Once you get in closer to the center of the gardens, they are wild and untamed. The hedges have grown high enough to block out any direct sun in the part of the garden that Britain chose.
Appropriately, the section of the garden we are going to be shooting in has a huge, aged gargoyle statue watching over it. In the center is an old three-tiered fountain, stagnant water covered in algae and moss. The unruly plants are mostly bare, but still make my insides twist when I look at them. The gnarled, spiky vines have dominated the space because they’ve been left unattended for so long.
Dallas and I will be partaking in a gothic-Victorian style shoot. The dress I am wearing mimics the style of the old Victorian dresses, but mine is thinner and entirely made of chiffon, meaning that it’s completely see-through.
And, of course, I am wearing nothing underneath. The only thing that’s keeping me from not being exposed to everyone right now is the jacket I have wrapped around me.
Dallas has it much easier. He is wearing an older rendition of what he wears practically every day—beige pants and a white button-down shirt.
“Is it weird being naked in front of your ex?” I turn. It’s Ella. We’re both watching as Britain and some of the AA crew set up the portion of the garden—throwing cold buckets of water all over the ground to make everything really muddy.
Oh, joy.
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m naked in front of everyone always.”
She shrugs. “I know that. It would still bother me, though.”
Being naked in front of Dallas isn’t the issue. It’s being on top of him while I’m naked that is. While the set is undergoing maintenance, Dallas stands next to the gargoyle with the other male models. He keeps his eyes off me as they talk, casually sipping the coffee in his hand.
“What a douche.”
“What?” says Ella.
“What? Nothing.”
“Is he really a douche or are you just saying that to make yourself feel better?”
“Shut up, Ella.”
She grins and slyly runs her finger over my arm. “We could always make out again and make him jealous.”
I scoff. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? No, no. They don’t deserve to see that.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, and struts away.
I turn back to the boys, who stand around the gargoyle like they’re the cool kids in town. Dallas’s eyes catch mine. He stoops to pick up something from behind the gargoyle, then, to my surprise, walks toward me.
He hands me a cup of coffee. “Soy latte. I know you like it warm instead of hot so I waited a bit to give it to you.”
I hesitate before taking the coffee. “Umm… thank you.”
He grins. His eyes are focused on me to the point where I have to look away.
“Your makeup looks amazing,” he says. He reaches forward like he’s about to tilt my chin to get a better look, and then retracts his hand. “I’ve never seen it like this before.”
The artist told me today that Britain wanted an all-natural look, which is much unlike all of my other shoots from last semester, being that I was still trying to hide who I really was. My makeup was always super dark and gaudy.
“Your hair, too.”
I roll my eyes.
“What?”
“They didn’t do my hair today. Britain said they didn’t need to for some reason.”
He smiles, and I wish he wouldn’t. Oh, I wish he wouldn’t. “Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”
I don’t say anything back to him. I can’t, really. Instead I just drink my coffee—which is made perfectly—until Britain tells me to take off my jacket and walk over to her.
Dallas grabs my coffee for me and I strip off my jacket, walking to the fountain where Britain and a couple of other crew members stand. They all have buckets.
“Oh, no.”
Britain winces. “Sorry.”
“Oh, no, no.”
“Close your eyes and hold your breath. I promise it won’t be too bad.”
“You suck,” I say before holding my breath and shutting my eyes, but the shock of the cold water surprises me, and I end up gasping and choking.
I can hear the rest of the models cheering and whistling as I’m blinking water out of my eyes. Britain pounds me on the back a bit and says, “You got this, champ.”
The dress was see-through before, but now it looks like I’m wearing nothing but Saran-wrap. Britain has me lie down in the mud for a couple of solo shots, wallowing in the grime like I’m some strange dirt-loving Victorian chick.
“This shoot is the strangest thing you’ve made me do,” I say amidst her instructions.
“Shut up and do as I say,” she barks. “Tilt your head to the right. More neck. There.”
Britain’s acting high off of something. Determined and manic. “Okay, you’re naked, but I still want you gothic and sweet all at once. Can you do that?” she says as though her life depends on me nailing this image—an image I know for a fact A.J. won’t even want.
“I get it. Just shoot the damn pictures,” I tell her.
She doesn’t have me posing solo for long. Thank God, because I’m starting to freeze my ass off and could use a little body heat, even if it is Dallas’s.
The second I think this, I want to take it back, because he starts to walk over and I can’t handle this.
I start to shiver.
He looks almost as determined as Britain, which is terrifying. It’s like he’s asking something from me and I have no idea what.
In order not to lose my mind, I keep my eyes off Dallas and turn to Britain. “What do you want us to do?”
For the first time today, she lets her camera fall. “I want the two of you to do what you do best, as insensitive as that sounds. I want you to make chemistry.”
I wince. The other models have stopped talking, all of them staring at us. I know it’s because they’re aware we’ve broken up, which makes this shoot the juiciest thing they’ll see the entire time they’re in Boston.
All Dallas has to do is brush my jaw with his knuckle and his skin is shooting wild electric currents through my body. As we kneel in the cold mud, his eyes keep me scorching hot. He leans into my neck and says, “This is just work. I promise I’m not seducing you.”
His slick tongue rolls up my neck, and my eyes flutter shut in ecstasy.
“Don’t do this to me,” I plead in a whisper so no one else can hear us.
“I have to.” His teeth graze my earlobe.
Our lips meet in a wild frenzy. I open my mouth. He moans into me, and I know he has to be lying. This isn’t just work for him. This isn’t just about the camera.
He pushes me back into the mud and straddles me. I lift my arms over my head and arch my back, his name on my lips.
“We’re just working,” he mutters again, unbuttoning my dress and peeling it off my breasts. He slides off of me and pushes my legs open, situating himself in between them. Then he lowers his head, his mouth catching my nipple. The ache between my legs triples. I’m soaked. My body is desperate for him. His teeth graze my sensitive flesh and I bite back my moan.
Suddenly his lips are trailing lower and lower, over the fabric of my dress, my navel. He places a soft kiss on top of my covered clit.
Oh, fuck him. Fuck him and his fucking fuck work ethic.
He lifts my dress and spreads my legs further, thumbs massaging circles on the inside of my thighs. It’s like he’s getting ready to eat me out, except he lets the cold fabric of my dress pool where my legs meet. Leaning forward, he kisses the inside of my knee, and then moves upward, licking and sucking my flesh. I can’t breathe anymore. I know he smells me—know he’s aware of how much I need him. He bites down hard—maybe to punish me—and my fingers sink down into the dirt as a whimper escapes my throat.