Behind His Lens(6)

“Just a few last minute touches,” Joanie offers sweetly. I find myself wishing I could have her with me on every photo shoot. Despite her pink rocker hair, she has quite a calming presence.

“Oh, simply gorgeous! You have the most exquisite bone structure, Charley,” Mrs. Hart oozes as she pats my arm over the black smock. I feel my cheeks glow bright, even under the blush. It’s not every day that a woman, as influential as her, notices me.

I keep my eyes closed and soak in her compliment. “Thank you, Mrs. Hart,” I chirp.

“I think we ought to add a red lip though, ladies. She’s wearing a cream gown for the first few shots and we want her lips to stand out.”

“Oh definitely,” Joanie agrees, and I hear her reaching over to grab one of the tubes off the table. I hope it’s the ruby red.

Jude

Assistants bust their asses around me, shifting the lights and fixing the draping so that the model can step onto the set in a moment. It’s times like these that I hate my job. Models are not the easiest people to work with, especially when they’re late. The last thing I need is some vapid nineteen-year-old calling the shots on my set. It appears this one is no different. I’ve never worked with her before and was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt until she walked in and offered apologies with that sweet voice. She probably gets away with murder with a voice like that.

“Mrs. Hart, let’s do this. My crew is ready,” I demand. The manicured director gives me playful glare before she steps back to glance at the model. Alright, I’ll ease up. It’s just that timing is everything with these shoots. Those women can curl hair all day if no one stops them. It’s my job to keep the shoot running on time. On the other hand, I don’t want to piss Mrs. Hart off. She likes me for whatever reason, and I’d like to keep it that way.

The studio we’re using was designed so that the prep teams operate behind a large partition. It offers the models privacy as the crew fits and tailors their clothing, and it keeps the set a bit more controlled. Models lose focus with so many people rushing around them and I always make sure my shoots are closed to anyone who isn’t absolutely necessary. Today, the crew will remain behind the partition while Mrs. Hart and I direct the model. The model. I guess I should learn her name. I can’t very well call her “model” when I’m ordering her around. I’m not a complete brute.

“Flawless,” I hear Mrs. Hart chime behind me as she assesses the first outfit, and I turn toward her voice.

“Good, let’s go,” I bark, waiting for her to look over so that I can give her a sly wink. She’s easily twenty years my senior, but I’m sure if she were closer to my age and single, I’d be her type. And you better believe I use that fact to my advantage.

She rolls her eyes playfully at my bad attitude at the same moment that the model steps out from behind the partition behind her.

In a whoosh, the air evacuates from my lungs, leaving me grasping for a deep breath to no avail.

Fuck.

She’s not the model.

She’s the blonde from the club last night. Just like that, every ounce of resolve I’d built the night before on my midnight run drips to a puddle at my feet. There’s a shifting feeling, almost a pang, near my heart as I take her in.

My body flexes in recognition and I have to grip my camera tighter in my palm for fear that it’ll clatter to the ground and I’ll look like a complete dunce.

What the hell are the odds? Of course she’s a f*cking model. She’s too gorgeous to be real and any other job wouldn’t suit her. All of a sudden the voice seems absolutely fitting. It is as sweet as honey and it matches her perfectly.

I watch her step onto the set and walk toward me, but I don’t register the movements. Instead, I take in every single detail about her. I didn’t get to see her up close last night, and I now realize that if I had, I would have never left without meeting her. She has bright, blue eyes that compliment her glowing skin. Her pale blonde hair is twisted up off her neck, but a few shorter pieces frame her face. So much beauty is framed between those tendrils of hair, and I have to clench my fist for fear that I’ll reach out and touch her. Her body is wrapped in a gown that hugs the alluring curvature of her body. She’s on the short end of the spectrum for models, maybe 5’7, which I’m assuming is why she’s doing print work rather than walking the runway.

Holy hell. I want her.

I gaze down at her red lips and I instantly imagine what her mouth would look like wrapped around my cock. Would her red lipstick smear across my skin?