Читать книгу: «Picture me Sexy», страница 2

She didn’t know it yet, but she needed him, Sam thought determinedly. Given the chance, with her creative ability and his expertise, they could make her catalogue sizzle.

And speaking of sizzle…Delaney Walker was hot.

Sam’s artist eye quickly roved over her lush Marilyn Monroe body, summarized her finer features. She was small, generously curved in all the right places. She actually had hips, Sam noticed, pleasantly surprised. These days most women starved them off. She had a smooth heart-shaped face, a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth, a dainty chin, bright green eyes, and long hair the color of moonbeams that hung like a silky curtain down to the middle of her back. Anticipation spiked. He couldn’t wait to look at her through his lens.

That curious tingling gripped him again, made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end, and the familiar tug of reciprocated attraction gave a particularly vicious yank. Sam scowled, ruthlessly tamped it down, and made a conscious effort to get back to business. Honestly, gawking at her while she absently roamed around admiring his loft was hardly professional.

“I see you brought your own bag,” Sam said. “How many outfits will you be changing into?”

The graceful line of her back tensed and she pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “Three. Is that too many?” she asked hastily. “Because I can forego a couple of them. I don’t have to—”

Sam chuckled reassuringly. “Three’s fine. I just wondered how many settings we’ll need to line up. We’ll change backgrounds with each one. Any nudes?” he asked casually. Would that he would be so lucky. The rogue thought flitted through his mind before he could check it. Dammit, he had to get control of himself. He couldn’t afford to be attracted to her. Wouldn’t allow it.

Her eyes widened and a flash of outright panic momentarily lit up that bright green gaze. “Er, no.”

Sam mentally frowned and his senses went on heightened alert. With the exception of few, most women who came to him were nervous about putting their bodies on display. They worried about thick thighs, small breasts and that extra ten pounds they’d put on since childbirth. Things that simply didn’t matter to a man who loved them.

Men were visual. That’s why they looked at Playboy magazines, watched the occasional flick, and liked to make love with the lights on. Men liked sexy and naked and, quite frankly, the immediate impulse of the combined two didn’t leave time to log any imperfections. When a man saw a naked woman, the head with the brain instantly ceded control to the head without one. Men were animals. They’d been divinely wired to be fruitful and multiply. ’Nuff said.

Delaney Walker designed some of the hottest, sexiest lingerie on the market. She was a true sensualist. He would have thought that she, of all people, wouldn’t suffer any insecurities about her body. Yet clearly she did, Sam decided as he studied her more closely. What an intriguing paradox. She obviously didn’t have the balls-to-the-wall, wild-child personality her designs—or the local paparazzi reports—implied. He filed it away for future consideration.

“This is a fantastic place you’ve got here,” she said. She’d strolled to the bank of floor-to-ceiling paned-glass windows and gazed at the old downtown Memphis skyline. “Did you do all the renovations yourself?”

“Most of them,” Sam replied. “I did the majority of the cosmetic work, the painting and the floors, but I contracted out the plumbing and rewiring.” He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “I apologize for the mess the building is in. When the owner saw how well my loft turned out, he decided to renovate the entire building.” Sam offered her a smile. “Things are chaotic right now, but it’ll be nice when the work is completed.”

She turned to face him and that sense of déjà vu slammed into him once more. She nodded succinctly. “Without a doubt. Your loft is lovely.”

Irritated with his reaction to her, Sam redoubled his efforts to remain professional and merely nodded. You’ve got a lot riding on this, Martelli, Sam told himself. Don’t screw it up. “So, are you ready to get started?”

She didn’t look ready, Sam noted. In fact, she looked miserable. Indecision vibrated off her tight frame and she tortured that full bottom lip with her teeth. But just when he thought she’d decided against the session, she turned, pulled in a bolstering breath, then smiled and said, “Not ready…but determined.”

He could see that, Sam thought, unreasonably impressed. Delaney Walker had moxie, a trait Sam found both equally attractive and appealing. He nodded, pleased. “Good. If you’ll follow me, Ms. Walker—”

She snorted indelicately. “Call me Delaney. You’re about to see me half-naked. I hardly think we need to stand on formality.”

Sam felt his lips slide into a grin. “Fine. Delaney, it is then. I’m Sam, by the way. The dressing room is down the hall, first door on the left. Go change and don’t forget.”

She quirked a brow and her lips tucked into the shadow of a smile. “Forget what?”

Sam winked at her. “Men suck.”

2

DELANEY MADE HER WAY DOWN the hall he had indicated and felt her muscles marginally relax. She’d needed that bracing thought and decided that, in addition to being one of the sexiest creatures God had ever thought about putting on this earth, clearly Sam Martelli was intuitive as well.

Undoubtedly he’d read about her recent humiliation in the paper, but rather than bringing it up, or embarrassing her by trying to comfort her, he’d instinctively known just what to say. She hoped he carried that keen perception into the studio with him, because she was going to need every single ounce of determination to get through this shoot. Just the idea of putting on some of the outfits she’d brought with her made her entire body clench with dread. Made her throat dry and her palms itch.

But those weaknesses made her every bit as determined to see this through. She stiffened. She would do this shoot. She would wear her lingerie. She could and she would. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she’d attached a tremendous amount of importance to conquering her modesty, to making this personal area of her life work. A new attitude without the actions to back it up was worthless.

Delaney found the dressing room and quietly let herself inside. The room was relatively small, but homey. An Oriental rug covered the dark hardwood floors. A small Duncan Phyfe sofa sat against one wall and a huge, heavily carved mahogany cheval mirror stood in the corner.

Rather than line the wall with hooks for hanging clothes, Sam had attached antique glass doorknobs. The novel idea drew a delighted smile. He’d done a phenomenal job blending the old with the new, and the resulting effect was warm and homey, yet eclectic and very romantic. She couldn’t fault his taste and found herself genuinely intrigued by him. She suspected he was an estate sale/antique mall junkie like herself. Delaney’s antebellum home was stuffed to the rafters with her finds as well. She couldn’t drive past a junk store, yard sale, or antique mall without stopping.

She briefly wondered if a Mrs. Martelli were in the picture, but instinctively knew that wasn’t the case. Of course, it could simply be wishful thinking on her part.

Irritation surged, which was ridiculous since she’d just recently decided to swear off men and possibly change her sexual preference. Honestly, what was wrong with her? She’d been given irrefutable proof—repeatedly—that men sucked. So what if he was possibly the sexiest man she’d ever seen? So what if her nipples still tingled and she still felt the residual heat of that flash fire her body had undergone the moment she laid eyes on him? So what if her wayward sex still throbbed and the moisture hadn’t fully returned to her mouth? Other parts of her anatomy were astonishingly wet.

Delaney angrily jerked off her clothes, slung them over the couch and ripped into her bag. She snagged a white cotton peasant gown pulled it over her head and donned the coordinating thong.

She was 0 for 2, dammit. She couldn’t trust her own judgment when it came to men. Any man. Even that one, though it pained her to admit it. She didn’t need to be wondering whether Mr. Sex out there had a wife or not. All she needed to concern herself with was whether or not he could take a good picture. If his reputation held true, then she should be pleased.

Delaney turned, caught sight of herself in the mirror and wilted like a cheap corsage. Every ounce of self-deprecating anger drained out of her as she stared miserably at the image displayed in the mirror. It was a lovely gown, trimmed with French lace and tiny satin ribbon and she’d even reluctantly admit that it looked lovely on her. The cut was loose, with blousy sleeves, and it hung to mid-thigh. Very romantic. The gown was so utterly feminine, so sweetly sexy, it would flatter any woman.

Still, just knowing that she wore nothing underneath but a pair of thonged panties and her birthday suit was enough to send her heart rate into an irregular rhythm. The familiar weight of dread coalesced in her tummy. She shoved her hands through her hair, watched the long tresses fall over her breasts. Another defense mechanism, Delaney thought, disgusted.

Covering her body with clothes wasn’t enough—she used her hair as well.

Oh, hell. Changing herself in theory sounded great, but could she pull it off in fact, as well? She bit her lip. Could she do this? Could she really do this?

A knock at the door startled her. “Delaney?” Sam called hesitantly. “You about ready in there?”

No, she wasn’t ready by any stretch of the imagination…but like she’d told him, she was determined. Delaney pulled in a shuddering breath. “Yeah, coming right out.”

She squared her shoulders, opened the door and met Sam in the hall. Something about his tall, reassuring presence made her feel marginally better. He briefly appraised her outfit, but his gaze didn’t linger on any particular area. She didn’t know whether to be thankful or perturbed, and decided not to ponder the conundrum while half-naked in the hall.

“The peasant gown.” He nodded. “Nice choice. Follow me. The studio is this way.”

Delaney did as she was told and followed him down the hall. The corridor dead-ended into a huge open area. Where the other end of the loft had been partitioned by walls to make living quarters, this end was one big, spectacular room with lots of space and light.

Several backdrops and props were sectioned along the walls. A bedroom scene, featuring a gorgeous king-size canopied bed with coordinating pieces. A sitting room scene with a beautiful French Rococo style chaise lounge. A bathroom scene, with an antique slipper tub, and another still that featured a gold low-backed sofa and various animal prints.

Sam didn’t simply stop at getting the primary items to accentuate a scene—he saw to the details as well. Everything was rich with color and contrast, with candlelight, lamps, rugs and coordinating accessories. But most importantly, it was sexy and compelling. A thrill raced through her. She wanted to lie on that bed, that chaise, that couch, wanted to sink into that tub.

He’d obviously put a lot of thought, time and money into building this studio, Delaney thought, suitably impressed. In fact, his home studio looked considerably better than the few meager sets she had down at the Chifferobe. Visions of her models in this studio, decked out in various Laney creations began to traipse through her head.

“Is there any particular setting that draws you?” Sam asked in that smooth blues voice.

She laughed, shook her head and gestured to the room at large. “All of them do. This is incredible,” she said appreciatively. “Really incredible. Did you do this all yourself, or hire a decorator?” She knew the answer before she asked the question—the entire loft had the same sensually cohesive feel about it—but wanted to be sure anyway.

He toyed with his camera and shook his head. “No decorator. My tastes tend to run to the eclectic.” He looked up at her and smiled, which resulted in a serious quiver below her navel. To her immeasurable chagrin, heat bolted up her spine. “I don’t think a decorator would get it.”

Well, she most definitely got it and she loved it, recognized him as a kindred spirit of sorts. Her sensuality came through in her designs, his came through in his photography and decorating.

How refreshing to meet a man who seemed to take genuine pleasure and interest in surrounding himself with nice things. Even Roger—who’d possessed a great deal more class than most of the men of her acquaintance—had deferred to a decorator’s judgment when furnishing his house. If he hadn’t, the expensive Georgian home would undoubtedly be decorated with Elvis on velvet and bizarre sculptures made out of beer tabs.

“You’ve done a wonderful job,” Delaney finally told him. “It’s truly remarkable. Enough old and new to make it interesting.”

“I like antiques. They have character.” He took one last cursory glance at his camera, deemed it ready and looked up. “So where do you want to start?” he asked again, clearly ready to set this shoot in motion. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we’re losing natural light.”

Delaney nodded. “Right. I, uh…” She looked from scene to scene, and tried to make her up mind. She bit her bottom lip. “Well, with this gown, I think the chaise would work best. But I’m not the photographer. What do you think?”

“I agree. The peasant gown has a whimsical feel. It’ll look good against the green fabric on the chaise.”

She wouldn’t look good on the chaise, but the gown would. Delaney ignored the prick of irritation and summoned a smile. She didn’t necessarily want him to find her attractive, still… She was half-naked and he was a man—he was supposed to notice.

While his unimpressed attitude certainly wasn’t doing her self-esteem any good, she could truthfully admit that the familiar claw of desperation brought on by her modesty wasn’t rearing its ugly head. She supposed there was nothing to be modest about if a man wasn’t interested.

“I’m going to put on a little mood music before we get started,” Sam said. “Do you mind?”

Still unreasonably perturbed, Delaney shook her head. “Not at all. Go ahead.” Whatever tripped his trigger. Evidently it wasn’t her. Which was good, Delaney reminded herself again and resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Men were a no-no. Right? Right.

Nevertheless, she found her gaze inexplicably drawn to him. She liked the way he moved, unhurried yet purposeful. Sensual. If the man paid such close attention to detail when it came to his home and his profession, one could reasonably deduce that he’d be an equally meticulous lover. Slow and thorough, leisurely—

Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ On The Dock Of The Bay” suddenly resonated from hidden speakers, derailing that unproductive line of thought. That smooth, smoky voice moved over her, pushed her lips into a late-blooming smile. Somehow the music choice suited Sam Martelli. He looked like the type who would appreciate Otis. He was a favorite of hers as well.

Sam tested the light around the chaise, and after a few adjustments, deemed it acceptable. “Okay. I’m ready when you are.”

Delaney made her way over to the set, acutely aware once more of how little she wore. So what if it had long sleeves and hit her just barely below mid-thigh? What difference did it make if she felt naked?

“I was right,” Sam said matter-of-factly. “The gown is perfect.”

Delaney felt her eyes narrow as another wave of annoyance surged through her. The gown again. Not her. She was proud of the damned gown—she’d designed it, after all—but honestly. Wasn’t it his job to make her feel sexy?

She expelled a frustrated breath. “Where do you want me?”

Two beats passed as he tweaked his camera again and when he answered his voice sounded a little strained. “Why don’t you lie on the chaise? Pick a comfortable position. A pose that’s natural to you.”

Delay arranged herself on the couch, propped her head up with her hand and curled her legs up close to her bottom. It was comfortable, but she didn’t feel remotely sexy. In fact, she felt ridiculous.

Sam looked at her through his lens, then pulled the camera away from his face. A line knitted his brow. “Is there something wrong?”

“I, uh, don’t feel sexy,” Delaney confessed. “I feel stupid.”

His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “You don’t look stupid.”

“I don’t look sexy either.”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “Wrong, you look sexy, but you don’t feel sexy and the two are hopelessly intertwined. I could try to remedy how you feel, but you’re the most miserably modest woman I’ve ever seen and I’m not sure that what I could do for you would help. Any compliments I might give you would be genuine, but they’re going to make you self-conscious. If you start worrying about what you’re wearing—or not wearing—and how you look, then that’s pretty much going to defeat the purpose. You don’t have to look like a sex kitten, Delaney,” he said patiently. “All you have to do is smile. Okay?”

He was right. She was being ridiculous. “Okay.”

“Great.” Sam’s face disappeared behind the camera once more and Delaney conjured the smile he’d asked for. “So, who are these pictures for, anyway?”

Delaney smothered a grunt and rolled her eyes. “My next lover.”

“Next?”

Delaney continued to smile, though she couldn’t contain the edge to her voice. “Right. I’m sure you read the papers. My ex-fiancé and his new wife are currently on their way to Greece on a honeymoon that I paid for.”

Seemingly astonished, Sam lowered the camera. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

She snorted. “I wish.”

“Damn, that’s cold. What a bastard.” Sam refocused, took a couple more shots.

“My sentiments exactly.”

He moved to the left a couple of feet, went down on one knee and fired off a few more shots. “It’s guys like him that give men a bad rap.”

“I know. That’s why I’m finished with them.” Delaney rolled over onto her back and crossed her legs. Strangely, talking to him made her feel less ridiculous and she began to marginally relax.

“With men?”

“Yep.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“So where does the next lover come in?” he asked, sounding faintly amused. Apparently he’d drawn the incorrect conclusion that she wasn’t serious. Evidently he thought she was simply the typical thwarted female making the typical empty threat to swear off men. Wrong. She was an adult woman who’d made a valid, life-altering decision.

She should probably enlighten him.

Delaney curled back onto her side and smiled wickedly. For the first time since they’d started this shoot, she actually felt sexy. She arched an innocent brow. “Who said that lover would be a man?”

The camera clattered to the floor and the blank slack-jawed look he gave her was utterly priceless.

Delaney sat up and made a moue of disappointment. “Damn, that would have been a good shot. You missed it, didn’t you?”

3

HE’D DROPPED HIS damned camera.

Never in the history of his career had Sam ever dropped his camera. When he went into the zone, the equipment simply became an extension of himself. His camera was his baby and he treated it as such—with extreme care.

No doubt about it, over the course of the past few years he’d been routinely shocked. He’d taken boudoir photos of a hermaphrodite, for pity’s sake. Pictures of women that were pierced in areas that went well beyond his scope of comprehension. He inwardly shuddered. In this business, he’d pretty much seen it all and he’d never—never—once dropped his camera.

And yet, all this woman had to do was utter a few choice words about possibly changing her sexual preference…and he’d fumbled a thirty-five-hundred-dollar camera like a freshman rookie a yard from the end zone.

He couldn’t believe it. He simply couldn’t believe it. A litany of inventive curses streamed through his overwrought mind as he bent over and snagged his camera from the floor.

From the very first moment he’d laid eyes on Delaney Walker he’d known she’d be trouble with a capital T. For reasons which escaped him now, he’d thought he’d be safe once he’d gotten her behind the lens—thought he’d be able to treat her just like any other beautiful woman who came into his studio. And there’d been plenty.

In this line of business, any photographer worth his salt, in a sense, had to become desensitized to the female form. Battling a hard-on throughout a session was inconvenient and not conducive to a good shoot. One simply learned how to detach and focus on what lay inside the lens. Sam had mastered the trick years ago, and yet from the very second Delaney stepped out of that dressing room, his loins had been locked in a fiery state of perpetual hell. His blood had been humming with an intense awareness akin to radio static, and his scalp had tingled until he wondered if he might be having some sort of allergic reaction to his shampoo.

He was a wreck.

He didn’t just want her—the driving need gnashing around inside him couldn’t be reduced to any such simple term—he had to have her. Felt like he’d explode, or worse, if he didn’t.

One look at her in that virginal peasant gown—hell, she might as well be in a nun’s habit for all the skin revealed—and something deep, dark and primal had taken over. The hint of curves beneath all those yards of fabric, combined with that sexy mouth and long moonbeam hair and… Sam pulled in a tight breath. She was gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, and the fact that she didn’t realize it made her all the more appealing.

He’d wanted to tell her many times during the first few frames just how incredible she looked, how phenomenally hot, but given her almost phobic modesty, he didn’t think it wise. For his peace of mind, or hers. He’d tried to loosen her up with conversation and the ploy had worked right up until she’d dropped her little I-might-take-a-lesbian-lover bomb.

She had to be one of the most sexually innate creatures he’d ever encountered. She’d let that bright green gaze leisurely roam from one end of this body to the other, had all but measured him for a wet suit, yet she’d suddenly decided to bat for the other team? he thought skeptically. Not likely. He smothered a snort. If she was a lesbian, then he was the damned Easter Bunny.

Delaney’s soft chuckle drew him from his chaotic musings. “I’ve shocked you.”

“Not shocked,” Sam said simply for the sake of argument. “Just surprised. I had no idea that you were a lesbian.” He smiled up at her and tried to project a calmness he didn’t feel. “I’d understood that your fiancé was a man.”

He checked his camera over once more, deemed it unharmed, and once again tried to put things back on an even keel. Maybe if he concentrated really hard, he’d be able to think about something besides the way her gown had slipped down on her arm, baring one delectable shoulder. Besides tunneling underneath acres of white cotton and exploring every inch of her gorgeous body.

With his mouth.

“My fiancé was a man,” Delaney told him, “as was the last one. Men suck. Why not give a woman a shot?” she asked matter-of-factly. “I can be open-minded.”

Sam tsked, lined up another frame. “I don’t think being open-minded has anything to do with it.”

Delaney rolled over onto her stomach, let her hair fall over the end of the chaise. “Why not?”

He fired off another few shots, then paused. “Let me ask you something. Are you, or have you ever been attracted to a woman?”

She pulled a thoughtful face and winced. “No,” she said slowly. “But I’m hoping I can work past that.”

A laugh stuttered out of his chest. “That’s certainly an interesting goal.”

She pulled an offhanded shrug, baring a little more creamy skin. “Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

Sam finished off the roll of film. “Okay, that’s got this set completed. Wanna go change and meet me back in here?”

He’d said it casually, hoping not to lose what little ground they seemed to have gained during this stage of the shoot, but the instant his suggestion registered, her anxiety returned full force. Previously relaxed muscles went tight with tension and a frown wrinkled the smooth line of her brow.

Sam pretended to tweak his camera and eventually she nodded. “Sure. I’ll, uh, be right back.”

Theoretically speaking, if he were an outlet and she a plug, then one could reasonably assume that when she walked out of the room—pulled the plug, so to speak—he would return to normal. The clawing need would subside, his mega hard-on would wilt, and his skin would quit prickling.

To Sam’s disquiet, it didn’t and he grimly suspected that until he had her, it never would.

And having her was absolutely out of the question.

Number one, he didn’t sleep with clients. He’d worked hard to build a reputable business, depended heavily on word-of-mouth advertising. Everybody knew hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. One pissed-off chick with a vicious tongue could literally cost him thousands of dollars. Sam had seen it happen before.

Secondly, even if he were to forget the no-fornicating-with-a-client rule, it certainly wouldn’t be with a woman as emotionally wrecked as Delaney Walker. Sheesh. She’d just been jilted, was so messed up that she was considering becoming a lesbian. He’d have to be the biggest fool on earth to even consider letting something become of this hellish attraction that had blazed between them.

Finally, were those reasons not enough—which they certainly were—he desperately wanted a job at the Chifferobe. Wanted a shot at it so badly that he could taste it. This was his chance, dammit. He couldn’t afford to screw it up by acting on an almost overwhelming attraction. He could handle it. Would have to.

With that bracing thought, Sam turned as Delaney tentatively made her way back into the studio. His mind blanked as every ounce of blood he possessed raced back toward his groin. Every hair on his body stood on end and his breath froze in his lungs.

This gown was a long, sheer black silk wonder that left her shoulders bare beneath spaghetti straps, snugged against the full mounds of her breasts, showcased a mere slip of a waist and the generous curves of her hips. Open eyelet work trimmed with red appliqued roses formed a slinky S that curled provocatively around one breast, over her abdomen, down her hip and finally landed at the floor-length hem.

Other than her arms and shoulders, and a few peekaboo places down the front, she was covered from head to toe, but as far as Sam was concerned she might as well be naked. All that silky light-blond hair lay pooled over one shoulder and she’d tortured that full bottom lip until only a trace of her lipstick remained. He had never in his life seen a more beautiful woman.

Never.

In addition to all of the weird physical sensations he’d been subjected to since the moment he laid eyes on her, another more disconcerting feeling suddenly commenced in his chest, making it hard for him to draw a breath. It grew tight, then swelled with some unnamed emotion.

Delaney smiled self-consciously, making her all the more gorgeous. “Okay,” she sighed. “Now where do you want me?”

His tenuous grasp on control almost snapped. Where did he want her? Anywhere. Right there. Who cared? The only thing that lay between him and her were about ten feet of hardwood and a couple of scraps of clothing. With a little creative maneuvering, he could take her right there. In a heartbeat.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, forced the erection-provoking vision to subside. “What about over there?” He pointed to the animal print set. At the moment, he didn’t trust himself to say more.

Delaney crossed her arms over her chest, inadvertently plumping her generous breasts even more, and moved to the set he’d indicated. She sat stiffly on the couch. “Okay. Now what?”

“Why don’t you tell me about something that relaxes you?” Sam suggested, trying to loosen her up again. The tactic had worked before and perhaps a little conversation would make him quit thinking about tracing that peekaboo lace with his tongue. About bending her over the end of that couch and plunging into her sweet, slick heat from behind.

She forced a smile. Looked nervously around the room. “Chocolate relaxes me.”

He chuckled. So those rumors were true. He’d heard of her legendary chocoholism as well as a couple of interesting tidbits about her office. He’d heard that her inner sanctum was crammed full of antiques, was decorated in shades red, rose and pale pink and had been designed to look like the inside of a jewelry box. He couldn’t satisfy his curiosity about the one, but he could the other.

“Any particular kind of chocolate?” he asked as he lined up a spectacular shot.

“No, just plain unadulterated chocolate. No nuts, no caramel, no nougat.” She grinned and arched a brow. “Just chocolate.”

Sam took the shot and instinctively knew this frame would be his favorite. That gently curved, innocently provocative smile combined with the come-hither brow was awesome. With effort, he swallowed. “That was a gorgeous shot.”

“Really?”

“Really. Tell me about something else that relaxes you.”

She gave him another cheeky grin. “Sorry, don’t know you well enough.”

Sam fired off a few more frames. Despite the whopping erection swelling out of his briefs, he’d finally hit the zone, wanted to keep the momentum. “Forget that you don’t know me. I’m getting some great stuff here.”

She tsked. “I’d hate for you to drop your camera again.”

Irritation rose. Click, click. “I won’t drop my camera again. Move to the other end of the couch.”