Behind His Lens

Behind His Lens By R.S. Grey



CHAPTER ONE

Jude

“Bulliet neat, please.”

I offer a half smile to the young bartender glancing up at me. A rosy tinge dots her cheeks as her eyes scour down my body like I’m a brand new Maserati with a cherry-red bow. The girl looks like she’s been on her feet for the past ten hours; she’s probably nearing the end of her shift. I notice this, not out empathy, but for a more self-serving purpose. After all, I’ve never been with a bartender who wasn’t more than willing to display her keen talents for me in the bedroom.

“Anything else, sir?” she drawls seductively, looking back over her shoulder as she reaches up on her toes to grab the bottle of bourbon. Her brown eyes linger on me a beat too long, as if she’s hoping I’ll ask for her number instead of another drink. I let my dimpled smile spread an inch wider, and just like that, I know I could take her home if I wanted. Girls are easy and that’s the way I like it.

“That’ll be it.” I toss down a hefty tip as waves of laughter overtake the guy next to me at the bar. Bennett, my best friend and lifelong wingman, is taking a swig of his IPA, apparently entertained by the spectacle.

Pulling my glass of bourbon toward my mouth, I lean back against the bar, waiting for the bartender to walk out of earshot.

“Sorry, man, I guess some guys just have all the luck,” I mock before tipping back a sip of the dry, smoky liquor. It warms my stomach like sunshine.

“Yeah right, *. She’ll come back around and I bet she’ll only have eyes for me,” he goads.

This is exactly how our friendship works. Bennett and I each have our own style. He’s uptown; I’m downtown. He’s a fancy accounting exec and always wears a suit to the bars right after work. His dark blond hair is always slicked back with pretentious hair gel, but women eat it up. I, on the other hand, prefer brown leather boots to loafers, and I always have an afternoon’s worth of stubble to run my hand across. Nevertheless, women usually go for one or the other, which is why our setup is flawless. We never leave a bar alone.

“Is that girl you met the other night meeting you here?” Bennett asks, scanning the dark club for any prospects.

Natasha. I should be excited to see her again, but it is what it is. She’s hot and wanted to meet up; I didn’t feel like saying no. It’ll make tonight a lot easier, and after a long day, that’s exactly what I need. Don’t get me wrong, she knows exactly what the score is. My M.O. has been the same for four years. I meet women that want exactly what I can offer: sex with no strings attached and no hope of any kind of relationship—

Ever. Seeing Natasha for a second time is pushing it, but she made it clear that she knew what the arrangement is.

As if my thoughts have conjured her on the spot, I peer over just in time to see Natasha saunter through the club’s front door. In the smoky room, it takes her a second to find me by the bar, but once she does, her seductive smile amplifies tenfold. I ignore the emptiness in my stomach. I don’t feel a thing for her, but she’s hot and one part of my body doesn’t seem to mind watching her head over. She’s wearing a skintight, red dress and heels. Her brown hair falls straight to the top of her shoulders and her dark brown eyes gleam with excitement as she steps closer.

“Hey, Sexy,” she coos once she’s standing in front of me. Her gaze drifts down my body and I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Any concern I had about meeting up with her again is completely vaporized. We both only care about one thing.

I arrogantly drag my gaze down her body, not bothering with any pleasantries as I rub a finger across my jaw.

“This is my friend, Bennett,” I finally offer, trying to feign politeness as I gesture toward him.

She flits her eyes in his direction for the briefest moment. “Nice to meet you.”

Bennett lifts his beer in greeting, but by then, Natasha is already turned away, locked onto her prey: me. She looks like she’s about to straddle me on the bar, and I can’t help but let those images take root.

“Are you ready?” she asks, leaning forward to whisper in my ear. I bristle as her cheap perfume overwhelms my senses, but I ignore the sensation.

My dick doesn’t care how she smells. With a sturdy hand I brush her curvy figure aside.

“Let me finish my drink first. Do you want something?”

This is as close as I get to dating. I’ll buy her one drink and then we’ll leave so we can finish the night off. I have to get up early for a shoot and I don’t want her thinking she can sleep over.