Model Behavior

by Tamara Morgan

  “Livvie.” His voice grew rough.

  “It’s not that bad.” Concern pulled a crease down the center of her forehead, but she was so exceptionally beautiful even her worry lines were a work of art. “You said I could pick whichever one I wanted.”

  “Livvie.” No less rough this time.

  “I thought you’d like it. How was I supposed to know? You were so obsessed when we played that Twenty Questions game.”

  “Fuck.” He crossed the room and had her in his arms before he could stop himself. He’d been prepared for almost anything—a butterfly made of rainbows, a swarm of butterflies taking flight, even an obscene butterfly with a body shaped like a penis. Hidden pornography was something he could handle. But, “You picked a monarch. You shouldn’t have picked a monarch.”

  That was the end of him. He pressed her flat against the mirror and crushed her lips in a kiss he would forever associate with the sensation of thousands of butterflies taking flight.

  He buried one of his hands in the silken tangle of her hair, holding her in place while his mouth moved over hers again and again. She tasted so damn good, so damn real. So much about Livvie was a facade—her untouchable kind of beauty, her sharp tongue, the careful way she kept people from getting too close. It was easy to forget that underneath all that was a living, breathing woman. A woman who stripped him of every desire but to bury himself in her.

  Years of being careful, of never asking for too much, of trying to convince himself that friendship was enough, went up in flames that burned almost as hot as his blood. His tongue rode hers, and his grip on her hair grew so tight she gasped against him.

  His free hand slipped underneath the bottom hem of her shirt, and he touched his palm to the heated skin of her stomach. If she’d pulled away, if she’d recoiled from his touch in the slightest, he might have had a chance. He might have been able to stop himself from exploring the soft curves of her body and losing himself there.

  But she moaned and pressed her pelvis flush with his, grinding against his erection until he forgot his own name.

  He didn’t forget hers, though. “Oh, God, Livvie. You have no idea, do you?”

  She pulled away, her expression dazed. “No idea about what?”

  He watched as the dazed expression gave way to shock and then to anger. Anger lingered long enough for her to square her palms on his chest and shove, but he didn’t budge. He couldn’t.

  “Ask me,” he begged. “Ask me the question.”

  Her fingers curled, nails scraping his bare skin. “What question?”

  “Animal, mineral, vegetable?”

  “No.”

  “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

  “No. I’m not playing Twenty Questions with you. Why do you have to turn everything into a stupid game?”

  He leaned close and dropped a kiss on her lips, a gentle touch, almost brotherly. But instead of pulling away when it was over, he kept his forehead pressed against hers, allowing their breath to mingle, their heartbeats to sync. “This one isn’t a game. I promise.”

  She still didn’t play. “I think you’re taking liberties here I didn’t give you, friend.”

  “Then you should have picked a different tattoo, love.” He caged her against the mirror, his palms flat against the reflective surface. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, not yet, but you leave me no other choice.”

  “Do your worst, but don’t blame me when everything is ruined afterward.” Her eyes glinted and sparks practically flew from her lips, but her body remained pliable where it pressed against his. “I already told you this was a bad idea. It’s still a bad idea. It’ll continue being a bad idea after you bend me over that tattoo table and take everything you want.”

  “I don’t want to take anything, you beautiful, stubborn idiot.”

  She opened her mouth to protest—she would always open her mouth to protest—but he prevented her from saying a word. His kiss was unforgiving from the moment his mouth touched hers, but it soon became clear there was nothing to forgive. She kissed back with everything she had, her body bending toward his, curving against him as if he were the only thing she craved.

  The pressure of his hips against hers was an agony, and he made the mistake of dropping a hand to her ass. The short hem of her skirt had twisted and bunched around the tops of her thighs, so instead of hitting the safety of fabric, his hand grasped nothing but bare skin and hot flesh.

  She gasped into his open mouth and began pushing again—not away, this time, but toward the tattoo table, the only horizontal surface in the room even remotely suited for sex. He stopped her by planting a leg firmly between hers, his thigh hitting the hot V at the apex. For the briefest of moments, his tactic worked, forestalling all other thoughts as the direct pressure of his leg elicited a moan.

  “You’re cheating,” she said as her teeth played along his lower lip. “If you’re going to do this, at least do it properly. Turn me around and fuck me. You know you want to.”

  “I do,” he agreed, and moved his hand lower. His finger slipped inside the lip of her thong, and she hitched her leg up to grant him better access to the hot folds of her cunt. “I also want to fuck you from the front and from the side and hanging upside down. I want to fuck you on beaches and inside hotels and where castles meet the sky.”

  “Then do it.” She issued the words as a challenge, but her bark was worse than her bite as he continued spreading her thighs, finding his way in. “If you want me so bad, go ahead and get it over with.”

  “If you insist,” he murmured, and fell to his knees. He kept his hands locked on her hips, holding her in place—which was a good thing, because once she realized what he intended, she made every effort to bolt. He barely felt the twinge of pain on his back as he held her in place, though he felt it plenty from the front, his cock tight and straining to enjoy this moment as much as the rest of him.

  Too bad. His cock would have to wait. As much as he loved the bastard, this moment was for Livvie and Livvie alone.

  And me. There was no denying how much pleasure he took in hooking his finger in the gusset of her panties and tugging the tiny scrap of lace down to her knees. There was no denying how much he loved the scent of her filling his senses as he brought his mouth to the dew of her thighs. And there was no denying how right it felt to lose himself in this part of her—this soft, heated core that had been forbidden to him for so long.

  He kissed her. He kissed her as if his entire life’s happiness depended on it, as if the taste of her were a drug he knew he’d never get to access again. He kissed her as if she meant the world to him.

  “Ben.” Her hands twisted in his hair as she arched her back and opened herself up even more. “This isn’t what I meant. You aren’t supposed to...”

  What? Care? Enjoy the taste of her? Lose his shit when the butterfly she chose to mark him for the rest of his life was the one creature in the world who would always find its way home no matter how far away it flew?

  She really did have no idea. Ben knew he wasn’t the most reliable of men—especially when it came to romance—and he’d never made any woman a promise beyond a few laughs and a good time in bed. As much as Livvie liked to think that was evidence of his immaturity, the reality was the exact opposite.

  He flirted and he joked and he declared his everlasting love for his work because it was the only thing he could do. That was what happened when the woman you loved refused to see you as anything more than a friend. You became irreverent. You found ways to cope.

  But he was so fucking tired of coping. He wasn’t just some guy with an itch he wanted to scratch, and Livvie wasn’t just some girl with conveniently long nails. He’d spent the past five years of his life looking for ways into her life, no matter how small. He accompanied her to parties he didn’t give two shits about. He changed flights and itine
raries to match hers.

  He gave her space. Gave her time. Gave her his heart, even though she had no idea what to do with it.

  It was his turn now, goddammit.

  “Stop me, then. Tell me to stand up. Ask me to leave.”

  He waited long enough for her to do any and all of those things—but only just. When she didn’t say a word, he gripped her leg and hooked it over his shoulder, burying himself inside the glory of her cunt. Every breath, every taste, every thought in that moment was of her. Olivia Winston. Livvie. Beautiful and broken. Smart and determined. A woman who always found her way home to him.

  Pressing his mouth to the softest part of her, his tongue greedy and his hands insistent, he found a way in, if only for this moment.

  She came against his lips, and he devoured her orgasm, every contraction of her muscles a wave of pleasure he felt reverberate through him. He wanted to keep going, pushing Livvie to come again and again, breaking her down with ecstasy until she had no choice but to admit how she felt about him, but that wasn’t how this was supposed to work.

  You didn’t capture the butterfly. You didn’t trap it in a jar or pin it to a board. The most beautiful thing about it was its freedom.

  He rose carefully, taking a moment to adjust her undergarments and skirt, refusing to look her in the eye until he’d given her a moment to compose herself. More than the orgasm, more than the press of his mouth against her clit, she’d appreciate most this quiet moment of dignity—not that she needed it. Dignity looked good on this woman, but the flushed and disheveled softness of her postorgasm glow was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen.

  Even though walking with the stiffest erection he’d ever had in his life was an agony, he grabbed the medical supplies they’d abandoned and held them out to her. “Would you mind putting the gauze on now? I don’t want to get the antibiotic ointment all over my shirt, and we should probably get going if we’re going to make it to our lunch date.”

  “Lunch date?” She blinked, still not fully composed. “You’re hungry now?”

  He licked his lips in a careful gesture, tasting her all over again, the salty sweetness of the chemistry that had always existed between them. “Ravenous. But that can wait for at least a few more hours now, wouldn’t you say? We should probably get some real food in us to build up our stamina. Besides, I think you’ll like where we’re going this time.”

  “Oh, God. Please tell me it’s not another one of those places you had to make reservations at years in advance.”

  He grinned. He knew that Montluxe thing had thrown her. “It’s not. Don’t worry. Your mom was more than happy to squeeze us in at the last minute.”

  Chapter Six

  The townhouse where Livvie’s mother lived wasn’t at all like the house where she’d grown up. For one, it was made of brownstone and not the flimsy wooden boards of an artist’s commune by the sea. For another, it had indoor plumbing and running water—two things Livvie had refused to look on as anything but essential life requirements since the day she’d struck out on her own.

  The decorations were the same, though. Her mom had been holding on to these wind chimes and metal sculptures for just about ever.

  “Oh, wow. Is your mom an artist?” Ben poked at an anatomically correct rooster enjoying himself on a weather vane, sending it spinning.

  She hadn’t meant for the pair of them to linger so long on the front porch admiring the semipornographic art, but she was finding it difficult to lift the knocker and announce their arrival. This was technically the first time she’d ever introduced one of her male friends to her mom, and she had no idea how she felt about it.

  She was mad, of course—that much was certain. She was mad at being manipulated like this and mad at Ben for refusing to yield. But she was also accepting. Her mother wasn’t an easy woman by any stretch of the imagination—something Ben was about to learn for himself.

  “I don’t know if artist is the right word,” Livvie hedged. “No one actually buys any of her pieces. She just gives them away. She doesn’t believe in commercialism.”

  “As in, art should be free for all?”

  “As in, money isn’t something she feels is worth the hassle.”

  He studied her as if checking to see if she were making a joke or not, so she was careful to keep her expression bland. He’d find out for himself soon enough. “Well, I think it’s a shame—she could probably make a killing. These pieces are lovely.”

  She released a puff of air. Lovely was not the word anyone used to describe this stuff. Profane, yes. Odd, sure. The product of an unhinged mind...okay, maybe that was just her. “You might want to work on your delivery. If you intend to win my mom over, you’re going to have to sound a lot more convincing than that.”

  “Is she partial to flattery?” Ben rubbed his hands. “Excellent. Flattery is my specialty.”

  “No. I absolutely forbid you to pull your woo-and-charm routine on my mother.”

  “Oh. Damn. Sincerity, then? I kind of like this mermaid knocker. Which hole do you think that’s supposed to be? Incoming or outgoing?”

  She clamped her lips shut to keep from laughing, finding much more joy in this moment than she should have. Panic was the appropriate reaction to them moving straight on to number five, this task to “gain my mother’s approval” as if she were some overprotected heroine of old, but she felt strangely optimistic.

  Okay, so she was proving to be terrible at holding Ben back, at using her sexual wiles as a way to win this battle of theirs. In terms of wiles, he was the clear frontrunner. And backrunner. And siderunner. All she had to do was close her eyes and imagine the sight of him on his knees, worshipping her, and she was all weak knees and quivering loins again.

  That Ben could lick a woman into a state of writhing ecstasy was no surprise—she’d known it from the moment they first met. There were some things you could tell about a man just by looking at him, and he hadn’t disappointed her. In fact, she almost regretted that she’d held him back all this time. A friends-with-benefits relationship could have vastly improved her sex life over the years.

  And it would end the same anyway. Right here and right now. Inside the warm, well-lit home Livvie had purchased for her mom with her first substantial signing bonus, a home so unlike any she’d ever known it was laughable.

  Ben liked her, that much she knew. Maybe he even loved her in his arrogant, self-assured way—the same way men looked at a sports car and felt the irresistible urge to possess. To ride. But Livvie hadn’t rolled out of the showroom like all the other women in his life. She’d climbed out of the junkyard, her rusty parts hidden underneath a nice coat of paint, and it was only a matter of time before she fell apart.

  Perhaps that had been her biggest mistake all along—letting Ben believe she was more than she really was.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, and the door swung open.

  “Livvie!” Her mom emerged with both arms outstretched, about two dozen jangling bracelets threatening to clock her in the eye. “You’re here!”

  “Hi, Mom.” She gave in to the familiar patchouli-scented hug. “It’s good to see you.”

  She was pushed away as quickly as she’d been sucked in. “And this must be Benjamin. Oh, my. He’s a lot better looking than he sounds on the phone. Practically a model himself.”

  “Thank you,” Ben said, humor rumbling in his throat.

  “I wouldn’t necessarily take it as a compliment,” Livvie said drily. “She’s never been a big fan of my career. She thinks it’s shallow.”

  “It is shallow,” her mom replied, unruffled. “People give you money to stand around and look pretty. When I was your age, I did that for free.”

  “Oh?” Ben asked politely. “And how much do they pay you now?”

  Her mom’s laugh was a tinkl
e of mirth, almost like the sound of all those jangling bracelets. “Isn’t he delicious? I think I might keep him.”

  Ben pressed a possessive hand on the small of Livvie’s back as they were both ushered into the house. She tried not to think too much about that hand—the way his fingers refused to move, the way they staked their claim—but it was difficult when he followed up with, “I’m already taken, I’m afraid, Mrs. Winston. Livvie’s the only keeper I want.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic. He was laying it on thick enough to take on a high-society tea, and her mom was eating it right up. Soon, they’d all be sampling Ben’s crumpets.

  “Aren’t you just adorable,” her mom said.

  “Thank you.” He gave a slight bow. “I try.”

  “And you succeed. But I’m no Mrs. Winston—call me Minerva, please.”

  Livvie planted her feet and came to a halt, propelling Ben into her back. Enough of this. Whatever la-di-dah, pinkies-in-the-air routine the pair of them had going on over here wasn’t going to work. “What the hell, Mom? Your name isn’t Minerva.”

  “Why not? I could be a Minerva. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

  “I think it’s beautiful.” Flashing his high-voltage smile, Ben took her mom’s hand and gave it a kiss. “Just like you.”

  “Is this a trick?” Livvie looked back and forth between the pair of them, her past and her present, two people who existed on polar opposites of the personality spectrum. “Did you two set this up in advance?”

  Ben didn’t answer, merely smiled and took in the living room, which was composed of a lone sagging couch along one wall and what looked like a welding station in the center. Various sculptures of well-hung animals were propped against walls and lay scattered on the floor, which was itself splattered with paint and what looked like burn marks. There was a perfectly good workshop out back, but her mom had always refused to follow the modes of convention.