Body of Work (8 page)

Paolo stretched Beth’s arms above her head. He had only to touch her knee and she parted her legs, enough to give him—and their photographer—a peek of the pink between her legs. Paolo stood back from the bed, wordlessly cuing Cassie to move in and shoot solo pictures of Beth. An easy assignment, this. Beth was breathtakingly erotic, especially as Paolo had arranged her.

“I’ll be right back.” Paolo’s whisper tickled Cassie’s ear, though she doubted he noticed her shudder. He was entirely focused on his wife, as always. “I picked up a surprise for her, but it’s out in my car.”

Cassie nodded, her mind racing as Paolo snuck, half dressed, from the basement. The surprise might as well be for her, the anticipation of it made her that giddy. She circled the bed, capturing a dozen frames of Beth before Paolo reappeared. Cassie always took an abundance of pictures, and more so with the Mancusos. Graphic, explicit shots, of course. But not all fell into the X-rated category. The majority of pictures, including those she took while Paolo and Beth were fucking right in front of her, were better described as erotic or highly sensual. Cassie knew without looking at the screen on her camera that today’s images would be some of her best work. Their sessions always produced incredible images, for reasons other than Cassie’s keen eye and steady hand.

After returning, Paolo trailed his fingers up the inside of Beth’s leg, past her pussy to her breasts. “I bought something for you,
mia amata
. Not something you’ve asked for, not one time, but something I want to use on your beautiful body. May I?”

“Yes.”

The trust, so automatic and freely given, tugged at Cassie’s heart. Turned it a shameful green.

The small box in his hands couldn’t be more than four inches square by an inch high. Not much would fit in there, toy-wise. Definitely not a new paddle or flogger, nor a dildo or plug. A small vibrator, possibly. None of those items matched his description, anyway. After all Cassie had seen them do together, what could he have bought for his wife that she’d never once requested?

Paolo stood beside the bed. No physical contact, yet the electricity of their connection crackled. Cassie kept her eye to the camera. She caught the moment he lifted the box’s lid. Focused on its contents—
her
curiosity had nothing to do with it, nothing at all—and forced her lips to stay shut when she saw the gift.

Building the anticipation, Paolo jingled the small metal dangles near Beth’s ear.

“Jewelry?”

“Of a sort.” He pooled a silver chain between her breasts, keeping its ends in one palm.

“A necklace?”

“No.” With his free hand, he dragged his nails over her curves, bringing her nipples to full rigidity. He plucked one between his fingers, then the other, back and forth, until Beth rocked beneath his increasingly firm touches. “Careful,
cara
, don’t let my gift slide away.”

Beth stilled instantly. “I won’t.”

Cassie held her breath, and not only to steady the camera in her hands. She stepped to one side, changed angles. Anything to distract herself from becoming fully immersed in
their
moment. On edge, finger poised over the button, she waited to freeze time.

Paolo held Beth’s breast firmly in his palm. He brought his mouth down on Beth’s for a sensual kiss that would make a gorgeous picture. Cassie continued to shoot as he pulled back from the kiss. Full yet utterly masculine lips curled into a wicked, lusty smile. Dark eyes with a truly unfair amount of long lashes focused on Beth’s face. Paolo would shake his head at these images, but Beth would cherish them.

The small movement of Paolo’s hand caught Cassie’s eye. Thank god, or she would have missed what would surely be the most important shot of this session. With no hint or warning to Beth, Paolo closed the first alligator clamp on her waiting nipple.

* * * * *

Brian’s fingers twitched. Get the hell off Cassie’s street before she noticed him sitting out here, or go make a giant ass of himself? No brainer. He yanked the keys from the ignition. Hopped out of the Jeep and stalked across the street toward her bungalow. To think, he’d come here to apologize at minimum, beg if necessary. Then some Italian stallion had jogged down the driveway—shirtless and grinning ear to ear—and grabbed a small black box from his Cadillac. Boxes like that usually held jewelry the likes of which Brian couldn’t afford, might not be able to afford for the next decade.

He ignored the front door, opting to follow the guy’s route to the back. The inside door was open, as were the screens on the outer aluminum door. Convenient for him. A good sign too—if they weren’t worried about privacy, the guy might be here to stand in front of Cassie’s camera, not take her to bed.

She didn’t talk much about her photography business, usually blushing more than speaking when Brian pressed her to answer questions. When he’d asked what kind of photography she did, she’d answered with “portrait-type stuff, mostly”. Not the whole truth. One look at her website and he’d discovered she did a lot more than take pictures of newborn babies and soon-to-be-married couples. Her website’s gallery was full of commercial credits to go with the regular stuff. Corporate brochures, magazine ads, even some book covers. His girl had a hell of a lot of talent.

His girl. He had no right thinking of Cassie that way, but he did. The feeling had been growing since he first laid eyes on the sexy little pixie, and last night had cemented it. If the Italian was here modeling for one of her jobs, caving his smiling face into a wall probably wouldn’t win Brian any points.

Didn’t explain the box that had given him the smile, though. Could be a prop. Hell, if it was jewelry, it might even be the focal point of the picture, and
the guy
could be the prop. Now there was an image worth cracking a grin at. Still, he didn’t like the idea of Cassie alone in her basement with a half-naked man. She was fit, for sure, and strong for her size, but that size was damn tiny. No match for an average Joe, and the guy in the driveway had been pretty damn buff. Good-looking too, in that slick, European way women seemed to fall all over.

Yeah, he had to get in the house, like, now.

So he’d knock and interrupt her appointment. Hopefully she wouldn’t be
more
pissed at him. If he couldn’t charm his way into the house, he wasn’t above groveling. Whatever it took to make Cassie understand why he’d acted like a dick earlier, and keep her out of the Italian’s clutches.

Noise from the basement drowned out the rap of his knuckles on the aluminum. A female cry of surprise made him grab the handle, ready to rip the door from its frame if necessary. Then a male voice and the unmistakable sound of moaning—very aroused, feminine moaning—drifted through the screen, knocking him back a good two feet. That’s all he needed to hear.

Blood thrummed in his ears as he peeled from the curb. Had she jumped the first guy to cross her path because of the rejection at the gym, or was Cassie the type to bang two men within a twelve-hour period? Fifteen minutes ago, he wouldn’t have believed either option. Now he didn’t know what the fuck to think.

So much for the special chemistry he thought they had. Chemistry, hell yeah. But special—not even a little. He could’ve sworn he saw disappointment and hurt in her eyes earlier. And the night they’d shared, damn. All bullshit and games. To her, anyway.

* * * * *

Saturday night television sucked. Cassie stabbed at the remote, turning the screen black and thrusting the room into darkness. Of course it sucked, Saturday nights weren’t meant for wallowing, holding down the couch while snarfing an entire bag of potato chips. God, how many calories and fat grams were in that bag, anyway? She turned on the table lamp and smoothed the empty wrapper. Oh crap. Twelve hundred fifty calories, sixty-five grams of fat. She could practically feel her backside expanding across the couch cushions. Good thing she had that appointment for Tuesday. Brian had been a bit of a jerk this afternoon, but he was still a great personal trainer. He’d have those chips off her butt in no time.

Or, she could go to a club tonight and dance them off. Eleven thirty—early, by any decent Saturday’s standards. She could be primped, dressed and on her way before the clock rolled over to Sunday. At midnight, though, the lineups would be insane. Unless she went to a club where she knew one of the bouncers.

Just because Brian didn’t want a repeat of last night—which was extremely, ridiculously disappointing—didn’t mean
everything
had changed between them. He’d casually dropped the offer to let her jump the line on more than one occasion. Time she finally took him up on that. And yes, if seeing her all clubbed-out caused him a twinge of regret for rejecting her earlier, that didn’t hurt, either.

Forty minutes later, she was click-clacking across the jammed parking lot, trying not to twist her ankle—for the second time today. She turned the corner and found a mile-long line, as expected. A few men mixed in amongst dozens of females in varying degrees of slut-me-up. Cassie kept her eyes on the door, ignoring the voices who not-so-politely told her where to find the back of the line. Normally, she’d follow the rules. Not tonight.

“Hi there.” She smiled up at the dark-haired doorman. His build matched Brian’s for bulk, though he stood a couple inches shorter. Still, he flat-out dwarfed her, even in her three-inch heels. A good-looking guy, if you liked the monstrous, menacing type. Because unlike Brian, this man didn’t smile down at her with a sexy combo of amusement and affection. He just…stared down.

“You got a VIP pass?”

“Um, not an official one.”

“Being cute doesn’t count.” He flicked the air in front of him. “Back of the line.”

The haters behind her jeered. Hey, he thought she was cute—that bought her another try, right? “I’m a friend of Brian’s.”

“You and half the ladies behind you, sweetheart.”

At this, she glanced over her shoulder. Surely he didn’t mean that the way it sounded. She looked up at him again and met a smug grin. Thought he’d struck a nerve, huh? “Maybe so, but did he tell all of
them
he’d let them in whenever they wanted?”

He crossed massive arms over an equally massive chest. “You really wanna play it this way?” He shrugged when she thrust her chin upward and nodded. “Your call. Name?”

“You’re not going to go and get him, bring him out here?”

Cocky jerk shook his head and tapped his headset. “If he doesn’t know you by name, you can join the rest of his
friends
in line.”

“Cassie Johnson,” she said, ignoring the cackling at her back.

He opened his mouth, clapped it closed and smirked. “Think I’ll go old-school tonight.”

She commanded her body not to fidget when he turned to pull the door open. Thumping bass spilled out into the summer night as he called to somebody she couldn’t see.

Another thickly built guy wearing head-to-toe black stepped outside to swap places. This one smiled genuinely, thoroughly checking her out as he did. “So, you say you’re a friend of our hotheaded big man.” Not a question, but rather a statement he found exceedingly entertaining. Great, another one.

“If we’re talking about Brian Black, then yes.” She agreed with big, absolutely, but hotheaded? Not the Brian she knew. Maybe that went with his bouncer persona. She certainly understood changing façades to match the job of the moment.

His gaze traveled from her low-cut neckline to her cherry-painted lips. “Well, if he’s stupid enough to have forgotten you, I’d be happy to take his place as your friend tonight.”

Bouncer number one reappeared, motioning her inside and saving her from answering. “Been here before?” he asked as she caught up to him several feet past the entrance.

“A few times, it’s great.”

He grunted. “Brian’s working the floor. Enjoy.” With that, her less-than-thrilled escort turned back toward the entrance.

She followed the pulse of music down the corridor. Near the end, she took a fortifying breath, then rounded the corner into the meat warehouse-turned-meat market. True, she’d been here before, but never solo. Alone amongst hundreds of gyrating bodies, many of which were fuelled by alcohol—a little daunting, but once she got on the dance floor, it wouldn’t matter. But first, a drink to loosen her limbs.

A thirty-foot-long bar stood near the edge of the huge dance floor, serving patrons from all sides. She set her sights on the closest end and shouldered her way through the throng, reaching her goal with the barest minimum of good manners remaining. Stools didn’t exist here. Get your booze and move it along, thank you very much. Cassie pulled a twenty from her tiny purse and leaned against the polished wood with the folded bill between her thumb and index finger. She chose her mark—an attractive twenty-something she pegged as a grad student at the university down the road—made eye contact and waved the money. When she’d been on the other side of the equation, she’d always gravitated to people with the cash at the ready, namely when the amount in their hand should accommodate a healthy tip. And here came the bartender, right on schedule.

“Money talks, right?”

Strong, tanned forearms swiped a rag across the bar in front of her. “What money? All I saw were gorgeous blue eyes looking at me.”

“Nicely done,” she said, and he laughed. “I’ll have a Jäger Bomb, please.”