“Again.” I mutter the word so softly that I don’t think he hears me until I feel the pinch of his teeth—closer this time—so close that I know he must be tasting my arousal. I thread my fingers through his hair to pull him closer. I don’t care who is watching—maybe it turns me on even more. This coyness is killing me.
But he doesn’t, because Dallas, at his core, is a tease. Not because it’s in his job description. Because he gets off on it.
Pushing away the fabric of my dress, his tongue swipes right along the edge of my center, just hidden enough so no one can see. And then he pulls away.
“We’re good,” I hear Britain say, and I open my eyes.
Dallas kneels above me, staring at me. Slowly, he licks his bottom lick, then reaches forward and pulls my dress back over my chest, buttoning it.
I do nothing to help him, just watch as he works with each button, his face deadpan.
Doing my best to not act like a spaz, I try and control my breathing. I glance around at the other models. To my surprise, they’re all standing or sitting on stone benches, completely silent and enthralled by us.
“So, folks,” Britain says, turning to the models. “Learn anything today?”
Ella is the first to tear her eyes away from us and speak up. “You really can’t force the chemistry, can you?”
“What do you mean?” Britain asks.
“What she means,” Jaime begins, “Is that it isn’t about acting, or even about modeling. It’s about sex. And romance.”
For the first time ever at a shoot, I flush. I can feel the burn in my cheeks and know my face is turning bright red.
Britain shakes her head. “No, it’s not about sex. It’s about foreplay. Teasing out the foreplay. Elongating it, expanding it, enjoying it.”
A straight-faced Dallas stands and helps me up. I would think he wasn’t affected by the shoot at all if it weren’t for his impossible-to-hide erection. He grabs my coat for me and drapes it around my shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“I have to clean up,” he says, and makes his way toward the house, alone.
The one good thing about the shoot is that we’ve inspired the other models. So has Britain.
“Think of a story,” she says. “Imagine a romance between you and your partner, and play it out. Like role play.”
The weirdest, albeit still-sexy shoot that takes place today is the vampire shoot with Miguel and Delilah. Not because vampires aren’t seen as sexy, but because of all the fake blood that would instantly be a total turn off for me. Luckily, Delilah isn’t distracted by the gore, and she and Miguel make it work.
I’m only able to catch glimpses of the other shoots as I study in the corner for the rest of the day. Dallas’s presence is not existent—I wonder if he’s hiding out in whatever room he was given. I don’t even know which room he was given.
I decide that attempting to study here, especially as Britain starts the next shoot with Patrick and Jessica powdered up as ethereal ghosts, is next to impossible. So instead, I make my way back to the dorms, hoping that Miles will be in his room. What I really need now is a blissful, chaste distraction of studying, coffee, and maybe a little flirting.
I knock on Miles’s door. He opens it, and I study the book in his hand.
“Thoreau… really? Bleck,” I say before stepping into his room.
“Care for an evening of fine studying?” he asks, sitting on his bed. “Thoreau is the worst to read without a pretty girl right by my side. All of those heavy, illicit sex scenes… so hard to pick through alone.”
“Hardy har,” I say, sitting at his computer chair. But his joke gets me thinking—and not because Thoreau is like, the least sexy read in the history of literature.
“Where are your books?” he asks.
“I… I didn’t bring them. Actually, Miles….” I comb my fingers through my hair nervously. “I’m here to clarify something with you.”
He drops his book. “Sounds intense.”
“You were really joking when you asked if I was a porn star from the East Park magazine, right?”
His eyebrows furrow like he has no idea where I’m going with this. And then he laughs uncomfortably. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Have you been thinking about that all this time? I totally didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t think you’re a slut or anything.”
The word stings like a slap to the face. “Slut. Right.”
“Are you okay, Evan?” The boy does look really concerned. I guess I’m probably not making a whole lot of sense to him.
“Do you think all girls who pose naked are sluts?”
He pauses before answering. He must know it’s a trick question. “Well, maybe not sluts. Maybe they had a rough childhood that lead them to that life. Maybe they have daddy issues.”
I swallow. “You don’t think they’d do it just because they like to?”
“You thinking about posing naked or something, Evan?” He laughs as he tries to pull it off as a joke. “I’d pay money for that magazine.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You’d pay money for a magazine to look at a bunch of girls you deem as sluts in your head?”
He grows defensive, dropping his book and raising his hands. “Hey, now. They’re the ones who are taking their clothes off. Not me. What’s all this about, anyway?”
“Research,” I answer quickly.
“Biology research?”
“I have to go check out some books from the library, but I’ll be back, okay?”
“Umm… sure, Evan.”
But I don’t come back. I won’t ever come back. I never want to speak to Miles again.
I close his door and lean against the hallway wall, clenching my fists and trying not to cry. Slut. Miles thinks I’m a slut.
This is what I will have to deal with for the rest of my life. Any man who finds out that I used to pose for an erotic magazine, I’ll have to deal with wondering if they label me as a little slut in their head.
I take a couple of deep breaths. This isn’t a problem you need to worry about, Evan.
Calming down, I see that something has been placed outside of my door. I walk toward it and bend down, picking up the harvest-themed bouquet, sniffing the bright yellow blossoms and burnt-orange lilies. Attached is a note:
Down in the quad. –D
My heart skips a beat, followed by a flush of anger, and then confusion. Of course my curiosity won’t allow me to ignore it. I’m secretly desperate to know what he wants. I find a cup of water and leave the flowers in my room, and then hurry downstairs.
Dallas sits on a stone park bench outside of the dorm hall. He’s dressed in jeans and a black pea coat, an ash-colored scarf wrapped around his neck.
I’ve never seen him dressed like this. California doesn’t really allow the opportunity for cold-weather clothing. He looks sexy, and intelligent, and everything I know that he is. Everything that makes me want to slowly unravel that scarf and kiss the hollow of his throat.
Instead, I cross my arms and say, “Don’t you have better things to do than wait out in the cold by a Harvard dorm?”
He smiles. The tip of his nose is red. I wonder how long he’s been waiting.
“We’re going,” he says.
“Where?”
“Back to Boston,” he says. “I figure you haven’t actually given yourself the time to see the sites, and I know the city well enough to give you a tour.”
What the hell does he think he’s doing? I can’t go see the sites of Boston with him, my ex. I need to get over him. And I need to try extra hard, especially after today’s shoot. Spending any amount of time with him will just make things more confusing. He knows that.