Rise - Part Three (Rise #3)(23)

He closes the short distance between us as he steps towards me. "You don't strike me as the type of young woman who follows all the rules."

It's tempting. Not just because of the extra money I'd find in my pocket. "I don't follow rules, Gabriel. If you want a private show, I can come to your office after work."

His brow cocks with the suggestion. "Is that something you offer to customers often?"

I've never offered it before. "I only offer it to the ones who peak my interest."

"I'll give you my card." His hand dips into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

I take it from his long, elegant fingers and look down at it. I don't have time to read the details before my boss is upon us.

I turn to look at her but she's staring at Gabriel. Her hand leaps to his shoulder.

"Mr. Foster," she says slowly. "I see that you've met our newest girl. Isla, you're explaining everything we offer to Mr. Foster, yes?"

I look down at the card of Mr. Gabriel Foster, the CEO of Foster Enterprises and the man who owns this boutique.

"Isla has been very cordial." He glides the tip of his index finger along my wrist. "She's coming by my office today. I'll expect you at four, Isla."

"At four," I repeat back. "I'll be there at four, Sir."

His eyes skim slowly over my body before they stop on my face. "Don't be late and bring those samples we spoke of."

I freeze as his hand runs up my arm before he brushes past me towards the front of the shop.

Coming Fall 2015





Preview of TORN – The Standalone


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Featuring Asher Foster

"Are they low enough?"

"Pull them up." I wave my arm in the air towards one of the three female assistants he walked in with. "I need them higher."

He pushes their eager hands away as he adjusts the waistband of his button-fly jeans. I'd told him to strip down to just his pants as soon as he stepped foot into my studio. He had done that effortlessly. His hands tugging the white sweater he was wearing over his head to reveal a toned chest and stomach covered by the expected tattoos.

I'd walked closer to ask him to remove the bracelets and necklaces he had on. His eyes had been glued to mine the entire time.

I admit he's much more attractive than most of the men who traipse through here. His hair may be a tousled mess of brown but his eyes more than make up for that. They're framed by long lashes, the irises a shade of chestnut I haven't seen before.

It's no surprise that he warrants the attention he does in the media.

Asher Foster has the number one song in the country right now. On top of that, he wrote it. I listened to it on my phone before he arrived. It's moody, soulful and surprisingly brilliant.

I look through the lens of my camera. "I need that light moved to the left."

My assistant, Remy, darts into action. She pulls it over just a touch. I'd be lost without her, especially right now, given that the small space is filled with at least ten people, all part of the entourage that arrived with the Asher.

I take another glance. It's almost perfect save for the fact that when I asked him to show me some skin, he took it to a level that's bordering on obscene.

I step around the tripod and walk back towards where he's standing in front of a pale, grey canvas hung from the ceiling.

I point towards his jeans. "You can button those back up."

He looks down. "I thought you wanted me almost naked."

He's taller than I am, but only by an inch or two. It helps that I'm wearing boots with heels today. I wouldn't have chosen this short of a skirt if I'd have known that he'd be here. I try my best to always look professional but when it's over 100 degrees outside, you have to make concessions. I'm thankful I at least took the time this morning to wash and sweep my curly brown hair up so it looks controllable.

I've already established myself as the go-to photographer for celebrities in New York City. Granted, it only constitutes part of my business, but it's the most lucrative part. I'm making enough off this shoot today to pay my rent for both the studio and my apartment for the next two months.

"It was my understanding that the photograph needed to be tasteful."

"You don't think this is tasteful." There's a low growl to his voice. "Tell me what's not tasteful about it."

The room may be milling with people, but his focus is entirely on me. I've felt that since he walked in. I imagine he's used to women taking him up on everything he offers to them. There's no denying it's tempting. I only need to look down at the top of his cock visible through the opening of his jeans to know that the man is very comfortable with his body.

"I'd prefer if you buttoned your jeans up."

"Why?" His eyes darken. "Tell me what you don't like about the way I look."

There's no way in hell this man needs his ego stroked. If that's what fuels his fire he need only turn around to where every single woman in the room, including Remy, is standing with their lips at the ready.

I've always been mildly curious about why so many women are drawn towards musicians. I don't have to wonder anymore. His confidence is undeniable but it hasn’t crossed the line to cocky yet. He's just the right balance of rawness mixed with blatant aggression.