“Sorry,” he says, voice low and so close to her ear that she feels the word as well as hears it. “You okay?”
“Stop asking me that. It’s a couple photos, and our faces aren’t even in them.” Clarke’d been assured of that multiple times, and seen the concept art to prove it. A woman’s torsofrom just below the breasts, Julian’s distinctively tattooed arm holding her close, the cuff front and center. It’s all part of the story, apparently. Clarke can only assume the story isBuy this CuffLink, and you’ll get laid as often as Julian Casperi.
Julian getting laid isreallynot what she should be thinking about right now.
He backtracks on her body, briefly pressing his palm over the tiny scrape. If he means it to be soothing, it’s not. It’s also not soothing when he puts his hand back where the photographer wants it. She’s going to have his fingerprints seared into her skin by the time this is done.
Her earlier rationalization that flirting with Julian was safe because they were in public and it obviously wasn’t real has come back to bite her in the ass. If this isn’t real, it shouldn’t be affecting her. And if she pulls the plug, if she leaves, she’s as good as admitting that itisaffecting her.
It’s affecting her. If Julian slides his hand about eight inches lower, he’ll find out exactly how much it’s affecting her.
The photographer clicks away. Clarke tries to breathe like it’s something she does every day. Julian’s breath rushes past her ear.
“Something’s not right,” the photographer says, peering at them. “Ah! Your arms, Ms. Clarke. Can you put them up? Above your head.”
Clarke’s arms are tense at her sides right now, and the one of Julian’s in the shot is wrapped over hers midway between shoulder and elbow. He loosens up so she can thread her hand through. There’s only one place for Clarke’s arms to go up there, and that’s around Julian’s neck. The position puts an arch in her back, and she purposefully cants her hips forward so there isn’t contact between her butt and Julian’s groin.
It works until he steps in closer, the hand on her belly finding its place again, and brings their bodies flush. “Is this okay?”
He’s hard.
She can feel the length of him pressing into the base of her spine, right above the curve of her ass.
Biology and proximity, she tells herself, which is what she’s been telling herself for the past five minutes.We’re attracted to each other. That’s not news. It doesn’t change anything.
“Stop asking,” she says. “It’s okay.”
“I’m going to ask. I almost screwed this all up two weeks ago because I went too far. I’m going to ask, every time. Is this okay?”
Thethisin question is his thumb tracing an invisible line down from the bottom of her ribs. She shivers, both from the physical feeling and the emotional intimacy of what he just said. The implication that there are going to be more things he asks her consent for.
“Clarke?”
“Ticklish,” she lies.
“Liar,” he chides.
The brand rep says some words Clarke doesn’t really hear. Julian does, though, and moves, bringing his free hand up to wrap lightly around her biceps. That thumb starts tracing a line, too. Clarke’s shivering redoubles.
She’s going to need fresh underwear after this.
“Almost done,” Julian murmurs. He tucks the tips of his index and middle fingers just underneath the elastic of her panties. “Is this okay?”
They’re in public. There are cameras.
It takes every bit of willpower she has not to grab his wrist, stupid elaborate cuff and all, and shove his hand down to where she wants his fingers.
“Yes,” Clarke says, resolutely not thinking about everything else she might say yes to if he asked.
They’re released after a few more minutes. Julian takes his hands off Clarke’s body slowly, the pads of his fingers dragging lines of fire over her skin. The photographer calls him over to review the last shots; Clarke hightails it for the tent to put her clothes back on.
She gets her shirt down out of her bra, hops into her pants. She can hear Julian’s voice getting closer. She rushes toward the exit, shoes still in her hand, hoping to get out of here before he can get back and confront her about her hammering pulse and hitched breathing.
She doesn’t make it. He opens the flap of the tent just as she gets there, stopping her with a hand on her stomach overlaying exactly where he’d been touching her during the photo shoot. All the heat that had just started to recede roars back in as he walks her backward, eyes molten. “Running away again?”
There’s a table behind Clarke, all the cuffs from today arranged in neat rows on their stands. Clarke bumps into and scrambles up onto it, trying to keep breathing room between them. The cuffs scatter. “We can’t do this here.”
Like outside, Julian doesn’t allow for breathing room. He comes in close, stopping just shy of making space for himself between Clarke’s knees. “Then where?”
