I hold back my mental wince at the grammar. He’s got some crap like that on his website, and I really am going to have to bite the bullet and say something tactful about fixing it up.
Then I smile, a little secret smile. Boston wrote me a note. I touch my name. He was thinking about me when he wrote this, and I wonder how he pictured me in his mind. Right now I’m picturing him in that towel, especially the way it almost fell. I’m remembering his face meeting mine when we kissed, how his eyes drifted shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks just before I closed my eyes, too and let my mouth meet his.
I’m touching my lips and I need to stop, so I go find that key and let myself in. The morning goes by in a ribbon wrinkle; one second I’m opening my laptop case, the next it’s three hours later and I scream because something soft just touched my ankle and it might be a poisonous snake, or malaria, or a small slithery zombie with needle teeth.
I’m five feet back from the chair before I fully feel the touch, and when I look over, it’s Boston’s cat. “Doll.” I feel ridiculous, and figure it’s just my imagination that the cat has a pleased look on her face. “Did you try to scare me?”
The cat makes a mmmrrrrrup! noise and then it’s on top of the desk like something from a stop motion film. I come closer. She doesn’t look mean, and her fur is—oh, my God, it’s silk. She’s soooo soft. She bumps her chin against my fingers and rubs up and down, and it takes me a few seconds before I realize that the rumbling sound is coming from her.
I remember how Boston was holding her, and feeling a little self-conscious, I reach over and scoop her up into my arms. She wiggles to adjust and then she reaches up and tries to bump her chin against mine, and I giggle and rearrange myself to pet her head. She’s actually sweet. Not that I’ll tell Boston.
“Oh, Dollie Baby,” I croon. “Does big bad Boston hold you in his strong, muscular, tattooed arms, those sexy arms that make me stare at him all day? Does he give you kisses on top of your fuzzy wuzzy head?”
Doll’s purr becomes louder, and I figure she likes baby talk. “Oh, Dolly Wolly,” I say. “You are such a softie, yes you are, oh, yes you are! Do you like it when sexy old Boston holds you against his six-pack? Does Doll like six-packy wackies? I’m not jealous of you, no I’m not, even though you get to hold your little body right up against his super sexy abs and feel his hands all over you.”
I hear a jingling sound and jerk my head around, and there’s Boston in the doorway. He came up quiet as a cat himself, damn it, and he’s standing there holding his backpack and his keys with this incredibly smug little grin on his face. I squeak and squeeze.
“Shit, Boston!” I shout, as the cat scrabbles her way up my shoulder, digs in her claws, wiggles her butt, and leaps to the narrow windowsill, landing soft and soundless. She balefully lifts one leg and licks, and I whimper at the burning streaks on my skin.
“Aw, Abs, fuck it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice from the doorway is genuine, and his New England accent make my heartbeat tap into a staccato, but I still scowl.
“Well, consider me startled,” I snap, peering over to see the damage.
“Does it hurt, luv?” Boston comes closer, drops his backpack, and takes my arm in his hand. His fingers tease apart the lapel of my blouse and he pushes the fabric down slightly to look at the scratch on my shoulder, and suddenly all I can feel is the warmth of his fingers and the proximity of his body. He smells masculine, of sweat and faded cologne and something that’s all him, all Boston. I suck in my breath, because having him so near like this, seeing his muscular arms in his sleeveless exercise tee, is making my heart pound, and I wish that “luv” meant more than just a cute way to charm the girls.
“Oh, you’re a doctor now?” I roll my eyes, not wanting to give a single indication of how turned on I am by this.
“I’m no ER surgeon, but I know my way around basic cuts and scrapes.” He grins and pushes the fabric a little more. “Unbuttoning just this one, okay?” he asks, as his fingers are already doing it, and part of me wants to tell him, God, yes, unbutton them all, Boston, and throw me down and fuck me hard.
But instead, I nod and swallow. “Okay.”
He runs one fingertip over the stripe and I suck in my breath.
“Sorry, Abs. I’ll get some antibiotic spray from the bathroom.”
No, I want to say. Keep touching me.
“I hope you’re still sorry when it gets all red and puffy from the weird bacteria germs that cats always carry in their claws,” I joke. My face is hot. My shoulder is hot where he’s touching. I feel prickles, sparkles, chills. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my cheek. Boston is touching me.
“You got cat scratch fever, Abby?” He looks at me and gives me that lazy grin, the one that he gives to his models before they start posing and putting their hands all over each other. I suck in my breath.
“You got a cure?” My voice startles me. It’s throaty and breathy, and as I say it, something changes in Boston’s eyes. They turn feral, predatory. He takes a step closer and closes his hand around my upper arm. He’s not squeezing, not exactly, but the grip is possessive.
“I think I do.” His voice is rough and deep and he opens his hand on my arm, closes it again. I gasp.
“You do?” I try to act casual. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with fresh raw marks.”
“Maybe we should even things up,” he suggests, his eyes locked onto mine. “You want to scratch up my back, Abs? Give me some matching scars? I’ll take off my shirt and turn around if you want me to. You just say the word.” He raises his eyebrows and grins, but there’s something dark in his expression, something hard.
I lower my voice and murmur, “Oh, Boston. You want scratches from me? They don’t come so easy. No, you’re going to earn those stripes… the hard way. You want my nails digging into your skin? Then you make me scream, baby. You make so wild with passion that I rake my claws over your back and mark you the fuck up. You do it the hard way, Boston. The right way.”
He growls in his throat. “Jesus Christ, Abby.” And he leans in, and—
Fuck. It’s the doorbell.
“Shit!” Boston runs one hand through his hair and lets go of me. “Annalise is early.”
He goes to the door, lets her in, and a second later her perfume and the clicking of her heels fill the room. “Parker!” She rushes to him, gives him a short kiss on the lips. “It’s rainin’ like crazy out there. I had to run from my car and now my hair is all frizzy.” She looks at me. “Abby, I’m super excited for this shoot!” Her voice has an eager lilt and her eyes are bright.
I’m still thrumming with the crazy adrenaline. The things I said, pretty much daring him to take me. And his voice, that look in his eyes. “You just say the word.” And “Jesus Christ, Abby!” and the way he leaned in, his lips parted, his eyes gleaming—
Although even if he did, what would have happened then? We’d get right back to this moment, or one similar enough, where pure perfection in the form of Annalise or one of her clones would appear, reminding me that I don’t belong in Boston’s world. Maybe I’m a temporary distraction, a diversion, but never, ever will I compare to the women who inhabit his typical social and professional circles.
I don’t want to look at her. She’s so pretty it hurts me in the gut, because I know that no matter how much I exercise, no matter how much I starve and suffer, I will never, ever even come close to being her pale shadow. She’s the prettiest woman ever, although woman isn’t Annalise. She’s girl, sprite, magician, pinup babe, loveliness, sex pouring like honey onto strawberries and ice.
She’s still talking. “How ah you?”
“Oh, fine.” I smile and rub at my shoulder, and she notices the unbuttoned hot mess that’s me right now.
“Are you okay?” Her voice rises with her exquisite eyebrows and she clicks over, hurrying like a feather in a breeze, and touches me with a super-long pink talon. “Boston, Abby’s hurt!” she
exclaims, her blue eyes widening and looking past me. “Can’t you get her a Band-Aid or something?”
Boston laughs and grabs Annalise in his arms, twirling her around and around. “Abby was playin’ hard to get with the cat. I got a first-aid kit in the bathroom.”
“Well, put me down and get it.” Annalise squeals as he swings her one more time before placing her on the floor. I’m reminded of figure skating pairs, where the man lifts the woman in some kind of exquisite spiral before setting her down onto one razor-thin blade.
“On it.” Boston winks, either at me or Annalise, it’s impossible to tell, and disappears into another room. I hear rummaging in a cupboard, but Annalise doesn’t wait for Boston. She takes off her small shrug jacket and I swear, I almost want to palm her breasts myself, they’re so perfect and high and round in her tight shirt.
She adjusts the hem, an unnecessary action. Why do these pretty girls think it even matters if their hem is a centimeter off? She should know what it’s like to really worry about hems and control top pantyhose and stuff like that. I sigh.
Annalise looks over. “You doing okay, Abby? Does that scratch hurt? I used to get scratched a lot when I was dating Boston. That cat did not like me.” She smiles and it’s a dagger in my heart, this reminder that Boston is used to girls like Annalise, even though I don’t see any malice in her expression. “Maybe it’s because I kept tryin’ to pet her when she didn’t want to be bothered.”
She must see something in my face, because she tilts her head. “You look sorta sad. Is everything okay?”
I shake my head. “Just tired from writing is all. You know. So, what are you guys going to shoot today?”
Annalise pulls again at her hem, making microscopic adjustments that eventually satisfy her. She pats her hair. “We’re going to do the ones with me on my knees resting my chin on his leg, you know? That scene where he’s sittin’ in the chair, and I’m on the floor all draped on him and looking up? You know that scene?”
Yeah. I know that scene. I wrote it, and right now, I wish I’d written a scene where the two of them are in snowsuits and mukluks. Or maybe space suits. Of course, if I’d written a space odyssey, I wouldn’t be here in the first place, consulting for sexy pictures. I bite my lip.
“Oh, but we’re also going to do the ones where he holds my breasts from behind and bites my neck.”
I feel sick. I mean, they used to date, so obviously, his hands have been everywhere on her, and in much more intimate ways, but I still don’t want to be faced with it. I like it better when I’m alone with him and we flirt. It’s like I’m in a weird flying zone where nothing matters except me and Boston and the tension between us, but then it snaps and disappears when anyone else enters, and that makes it all the more obvious that it’s fun, but temporary. Meaningless. Something that can pop like a soap bubble at the slightest distraction. And then my fantasies sort of shrivel up and wither away in embarrassment and I want to cry.
Now I feel pissy and irritable, and when Boston comes back with a red zip case with a white cross on it, I just grab it from his hand and go back to the bathroom myself to wipe the scratches and apply ointment. It would take like eight Band-Aids laid atop one another to cover the longest scratch, and that’s just silly, so I don’t bother. But later on the slick ointment starts sticking to my shirt and then I feel even more grubby, a feeling that is accentuated when Chelle comes in to start the photo shoot, her thin arms wet and shiny from the rain. On her, it looks sexy and appealing.
“Abby,” she urges, “come over here with me, ‘kay? I need you to help direct so we can get the hottest possible shot. Tell me how you envision this happening, like the words from the story. And then I’ll help pose them.”
I nod and keep my voice steady. Chelle is a makeup artist as well as Boston’s assistant photog, and she’s made Annalise into something even more exotic than usual.
Without any shame, Annalise casually takes off her shirt and rubs her breasts. “Should my nipples be hard?” she asks the general room. “Chelle?”
Chelle looks at me. “Abby?”
“Um, I guess, well, he’s going to be holding her breasts so I don’t know if that’s important for the shot,” I say, keeping my voice just as casual as theirs. “But, I mean, hard is good. Sexy.”
Annalise nods. “That makes sense. Let me just warm up.” She starts jogging in place a little bit, then pulls at her nipples with her fingers, rolling them in a matter-of-fact way, and Boston drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. I know he’s doing this to get his muscles to pop.
After a few minutes, they’re ready. I can’t look away from Boston’s chest, so cut, so perfect. Every muscle in his torso is sculpted and defined, he has literally no fat on his body, and he’s just phenomenal.
Chelle does something with switches and dials on the light, and adjusts the height of a light box. She seems really good at this, and I’m impressed with how professional they are, how well they work together. When she uses a little meter to check the light, Boston chuckles and murmurs something into Annalise’s ear. They’re already standing together, practically naked, looking totally at ease. His hands are resting on her shoulders, caressing, and she’s leaning her butt back into him. Together they could be on a wall in a museum. Dark and light, hard and soft, both utterly sexy, the lines of their bodies sinuous.
“Okay.” Chelle’s voice holds satisfaction. “I’m ready when you are.” She flicks a switch on the dock and the iPod speakers start to pant and sweat out something with a sexy thrum.
Annalise closes her eyes and sways to the beat, then rocks her hips provocatively, grinding into Boston behind her. He laughs and grabs her around the waist and puts his lips onto her neck, and I can’t look away. I want him so badly, and there he is with his arms all over his ex, so casual and possessive and comfortable.
“Abby, direct,” Chelle orders me, and I start, then blush. Boston is holding Annalise’s breasts, but he’s looking right at me. I mean, his eyes are locked onto mine, like a, well, a spaceship about to blow someone else up. Or something.
“Tell me what to do, Abs,” he says, and I feel an immediate spike of arousal between my legs, because I want his hands on my breasts. I want it to be my ass pushing into his thighs. I suck in my breath and keep my voice even, even as his eyes burn into mine.
“Caress her breasts, Boston,” I say, and my voice is husky. “Touch the nipples.”
“Yeah? Like this?” Boston’s eyes gleam and his fingers work Annalise’s skin. I gasp out loud, almost feeling the sensation in my own nipples, which have hardened into nubs under my shirt and are tingling. I want to touch them myself. I’m dying to touch them. The camera makes soft shushing and clicking noises and Chelle adjusts, shoots, shoots, shoots.
Annalise squeaks. “Too hard, Boston. You know I don’t like that.”
“Sorry, babe.” His eyes are still on me as he strokes her softly, pulling the nipples out and rubbing them between his thumb and forefinger. “What now, Abs?” It’s like his voice is honey, dripping into my ear, and I shudder.
“Bend your head down,” I instruct him. “Lick her neck slowly, and then bite it. But don’t look away from the camera. I want to see your face in this picture. Annalise, close your eyes and look like you’re caught up in passion.”
But I’ve almost forgotten that Annalise is there. All I can focus on is him. He smiles at me, a knowing grin. “You like a little tongue or a lot, Abby?”
“Just a tease,” I say; my voice is hoarser than before, and I clear my throat. “Tease her neck. Make her want you, bad. Then suck her. Bite her neck where you licked it. Let your tongue be a promise and a threat.”
“A promise and a threat,” he repeats, and smiles again, then deliberately swipes his tongue up Annalise’s neck. I bite my lip and put my hand to my own neck, touching with my index finger. I trace the finger up as he licks her skin.
She giggles in alarm. “Eeeee! Boston! I’m ticklish there. Be careful.” She wriggle
s and rearranges herself, adjusts her thong one or three times, then takes a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“Ready?” Boston is looking at me.
Annalise’s voice is impatient. “I said I was. Go, okay? Let’s do this.” But his smile is for me now, and he repeats, “Ready?” and then licks her neck again, maintaining eye contact with me the entire time.
By now my whole body is throbbing with arousal and I can barely stand still. Watching him touch her, but having his eyes on me, is something I could never have imagined would turn me on. And yet here I am, panties damp, nipples throbbing, body quivering. All because he’s licking someone else’s neck and looking at me with that wicked grin.
God.
Chelle is a contained tornado, and I glance over. It’s like she’s playing an instrument; her index finger is pushing buttons and twisting a dial, her other hand is adjusting another dial, she’s stepping back and forward, moving incrementally, her whole focus on Boston and Annalise. It’s like a strange dance. I’ve gotten so absorbed in Boston that I forgot Chelle was here, too, doing her thing. While I was waltzing with him and Annalise, she was, too. I shake my head, surprised at how strange and yet right this is: How each of us is tied to the others in a complex array of emotion, need, give and take. How we’re all together here, but our focus is so individual and compartmentalized.
“Command me, Abby.” Boston’s voice is lazy and low.
I swallow hard. “Now I want you to wrap one arm around her waist and drop the other one down to her panties and play with the string. Use your fingers to glide under the fabric.”
“I can do that, Abby.” He splays the fingers of one strong hand on Annalise’s waist and slides the other hand lower, lower, bending over a bit to reach properly. Beside me, Chelle clicks.
I’m mesmerized as Boston uses his index finger to snap the lacy string of Annalise’s panties. Then he slides two fingers down into the top of the fabric and rubs.
“Oh, yeah, that’s amazing,” Chelle murmurs, and I sense a new energy from her that wasn’t there before. “Annalise, shift your weight to your left leg and push into him harder. Boston, tighten your abs more. This is going to be the money shot!” she says, and whether it’s to me or herself or to the universe, I can’t say.
Boston Page 8
