by Jaci Burton
Her heart beat overtime. She loved his compliments. But could she bare all? Margo closed her eyes, the whir of the camera lulling her as she imagined removing her clothes. Lying down on the chaise lounge. Touching herself. For him.
And her panties were drenched. God, yes. He was big, he was hot, and his throwback features fascinated her in a way she’d never have thought possible. Even his age was a turn-on. She’d always been attracted to suave, sophisticated, older, charming. But this man was blatantly male, all caveman style.
For once, she wanted to step out of her comfort zone. She never had to do it again, but this time, she wouldn’t let her fears get in the way. After all, no one but she and Dirk would ever know.
“The lighting’s just right. Do you want a look?”
She came out of her reverie to find him holding the camera out to her. “No,” she said. “I trust you.”
She did. He wouldn’t touch her unless she asked. He wouldn’t steal her pictures and disseminate them on the Internet. The assurance didn’t come just from Lorie’s good opinion. It was the way he blushed when she admired his photos. His laughter when he talked about his sisters and mom. The slight mist in his eyes when he said his dad had passed on.
“I’m ready for a close-up, Mr. Director.” She batted her lashes.
He chuckled. “I’m no DeMille. And you’re a helluva lot prettier than Gloria Swanson even in her heyday.”
She loved that he knew the line was reminiscent of Sunset Boulevard . She liked it even better that he’d thrown her a compliment so easily, as if he really meant it.
“Now get on the divan and show me that beautiful leg.” A small, wholly male smile creased his lips, and a hot light blazed in his shockingly blue eyes. “And keep the shoes on.”
Back-seamed thigh-highs and lacy thong panties, that was all she wore under the calf-length skirt. In her fantasies, she’d revealed the sexy lingerie one bit at a time, not a striptease so much as leisurely dropping her barriers.
Margo put the sole of one pump on the burgundy chaise, slowly raised the skirt to her knee, then bent over to slide her hand down her calf, smoothing the seam of her stocking straight. The camera clicked beneath Dirk’s finger.
“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” he asked.
“Only in my fantasies,” she answered, her voice husky.
Christ, she was hot. He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t cared. He’d needed the technical exercise to ready himself for the competition, but he’d also wanted the pleasure of a lady’s company, the eroticism of taking her picture as she lay naked for him. He hadn’t wanted a model, he’d wanted a real woman whose beauty wasn’t manufactured as if she were a commodity to be sold. He worked in the entertainment industry, where sometimes the only real thing about a woman was her breast enhancements. Though that was a pretty shitty thing to think. In his career, he was just as shallow and self-absorbed as the women he met. It was the bane of the business. You were an object, not a person. You could never be yourself. Which was why he wanted someone real for this session. A real woman was a beautiful creature in all her incarnations, no matter her hair length, eye color, facial structure, size, or age, as long as she felt beautiful. True beauty was strictly attitude.
This lady had it all, with a tantalizing hint of vulnerability in her gaze.
“Take a sip of wine,” he murmured, “and wet your lips.”
She leaned over, giving him a sweet view of her ass. When she turned back, her red lipstick shone lush and rich with the shimmer of wine.
“Now look at me while you pull the skirt high enough to give me a taste of thigh.”
She raised the fabric to the tops of her stockings, baring lace but no skin. Holy hell, a woman of surprises, all elegant business on the outside, but underneath, luscious lingerie. Blond hair past her shoulders, small breasts, toned muscles, and a pert ass, she was ageless to him. With a slight tilt to her nose, green eyes, and sculpted cheekbones, she was one fine lady.
“Perfect.”
She smiled, then stroked a hand beneath the skirt to her butt, the wool covering the act, but affording the camera a provocative hint.
He hadn’t specified in the ad, but he’d been looking for someone older. The taut skin and natural beauty of younger women came across well through the lens, but somehow they lacked confidence. As if they weren’t sure of their inner beauty as much as the outer trappings. Older women’s sense of style shone through. They’d accepted who they were, had gotten past their inhibitions, and came across the camera with grace.
“Smile for me again.”
He wanted a picture of that smile. It lit her face, showed the hint of laugh lines at her eyes, her mouth. She laughed a lot, perhaps frowned a little, a woman who’d lived her life. Another reason he wanted to photograph a real woman versus a paid model. No Botox, no surgery.
“Lie down,” he whispered, and she obeyed.
His heart beat faster as she spread herself out on the divan, one high-heeled shoe on the floor, her skirt primly covering her knees as she flung her hands above her head. She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. “How’s this?” she asked.
“Perfect.” Her small breasts—ones he’d figured for the real thing—thrust high against her sweater, her nipples hard beneath the soft wool. If she was wearing a bra, it was thin, maybe lacy. He snapped a shot.
“More?” she queried with a sexy rise to her brow. She didn’t wait for him to answer, tugging on the skirt, bunching the material in her fingers, raising it slowly, teasing the camera.
The black stockings were sheer, her legs toned. She’d cared for herself without going overboard. The lace of her thigh-high appeared, then creamy skin, and finally a black satin thong.
“Are you going to take a picture?”
He met her pretty green eyes. She was laughing at him. He had to laugh at himself. She had him mesmerized.
“Maybe I should start worrying that you’re a pervert.”
“Of course I’m a pervert. I advertised for a woman to do nasty things for my camera.” The most beautiful thing in the world was a woman in ecstasy. He’d wanted to capture the sight. But he was still a pervert. “I swear I’m harmless, though.”
He could only imagine what Lorie had said about him. She was a kicker, always teasing him, about his height, his size, his career choice. He was thankful she hadn’t scared Margo away.
Again Margo raised the sexy brow and let her eye travel the length of him. It was almost a touch the way that look made his cock jump. He’d known he’d get hot watching, just not this hot, where he’d forget to grab the shot.
“I’m going to show the other leg, so don’t miss this time.”
He sensed that his fascination put her at ease. Or maybe it was the fact that she enjoyed knowing how attractive he found her. He still couldn’t believe she’d understood that photography wasn’t a hobby to him, but a dream. He’d longed for a woman who would believe in his dream and his ability to achieve it. Most of the people he knew thought he was crazy to consider giving up his lucrative career for taking pictures. Then again, “taking pictures” was a close reminder of the paparazzi, who, while they were disdained, could also make or break a career.
He raised the camera and for once didn’t like the distance it put between him and his subject. She gave him a tantalizing satin-thong view, reveling in the power of a desirable woman, which was exactly what he wanted to encapsulate on camera.
Without prompting, she turned over and tucked the skirt to her waist. One foot firmly on the floor and a knee on the chaise, she leaned forward on her hand, revealing her gorgeous ass in the barely there thong. The woman had excellent taste in lingerie. Then she rose, her blond hair tumbling around her shoulders, skirt falling to cover her, and stretched like a cat, one arm in the air, fingers kneading as if they were claws.
“I want to get naked,” she purred.
This was the woman he’d hoped to release once she stepped in front of the camera. Hot. Ready. As
if she were anticipating a man between her legs. It hadn’t taken her long to feel the lure of being naughty for an inanimate object.
He was so damn hard he needed a slug of beer to cool off. He positioned his camera back on the tripod.
“I have something I want you to wear.”
She startled, as if she’d forgotten there was a man behind the lens. Turning, she held her arms across her abdomen, looked down, realized the defensive posture, and dropped it. She wasn’t quite as assured as she’d like him to think.
Opening a drawer of the vanity, he pulled out his prize.
“What”—she pointed, coming closer—“is that?”
“A corset.”
She laughed. He was beginning to get that she laughed when she was a tad nervous. “You mean like a real corset?” She put out a hand to touch the fabric, then one of the stiff bones.
“I want you to wear it.”
She tipped her head and eyed him, a taste of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Is this some sort of fetish thing?”
“There’s something sexy about a garment that a woman needs a man to help her get in”—he raised a brow—“and out of.”
She snorted out a little puff of air. “She doesn’t need a man, just a maid.” She said it with the slightest edge and had him wondering about her real life.
“Consider me your servant for the time being.” He unfolded it as far as the bottom laces would allow. “Game?”
“Isn’t it hard to breathe with one of these things on?”
“I won’t lace it that tight.”
She clucked her tongue softly. “It’s kinky.”
He chuckled. “Hell, asking you over here is kinky.” He itched to lace her up. He could do it without touching skin, but she’d be close, so close. Just achieving something different on camera had been his original intention, but now, the idea of her sweet body in the corset had become a need, the ultimate in sexy.
The camera would adore her figure, her waist tiny, her breasts small but plumped by the corset’s stays.
Easing her in front of the vanity mirror, he stood behind her, her body heat a hair’s breadth between them. Then he leaned in to whisper, “Take off your clothes.”
She swallowed, her throat tensing in the reflection. Then she reached down, grabbed the hem of her sweater, pulled it over her head, and tossed it aside. Her hair settled back around her shoulders in a sexy muss. Her scent, sweet shampoo and fruity body lotion, rose up. He almost closed his eyes to breathe her in, then he looked in the mirror.
Holy hell. Her breasts beneath the black lace bra were everything he could have hoped for.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
Her nipples beaded. He knew it was what she needed to hear when her fingers went to the back of her skirt. He held her gaze in the mirror as the light rasp of her zipper filled the air, then she dropped the skirt and kicked it aside.
Her stomach was slightly rounded, there was a dimple or two in her skin that she probably hated. She had a nipped-in waist and a flare to her hips that might not have been the height of fashion in a world that demanded no woman should bear a single extra ounce. She was his ideal.
“The corset’s going to love your curves,” he whispered. Her breath whooshed out as if she’d been waiting for his approval.
Her eyes on his in the mirror, she undid the front clasp of her bra, shrugged, and the lacy confection fell to the carpet. Clad only in her satin thong, thigh-highs, and heels, she stole his breath.
He held the corset in front of her. The flower print on a cream background enhanced her skin. She glowed with vitality.
“Just step into it.” He’d left the bottom laces in the eyeholes so that he wouldn’t have to fiddle once she held the garment to her. Taking the two edges from him, she put one foot through the laces, the round curve of her ass coming perilously close to his cock.
“Hold it at your waist so I can thread the rest of the loops and tighten it.”
She looked at him in the mirror. “Have you ever done this?”
“No. But the salesgirl said to lace it like a tennis shoe.”
“Hah. So now I’m an old shoe.” Her laugh was genuine, but again he recognized that touch of vulnerability.
“Not old and not a shoe.” He stopped to give her body a long, savoring look. “A sexy woman.”
“Darn tooting,” she whispered, then held the corset around her at the waist as he began threading the holes.
He felt almost clumsy as his fingers brushed the skin at the base of her spine, just above her ass. Her body heat almost singed. The scent of her lotion wafted up, and something else, a faint aroma of woman, a touch of arousal.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?” He’d stoked the wood-burning stove earlier, and he was toasty. She, however, was damn near naked.
“No, it’s fine.” Her cheeks deepened their rosy tint.
The shiver had nothing to do with room temperature, and everything to do with bare skin. Looking down to the gape of the undone corset, he found her nipples hard, pearled. “I can put on another log,” he said as he pulled the laces together.
She sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly. “No, really.” Then she laughed softly. “I’m hot enough.”
He allowed himself a smile at her obvious pun.
He laced another couple of loops, and her skin’s warmth began to seep through the material. “The fit will get tight now.”
“I’ve heard that a tight fit is a good thing.”
Oh yeah, she was getting into it with him. He’d imagined touching her like this, soft, accidental caresses. He’d imagined himself with a hard-on as she fell into the heat of arousal. But he’d never considered how badly he’d need to be a part of it, not just an observer, but a participant. Her skin was smooth, soft to the touch. Her scent made his mouth water. He brushed aside her hair, baring her shoulders, though the length wasn’t at all in the way of the laces. He simply craved a touch.
Four eyelets left, he tightened. She gasped.
“Too tight? Can you breathe?”
“I’m okay. It’s just”—she tipped her head to one side—“it feels good in an odd way, makes you stand straighter.”
Another eyehole, and the corset plumped her breasts. Though barely covering her nipples, it effectively hid them from view. Too bad. “A couple more laces, can you handle it?”
“I’ll let you know when you’ve done it all the way up.”
He threaded and pulled, but with none of the strength Mammy had used on Scarlett in Gone With the Wind.
Tying the laces off with a neat bow, he stepped back. In the mirror, the effect was perfect. Her enticing breasts plumped above the lace edging of the corset. Cinching in her waist, the bones gave a luscious flare to her hips. Over her flattened abdomen, the point in the front arrowed down to her black satin thong. The globes of her delectable ass begged for his touch, and the back-seamed thigh-highs were a sexual hedonist’s fantasy. Her blond hair had fallen to frame the upper swell of her breasts. He raised his gaze to her green eyes. The artist in him needed to photograph her like that, while the man in him wanted to bend her over the vanity and bury his cock in her.
“So how’s the fit?”
She drew in a shallow breath, her breasts rising. “Just don’t make me run or try to touch my toes.” She smoothed a hand down her stomach. “But I like it. Though you can certainly see why the women didn’t eat much at their big galas.” Grinning at the mirror, she added, “But it makes me feel sexy.”
But could she make herself come for him? More than anything, Dirk wanted to capture her face aglow with ecstasy.
Turning this way, then that, she cupped her breasts, plumping them higher. Reaching around her, Dirk gave a slight tug on the bottom, and the tops of her nipples peeped out. It was the ideal combination of gentle lady and sexy woman.
How had he gotten so lucky? Margo was more than any woman he could have fantasized.
Three
“Did
you bring makeup?”
Margo pointed at her bag she’d dropped by the stairs. Grabbing it, Dirk set it on the vanity stool. She bent straight-backed, which was all the tightly laced corset would allow, and pulled out a small cosmetics kit.
“We need some of that blush stuff,” he said.
She thought her cheeks were fine, but Margo retrieved the powder and brush. Dirk looked first at the compact, then at the brush, glanced at her, and smiled that wickedly handsome smile.
“What are you planning?” Whatever it was, she had a feeling she’d like it.
“Look in the mirror and watch.”
Behind her, his body barely touched hers, yet his heat turned her wet on the inside. The fleeting caress of his fingers as he’d laced her up had driven her mad. His arms bracketing her, he opened the blusher compact with one hand, then powdered up the brush with the other.
So big, so warm. In the mirror, standing behind her, his arms around her, he was massive. Despite her high heels, he was still a head taller. He could crush her completely with one big bear hug, yet every stroke, every caress had been slow, gentle, like a lion playing with a mouse.
If he were a mere five years younger than her, she might have . . . Margo stopped herself. No “might haves.” This was a lark, a naughty interlude. Her best friend would freak if Margo even thought about dating—or anything else—Lorie’s much, much younger brother’s buddy.
Then the brush caressed the visible aureole above the corset, and she forgot about Dirk’s age. She bit her lip to trap the moan in her throat.
“The camera loves deep color,” he murmured, bending to his task.
He smelled like soap and yeasty beer. All bubble and fizz around her. She wanted to melt against him. In the light of the vanity lamps, his features were growing on her. He was, in fact, eminently doable. Not that Margo intended to go that far. Why, she hadn’t even brought condoms. Making herself come while he watched was the ultimate in safe sex, next only to celibacy.
Yet what he did to her nipples was so completely erotic, the soft stroke of the brush back and forth. Then he lowered his head to blow the excess powder away. Oh Lord. There was such a thing as spontaneous combustion. She could shudder to climax with nothing more than the shush of his breath across her nipple.