he was tied up I’d have to cut them off and, well… they looked expensive. Instead I dragged them down, unceremoniously, saving the dramatics for once he was on his back.
“Speaking of appetizers,” he chuckled, nodding toward it.
I rolled my eyes. “All in good time, my boy. All in good time. Now, on your back…”
He did as he was told, sliding his smooth, bronzed body on top of the crisp white sheets. If only I had a camera, I could sell the picture of him for millions and retire early. Bronzed and beautiful, lean, hairless and sculpted, it was hard to believe he was all mine.
Quickly, lest he change his mind and flee into the arms of some skinny young bikini model, I tied his left ankle with a salmon colored silk scarf from my generous collection, his right with one of cinnamon red. Almost relieved that he could no longer flee, I tied his right wrist fi
rst before finally securing his left.
“I believe this is a first,” he murmured as I stood, stepping out of my favorite beaded sandals and sinking, with bare feet, onto the wooden floor of my bedroom.
“Bullshit,” I murmured, wriggling out of my skirt.
“It’s true,” he insisted. “Younger women are so boring in bed. I told you I prefer them experienced.”
“Nice word choice,” I murmured, unbuttoning my blouse as the tantric house music I’d chosen for the night’s playlist oozed, sultry and wicked in the background.
“I don’t want to blow it now,” he chuckled.
“Oh, you’re going to blow all right,” I teased, tossing aside my bra until I, too, was in just my birthday suit. “When I say you’re good and ready.”
“We’ll see about that,” he whispered as I slid one knee onto the bed, near his right ankle, drifting my fingertips along his glistening shin bone. His skin was moist in the tropical heat, and his body shivered as I continued my teasing trajectory up the length of his leg.
His balls hung, limp and shaved, they clung to one thigh as I gently rasped my index finger along them. He moaned, an exotic sound that came from deep in his belly, and made mine tremble.
His cock lay against his stomach, stretching past his belly button, begging for my attention as, veiny and satin-like, it trembled and throbbed. I ignored it, my index finger dancing along his torso until it caressed his chin, his lips, his eyebrows and ran along his stubbly brown hair. I crept onto the bed, kneeling at his side, close enough to smother his waiting mouth with a dangerous kiss, so electric and weighted we both gasped by the time it was done.
“How do you like your gift so far?” I asked, my breath hot on his ear as I slid my hand beneath the pillow to drag one last scarf, black and thick, from underneath.
His smile was the only reply I needed, peppering both eyelids with soft kisses before showing him the blindfold. “One last present,” I teased, covering his eyes and lifting his head gently to tie it beneath.
Once bound and blindfolded, I admired him at will, savoring every nook and cranny, every hard edge, and soft, velvet inch. The sparse hair beneath his arms, the gleam of the candlelight reflected on his wet lips, the rapt attention of his nipples as they stiffened beneath my touch, the quiver of his flat belly, the soft tuft of fur above his cock, carefully tended and at last, I knelt between his legs.
Forbidden: A Student Teacher Romance Page 12
