by Kennedy Ryan
And getting on my last damn nerve.
“You’ve got a point,” he finally says. “Letting JP loose on a shoot can be dangerous.”
JP’s on the phone, yelling and gesticulating, his thickly accented English booming through the industrial space with its rafters, floor-to-ceiling windows, and polished concrete floors.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper to him.
“The silk shipment,” he snaps, irritation jerking his thin eyebrows together. “It’s been misplaced.”
I purse my lips against an I told you so, but he knows me too well.
“Don’t you dare say it.” His plump fingers rifle through his hair. “I’ll handle this. You find him.”
I don’t have to ask who him is. I know my role here. I’m the carrot JP wants to dangle in front of a giant rabbit with the forearms to launch a thousand watches. I turn to go check on Kenan, JP’s French screeching still ringing in my ears. My heart trips over itself at the thought of seeing him again.
When I round the corner, his back is to me. He’s towering over Amanda, surrounded by three racks of men’s clothes. Amanda’s looking up at him like he’s an ice cream cone she wants to lick until he drips down her hand. I watch from a distance for a moment, curious to see how he interacts with her.
“We could try this one,” Amanda says, handing him a belt from a nearby rack. While he’s threading the belt through the loops of his slacks, her hand disappears in front of him.
“Hey.” One of his big hands is still on the belt, but the other reaches between them. “Don’t do that.”
The quiet that falls in the space is tense, filled with the censure of his deep voice. Though I can’t see his face, his wide shoulders have tightened and his posture is stiff.
“If I touched you like that,” he says, the words sharp and stern, “it would be a lawsuit, right?”
“I thought—”
“It’s obvious what you thought, and I get it. I’m just saying no.”
“Am I not . . . are you . . .” Amanda looks at a loss, her pretty face pinched and confused.
“I’m not interested. Touch my dick again, and I won’t be this nice about it.”
I slip around the corner out of sight, pressing my back to the wall and fighting a smile. Not many men in his position would turn down a chance with Amanda. He said she looked like his ex-wife. Maybe that’s why he passed. I don’t know, but I do know if I had walked up on him accepting Amanda’s offer, I wouldn’t be smiling.
I start whistling Bruno Mars’s “Finesse” to signal that I’m coming. Hopefully it’ll give Amanda some time to pick her face up off the floor.
When I round the corner again, her back is to me and she’s flicking through a rack of shirts. Kenan glances over his shoulder.
A smile breaks the scowl on his face. It steals my breath, not just the gorgeous contrast of white teeth against his skin, but the way he looks at me. It’s unreservedly pleased, like maybe he was looking forward to seeing me as much as I found myself looking forward to seeing him.
“Hey,” he says. “I was hoping you’d be here.”
Beyond Kenan’s shoulder, Amanda watches us with tight lips and resentful eyes. Her pride is hurt, but I don’t give a damn. What she did was highly inappropriate, despite the fact I know other men in Kenan’s position have been receptive in the past.
“JP dragged me away from the studio.” I slide my hands into the shallow pockets of my denim cut-offs, suddenly self-conscious of my dingy appearance under his scrutiny.
“I’m glad.” He steps closer, and I have to tip my head back to maintain eye contact.
“Ahem,” Amanda interjects pointedly. “We’re finishing the first look, Lotus. What do you think?”
I examine the grey silk shirt and dark slacks that mold the muscled length of his legs. He’s so beautifully made and on such a large scale, he’d be impressive in just about anything, but this shirt isn’t my favorite.
“I’m not sure about the shirt.” I study the racks to see if there’s anything I like better.
“I hate this shirt,” Kenan offers.
I glance up and roll my eyes, but can’t suppress a smirk. I walk over to one of the racks and flip through several pieces.
“I’m the stylist on set, Lotus,” Amanda says. “I know what will look best under those lights and how it will translate to print.”
“Okay.” I don’t look away from the rack in front of me. “You go tell JP you refused my help.”
Everyone knows JP respects my opinion. If he were a teacher, I’d be his pet.
Amanda huffs and walks past me. “Well good luck,” she says sharply. “I’ll meet you out there. See how well you do on your own.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I answer absently, taking a mint green shirt from the rack. “What do you think of this one?”
I direct the question to Kenan since Amada has apparently run and left her toys behind.
He steps into the space beside me and leans against a nearby wall, staring at my profile. “I think it’s beautiful,” he says, laughing when I send him a wry look. “The shirt, I mean, of course.”
“Panda” by Desiigner starts thumping through the room’s sound system.
“Is that for the shoot?” Kenan asks.
“Yeah, the photographer puts on music to make the model more comfortable,” I reply, setting the shirt aside. “To feel more relaxed so we get better shots.”
“This is not the music to make me feel more relaxed,” he says. “And I doubt it’ll get you better shots since I’ll be rolling my eyes the whole time.”
“You don’t like this song?”
“You’re using ‘song’ loosely to describe what this is.” Disdain scrunches his handsome face. “I mean, what’s he even saying?”
“Panda,” I reply immediately.
“What else?” Kenan asks. “Mumble, mumble, mumble.”
“Oh, my God.” I laugh. “You sound like somebody’s granddaddy.”
He stills and lifts one imperious brow. “And you sound like a millennial.”
“I am a millennial,” I fire back, thoroughly enjoying myself. “Aren’t you?”
“Uh . . . barely. Technically, yes, but my mom calls me an old soul. I identify older, I think.” He tilts his head, considering me through a veil of long, thick lashes. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? A little older than August?”
He nods, assessing me. I know without make-up and with my hair in these two braids, I look about fifteen.
“And how old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-five.”
“Shit.” He slips his hands into his pockets and frowns, biting one corner of his mouth. “I’m thirty-six.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he says. “Eleven years.”
“Does it really matter?” I grin and bite my thumbnail. “I mean we are just friends.”
After a few moments, he relinquishes an answering smile. “Right,” he replies. “And friends don’t let friends listen to crap music.”
“Here we go.” I put my hands on my hips and throw my head back. “Hit me with all your oldies but goodies.”
“You little . . .” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Mumble rap is not music, Lotus.”
“It totally is,” I defend on principle more than because I actually like mumble rap. I just enjoy a good debate. “It’s an emerging subgenre.”
“Did you read that in Vibe magazine?”
“Who in hip-hop do you consider great?”
“I grew up during the renaissance of hip-hop. Take your pick. Biggie and Pac are given, so we won’t even go there. Nas. Jay-Z, Rakim. I’ll even give props to millennial rappers.”
“From my generation, you mean?” I mock.
“You’re having too much fun with this. Sure. From your generation. Kendrick. Lil Wayne, Drake.”
“Do not say Kanye,” I interject. “He’s in the sunk
en place.”
“I did see that on Twitter.”
“Twitter?” I scratch my chin. “Hmmmm. I think I remember Twitter. The little blue bird?”
“So you’re strictly Instagram, I assume? Thousands of people who have no idea who you are, but who follow your perfectly filtered life? Little snapchat birds flying around your head and shit?”
“Oh, you are old,” I say with a pitying shake of my head. “And cynical with it, but Twitter has made a comeback.”
“Don’t get me started on social media.”
“We’ll save that for another day. Finish schooling me, or should I say, old schooling me, on my ratchet music choices and how millennials are ruining the whole world.”
“Not the whole world,” he says, patting my head condescendingly. “Just most of it. Definitely music.”
“We probably like some of the same music,” I counter. “What’s your favorite song to listen to when you want to unwind?”
“It never entered my mind.”
“Well, let it enter your mind. Think about it and then tell me—”
“Lotus, stop,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed. “Say you’re joking.”
“What? I’m asking which song you like to—”
“And I told you.” He laughs and tugs on one of my braids. “’It Never Entered My Mind’ by Miles Davis. It’s my favorite song of all time.”
“Wait.” I run through my mental playlist. “Miles Davis the trumpet player?”
“So you have heard of him.”
“Does that song even have words?”
“None you can hear, no.”
“None that you can hear?” I cock a dubious brow. “Explain, old man.”
“I’ll let you get away with that just this once,” he says with a wide smile. “That man speaks his soul through his trumpet. It’s not words. It’s emotion. Power. Passion. Pain. You don’t have to hear one word to know what he’s saying.”
“I honestly don’t think I’ve heard it before,” I admit.
“That’s a travesty,” he replies, still holding one of my braids lightly in his grip. “I’ll play it for you sometime.”
“It’s on Spotify, I assume?” I ask, pulling out my phone.
“No way.” He grabs the phone and shoves it into my back pocket. His hand lingers at the curve of my ass through the thick denim, and our eyes lock. Hold. Heat.
“Sorry.” He withdraws his hand from my pocket, leaving the phone behind and clearing his throat. “I want your first time hearing it to be on vinyl.”
“Vinyl? And where am I going to find vinyl just laying around? Much less something to play it on?
“At my place,” he answers, his voice low and deep, his glance caressing my cheeks, dipping to touch my lips.
Any retort dies in my throat. My face is on fire, not from embarrassment, but from the heat of his look. Of the answering fire it stokes in me. This man is so dangerous. He’s the kind who could fool me into thinking I’ve had it all wrong. That the cycle I’ve seen from the women in my family is one I could break. That I could share more than my body, and be rewarded with more than his in return.
“Michael Jackson,” I blurt, needing to shatter the intimacy swirling between us like sweet smoke.
Kenan blinks once, twice, clearing some of the desire from his gaze. “Excuse me?”
“Michael Jackson’s pretty universal,” I reply quickly. “Millennials love his music. People your age do, too.”
He laughs and shrugs, letting me diffuse some of the sexual tension with the King of Pop.
“People my age.” He inclines his head and leans back against the wall, arms folded and slightly bulging. “You might be right. What’s your favorite Michael Jackson song?”
“There’s so many.” I bunch my brows, concentrating. “Maybe ‘Man in the Mirror.’ What about you?”
“I used to think it was ‘Off the Wall,’” he says, recapturing the braid hovering at my shoulder and brushing the curled tip over my mouth, leaving my lips throbbing, aching. “But I think I have a new favorite.”
“Oh, yeah?” I ask breathlessly. “What is it?”
In a flash of straight teeth and wicked humor, he has me hanging on his next words. Waiting to see what he’ll say. How he’ll fascinate me next.
“PYT.”
Pretty Young Thing.
He dips to catch my eyes with his, just in case I missed the significance of the title. I don’t. I get it. I get him. After talking to him for the last few minutes, and looking under his hood, so to speak, I’ve found that he’s a classic. They don’t make them like him anymore, and if I don’t change the subject, change the course of this conversation, I’ll fool myself that we don’t have to keep things simple and that we could be more than just friends, not just for the summer, but for a long time to come. As long as I’d like.
“Okay,” I say, switching gears without a clutch and pulling a tie off another of Amanda’s racks. “I think that shirt could work really well with this tie.”
He doesn’t look at the tie I’m holding up, but keeps his eyes fastened on me. He’s not playing along. I’ve boxed myself into a corner with him. And the quarters are too tight. His scent. His warmth. His intelligence. His thoughtfulness. He is pressing in on me, overtaking my good intentions in all the ways I never thought a man could.
“Try this on,” I say, blindly shoving the mint green shirt at him.
When I look at him, he’s already peeled one shirt off and is reaching for the one I chose. I didn’t think this through. Didn’t forecast that Kenan changing from one shirt into another would mean his naked chest. I lose my train of thought and all my chill. Besides my mouth dropping open at the sight of the sculpted terrain of his chest and abs, I give no other indication that he affects me. Taut, bronze skin stretches across his broad shoulders like supple canvas pulled over a frame, the foundation of a masterpiece. He’s a big man. Not bulky, but instead chiseled to the specifications of a master sculptor: arms roped with muscles, biceps like rocks under skin glowing with health. The forearms Chase raved about are lined with veins and sinew. And I die for a great chest. I’ve never seen one more spectacular than Kenan’s.
Two words.
Male. Nipples.
Jesus, my mouth is literally watering at the thought of tasting them, sucking them, licking them. And if that pectoral perfection weren’t enough, the two columns of muscles, four each, are stacked over his lean stomach arrowing down to a narrow waist and hips. I can’t look away. I lick my lips, imagining how he would feel under my mouth. How I’d lick around his nipples and drag my tongue down that shallow path bisecting his abdominal muscles. I’d slip that belt off and sink to my knees. Unzip those pants and take him out. God, hold him in my hands and then take him all the way to the back of my throat. I’d choke on him. A man this big . . . I’d be so tight around him.
“Lotus,” Kenan says, jarring me from my torso trance. “Should I go ahead and put this shirt on? Or did you need a little more time?”
I snap a glance up to his face, embarrassed to find him laughing at me. Oh, God. I’m as bad as Amanda. I turn to leave, but he catches my elbow with a gentle hand and turns me back around, walking us behind two of the racks. He bends until he’s almost eye level with me.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, searching my face intently. “I’m glad you like my body.”
“I didn’t say I . . .” My words trail off at his knowing grin. “Okay. So you have a nice body. I work in fashion. Do you have any idea how many great bodies I see on a daily basis?”
“I’m sure many,” he says, his smile still firmly in place. “I can’t speak for any of them, only for the way you looked at me.”
“And how do you think I looked at you?” I ask defensively, forcing myself not to look away.
In the quiet that follows, his smile fades, and heat replaces the humor in his eyes. “You looked at me the way I bet I’ve looked at you every time you walk into a room,” he says, the timbre
of his voice rolling over my sensitive skin like a caress. “Like I would eat you if I could. Head to toe, everything in between.”
“Kenan,” I protest, closing my eyes on a groan. “We said friends. We said simple. This is not how you start a simple friendship.”
His large hand cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I open my eyes, blinking dazedly at him. I wasn’t prepared for how his touch makes me feel. How I instantly crave more of it; want to lean into the warmth; to turn and trace his lifeline with my tongue. Tell him all the things I could discover just from reading his palm and looking into his eyes.
How can such a large hand feel so gentle, like it’s capable of treasuring, cherishing?
“Okay, Lotus,” he says, regret and reluctance woven around my name. “Simple. Friendship.”
He withdraws, and I want to seek it out again immediately. When I open my eyes, he’s pulling on the shirt I chose, buttoning it with quick, deft movements. I’m frozen to the spot, unable to look away from the intensity of his stare. He grabs the tie and extends it to me.
“What’s that for?” I ask dumbly.
“I suck at ties,” he says, his full lips quirking at the corners, some of his humor returning.
“Oh.”
I strain up to loop the tie behind his neck, and he bends so I can reach him more easily. He’s so much taller, and I feel like a flower growing along a great wall. Dwarfed. Sheltered. By sheer will, I keep my hands steady while I finish tying the tie. When I’m almost done, he leans forward until his nose aligns with mine and he breathes in.
“From one friend to another,” he says, his voice rough and husky, “you smell incredible.”
When he pulls back to look into my eyes again, we get hung up—caught in a net of longing. I don’t know this man and he doesn’t know me, but our bodies know. Our bodies already know, and it’s taking everything in me not to lean up and forward so our lips meet—so I can taste him again. Our breaths mingle. My hands curl into my palms with the effort required not to grab his jaw and take his mouth, make it mine. My heart clamors behind my ribs. The moment simmers with possibility.
