Angela, Carla - Full Exposure (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Carla Angela

  ‘Indeed,’ Lake said, lobbing a smile back. She still had to be courteous. Professional. He was a client, not a sexual object. ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you know I’d be out here? The shed’s fairly tucked away.’

  ‘Your mobile diverted to the photography café. A girl called Fenella, I think, answered and told me where to find you. Said you were busy getting ready for an…exhibition. Is that right?’

  Darn Fenella. If she wasn’t trying to fatten her up with calorie-laden treats, she was trying to push her into the arms of eligible bachelors. Well, actually, no. Fenella was just trying to help Lake’s new online business venture to be a success. But Lake was jumpy and irrational because she had Hunter standing before her, exuding oodles of testosterone, who could well have been a six-foot-three dildo rather than just a client for the effect he was having on her.

  Oh, he was waiting for an answer from her. ‘Uh, yes. I’m holding an exhibition. Tomorrow night actually. My first solo one, so it’s a little bit nerve-racking.’

  Hunter nodded, and then his eyes pinned on something behind her. Still fixated, he moved forward, brushing past her. It was like rubbing up against a solid wall of muscle. A shiver ran through Lake, stretching out its tentacles from her scalp to the tips of her toes.

  Now at the workbench, Hunter gently held up the object of his fixation—the photo she’d lain aside, whistling through his teeth. Oh, God. The way he was staring at the photo with his X-ray-like vision, Lake felt as though she’d just ripped off her clothes then and there, not like he was just looking at a photograph, of which he didn’t know who the subject was. At last, he said, ‘Beautiful…this is a beautiful piece of art.’

  He thought her body was…beautiful? No, he thought the image reflected back was beautiful—as a piece of art. Not a piece of arse. There was a difference. ‘Where’s your exhibition?’ he asked casually, looking over his shoulder at her again.

  ‘Uh, Fox Gallery. Near where I work. Tomorrow night. It’s small but chic. Quite well-known in art circles actually.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘I know it.’ Huh. Lake hadn’t expected that. But then he had said he dabbled in painting, when he wasn’t uberbusy doing big business deals. Hunter addressed her solemnly. ‘So can you show me…how you do it?’

  Do it. Lordy. ‘Do what?’ Lake asked, feeling her pale forehead crinkling.

  ‘Process the photos. The old-school way. I’d love to give it a try, if you’re not too busy.’

  ‘Uh, well, actually…’ She was busy. Not that Lake could concentrate on her exhibition now, though, with this hulking clitoris-tease hanging about. ‘The only problem is I don’t have large-sized gloves for you.’ Large. He’d be extra-large in other places, at a guess.

  ‘Hmm…’ Hunter cocked his head to one side, as though deep in thought. He tapped his finger on his jaw. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Then he closed the gap between them in an instant, circling his hands around her waist, holding onto her arms at the wrists. Pressed against her, he felt like a human-shaped electric blanket, with a very firm mattress underneath. So warm and comforting. Protective. She could hear his steady breathing in her ear and feel the soft puffs teasing the tips of her ears. She could practically taste him.

  ‘You can be my hands,’ his deep voice said into her ear, reverberating right through her.

  Lake had to fight back a moan. Be professional. A silent mantra. The damp spot she could feel in her underpants betrayed her, though. ‘Uh, okay.’

  Wordlessly, she snapped her gloves back on, the thin, white plastic reminding her of condoms and things being slid into deep, dark places… Really! She must control herself. Remember that she was a business person and that he was a client. There was nothing unusual about someone being curious about the traditional photography process, and it was her fault really for not having an adequate array of glove sizes…

  She grabbed for another negative and slid it into the optical apparatus. ‘So, this is the enlarger…’ Instantly, her grubby mind turned to penis enlargers, of course. Not that she reckoned Hunter would need any such help in that department.

  She could just detect the imprint of his package through his jeans at the small of her back, and it seemed quite generously-sized, if she did say so herself. It hadn’t just been the stuff of her dreams. She bit her lip in an effort to control her wayward mind and focus like she was trying to get the enlarger lens to do.

  Composing herself, Lake showed Hunter through the process of how the negative was projected through the lens onto sensitized photographic paper. Sensitized being exactly how every cell and pore on her body now felt. Lordy.

  Then, with his hands still clutching onto her wrists, she swished the image in various trays to complete the process, watching another image of her naked figure coming to life. Her fingers dipping in the trays of watery liquid encouraged her mind to wander to further deep, dark places.

  At the fixer tray, their bodies pressed against one another, her train of thoughts really went off the tracks. She imagined finding a confidence she didn’t have with this Adonis and slowly turning around, so their bodies were still melded together, her straining breasts pressed up against his chest. She imagined looking right into his pool-blue eyes and whispering, ‘All work and no play makes Lake a dull girl.’ Then leaning forward and suctioning his full lips between her own, before thrusting her tongue down his throat. Hungrily. Desperately. And he’d, of course, respond in kind.

  His hands would then reach up, plunging under the fabric of her khaki-green, long-sleeved tee, cupping her breasts. Then, in a swift movement, he would move his big, tanned, strong hands from her breasts to her waist, plucking down her tight, black jeans and turquoise briefs, and ever so gently, lifting her up on the workbench. There, he’d surprise her by lowering his head, only to lick the insides of her vagina like it were some kind of delicious dessert they’d sell at the photography café.

  Her nether region slick and pulsing, he’d stop just as she was about to climax. Then he’d stand up again, addressing her with those hypnotic eyes as he quickly unzipped his jeans. His manhood would be thick, throbbing, and pointing toward the ceiling. Then, he’d plunge into her cavern of wetness, their bodies banging noisily against the wooden benchtop in rhythm, sprinkling the trays’ contents about the place…

  ‘Ohhhhhh!’ Lake jumped. Her russet hair, which had been scraped back in a ponytail, now pooled around her shoulders. Hunter had pulled away, and she whipped around, seeing him holding up her hairband teasingly.

  ‘I just wanted to see what you would look like with your hair down,’ Hunter said, his eyes running up and down her frame. ‘And it looks…nice. Well, from what I can make out in the darkness anyway.’

  Nice. It was the kind of word you’d use to describe your grandmother’s tea set. Or a colour of paint. Not a woman’s crowning glory. Lake’s fingers immediately went up, snagging in her hair protectively. ‘Thanks. Uh, anyway, I hope you enjoyed the tour of sorts…’ Unfortunately, it wasn’t a tour of her body. ‘But, I’d really better get back to work, if you don’t mind. You know, with the exhibition coming up tomorrow and everything.’

  ‘Sure,’ Hunter said, his eyes still fixated on her, as though drinking in the image of her fine features and her russet-coloured waves splashed about her shoulders, photographing it with his mind’s eye. ‘Oh, before I forget…’ He reached into his pocket for a worn-looking, black leather wallet, pulling out a wad of notes. ‘For your services.’

  The papery notes were pressed into Lake’s hand, crinkling against her fingers, making her feel like a prostitute. Even though the only sexual favors she’d given him had been in her mind. And it was him that had been doing her the favor. ‘Sure. Well, uh, good luck with everything. I hope you meet plenty of women.’ She could have kicked herself in the shins for saying that last bit. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if she did so in the dark anyway.

  Hunter shot her a lazy grin, nodding at her. ‘Thanks. Good luck with your e
xhibition. I’m sure you’ll do well with such beautiful imagery.’

  Lake just nodded, barely able to breathe. This was it. The last she’d see of this fair-haired, blue-eyed god. She hadn’t even gotten to sample a taste of his salty skin, even the tiniest of licks. That would now be another woman’s job. That and much, much more… The green-eyed monster threatened to rear its ugly head.

  Shakily, Lake pushed open the door, and Hunter fell out into the sunshine again, as though enveloped by it. With a final nod of his head, he disappeared into it as though he’d never existed, except in her mind’s eye. Lake closed the door heavily behind her, shutting him out forever, breathing in deeply.

  Even when his footsteps had faded away and the only reminder of his earlier presence being the faint woody scent that lingered, Lake still didn’t realize that she hadn’t given him his disc of photos, which was his whole purpose for being there.

  Chapter Five

  The sound of Lady Gaga from her iPod powered Lake’s feet forward, her breath coming out in short puffs. Around her, yellow and orange leaves glittered on trees, announcing fall had arrived, and crunched underfoot on the narrow, stone-ridden, dirt path.

  As soon as Hunter had left, Lake had stood statue-like in the darkroom, not knowing what to do with herself and all of her nervous energy. She’d hastily finished the last of the photos she’d wanted to redo, and then she could do no more. She could no longer focus on work. The exhibition. All she could think about was imagining Hunter’s hands on her and his giant, throbbing—

  Lake scolded herself for allowing her mind to divert off-track again. As soon as she could, she’d chucked on her sneakers and hit the ground running—literally—heading for the track amid Brownhill Creek Recreation Park, bordered by a grassy hill on one side and a caravan park on the other. Copper-coloured butterflies winged their way past her head.

  Focus. On Lady Gaga and what she was warbling. One foot hitting the ground in front of the other. But her mind betrayed her by focusing instead on her most recent client and how his member might taste in her mouth…

  Jesus! Lake was surprised by a fellow female runner in a bright pink singlet and navy leggings, rounding the corner toward her at speed, with a black Scottish terrier by her side. Lake almost fell off the track, which was languidly winding its way up the hillside, in her efforts to let them pass.

  Once they’d gone, Lake paused to one side on the dirt track, bending her right leg behind her and holding onto the toe of her sneaker to stretch her calf. Perhaps she just needed some fuel to stay focused, motivated, to stop her mind from straying into dark, dangerous places.

  She’d slotted a sachet of PowerBar energy gel under the waistband of her black leggings and now plucked it free. Ripping open the sachet, she sucked on the apple-flavored liquid inside, setting off on the path again at a brisk walking pace.

  The saltiness, with a hint of apple, flooded her mouth. She sucked harder on the sachet, teasing the contents out with her tongue. Suddenly, the taste reminded her of cum, apple-flavored cum—Hunter’s cum—or how she imagined it might taste, deliciously sweet and sour.

  This was ridiculous.

  Tossing the sachet in a nearby bin, Lake turned around and set off full-pelt again for home, not even stopping when a stitch knifed into her side.

  She had to get rid of this pent-up tension once and for all.

  * * * *

  ‘Lake!’ Hunter called out, knocking on the front door of her unit, which he’d left just an hour ago before returning, realizing he hadn’t gotten his promised photos. It was a good excuse to come back at any rate, and she hadn’t been in the darkroom.

  The unit was red-brick and ’60s in style, with quaint, white shutters and a neatly clipped rose bush out the front. For some reason, it reminded Hunter of Lake and her no doubt neatly clipped, rose-scented bush.

  He tried again. ‘Lake!’ His knuckles rapped against the wooden door a little more heavily, and then suddenly, it gave way under the movement, creaking slightly open as though he’d tapped a secret code on the swollen wood. Oh, how he wished he had the password to make Lake’s legs part with such ease. She was a fiery one. She made his pulse quicken. If only she knew just how much. He’d had his eye on her for a while, longer than she knew, and he’d gone to great lengths to get her attention.

  Hunter peered inside the unit—straight into a tiny lounge room—where a vintage-looking, olive-green, velvet sofa was a centerpiece, and there was a dark, wooden bookshelf to his left, adorned with quirky trinkets like a china owl figurine and a silver-framed, black-and-white print of a beach scene, with earthy strands of beads strung over one side.

  He stepped inside, almost jumping out of his skin when something soft and velvety rubbed against his leg. He looked down. Oh, the cat. Of course.

  Kneeling down, he tickled the pussycat under its chin and looked into its unblinking, green eyes. ‘Where’s your master?’

  Cupcakes gave him a haughty look as if to say, ‘Who says she’s my master and not the other way around?’ Typical feline. Then the cat sauntered off with his tail in the air—still purring though.

  Hunter took a few more careful steps inside, not sure whether to stay, secretly poke around and find out more about her—hoping she returned soon, pretending he’d just arrived—or do the right thing and leave.

  Mid-thought he stopped, his head cocked to one side. He’d heard a noise coming from the far end of the unit—a splash of water. It sounded echoey like it was coming from a bathroom.

  Unable to help himself, Hunter found himself tiptoeing forwards, through the lounge and light-flooded, compact kitchen toward a white-painted bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. Feeling utterly compelled, Hunter pressed one eye up to the crack between the door and the doorframe and swallowed hard. He’d found her. Oh, how he’d found her.

  She was lying in an antique-looking, maroon bath, with a white lip and gold claw feet. The wet tendrils of her russet hair clung to her shoulders and snaked around her perky, cream-coloured breasts, like some kind of creeper. Water beaded from her collarbone down to her rosebud nipples. Hunter could imagine sucking those perfect strawberry tits. He felt the front of his pants growing tight, uncomfortable—his jeans imprisoned his member as it grew in size.

  Lake’s head was tilted back, resting against the bath’s ledge, and her eyes were closed. She was seemingly content.

  Her arm, he suddenly noticed, was thrust below the water’s surface, deep, deep below, moving slowly up and down.

  Hunter could feel the perspiration beading on his own forehead, as much from the steamy room as from the steamy scene before him.

  Then Hunter forgot to breathe for a second as a soft moan suddenly wafted from Lake’s pink lips. Her whole body now began moving along with the rhythmic pace of her arm, whose fingers were no doubt doing their own nimble work below the water’s surface, picking up speed. Her back arched back now, her breasts pointing toward the ceiling, like ripened honeydew melons.

  Lake moaned again, louder this time. The sound ripped through Hunter. He wanted to touch himself. To imagine that her hands were on him and that they were in this together, that they were pleasuring each other, but he daren’t move and be discovered.

  And then he heard it. ‘Oh, Hunter…Oh, God, Hunter!’

  His name. His actual name. Wow. He liked the sound of it on her lips. It was like his member was plunging deep into those pillowy lips. She was fantasizing about him. He’d actually had an effect on her already. His quiet, steady efforts had paid off.

  She was flailing about now, the bottom half of her head of hair, a dark mahogany now that it was wet, dipping in and out of the water, her eyelashes fluttering open and shut, like she were having some kind of episode.

  Then she let out a moan that seemed to come from her pert bellybutton region and reverberated right through her. The sound bounced off the white-tiled walls—a moan of absolute, exquisite pleasure. Hunter felt his own eyes half closing, deep in the moment with her.<
br />
  Then they flickered fully open again in time to see the trickle of bubbles form on the top of the water above Lake’s nether region. She’d come. Oh, how she’d come!

  She lay back against the wall of the bath again, panting, her left arm, beading with water, hung over one side. Her ribcage moved up and down, her breasts bobbed in the water like bountiful buoys. It took all of Hunter’s physical control not to fling open that door, kneel on the wet bathroom floor, cup one breast in his hand, and run his tongue along the floral-scented flesh before sucking hard on its nipple, luxuriating in the strawberry sweetness.

  Lake’s serene, unmoving face suddenly crinkled into a small smile. As though she were running over the fantasy again in her mind and reveling in it. The thought warmed him. He’d done that. He’d made her feel all hot, heavy, and happy, at least in her mind.

  With suddenness, an idea hit Hunter square between the eyes. He’d leave her a gift.

  The perfect gift. A gift especially for her.

  Though he didn’t want to have to drag his eyes away from her—from drinking in every inch of her tantalizing, naked flesh—he had to. He was an intruder.

  Turning away, his member still throbbing, he tiptoed toward the front door and out back to the darkroom.

  * * * *

  Lake adjusted the framed photo on the beige wall for the umpteenth time and then stood back. Overhead spotlights sparkled on the glass, lighting up every inch of the naked, feminine silhouette captured beneath it in black and white. Finally, she nodded to herself. It was, at last, about right.

  ‘Need any help?’

  Lake jumped instinctively, lost in her own dreamy world, before turning in the direction of the lilting Irish voice. A young, dark-haired man with pockmarked skin, who worked at the gallery, had his head poked around the doorway, with a thick eyebrow cocked quizzically in her direction.