by Virna DePaul
He’s about to say something, but Rebecca cuts him off. “So from what I understand, it’s not the photos themselves, but the editing. That’s a fairly simple fix. Isn’t it, Johnny?”
Caleb frowns, but eventually nods a tight nod. “But what happens when Heather decides she doesn’t like the next set of photos?” he asks, glaring at me. “Are we just going to keep redoing them over and over again until she decides that we have to redo the shoot entirely?”
At this point, I’ve had enough. I stand up and say in a surprisingly level voice, “May I speak with you outside, Caleb?”
I don’t give him a chance to respond. I leave the room and after a look down the hallway, find an empty office across from the conference room.
“What is your problem?” he demands, shutting the door behind him.
I whirl. “My problem? What is yours? I’m trying to get my designs to look the best they can, but you’re taking this personally and refusing to do your job!”
He clenches his jaw. “When someone insults my work, then yeah, I’m going to ‘refuse to do my job.’ I’m the photographer here, not you.”
“And I’m the designer! Respect that I know my clothes more than you do.” I cross my arms, breathing fast.
His eyes flash. Suddenly I’m glad that I wore a top that shows off my cleavage. I’m enjoying the thought that he still wants me but will never admit it. I push my breasts up a little bit with my arms, and I can see his jaw clench even harder.
He steps closer to me. I have to lean against the desk, otherwise we’ll almost be touching.
“Are you really going to keep fighting this?” His voice is low, almost a growl. I wonder if he’s talking about the photo shoot anymore, or if he’s talking about us. “Are you going to keep being stubborn for no reason?”
“Speak for yourself.” My voice is breathy. I’m all flushed and my skin prickles and I know my nipples are all puckered and begging for his touch. I shift my legs, but he’s boxed me in against the desk.
“You’re driving me crazy.” He touches my jaw, runs a finger down my throat. “I’m not sure if I want to throttle you or kiss you more.”
I swallow. “How about you try one and see what happens?”
His eyes narrow. It’s the only warning I get before he kisses me.
Chapter Twelve
Caleb
This is crazy. I’m crazy. I’ve lost my goddamn mind, but when I kiss Heather, all thoughts about why this is a bad idea go out the window. She tastes too fucking good, like strawberries. And when she moans that sweet little moan and wraps her arms around me?
Yeah, like I’m going to stop now.
I kiss her and plunge my tongue inside her mouth, because I want her to know I’m in control here. She’s mine. She doesn’t fight me: instead, she surrenders to me completely. It’s heady. I can’t get enough of her. She’s like some kind of drug, and I can’t stop wanting hit after hit.
My hands aren’t idle. I skim down her curves, grateful that she isn’t wearing much underneath her blouse and pencil skirt. My palm brushes a nipple, and she makes a noise in the back of her throat. I smile.
Memories of having sex with her in that dressing room come flooding back. I get hard as iron, my cock pulsing against my jeans, and it takes everything I have not to plunge inside of her warm, silky depths. I suck on her bottom lip, and her nails dig into my shoulders. I shudder at the sharp bite of pain.
“Caleb…” She says my name like a prayer. “Caleb, what are we doing?”
“Shush. Don’t fight it.” I don’t want to talk about what we’re doing, or what we should be doing, or what the hell this even is. I don't want to talk: I want to touch. To play, and to feel her bare skin underneath my fingertips. I unbutton her blouse, delving inside the parted fabric to cup her breast. She’s wearing a satin bra, although I can feel her nipple hardening underneath the fabric.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” I mutter, kissing down the slope of her neck. I pluck at her nipple, making her mewl. I need more. There’s too much clothing between us. I yank her blouse from her skirt and pull up her bra, not caring that I’m in a client’s office—that just beyond this door, Rebecca Harris sits in a meeting room with her Bella magazine employees, wondering what the hell we’re doing.
I don’t care about any of that. I only care about getting my mouth on Heather’s luscious breasts. I suck a nipple into my mouth, and she shudders and moans, loud and long. I roll the nipple around my tongue, but the position’s awkward. In a swift move, I have her turn so I can sit on the desk, which puts her beautiful tits right in front of me.
Perfect.
“Caleb,” she breathes, threading her fingers through my hair. I grunt at the contact just as I take her other nipple into my mouth. I inhale her sweet scent, cupping and playing with her other breast, wanting to make her nipples red and aching for me. I let go of the nipple in my mouth and blow air on it, watching as it hardens even more.
I can feel Heather shivering, almost uncontrollably, and I can’t help but wonder if I can make her come just by playing with her breasts like this.
“Sensitive?” I tongue the underside of her breast.
She grips my head and nods.
I bet she’s wet—soaking. I push her skirt up her hips and am beyond grateful that she’s wearing a very thin pair of panties and nothing else underneath. When I cup her, I can feel her moisture against my palm. I rub her through the silk as I suck her nipple once more, watching as her body shakes and a flush climbs up her chest into her cheeks.
She looks gorgeous, her eyes glassy and her hair falling down around her shoulders. Pushing her panties aside, I dip a finger between her folds, and we both groan at the wetness I find there. She’s practically dripping on my palm and my cock is about to burst from my jeans, I’m so hard. I consider pushing her onto the desk and fucking her right then and there, but when she makes that sweet little mewling noise again when I brush her clit, I decide to play with her for a bit longer.
“Sweet, sexy, beautiful Heather. I bet I could make you come, just like this, with my mouth on your tits and my fingers playing with your sweet pussy.” She squeaks. “Your little clit is practically swollen with desire. I can feel it begging for my attention.”
She looks down at me; she’s panting for breath. I keep eye contact as my fingers delve inside of her, her sheath grasping at my fingers like it can’t bear to let them go. My thumb is circling her clit now with light strokes, and Heather gasps. I begin to rub her, trying to find that perfect spot, and when I hit it, her body bows. She bites her lip to keep from screaming.
“There it is,” I croon. I can’t stop watching her. She’s magnificent like this, about to come all over my hand. “Just let go. Come for me, sweetheart.”
I crook my fingers in her until I hit her g-spot and begin rubbing her clit in earnest. Her entire body is shaking now. I suck one of her nipples into my mouth and that’s when she explodes. She lets out a low moan, shaking and convulsing, her hands gripping my shoulders. I keep playing with her clit and prolonging the orgasm as long as I can.
I want to make this the most amazing orgasm she’s ever had because then she’ll never be able to forget me. She’ll touch herself and remember how I made her come so hard she practically collapsed at my feet.
She leans into me, her limbs probably feeling like jelly, breathing hard. I kiss her, about to unbutton my jeans and push her hand inside, when we both hear a knock on the door.
“Everything all right in there?” It’s Catherine.
We freeze. Heather is still panting, so it’s up to me to answer.
“It’s fine! We’ve just finished our discussion and will be right there.”
Catherine doesn’t respond for a second, and I hold my breath, afraid she’ll open the door. But she just murmurs “okay” and then I hear her footsteps departing.
Heather’s still undressed, her expression dazed. But when I pull her skirt down, she seems to remember where she is, and who she i
s. She jumps away from me like I’ve burned her. Pulling her bra back down over her breasts—a shame, that—she buttons her blouse with shaky fingers.
“What have I done, oh my God, what am I doing…” Heather mutters to herself. When she looks up and sees me—like it’s the first time she’s realized that I’m in the office, too—she blushes bright red.
“Heather—”
“I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. I told myself this was over.” Heather tries to put her hair up in a bun, but it keeps falling down. She’s shaky, like she’s in shock.
I’m about to take her in my arms and help her calm down, but she gives me a look that clearly says don’t touch me.
“This isn’t a big deal,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. “It happened. Just like it happened last time. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
The look on her face tells me that was the exact wrong thing to say. Her brow furrows, and I could swear she looks like she could hiss at me like an angry cat.
“You know what, Caleb, you’re right. This isn’t a big deal. I’m acting like it should be—that there’s something between us that we can’t control—but clearly, it’s just hormones. Or insanity. Or something. But it doesn’t matter to you, of course. To you, it’s just another notch on your bedpost.”
“Heather, wait—”
She shakes her head and before I can stop her, she races out of the office, shutting the door behind her.
I lean back onto the desk. Well, that went well. Now she’s going to hate me even more than she already did. For some reason, I feel guilty, although I know she wanted me to touch her as much as I wanted to touch her.
I run my hand through my hair. I’m still half-cocked, despite everything, and I’m tempted to finish the job myself when there’s another knock on the door. I restrain myself from growling. Can a man not get any privacy around here?
“Johnny? Are you in there?”
It’s Rebecca. I make sure I’m presentable, adjusting my cock so it’s not so very obvious what was happening in here, and finally open the door. Rebecca gives me a brief onceover; I have to stop myself from shifting on my feet like some chastised schoolboy.
She steps into the office, shutting the door. “I’m glad I caught you alone,” she says in a pointed tone. She gives me another look, but I refuse to act like anything happened. For all she knows, Heather and I were just talking.
Of course, when I think of Heather, I think of what we were just doing in here, and I have to tamp down the arousal that shoots through me as a result.
Rebecca purses her lips. “I wanted to let you know that after much discussion—which you and Heather missed, by the way—the team has decided that we are going to redo the photo shoot entirely.”
I still. If there’s anything I don’t do, it’s retakes, like some school photographer. Anger burns through me. Retakes means I did shoddy work the first time around. I never do shoddy work.
“Is this about Heather complaining about the photos again?” I snap, no longer caring that I’m talking to the woman who’s essentially my boss. “She was happy with them when we finished the shoot. You said yourself she had cold feet.”
Rebecca’s face doesn’t register any emotion, and I must admit, it’s always kind of freaked me out how calm she can be. Right now, she merely blinks and says in a measured voice, “I wouldn’t recommend taking this as an insult to your talent, Johnny. It’s merely that we want our designer to be happy with the end product.”
I snort. “Since when did you cater to fickle designers? I’ve photographed plenty of shoots where the designers bitched and moaned afterward, but not once did you decided to redo the work.”
“This isn’t a matter of a designer being fickle, as you call it. This is a matter of a designer truly believing that her work isn’t being represented properly. What you call art, she calls straying from her vision.” Rebecca brushes a strand of hair from her forehead in a smooth motion. “Heather actually spoke with us before you came to the meeting. Believe me, I’m the last person who likes to redo things.”
I grit my teeth, my jaw clenching. I want to find Heather and shake her; I want to tell her she has no idea what she’s talking about. My photographs are true art, and no designer knows more about photography and my own art than I do. I’m insulted, and pissed, and I wish I could just go and get a drink until this hot rage dies down.
“When is this reshoot supposed to take place?” The words are pulled from me, and I have a hard time believing that I’m even asking such a question.
“As soon as possible. I’ll have Catherine contact you to schedule a time.”
Rebecca turns to leave, but before she goes, she looks over her shoulder at me and says, “And Johnny?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Try not to upset our designer again, hmm? She looked rather flushed when she left this office.”
I don’t have anything to say in reply.
Chapter Thirteen
Heather
I’m trying to fold shirts, but I’m so agitated that I end up tossing them into a pile and giving up. Huffing, I slump down into a nearby chair and put my head in my hands.
What the hell am I doing? I think for the millionth time. I almost had sex with Caleb at Rebecca’s office! I’ve never done anything that reckless—well, except that time we had sex in a public dressing room, of course.
I groan. I’m clearly losing my mind and should lock myself up for good measure. How can I be so attracted to a man I’d also like to strangle if given half the chance? He refuses to listen to me, he’s rude to me, and he’s so arrogant that I see red every time he opens his mouth.
Then again, his mouth is also what keeps getting me into trouble. The way he kisses me…touches me. I shiver, thinking about how he touched me in that office. How I came in his arms, with his mouth on my breast and his fingers inside of me. I don’t know if I should hate him or love him for the ways he makes me feel.
I rub my temples. It’s only been a few days since that disastrous meeting down at Bella, and at the moment, we haven’t scheduled a date for the reshoot. Catherine told me that Caleb was pissed that I wanted the photos retaken, which doesn’t surprise me. I imagine he’d take that as a mark against himself, like he’d done a poor job or something. I had actually planned to tell him myself that I wanted a reshoot, but Rebecca had apparently talked to him before that. So, now he’s pissed, and I’m pissed, and it’s just a real great situation all around.
I get up and try to start folding again. It’s after hours and I’m the only one in the store, getting ready to set out new merchandise for tomorrow. Tanya left just an hour ago after she’d hinted that she wanted to leave early to go to dinner with her boyfriend. I also wanted some alone time in my store, maybe to remind myself why I’m doing what I’m doing. A part of me wants to give in and leave the photos as they are, but the stubborn part of me keeps telling me that I have to stick to my guns. I know that if I don’t, I’ll regret it.
I hear the front door to my store open. I turn, and to my astonishment, it’s none other than Caleb himself walking toward me. He’s wearing a V-neck sweater that brings out his eyes, one that looks suspiciously like the one I’d been imagining him wearing after our dressing room escapades. He looks as delectable as always, if not tanner. Has he been down to the beach while I’ve been closed up in my store, stewing away? Of course he has. I’m sure he knows how to surf and everything, and probably has women falling all over themselves when he takes his shirt off.
“What do you want?” I know I sound like a shrew, but I’m not in the mood. I’m not in the mood to argue, and fight, and try to explain my position again. I turn back to folding shirts, because it’s way easier than trying to get Caleb to understand anything.
“Are you always this nice to customers?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not a customer, and we both know it. Besides, the store is closed. Last time I checked, I locked the front door.”
I see
him shrug from the corner of my eye. “It was unlocked. Might need to pay more attention to those kinds of things, sweetheart.”
I face him now. “So you came all the way down here to check on my locks? How sweet of you. Maybe that can be your new career—locksmithing, since photography seems to be hard for you these days.”
Red creeps up into his face, and I almost wince at my low blow. I shouldn’t poke at him in regards to his photography, but he makes me so mad that I can’t help myself. I turn back to folding shirts.
“We both know my photography skills aren’t in question here,” he growls in my ear. “It’s that a certain designer is so anal that she can’t begin to let go and maybe think outside the box for once.”
I refuse to look at him. I fold one shirt, and begin on another one. “And I think a certain photographer thinks that he pisses gold every time he goes to the can, but not everyone is convinced that’s the case.”
“Are you always this big of a pain in the ass?”
“Only with men who think they can tell me how to run my business.” I reach across him to pull another pile of shirts toward me. “And let me tell you, Caleb Johnson, I don’t need you telling me what’s best for my own designs.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and since I’m refusing to look at him, I find the silence particularly scary. Or maybe I find it thrilling. My heart is definitely pounding, and I almost want him to touch me at this point.
I really am crazy, aren’t I?
“You know what I think?” He breathes the words against my ear, making me shiver.
“Even if I don’t want to know, I’m sure you’ll tell me.” I try to sound sarcastic, but I just sound breathy. Desperate. My nipples harden against my shirt, and it just makes me think of how he had his mouth on them days prior.
“I think you’re too scared to let go. I think you hold onto control so hard that you end up hurting yourself. I think you know those photos are amazing, but since they aren’t what you expected, you’ve decided that you’d rather redo them entirely. Because that’s the safest option.” His hand slides to my waist. “But what if I told you that the safest option isn’t always the best one?”
