VAIN: Part One(3)

"You're not the regular delivery person." He leans back against the door of his apartment, and crosses his muscular arms across his chest. He's impressive and he knows it. He's definitely more than six feet tall. If I had to venture a guess based on the height of my heels, I'd say he's hovering right around the six foot four inch mark. That's almost a full foot taller than me.
The regular delivery person is an elderly man named Bernie. I'd met him months ago when Sadie introduced me to him. "Bernie is sick," I say while I'm trying desperately to keep my eyes fixed to his ridiculously handsome face.
"You're the stand in?" He nods at me. "That's quite the improvement."
I smile slightly at the odd compliment. He doesn't strike me as the type of man who eagerly hands out accolades to just anyone.  "I was doing a friend a favor."
"If you don't deliver food, what do you do?" The question comes with a subtle proposition. He's actually interested in what I do? Or maybe he's still hell bent on me being his f*ck buddy for the night. Everything about him screams control and expectation.
"I'm a teacher," I say the words with pride. I am a teacher. It's taken me years to accomplish my goal of getting a degree in education. I'm close now. I'm just one semester away from graduating.
"You're a teacher?" His gaze rakes over me lazily. "I don't know another teacher that looks like you."
My eyes float from his face down to his groin and then back up again. "Your loss."
A sly grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Let's get to the point."
"The point?" I parrot back. "What point?"
"Do you know who I am?" he asks without any hesitation in his voice at all.
"Yes." I sigh. This guy's confidence is bursting out of every pore in his rock hard body. It's no wonder though. He's what women dream about when they're home alone. "You're the Noah Foster."
His eyes brighten as his full lips part in a broad smile. "You have no idea, do you?"
I feel like the timid mouse in a game of chase with a big, bad, bold cat. "About?" I ask expectantly. He must be somebody beyond a guy who walks around buck naked all the time. Since he hasn't been on one of the Internet gossip sites I frequent a lot, he's a nobody to me. Correction, he's a gorgeous nobody with a ridiculously appealing dick.
"Who I am," he volleys back calmly. "You seriously don't know who I am?"
I take a step back feeling as though I need to make room for his massive ego. "No," I answer firmly. "Who are you?"
He shakes his head slightly before he brushes past me. "Do you have any tattoos, Alexa?" The way he ignores my question pulls on my frustration. I should fish my smartphone back out of my purse and Google him on the spot. Is he a tattoo artist? That would make sense given the beautiful artwork he's proudly displaying all over his ripe, aching-to-be-licked body.
"Tattoos?" I ask. Did that sound as na?ve as I think it did? When did I become such a muttering idiot? I've seen naked men before. I've seen men with tattoos before. Why is my brain bouncing around so much? Why can't I seem at least vaguely intelligent right now?
He's directly in front of me now and I can smell the musky combination of his skin and whatever cologne he's slathered all over his body. His eyes drop straight to the top of my breasts. They're pushed so tightly together it's a wonder I can even breathe. "Is any of this beautiful body of yours covered with ink?"
I exhale sharply as his index finger lightly brushes across my neck. "I don't have any of those. No tattoos." I wince inside when I say it. I've never wanted one. What if he thinks that my unmarked body isn't up to par with what he wants? Why the hell do I care?
"Have you modelled?" His warm breath skirts over my skin as he leans even closer. It's taking every ounce of willpower I have not to reach out to grab hold of his dick.
"What?" Please repeat the question I almost whisper or stop talking and f*ck me instead.
"Have you ever done any modeling?" He pivots back on his heel now and I instantly feel as though the room has been deluged with an abundance of oxygen. I can breathe. I can think again.
"Why?" Answering a question with a question is something I retrieve from my bag of lame tricks whenever I feel overwhelmed by a man. It doesn't happen often, but let's face it; the Noah Foster isn't your everyday kind of man.
"You're gorgeous." His lips curl into another dazzling smile. "I've been looking for someone just like you."