1
Blake
I arrive at the photography studio half an hour late and slightly sticky from travelling on the London underground. In my defence, the tube was rammed, and Imighthave gone the wrong way on the Piccadilly Line.
I’m here to do a photo shoot for UnMentionable, a men’s lingerie company. It’s my first time working for them, and the photographer they’ve hired, Calvin Wright. I’ve bought plenty of lingerie from UnMentionable, so I’m excited to model for them.
I was thrilled when my agent told me about the opportunity. I go to dozens of casting calls every month, hoping that I land enough jobs to pay my share of the rent and bills. It was hard to contain my excitement during the audition for this job, but I obviously managed to impress them enough to get the contract. With any luck, they’ll ask me to model for them again.
It isn’t unusual for me to do a photo shoot in a third-party studio. None of the small companies I’ve modelled for have the space to do indoor photo shoots, and while some can be done outside, a shoot for sexy lingerie can’t.
Calvin’s studio is above a takeaway, but there’s an entrance on the ground floor. I ring the buzzer.
“Come on up,” a deep voice says about a second before the door clicks open.
I go inside, shutting the door behind me. I’m greeted at the top of a narrow staircase by a huge god of a man. Just looking at him makes my heart quiver. Okay, maybe not my heart, but my cock is definitely having a reaction. He’s Black with a shaved head, moustache, and a hint of stubble lining his square jaw. He has kind, dark brown eyes that sparkle as he smiles at me. He’s wearing a V-neck long-sleeved T-shirt that dips low, revealing huge, waxed pecs. I can see the edge of a tattoo that starts on his left shoulder and vanishes under his sleeve. I’d love to know what the design is, but I can’t see enough of it to guess. The T-shirt stretches over his chest and abs, not leaving anything to my imagination.
“Mr Wright?” I ask.
He laughs. “Yes, but feel free to call me Calvin.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “And you must be Blake Morris.” His voice is so deep it makes my toes curl.
“Um, yeah. Sorry I’m late.”
He gives me an appraising stare, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. I’m probably about to get an earful for keeping him waiting, so I’m surprised when he lets out a breath and speaks in an understanding tone.
“Did you get held up in traffic?”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “I always underestimate how busy the tube is gonna be, and I got a bit lost.”
Calvin smiles. “I understand, but, Blake?”
I stare up at him expectantly.
“Don’t be late if you ever want to work with me again.”
There’s something about the way he says it that resonates deep inside me. It’s an order, not a suggestion, and I want to obey it.
“I won’t,” I say.
Sadly, wanting to obey and making it happen are two different things. I’m not the best at timekeeping.
He motions for me to go inside.
The studio is large and open plan, with white-washed brick walls and three sets. The nearest has plain white flooring, a royal purple chaise lounge, and a monochrome fleur-de-lis backdrop. Next, there’s a double bed draped in gauze, with dozens of cushions. Finally, there’s a white backdrop and a tall black stool. In the corner, there are two desks with a computer on each.
A woman with purple hair sits at the second desk. Her body is mostly blocking her monitor, so I can’t see what she’s working on.
“Blake, this is Ivy, my receptionist and the person who keeps everything running smoothly around here,” Calvin says.
She’d probably get along with my brother, Archie. He’s always organised and loves to take care of other people, especially me.
Ivy turns and waves. She’s stunning. She’s white and probably in her mid-twenties, like me, and she has several piercings in her ears, nose, and lips. She’s also got a gorgeous tattoo of a small bird perched on a rose on her neck. The tattoo is in black ink, so there’s no risk of it clashing with her vibrant purple hair. I’m temporarily captivated by the tattoo. I don’t have any myself, but I can definitely appreciate good ink. I force my gaze away from the design. Her fashion style is somewhere between goth and bohemian. I wouldn’t have thought you could mesh those two styles together, but she manages it impressively. She’s probably here as much to act as a chaperone as to take calls and make bookings. I’m used to it. It’s better to have an extra person in the room when a model’s got next to nothing on.
“UnMentionable have sent over the garments they want you to wear for the shoot,” Calvin explains as he picks up a parcel and hands it to me. “You can get changed through there.” He points to yet another door. “There’s a shower and clean towels if you want to freshen up first.”
I try to laugh. “Is that a polite way of telling me I smell?”
He holds his hands up. “Hey, I know how grimy the tube can get. I don’t mind a little sweat. I just thought you might be more comfortable.”
