“You might have.” I hold onto his arm for support as he lifts my dress by its hem. “I’m very sparkly.”
“Yes, you are.” Sequins scrape my tummy as he pulls it over my head. “And very beautiful.”
“You said that already.” I wrinkle my nose with a smile. “You’re drunk.”
“I might’ve had a couple tumblers of Scotch. Itisa special occasion.”
“New Year’s.”
“New Year’swith you.” My dress is flimsy in his hands, no more than a scrap of fabric. He takes it with him. “Bring the glasses.”
In my bra, panties, and heels, I follow him to the studio with the drinks. “Are we taking a picture?”
“Yep. A New Year’s post.” He lays the dress on the ground, shifting it around. He points to a spot right next to it. “Heels. Take them off here. One standing, the other on its side.”
I do as he says without question. He’s in work mode, and his serious side turns me on. “What else?”
“Champagne flutes. Fill them up and set them on the corner of my desk.” He looks back. “Actually, take a sip from one and leave a lipstick mark.”
“Yes, sir.” I get to work, leaving my lips on the glassbeforepouring the champagne so it’ll be nice and bubbly for the picture. “Now what?”
“Panties.”
I peel off my black lace thong, hand it over, and sit in his desk chair. He repositions the articles of clothing. I’m getting wet just watching him. On the leather. But I’m certain Finn will be more interested in my arousal than the condition of his chair.
I rest my elbow on the desk and bump the computer mouse. The screen wakes up to reveal Finn’s inbox. “Is this your work e-mail?” I ask.
“Yep.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I nose around a little, reading the subject lines. Since my work is his work, it should beouraccount anyway. “What’s this one about an article?” I ask.
“That came in this afternoon. A reporter from Gotham magazine asking if he could include us in an online feature.”
“Really?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He looks back at me. “I responded to ask if you can remain anonymous. Otherwise we aren’t interested. Read it.”
I open the e-mail. Finn’s right. The reporter mentions Finn’s photosandmy captions. A real, legitimate publication. I pitter-patter my feet on the carpet, bouncing in the chair. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can.” He’s smiling, I can tell, even though he’s turned away from me.
“Did you know we have over six thousand followers now?” I ask. “The Christmas post was such a hit. How long do you think it’ll take us to get to ten?”
Finn comes over to the chair and squats, aiming his iPhone at the clothing. He usually uses his camera, but I think the alcohol’s made his head as fuzzy as mine since he rarely drinks. “Probably much faster than it took us to get to six.”
“I looked into sponsored posts a little. That offer from Butter Boudoir was pretty high.”
He checks his work, swiping through photos.
“Finn?”
“Hmm?”
“I said that offer we got—it was sort of out of the ordinary.”
“The article?”
“No, the lingerie.”
