Maximum Exposure

by Alison Kent

  She was gorgeous, a goddess, all bronzed skin and brown-sugar hair, the tips of her breasts dipped in dark caramel. He wanted to devour her, to feast until he couldn’t move another muscle and his cock fell off.

  And then she came, shuddering, quaking, falling forward and into his arms, then whispering into his ear, “Roll over.”

  She didn’t have to tell him twice. He stayed with her, moving on top of her, still tangled in his pants as he braced his feet and found his rhythm.

  Next time, he told himself. Next time he’d do this right, make it last for hours, for days. This time he didn’t have it in him to wait.

  Twenty-three

  Livia didn’t see Finn again on Friday, after he wrapped her in her coat and walked her from the warehouse to her car. He’d told her he needed to lock up the warehouse, return the key, apply for the refund of his deposit. That he’d see her later. All she’d done was nod while stuffing what was left of her skirt in her bag.

  Even when he’d leaned in through her driver’s side window to kiss her, his mouth yummy and intoxicating and warm, she’d been able to do no more than smile. She was off her game. Unbalanced. He’d knocked her down and blown her away. Had that been what Finn had intended when he’d told her to think wild, uninhibited fun?

  She didn’t want to think so. She didn’t want to think that he’d planned for sex, set the stage for sex, set her up for sex. Yes, they’d talked about the chemistry that sizzled between them, acknowledged its existence.

  But they hadn’t done more than talk. Or really, they hadn’t talked about more than it being an important part of their working relationship. They hadn’t talked about sex.

  They’d shared a few looks that, granted, could easily have served as tinder, feeding the fire that had flared up between them there in the dark. Even now, the morning after, as she climbed the stairs to her office and his room, her body was still aflame.

  What she was having the most trouble facing, however, was the way she’d panicked, how she’d begged him not to blame her for what they had done. He had no reason to. He’d been as caught up in the moment as she had, as aroused, as ready. He’d been the one to come to her. She’d been the one to accept him. She could have told him no.

  Yes, she’d tempted him. She’d used her body to get what she wanted. They were both adults, healthy, sexual, aroused. Satisfying that desire had been a mutual pleasure. None of which explained why she was feeling the need to put space between them now.

  Or why she was bringing coffee to the room where he might still be sleeping.

  She knocked, heard a groggy “Come in,” and turned the knob, pushing the door open to find him sitting shirtless on the edge of the futon.

  “You can fold that out, you know. It makes a bed.”

  He shoved both hands through his hair, scratched his scalp. “I know. I was too lazy.”

  She’d had him inside her, but she had yet to see his chest. As she crossed the room to hand him the latte, she tried not to stare, but he looked all sleepy and cuddly, and she wanted to run her fingers through the patch of hair in the center and play with his nipples, and sniff his neck where it met his shoulder, and kiss him until her face stung from being scraped by the stubble of his beard.

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching for the coffee and thankfully oblivious to the thoughts running through her head.

  “Did you get your deposit back? On the warehouse?” Business. It was all about business.

  He nodded as he sipped. “They’ll put it in the mail. Should be there next time I check the box.”

  “That’s good,” she said and walked to the window for something to look at that wasn’t his bare body. She’d noticed his jeans crumpled with his T-shirt on the floor and assumed there was nothing beneath the blanket wrapped around his hips but his boxers.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Eight thirty. I hesitated waking you, but Saturdays are usually crazy at the store, and I wasn’t sure I’d be available until this evening if you needed me for anything.” Like more sex. Or even more sex.

  She heard him fumbling with his clothes, the clink of coins and keys in his pockets as he pulled on his jeans. “Would you mind if I hung around the store today? Watched you at work?”

  She didn’t mind, no, but…“It’s not exactly the right environment for taking pictures.”

  And then she turned. She couldn’t take it anymore. She needed to see him, needed a hint of what he was feeling, why he’d disappeared on her after the warehouse, when she’d waited the rest of the day for him to call.

  “I wasn’t going to take any pictures today,” he told her, his gaze meeting hers above the cup as he drank.

  She leaned back, her hands on the window ledge, crossing one ankle over the other. “Then I don’t mind, no. Though if anyone asks you to cut them a deal, don’t.”

  He returned her smile, set the coffee on the floor next to his duffel, and dug for a shirt, pulling it over his head before, barefoot, crossing the room to where she stood.

  “I want to ask you something,” he told her, his eyes focused sharply on hers.

  Not about the blame thing, please. She was having enough trouble explaining that to herself. “Sure. What?”

  He turned, planted his palms on the window ledge, next to her hips, without touching her, and leaned forward to stare at the delivery access below. “The day you came to Dustin’s condo. You came because you wanted to convince me to take this job, right?”

  That, and the fact that she hadn’t liked the way they’d left things after the showing, with his crack about whether they should sleep on things together or alone. She’d wanted to see if things had settled after their time apart.

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about your clothes.”

  “My clothes?”

  He nodded. “You wore sandals, a sarong, and a tank top with a very modest neckline. You hardly showed any skin. There weren’t even any accidental peekaboo moments with the slit in your skirt.”

  She shifted uncomfortably. He’d put more thought into what she’d worn than she had when getting dressed that morning. Or had he? “Did you want there to be?”

  “It’s not so much what I wanted. But what I expected. From the first time we met, you haven’t been shy about letting me look. I eventually figured out why, you wanting to hire me and all. So when it’s make or break the deal time, and you’re completely covered up…”

  He shrugged, pushed away from the window, and went back for his coffee, taking a sip before he continued. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious or not. Or if it was your way of letting me off the hook.”

  He thought because she’d dressed more conservatively than usual that she wasn’t serious? That exposing herself was the only way she got anything done? That because she hadn’t let him look, she was no longer interested in doing business with him?

  She glanced down at what she was wearing now, a turquoise and vermillion and sunset orange print tank dress beneath a matching sleeveless vest. Her arms were bare, as were her legs between her ankles and knees, as were the hollow of her throat and the edges of her collarbone in the shallow scoop of her neckline.

  The outfit might not be acceptable boardroom wear, but it was de rigueur in her line of work. It showed that she understood her clientele’s specialized tastes, tastes that didn’t sit well on everyone’s palette, she knew. But then she wasn’t competing with chains and department stores for their one-look-suits-all business.

  She catered to shoppers more interested in branding themselves or finding themselves than wearing labels belonging to somebody else. And showing off her cleavage, her body jewelry, her body…well, that was her way of defining herself, of being herself, of controlling the spin of the circles in which she moved.

  “I’m always serious about business,” was what she finally said, feeling a strange, unbalancing rush as doubts and denial escaped the box where she kept them locked away. “I wouldn’t have come to you with my
proposition on a lark.”

  “Then I don’t get it.”

  “Don’t get what?”

  “The looking thing. I thought I had it figured out. That it was about getting your way or at least giving yourself an edge.”

  “Then you thought wrong, didn’t you?” she responded before walking out of the room.

  Twenty-four

  Finn spent most of the day Saturday trying to figure out what had pissed off Olivia so thoroughly that morning. He hadn’t yet showered and shaved when she’d shown up with the coffee, but she could hardly hold his shagginess against him, considering that was just who he was.

  He hadn’t brought up the photo shoot and her dancing and all that sex, because, well, the mood had to be right for that conversation, one they still needed to have, and she could hardly fault him for being the sensitive type.

  It had to be that stuff about the outfit she’d worn that day to Dustin’s, how he’d thought her covering her body meant she wasn’t serious about hiring him. Or else he’d insulted her by spelling out the truth of what she did with her clothes—or her lack thereof.

  He didn’t care how huffy she got with her denial. He did not have that wrong. She used her body to get what she wanted, end of story.

  How did he know? He’d seen her in action. Cigar Paolo, anyone? Hell, he’d been on the receiving end, and he wasn’t talking about the photo shoot.

  But the day in front of the bistro? And the evening they’d spent at Dustin’s gallery? And if he wanted to get down to the nitty-gritty, exposing herself to him through her office window?

  All of that was about getting him to take this job. Wasn’t it? Or was he being a real dick about this and closing his eyes to something obvious that canceled out any other sensitivity he might claim?

  He knew he needed to do more than enjoy her body—visually or physically—to get into her head. And when she’d walked out on him this morning, that was what he’d determined he was going to do. He wanted to know her. Not what she looked like. And not in the biblical sense, though he wouldn’t say no to that happening again soon.

  She was a hell of a complicated chick, and it had been a long time since he’d run across one who hit all his notes the way she did.

  On one hand, she was so sure of herself. On the other, she was hiding some big monster thing, maybe from her past, or hell, even from her present, which canceled a lot of that certainty with scary, dark doubts.

  Staying out of her way, Carmen’s and Roland’s way, even Splash & Flambé’s customers’ way, hadn’t been a problem. Finn had hung out on the second stretch of staircase, which gave him a clear view of most of the store. Olivia and her managers had nudged him to move for the occasional trip up and down, but mostly, no one had paid him any mind.

  Okay, that was a lie. Olivia had paid him a lot. He liked that she had. Liked the way she would push back her hair when talking to shoppers and cast him a surreptitious glance.

  And the way she had needed to grab something out of her office when she was on the sales floor, or had forgot something at the round checkout kiosk when she was upstairs.

  She was sneaky, but he wasn’t born yesterday. And because he wasn’t, he was pretty damn sure she wouldn’t say no to sharing a pizza at the end of the day.

  So he headed out through the storeroom exit fifteen minutes before closing, came back forty-five minutes later with a box so hot, he needed Kevlar mitts to carry it.

  He winked at Olivia as she caught the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh-baked dough and looked up from the kiosk, where she was working, just before he made the turn from the landing to the second stretch of stairs.

  “I hope there’s enough there for me,” she called after him, and he hollered back, “If you hurry.”

  Since he was living the simple life, roughing it when it came to eating accommodations, he tossed one of the blankets to the floor in front of the futon, turning his pizza into an impromptu picnic.

  He had a couple of beers and sodas in the room’s mini-fridge, so drinks were covered, as were napkins and disposable forks, knives, and plates.

  He’d just popped the top on a cold one when Olivia walked through the door. “Beer?”

  “Sure,” she said and kicked off her shoes. “Lucky for you, I’d already locked up.”

  “Lucky for you, you mean,” he said, handing her the can, returning to storage the throwaway cup she’d declined. “I could’ve been slamming back the last piece by the time you got here if you’d taken time for that.”

  “Or you could’ve waited,” she said, settling on the blanket, her back against the futon frame, her legs stretched out and crossed.

  “And let this puppy get cold?” he asked, joining her and opening the box. “I don’t think so.”

  She chuckled. “That puppy will take days to cool down.”

  “It won’t last that long,” he said, pulling a slice from the sixteen-inch circle, dropping it onto a plate he’d lined with napkins to keep it from melting.

  “Your cast-iron stomach must be a lot thicker than mine,” she said, taking the plate from his hands when he offered it.

  He took it as a good sign that she could tease. A long, busy day separated them from this morning, when her mood had been more about snapping his head off than anything. “There’s very little I can’t stomach. Though women spending hours deciding between two identical belts is a close call.”

  “Those belts were not identical, and hanging out was your idea. Don’t blame me.” She bit into her pizza, wound up a long string of dangling cheese with her tongue. “Besides, I thought you were spending the day watching me.”

  “I did some of that, too.”

  “Did you learn anything new? I saw you had your camera with you for awhile.”

  What he’d learned was that he had a hell of a hard time taking his eyes off her. Even now he could hardly pay attention to the food he was stuffing into his face for wanting to watch her eat.

  He loved the way she used her fingers, pressing the crust of the pizza inward to keep the toppings from sliding off, holding her other hand beneath her mouth to catch anything she dropped. He stared when her lips parted, when her teeth bit down, when her mouth closed, when she caught him looking and smiled.

  “Good stuff, huh?” was the only thing he could think to say that didn’t sound but halfway lame.

  “I love Meaty’s pizza and eat it way too often without working out to make up for indulging. I like to indulge,” she said, shrugging, then taking another bite. She chewed most of it before adding, “I do not like to go to the gym.”

  “You don’t like to sweat, or what?” he asked, without thinking of more than keeping the conversation alive.

  But the moment the words were out of his mouth, he remembered tasting her when her skin had been damp and salty and hot. And the look in her eyes told him she was remembering the very same thing.

  She dropped her gaze as she reached for her beer. “You saw me dance. What do you think?”

  He thought he’d better find a way on to another topic, because as much as he wanted to take off her clothes, he was her photographer and she was his client, and things would go better for both of them if they stuck to the plan.

  And so he said, “I bet there’s something else that keeps you away from the gym.”

  She followed his lead, putting them back on a safer track. “It’s the boring routine. Around and around, doing laps that go nowhere. Pedaling without moving forward an inch. Climbing stairs and never getting off the floor. Ugh.

  “As long as I don’t eat like this very often and don’t sit at my desk all day, I figure I’m good. But I can’t see how learning about my metabolism or my loathing of exercise helps you plan the next shoot. That’s why you stuck around today, isn’t it? For inspiration?”

  See? He’d been right to turn the conversation back to work. He nodded, an innocuous enough response. He’d decided on Friday where he wanted to shoot next. “Can you get away from the store for a couple
of days next week?” When she frowned, he downsized his request. “Or at least for one?”

  “Yes. I suppose. Why?”

  He slid another slice of pizza onto his plate. “Think fun in the sun and the sand.”

  “You want to shoot on the beach?”

  “But not here. It’s too crowded. I want to take you to my beach.”

  “To your beach?”

  This time when he nodded, he meant it. “Miami’s a snarl. Even the private beach at Dustin’s condo isn’t private enough.”

  “I’m not stripping, you know. Not that I’d look out of place if I did,” she added, with a self-deprecating laugh.

  He wanted to tell her he would notice, but again. Wrong conversation. “I know. But for this, I think we’d both be more comfortable without an audience.”

  She shook her head. “Funny how Dustin’s vision has morphed from me being photographed while letting people look to the photographer being the only one looking.”

  “It was your suggestion, performing for me.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just feel like I’m letting him down. Not giving him what he wanted.”

  “How do you know that you’re not?”

  She set her empty plate in the pizza box, wiped her mouth and hands, and added her napkin, tucking her legs to her body and bracing an arm on the futon. “I’m just assuming everything would be different since the whole dynamic has changed.”

  “I dunno. One doesn’t necessarily have to follow the other,” he said, as if he knew what he was talking about and opening himself up to what came next.

  “Well? Have you looked at the photos you took in the warehouse? Do you have them here? Can I see them?”

  Twenty-five

  Livia wasn’t sure if the guilty look on Finn’s face—or what she read as guilt, anyway—was because he’d looked at the photos and hadn’t yet told her, or because he hadn’t yet looked and didn’t want her to know.