I scrubbed a hand across my face. I hadn’t heard from Ben since our encounter in my hotel room and our subsequent texting when I told him that that was a one-time thing. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. Supermodels probably weren’t used to the word no.
My last text to him ran through my head on repeat. He seemed to have taken it to heart, but what did I expect? Did I want him to argue with me? Hold me down and make love to me? The visual made me shiver.
I checked my phone for messages. Nothing. It was time to get ready for tonight’s cocktail mixer, anyway. I excused myself from Fiona’s room and made my way downstairs to shower, fighting off the feelings of disappointment and hurt.
Ben
I stood under the rough spray of water, letting it wash away the makeup from the shoot. It had been a tiring day. Henri, the photographer, was known for favoring a jumping style in his shoots. He liked to capture his subjects midjump to evoke a sense of movement, so I’d spent several hours leaping into the air, pushing my body into various positions and angles while keeping my face neutral and making sure the clothes and my hair remained in place. Fun times.
The streaming hot water beat against my back, relaxing me, and my thoughts wandered to Emmy. She was proving to be quite the contradiction.
Some girls were model-fuckers—willing to drop their panties as soon as they heard my profession. Others were intimidated and self-conscious, assuming they’d never be good enough to be with a model. Both types annoyed me.
Emmy was neither. Her self-confidence wasn’t as robust as it probably should be; I sensed some of that was from Fiona’s hurled insults. But, mostly, I was attracted to her uncanny ability to keep me guessing.
Since I was pretty sure that f**king me wasn’t number one on her agenda, her behavior confused me. She was flirty and sexy through text, polite and professional at work. Distant, even.
If I had to put my finger on it, I’d say she was most interested in being friends. And while I might have thought having her as a friend was a good idea initially, I didn’t really have friends. Certainly not friends I wanted to f**k. Badly.
I’d never had to work to get a girl in my bed. The thought was almost laughable. Almost. If my balls weren’t f**king aching at the thought of waiting, it would be funny. That wouldn’t do. I needed to have her.
After several long minutes, I reluctantly shut off the water and climbed out of the glass-enclosed shower. I wrapped a towel around my hips, tossing another across my shoulders. Emerging into the bedroom, I rubbed the towel across my face but the feeling that I wasn’t alone caused me to pull the towel away. Fiona sat on the edge of my bed with a wide, cocky grin.
“You were brilliant today.” Her eyes traveled down my naked chest before coming to rest on mine.
“Thank you.”
Crossing the room to the bureau, I grabbed a pair of boxers, a T-shirt, and jeans. The sound of Fiona’s soft laughter filled the silence. I pulled the shirt over my head and turned away from her, letting the towel drop to the floor. It wasn’t like Fiona hadn’t seen my bare ass before. I pulled on the boxer briefs and heard her softly padding across the room to stand behind me. Her hands came around my middle, encircling my waist as she pressed her br**sts into my back.
“Love,” she whispered. Her voice was a desperate plea, full of longing.
“I’m tired, Fiona.” I removed her hands from where they’d been caressing my abs and turned to face her.
The clouded look in her eyes fell away as she snapped her gaze to mine. “Of course. You worked hard today. Dinner’s on the way and then I can give you a massage after. We’ll see if we can get you to sleep tonight.” She offered a weak smile.
I merely nodded. I’d been hoping to text with Emmy again tonight. Maybe even pay her a visit, see if I could get beyond that exterior she tried to put up. A quick glance past Fiona to the clock told me it was only eight. She should still be up for a while.
A knock at the door broke our eye contact. Fiona let in the room service while I pulled on my jeans.
We sat on my bed and dined, as we had so many times before in cities around the globe. Even the meal was familiar—grilled fish and vegetables, wine and sparkling water. God forbid there be fat or carbs involved.
Fiona’s mouth moved sensually while she ate, gliding over the tines of her fork. Her eyes stayed on mine. She was an attractive woman, despite our sixteen-year age difference, I found her appealing. Then again, I found things to appreciate about all women. Their frilly panties, their little manicured toes, the curve of a lower back, their scent. Yes, I loved women. Just looking at them, admiring them. Maybe it was because of my chosen profession that I was aware of all their beauty.
I’d spent countless hours with my mom’s old issues of Vogue and InStyle. We’d sit in her big canopied bed on Sunday morning, have breakfast in bed, and flip through every page. As a mom-son bonding experience, it was odd. But it was the one we’d had. She was usually too hung over for breakfast, but she’d sip her coffee and watch me eat and we’d comment on all the looks.
Brunette, blonde, redhead, olive skinned, or freckled, I found beauty in it all. And I didn’t discriminate. Sure, most of my female companions were models, but I attracted more than my fair share of attention from other girls, too. I’d messed around with girls in my teens years, at first a little shy and fumbling, but as I learned their bodies, I grew confident. And after I lost my virginity at eighteen, my sexual appetite increased dramatically. Much to Fiona’s dismay. She regularly reminded me how much my interest in other girls displeased her. And since she was more than just my boss—she was a family friend—I tried my best to keep her happy. I think I’d been blown on every continent as a result. Quick indiscretions were easier. Plus, there was no girl to try to get out of my hotel room later on.