“Yes.” About a hundred times.
“I had an issue with one of the female characters,” she said, waving a hand in the air. “It’s probably nothing you’d pick up on.”
“Are you kidding? I’m an anthropologist. I study people.”
“You’re also a man.”
“So?”
She set the device aside. “Okay. The main guy, Investigator Burrows, is pretty adorable. He’s sort of a bumbling James Bond, falling into bed with dangerous women and solving creepy crimes by accident.”
It was a fair description of his work.
“In this one, his love interest is the mysterious hotel manager, Vanessa Black, who may or may not be a lesbian vampire.”
“Right.”
“There’s a scene where Burrows is searching a room for clues and Vanessa comes in with her girlfriend. Of course, they have a steamy encounter while he hides behind the curtains, watching. After it’s over, we discover that Vanessa knew he was there. She teases him with a kiss that tastes like her lover.”
He remembered it well. Most of his readers—men and women—had enjoyed this scene. Others, not so much.
“I just thought it didn’t fit in with the rest of the story. Vanessa starts off as this great character with an interesting role to play. Then she gets reduced to a sex object, flat and unrealistic. She’s infatuated with Burrows, which makes no sense because she isn’t into men. It was disappointing.”
Colin had heard this kind of criticism before, so he wasn’t fazed. His editor hadn’t asked him to tone down the eroticism, and the television executives were all for it. While he tried to make thoughtful decisions, especially when it concerned violence against women or female sexuality, he didn’t regret his creative choices.
With Vanessa he’d attempted to portray a character who was sort of fluid. Not a villain or a heroine, not gay or straight. But he had to admit that the sex was meant to titillate, and he wouldn’t have written a man the same way.
“You’re right,” he said.
“About what?”
“That scene. It was objectifying.”
She seemed wary of his agreement. “You found it offensive?”
“No,” he said, shrugging. “I liked it.”
His answer might not win him any brownie points, but at least it was the truth. He wasn’t a bastion of enlightenment and his books weren’t highbrow literature. He wrote them for the same reason he studied anthropology: people were fascinating.
Paige was fascinating.
He didn’t mind her thoughtful commentary on his work. He admired her for caring about stereotypes, and it was kind of refreshing to hear sincere feedback face-to-face. Living in L.A. had taught him to take flattery with a grain of salt. Strangers bombarded him with effusive praise. Everyone assumed he was rich.
Colin felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving her about his author persona. He should have admitted who he was earlier. His “male intuition” told him that a woman who rescued a stranger from a submerged vehicle, brought him into her home and warmed him with her naked body wouldn’t appreciate the omission. She seemed reclusive and cautious. If he confessed now, she’d feel misled.
He wanted her to keep talking. He also wanted to take her to bed. Both desires warred against his conscience, holding him silent.
She stared out the snow-speckled window, a crease between her brows. He couldn’t guess what she was thinking about, his offensive scene or something else. Maybe she was sensitive to women’s issues because a man had hurt her. He’d like to know why she preferred living alone and why she dated tourists who were only passing through.
“Most men don’t understand how it feels to be objectified,” she said.
Colin couldn’t disagree there.
“But I think it can be taught.”
“How?”
“I could photograph you.”
The air rushed from his lungs. “That wouldn’t be the same.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t be offended if you treated me like a sex object. I’d enjoy it.”
“You might,” she said, smiling.
“We also live in a male-dominated society. One experience won’t change the power dynamic.”
“Scared?”
He realized that she was goading him into accepting the challenge—and it was working. Although he joked around a lot, he didn’t want her to see him as weak or cowardly. He also made an effort to be open-minded and try new things. He wasn’t an old-guard sexist, protecting the status quo. “Terrified,” he said.
She laughed out loud. “But you’ll do it?”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Well, let’s negotiate.”
“Full frontal nudity is off the table.”
“Spoilsport.”
“I’ll show as much as you did in the hot spring.”
“That photo wasn’t even objectifying.”
“I objectified it,” he said, wagging his brows.
She gave him a scolding look. “I can work with shirtless.”
“Fine.”
Giggling with glee, she went to a desk and found a sheet of paper. “You’ll have to sign a release form.”
“For what?”
“It protects us both. You agree to pose, and I agree not to sell or distribute the photos without your consent.”
“Who will see them besides us?”
“No one, unless you want me to share.”
“I don’t.”
“I’ll write in personal use.” She laughed again, as if imagining what kind of use she could get out of them.
Colin was already beginning to feel self-conscious. He read her form and signed it, a flush creeping up his neck. She intended to make him pose like some kind of beefcake. This was going to be majorly embarrassing.
He sat at the table while she got ready, selecting the right camera and gathering an assortment of props.
“I haven’t even brushed my hair,” he complained.
“I want it rumpled for a few shots.”
“Should I take off the shirt?”
“Not yet.”
She gave him a newspaper to read and fidgeted with the scene, moving his coffee cup to the perfect location. Then she worked on his body positioning and the drape of his open shirt. Satisfied, she backed up and adjusted the lens.
Colin felt stiff and awkward. He didn’t know if he should suck in his gut or flex his muscles or what.
“Just relax,” she said. “This is supposed to be a lazy Sunday morning.”
He let out a breath and loosened his grip on the newspaper.
“Try to look satisfied. Like you just got lucky.”
His last relationship had ended six months ago, so it was hard to remember what satisfaction felt like. He’d had a falling-out with his girlfriend after she asked him to introduce her to a television producer. He hadn’t dated since then, and a recent incident had spooked him into virtual seclusion. Another aspiring actress, who also claimed to be his biggest fan, had broken into his apartment a few weeks ago.
For some reason, the memory triggered a shooting pain inside his skull. He winced, touching the bandage at his temple.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Headache?”
“Just a twinge.”
“Do you want some more painkillers?”
“No, I’m okay.”
The sensation faded and he focused on the task at hand. Not trying to be sexy, he just started reading. She snapped several shots.
“Good,” she said. “Now lose the shirt.”
He shrugged out of the too-small flannel, shivering from the chill in the room. His nipples tightened and his chest broke out
in goose bumps. She claimed that this effect ruined the mood, but it was hard for him to get comfortable again.
“Let’s change locations.”
“Can I comb my hair now?”
“Sure,” she said.
He found a small comb and new toothbrush in the bathroom. After fixing his hair and brushing his teeth, he felt a little less scruffy. A shave wouldn’t hurt, but he didn’t have a razor. At least he wasn’t dizzy anymore.
When he came back out, she had a ladder-back chair set up in the corner. Two girl-size pink barbells rested on the floor.
“You want me to lift those?”
“If you feel well enough.”
“I can handle more weight than that.”
“I don’t have anything bigger.”
He’d noticed a brick by the entrance, so he went to pick it up. The doorstop weighed about five pounds. “How about this?”
“Very manly,” she said, humoring him.
This time she positioned him so that his bandaged eyebrow faced the camera. “Don’t you want my good side again?”
“No. The injury looks kind of sporty. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Following those instructions, he didn’t glance her way as he did a series of repetitions using proper weight-lifting techniques. It was easier than just sitting there. He found himself enjoying the burn. “Can I switch arms?”
“Please.”
While he worked his biceps and triceps, she took photos from different angles. Although he was used to heavier barbells, the frequent reps increased his heart rate and warmed his blood. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his upper chest.
“Nice,” she said, clicking away.
Colin didn’t think he was doing anything interesting or sexy, but lifting weights felt good. He always stood a little taller after a workout. Women liked physical partners. So did men. He appreciated taut curves and the sight of dewy perspiration on female skin.
“Can you do an ab workout?”
“Yeah.”
She laid out a blue mat and murmured encouragement while he did crunches. Then she asked for push-ups. Then one-armed push-ups. He tried to accommodate her, but it was a difficult exercise.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” she said.
He lay flat, panting. “I’m fine.”
“Do you feel objectified yet?”
“No.”
“You’re not sweaty enough.”
“Sorry.”
She put down her camera and came back with a spray bottle. Before she used it, her eyes lit up with invention. “I know what we need. Oil.”
“Oil?”
She hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a container of cooking oil.
“Why not bacon grease?”
She paused, considering it.
“That was a joke.”
“Oh.” With a nervous laugh, she approached him, pouring a small amount of oil into her cupped hand. “Let me do your back.”
He turned around, nostrils flaring as she smoothed her slick palms across his shoulders, over his arms, down his spine. It didn’t feel unpleasant; he enjoyed massages and soft female hands on him. But what he really responded to was the bite of fingernails in his skin as a woman came apart underneath him.
“Now the front,” she said, her voice husky.
He didn’t think he could endure her touch for more than a few seconds without getting excited, and he was right. His body stirred with arousal as she spread oil over his chest, stimulating his flat nipples. She moistened her lips, sliding her hands along his striated rib cage and down his clenched abdomen. By the time her fingertips slipped below his elastic waistband, he was sporting a sizable tent.
Color suffused her cheeks. She lifted her gaze to his face, but not in surprise. She already knew he wanted her. He’d greeted her with his erection this morning and had stared at her openly throughout the day. His willingness was a given, his response undeniable. Heat flared between them and his pulse throbbed with awareness. He engaged in a vivid fantasy of her oiled hand stroking his shaft.
It never materialized.
Her eyes left his and she cleared her throat, moving across the room. She added wood to the fire, as if the room had chilled. Then she went to the sink to wash her hands, drying them with a paper towel before she picked up her camera again.
“Ready?” she asked, all business.
Although her rejection was obvious, his body hadn’t quite caught up with his brain. When she glanced down, he was still half-hard. She pursed her lips, as if considering how to photograph him this way.
Colin hadn’t agreed to any pornographic shots. Paige seemed trustworthy, but computers got hacked all the time. He didn’t want images like that connected to his author persona. It could damage his reputation. Also, the thought of having his dick scrutinized on one of those “sexy male” sites made him cringe.
“Here,” she said, tossing him a football.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
“Pose with it.”
He tried out some moves, hiking and pretending to pass. Although he felt silly, his arousal faded, and he appreciated the fact that her lens wasn’t focused on his male parts. “Isn’t the background wrong?”
“I can change it.”
She dirtied him up with ashes from the fire, smearing black under his eyes and across his triceps. Then she proceeded to direct him through a series of cheesy strongman poses—flexing this way and that, holding the ball in front of his crotch. Finally she turned him around and lowered his waistband to an indecent level.
“Now I feel objectified,” he admitted.
She let out a breathy laugh. “This is nothing. For a stud calendar you’d pose naked with the ball.”
“Have you done those?”
“No, but I’ve seen a few.”
He glanced over his shoulder as she took another shot.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she asked.
“Gigolos aren’t allowed to have girlfriends.”
“I’m serious. Look down and to the right.”
“I broke up with someone a few months ago,” he said, following her instructions. He hoped she noticed that he was good at taking female direction.
“How long were you together?”
“Not very long.”
“Are you commitment shy?”
“No. I dated the same girl through college. Almost five years.”
She stopped clicking. “What happened?”
“We just wanted different things. She was ready to have kids and settle down. I couldn’t imagine doing that right after graduation. When I got the job offer at USC, she made the decision to stay in Colorado.”
Paige fell silent, digesting those words. He was about to ask her the same question—was she commitment shy?—when she ended the shoot. “I’m done,” she said, her expression closed. “You can hit the showers.”
“No shower photos?”
She seemed to know he was joking, but she didn’t smile. “I washed your clothes. They’re on top of the dryer.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
He gave her the football, nonplussed. She placed it on her desk and attached the camera to her laptop, keeping her back to him as she uploaded the photos. He’d expected to have a laugh with her, make fun of himself, maybe flirt a little.
Instead she’d shut him out.
And even though she’d intended to treat him like a sex object, easily used and discarded, he didn’t think her curt dismissal was part of the plan. Something about their conversation had bothered her. His presence bothered her.
He didn’t know how to put her at ease. His skin itched with ash and oil, and a low thrum of desire still coursed through h
is veins. He wanted to give her pleasure, not space. But he wasn’t the kind of man who forced his attentions on women.
Curling his hand into a fist, he walked away.
Chapter Five
PAIGE LET OUT a slow breath when she heard the faucet turn on.
She sank to a sitting position, knees weak. That had been one of the most challenging photo shoots of her life. Not because he wasn’t a great subject. He looked very natural in front of the camera. Self-conscious at first, but once he’d warmed up...ugh. Those bedroom eyes and broad shoulders, hard stomach and sensitive lips...
Her tummy fluttered with longing and her skin flushed hot. She pushed the hair off her forehead, feeling feverish.
Maybe she needed a shower. A cold shower.
His physical reaction to her touch had been very exciting. She’d been tempted to slide her hand down and wrap her fingers around him, to let her eyes drift shut and her head fall back. He’d have kissed her. She knew it.
She’d stopped short of issuing such a blatant sexual invitation because...he scared her. The white-hot flare of lust threatened to incinerate them both. She also saw something more than desire in his eyes. It wasn’t just animal attraction between them. They shared common experiences and connected on an intellectual level. His story of ill-fated college love had brought back memories of her own.
She hadn’t felt this way about anyone since Derrick.
Colin was a tourist. Although this was her preferred type, she chose her dates with caution, always maintaining control. She couldn’t do that with him. He might let her photograph him, and she suspected that he’d give her anything she asked for in bed, but he wouldn’t keep an emotional distance.
He’d make eye contact as he slid into her. She could tell.
It wasn’t that she avoided sensitive partners or men with good hearts. She just tended to steer clear of anyone who seemed like long-term material.
Paige had been in love once. Crazy, obsessive love. The relationship had consumed her. The breakup had just about killed her. She didn’t want to go through that again, but she might be open to dating a nice local man.
Falling for a guy like Colin—no. Bad idea. Too intense.
Looking through the photos was also a bad idea. He had a mouthwatering physique. She didn’t think he realized how sexy he was. Or how the soft fabric of the sweatpants outlined his masculinity, hinting at the thick fullness beneath.
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