by Hope Tarr
Greg could be stubborn too. Coming closer, he shook his head. “Yes, Francesca, you do.”
“I’ll likely start bawling and once I do I’ll get mascara on your shirtfront and you all rumpled and—”
“I’m pretty sure I walked out of the womb rumpled. At least this time I’ll have a good reason.”
Greg opened his arms. She hesitated and then stepped into them, burying her face against the side of his neck. “I’m the world’s worst mother.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair. “The woman I just overheard talking to her kid on the phone sounded like a pretty amazing mother to me.”
“You only got the one side.”
“I heard enough.”
“She doesn’t want to go on summer holiday with me. The only bloody reason I agreed to the whole TV thing was so that I could afford to spend more time with her.”
“I didn’t know that.” Until now, he’d always assumed she must have plenty of money.
“None of it matters. I’m too bloody late. She doesn’t want me as her mum anymore.”
He smoothed a hand across her back, trying not to focus on how soft her skin felt beneath his fingers. “Once the show wraps in a few weeks, there’s no reason you can’t take some time and go visit her in DC. Or have her up to New York for a few weekends. Hang out at home, play tourist in your city, see some chick flicks, whatever. Just spend time. I’m betting that’s all she really wants from you.”
Francesca pulled back to look up at him. “You really are a lovely man. I hope you know that.”
Greg wasn’t sure about “lovely,” but he decided to view it as an upgrade. “I’d probably be a lot more convinced if you kissed me.” He reached out, his palm taking gentle possession of her jaw.
She rubbed her cheek against his hand. “I believe that might be arranged.”
This was it, their Cinderella moment in more ways than one. Heart pounding, he steered her face to his. Determined to take his time, he brushed his closed lips over hers, teasing and light. She moaned and pressed closer, her breasts chafing his chest, making him wish for fewer clothes and a warmer night.
Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss, groaning when she reached up, her fingers threading through his hair, the nails gently grazing his scalp. He stilled his hand on her back, hesitated, and then slid it lower to her buttocks. His fingers curved, giving it a slight squeeze. She moaned, and he slid his tongue inside her mouth.
She tasted of the wine, more spicy than sweet, laced with a trace of mint, her toothpaste perhaps. Her tongue met his, hungry and eager. Touching her through the dress, he brought her breast into his hand.
Pulling back, she looked up at him. “Shall we go inside…to bed?”
Greg was seriously tempted. Thinking of the condoms he’d tucked into his wallet, still he shook his head. “Making love to you isn’t some milestone I need to rush to reach. Be honest—if it hadn’t been for that call from Samantha, would you ask me to take you to bed so soon?”
She bit her bottom lip, plump and pink from his kisses. “I would have at least waited until we’d had our romantic evening.”
“So let’s have it—and see where it leads.”
“Another go at dancing, then?” she asked, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or teasing.
Greg groaned. “I think I’m done with dancing for the night.” Erect and throbbing, another turn at the bolero might just hobble him.
“What’s left? Scrabble, Parcheesi, chess?” she asked archly. “And don’t you dare suggest we watch TV!”
“I wasn’t going to.” He glanced over at their glasses. “I think we should have a refill on that god-awful wine, order room service, and sit down to talk.”
Chapter Ten
The next day a leaked video of Greg’s ABBA routine appeared on YouTube. By lunchtime, it had gone viral, including trending on Twitter. Overnight, Greg had achieved “Gangnam Style” status. He was burning up the entertainment news blogosphere and receiving fan e-mails from females ranging from tweens to grandmothers. It seemed that geeky was the new sexy.
All of which set Deidre seething. “I’ll pass on my menu selections whenever you wish,” Francesca said, passing her in the hallway on her way out of the ladies’ loo.
“Don’t count your truffles before they’re harvested,” Deidre spat back.
Francesca only laughed. Considering the letdown with Sam, she felt in an extraordinarily good mood. Though she and Greg hadn’t had sex, they’d stayed up for most of the night, talking long after the wine was finished and the hotel china scraped clean. Waking up from where they’d fallen asleep on the sofa, he sexily rumpled and still wearing his suit, had been a wonderful start to the show’s much-anticipated seventh week.
The second part of the fashion segment, the seminude photo shoot, was to be shot starting that day. A set had been built to approximate Francesca’s photography studio in New York—or at least Hollywood’s version of it. Deidre was likewise in another room being filmed photographing her contestants.
Francesca had managed it so that Greg would go first. The sooner they got through his session, the sooner he could let go of his anxiety and focus on their final challenge: the dance-off. After that, they’d all be home free, as well as back home. Not yet ready to think about what that might mean, Francesca walked onto the set where the production squad and Greg awaited her.
“Good morning all,” she said, addressing the set at large but casting a special smile in Greg’s direction.
Replies from cheerful (Cindy) to cranky (Sean) chorused throughout the set.
“Morning, Ms. St. James,” Cindy said, handing her a paper cup of tea.
“Darling, you’re a lifesaver,” Francesca said, taking the tea. Dunking the bag, she walked over to her first morning’s “model.”
Greg sat in a director’s chair, the Project Cinderella backdrop behind him. Wearing a white terry cloth robe and, she knew, the nearest thing to nothing beneath, he looked up from his phone and the text message he’d been typing.
“Good morning,” he said, sending her a slow, sure smile, the same smile she’d seen on waking up together.
She reached over and adjusted the pole lamp, directing more light on his face. Taking advantage of what time they had before the crew began filming, she whispered, “Once we get started, just stay focused on me.” By now they were all accustomed to having cameras crammed in their faces, but shedding clothes under those conditions, for the very first time, was expectedly stressful.
His gaze met hers. “That won’t be a problem.”
“Pretend it’s just the two of us, that those other people…aren’t even there.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m already picturing everyone naked—some more naked than others.”
Her Nikon was already set up on its tripod. Hiding a smile, she had Cindy hold the bounce board by his head, and then ducked behind to line up the first series of shots. The light looked good, but she took a few test shots with the handheld to be sure.
“How much longer?” Sean called from across the room, voice skirting a whine.
Unused to working on this kind of a time clock, she blew out a breath. “Not much. I want to get a few natural light shots before we start.”
More than that, she wanted to be sure Greg was comfortable before his big reveal moment. If being a photographer had taught her anything, it was that everyone had a figure flaw, real or imagined. Some of the most body dysmorphic people she’d ever met were highly paid supermodels. Despite all his early-morning workouts, she’d yet to see Greg without a shirt.
“So, what do you think is my most flattering feature?’ Greg asked with a grin, his open mouth spoiling her shot. No matter, she’d get plenty of others.
“Why limit it to one?” she retorted, hoping at least one of the current series would capture the wicked, and quite tempting, gleam in his eyes.
A sexy smile spread over his face. “Who’s placing limits? I’m only suggesting a starting
point.”
She chuckled. “It sounds as if someone’s grown an ego.”
Greg shrugged, causing the neck of the robe to fall open, the movement doing luscious things to the light playing on his pectorals. “Blame it on all the Muscle Milk.”
She let out a most unladylike snort. “Nice try, but that won’t fly.”
Ordinarily she listened to classical music while she worked. Being chatted up tended to distract her. But whether he spoke or stayed silent, Gregory was distracting in a very real, very major way.
From the sidelines, Sean called crankily, “Can we get on with it, puh-lease?”
Their banter drew a few surprised looks from the crew and curses from Sean, but Greg was visibly relaxing—and presently that was the whole point.
“Lights, camera, action!”
The A and B cameras honed in on either side, reminding her that more than photographer and subject, she and Greg were actors. Lest she forget, one of several boom mic operators shadowed her every step, the tip of the long pole all but brushing the hair crowning her head as she made the final check on her equipment. The setup was far from intimate, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she and Gregory were the only ones in the room.
“Ready?” she asked, zooming in.
Standing, he gave her a thumbs-up. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He turned away and reached down to untie his robe belt.
Watching it fall from his shoulders and then drop to the floor, Francesca sucked in a breath. Her “model” wore a G-string and nothing else. She’d known that in advance and yet…
Greg’s back was a thing of beauty, nicely muscled but not too muscled, broad but not too broad. And then, dear Lord, there were his buttocks, bare but for the thin strip of cloth. Those delicious upturned apple cheeks all but begged her to part her lips—and take a big, juicy bite. Without meaning too, she licked her lips.
My God, I’m on camera!
Greg looked back at her over his shoulder. “How do you want me?” he asked and though the question was made matter-of-factly, her physical response was anything but. She heated, she tingled, one randy thought after another racing through her mind.
She cleared her throat. “Turn toward me, please.”
He did, and the shaky breath she’d just drawn suddenly stuck. His biceps were subtly sculpted, his belly a near-perfect six-pack, his hips tapered. His legs were still slender but rippling with muscle as a runner’s would be.
He was brilliant, breath-stealing, an utterly gorgeous specimen of masculine beauty. Only Francesca no longer thought of him as a specimen, clay to be reshaped into a mold of her making. Her goal for their session was to have him relax so that the shots she took reflected the real Greg, a man who was every whit as beautiful within as he was without.
Keeping that motive foremost in her mind, she crossed the drop sheet to put him into position. “Arms over your head, shoulders back.”
She hesitated and then reached out, putting him into position herself, trying to touch him matter-of-factly. He startled her by jumping.
Concerned, she asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, it’s just your hands, they’re like ice.”
“Sorry,” she said with a laugh, resisting the temptation to recite clichés about cold hands—and warm hearts.
The irony of her being the one of them with cold hands wasn’t lost on her. She might be the pro behind the camera—but once his clothes came off, Greg was the one of them in the driver’s seat.
That afternoon, Francesca stood outside Greg’s dressing room, her will wavering. What precisely had she come there to say to him? Who was she thinking to fool? She wasn’t terribly interested in talking. They’d done plenty of that the night before, which had been lovely. She’d come to fulfill one single-minded and presently all consuming purpose: sweaty, salacious sex with Greg.
She raised her fist and knocked. Several pulverizing heartbeats later, Greg called out, “Come in.”
Francesca turned the knob and opened the door.
Rising from the sofa, his eyes reflected his surprise at seeing her. His thick terry cloth robe had the look of having been hastily put back on.
“Sorry, I thought you’d be…dressed.” She started backing away.
“It’s okay. Those studio lights are hot. I came back to take a shower, then got caught up in some pretty important work stuff—Skype call, potential investment partner only he’s traveling in Tokyo at the moment.”
While she’d spent most of her morning lusting, he’d gone on to do high-level work—how utterly humbling. She stalled in mid-step. “I’m interrupting?”
“Not at all, I just finished. What’s up?”
“I only wanted to say how splendidly you managed in there. Taking one’s clothes off for the camera is never easy the first time.” Imagining him slipping off the thong and sliding into the shower sucked the moisture from her mouth—and brought it pooling inside her panties.
His blue eyes bore a bad-boy gleam she’d never noticed before. “Thanks, I appreciate that, but I didn’t take them off for the camera. I took them off for you.”
“Oh…”
“Did you need something?” he asked with a hint of a smile.
“Er, yes and no.”
He cocked his head to one side, waiting.
Cheeks heating, she managed a “Y-yes.”
“What do you need from me, Francesca?”
Everything. “I thought we might…continue our kiss.”
His slow, sure smile sent her heart drumming double-time. “I’d like that, too. Do you want me to take off my robe first?”
Francesca sucked in a breath. She hadn’t known that would be on offer so soon. “Y-yes.”
Gaze locked on hers, he reached down and slowly untied the looped belt. The robe fell open. A shrug of his shoulders carried it to the carpet.
Oh. My. God.
The thong was gone. Greg stood before her without so much as a fig leaf. The…bounty suggested by the sparse underwear was now fully revealed and gorgeously…sprung.
“Bloody hell, you’re hung!” She slapped a hand over her wretched mouth, feeling a blush burn across her face. So much for being a seasoned woman of the world!
Standing proudly before her, a smile skated across his lips. “Don’t worry, it won’t be a problem. You’re in good hands. I’ve read The Kama Sutra.”
Already weak-kneed with imagining all that luscious thickness sliding back and forth inside her, she flattened a palm against the wall for support. “Define read.”
She didn’t know anyone who’d actually read The Kama Sutra, certainly not the whole thing, and that included her. Mostly she’d perused the photographs of exotically intertwined couples and then gone to touch herself in the bath.
Greg didn’t blink. “Cover to cover.”
Cover to cover?!
“I had to. I was co-deving an Android Kama Sutra app, and I needed to adapt the content,” he explained.
“There’s a phone app for a sex manual?” she asked, half wondering if he might be having her on.
He grinned. “There is now.” Gaze holding hers, he advanced a step. “Where would you like to start, Francesca? Congress of a cow? The lotus? You do yoga, right?”
“Yes, but…” She honestly couldn’t tell the degree to which he was teasing. She swallowed hard, remembering their dance and the sense of rightness she’d felt as he’d held her gaze and slid his hand up her leg, his fingers bringing her flesh to life. She’d wanted to open for him then. She more than wanted to do so now. “I really don’t care how. I just want to be with you.”
Gaze melting, he closed the few steps between them. “In that case, one of us is wearing too many clothes.”
Stepping behind her, he took hold of her zipper’s tab, drawing it slowly down. Cool air brushed her back. His hands slipped beneath the loosened linen and cupped her breasts through her bra.
He bent his head and kissed the side of her neck. “I’ve wanted to do this f
or a while now.”
“So have I,” she admitted, leaning back against him. His hands were exquisitely gentle, his cock firm and full against her buttocks.
He tugged down her dress. The sheath slid the length of her body, joining his robe at their feet.
He turned her in his arms until they were once more facing and held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.”
Standing before him in her La Perla blue-curry-colored triangle silk and macramé bra and panties, she fought feelings of self-consciousness. She had a decently good body, she knew that. That pricey premier international health club membership was kept up for good reason. And yet, she couldn’t help wondering how nearly she matched the image he must have been mapping out in his mind all these weeks.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, drawing her close once again.
Reaching behind her, he unhooked her bra’s back clasp. The cups slackened. He slid the lacy straps down her arms and off, raising gooseflesh. His gaze riveted on her breasts and she followed it down. Her nipples were stained a dusky pink, engorged to the point of painful.
Looking up again, she asked, “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“Still coaching, Francesca?” he said, his voice a chuckle.
She loved the way he said her name, not presuming to shorten it to Fran or Frannie, instead drawing out all three syllables as if savoring their taste on his tongue.
He bent his head to her breast, sipping first one nipple and then the other. Francesca groaned. Arching, she feathered her hands through his silky hair and pressed against him.
Pulling away from her breasts, he slid his hand down her belly and lower. “These are very pretty,” he breathed, tracing the top of her panties with the tips of two fingers.
He slipped a hand between her parted thighs and stroked her through the thin fabric. “Feel good?” he asked, the gleam in his eyes assuring her he well knew the answer.
Anchoring her palms atop his shoulders, she bit her lip. “You’re torturing me.”
His gaze hardened. “You’ve been torturing me ever since you walked into my office at Cloud Flyer with that fucking camera case slung over your shoulder, every day since that we’ve spent on set where I’ve had to look at you and pretend I didn’t want to tear your clothes off. You’re torturing me now, only this kind of torture I can take.”