"In my bed?"
I nod. "I want that. I want . . ."
I trail off, not certain what I meant to say.
"You want to be like the women in my photos," he says. "Bold. Feminine. Strong. Women who go after what they want. Passionate women. Sensual women." The corner of his mouth lifts devilishly. "In other words, Kelsey, you don't want to be your daddy's girl at all. You want to be bad. Or, rather, you want to be the kind of woman who he'd call bad."
I take a deep breath as the truth of his words resonates through me. "Yeah," I finally say. "That's exactly what I want."
23
Bad.
The word kept going round and round in Wyatt's head. The word--and all of its wonderful, delicious, tantalizing possibilities.
Of course, that particular word could also be a portent that this was a very bad idea.
That, however, wasn't a possibility that Wyatt wanted to consider. Not now, when everything had suddenly turned his way. When the woman who had been his muse for all these years was not only back in his life, she was in his show.
More important, she was in his bed. Or, at least, she would be. And damn soon, too.
He knew it might not last. That she might be interested only in using him to push past her fears. That when the show ended, she might simply walk away, and once again he'd be left only with her memory.
He knew all that, but he didn't care. Because not only was he selfish enough to want her any way he could get her, he was also arrogant enough to believe that he could keep her.
And, frankly, he was sentimental enough to believe that the bond that had developed between them that summer had never been severed. Frayed, maybe. But it was still there, and Wyatt intended to follow it back to her heart.
"Wyatt?" Her hands were so tight on the steering wheel that he feared she'd bend the thing. Nerves, he knew, but he was damn proud of her for pushing through. "What do you want me to do?"
He couldn't hide his smile, and when he met her eyes and her cheeks bloomed pink, they both laughed out loud.
"Maybe I should rephrase that," she said.
"Baby, I think you phrased it just fine."
Her blush deepened, and damned if the reaction didn't drive him absolutely crazy. Didn't make him want to drag her over the gearshift and kiss her senseless.
Bottom line? He wanted her. Plain and simple. More than that, though, he wanted to help her. To show her the power in pleasure. To help her break free from her father's bullshit chains and be like the women pictured on his walls.
And it wasn't just that sensual confidence he wanted for her. He also yearned to see her finally follow her dream. To dance, if not on a stage, then in life. Free and on fire, the way she was when he'd watched her through the studio window.
He wanted all of that, and more.
"What do I want?" he repeated. "Right now, I want you in my studio in front of my camera. I want you on that bed, your eyes wide. Your lips parted. Your skin flushed. I want to watch you. I want to take thousands of pictures of you. And then, Kelsey, I want to touch you."
He reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear, caressing her cheek as he did so. "What do you want?"
"Um, what you said is good. Yeah. I think that'll do just fine."
He chuckled. "I think you better let me drive."
"Right. Good plan."
She slid out of the car, and he did the same. Once he was behind the wheel and they were back on the road, he glanced sideways at her, noting the way the knit skirt fell almost to her ankles.
She caught him looking and smiled.
He indicated the skirt. "So what are you wearing under that?"
To her credit, her blush didn't bloom too deep. "Well, duh. What do you think I have on?"
"I can think of a thousand things. And nothing," he said. "You tell me."
"Underwear."
"Show me." He recalled in intimate detail the panties she'd worn the night of the party, and he expected that she hadn't strayed far from those simple white briefs.
"Pardon me?"
"Take off your panties," he clarified, working very hard to keep his voice even. On the one hand, her reaction was adorable. On the other hand, his jeans had become uncomfortably snug.
"Umm."
He hit the brake at a four-way stop, then turned to look at her. "We had a deal. This will only work if you follow the rules and trust me."
"I do. But . . ."
"What?"
She swallowed, the only sign that she was nervous as she looked him in the eye and said, "It's just that I don't see a camera or a bed."
Damn.
"I always have a camera," he countered. "Even if it's only on my phone. But you make a fair point," he continued, before she could argue. "So I'll let you decide. You can wait until we get to the studio to do what I say, or you can take your panties off right now."
"I get to decide?"
He nodded casually, knowing he'd moved too fast. This was new territory for her, and while he was happy to play erotic games, he needed to remember exactly who he was playing with. "Absolutely. Totally up to you."
"Okay, then," she said. And when she reached under her skirt and managed to discreetly remove a pair of red lace panties, he just about drove the damn car off the road. Because not only had she just surprised the shit out of him by yanking them off, but because he knew what that really meant--that this was about them. About Kelsey and Wyatt. And not just about the job.
And that one factoid made him as hard as steel.
"Should I just leave them here?" she asked, smiling sweetly as she hooked them over the rear view mirror.
"You know you're not playing fair."
"Maybe not," she countered, her face lit with pleasure. "But I like the way it feels to finally be in the game."
24
In Antelope Valley, I'd felt bold and in control, the sensation of cutting loose and racing Blue down the open road fueling my confidence.
Driving back through the canyon, I'd felt sexy and clever, delighting in my ability to not only surprise Wyatt, but to light that fire of passion in his eyes.
But now, in Santa Monica, all of my strength and confidence is fading, replaced by a flutter of nerves that has me tapping my foot and twisting my skirt in my hand.
And the closer we get to Wyatt's studio, the more nervous I become. Because I'm not just going to be on display for Wyatt, but for the world. And even though I admire those women who already hang on his walls, I can't help but hear my father's voice like a low drone in my ear. An early warning system of some approaching doom that I could have prevented if only I'd been a good girl, the way I was supposed to be.
Wyatt's studio has access to a multi-level parking garage, and once he kills the engine, he turns to me, frowning slightly. "I lost you somewhere, didn't I?"
I shake my head and try to conjure a smile. "I'm right here. Really. It's just nerves." That, at least, isn't a lie. "Just the thought of being in front of a camera like that."
He doesn't answer for a second, and I'm not sure if he believes me or not. But then he smiles gently and squeezes my hand. "You'll do great. You already did, remember?"
I laugh. "Yeah, but then I ran."
"A valid point," he concedes. "But you're not going to do that this time."
"No," I promise. "I won't."
I mean it, too. But that doesn't still the butterflies in my stomach.
The parking structure exits onto the street, and so instead of entering through the alley and the studio door, we go in through the gallery. It's a retail space from which Wyatt sells his work, and the walls are covered with stunning landscapes, vivid seascapes, and beautiful architectural shots.
"These are amazing," I say.
"They're not bad," he agrees. "And I've been making a decent living. But they're not my passion. Just like teaching kindergarten isn't yours."
I'd been looking at a photograph of a tide pool, but now I tilt my head up to look at him. "Are you lecturin
g me?"
"Just calling them as I see them. You should be dancing."
"I dance."
"Hmm," he says, which clearly isn't agreement, but since he's also not arguing, I move on, hoping to change the subject.
"When did you go to Paris and London?" I ask, pointing to some photos on a far wall. "And is this Moscow?" I turn back to him. "Are these yours?"
"What makes you ask?"
"I don't know. The style is different. The composition. The use of light. Is it a different technique?"
"You were right the first time. My friend Frank took them. I sublet him studio space on the second floor, and share this part of the gallery with him. He's in Bali now, I think. Possibly Alaska."
I laugh. "Well, I hope he packed well."
"I can't keep track. Come on," he says, taking my hand. "The studio's back here."
We go down a short hall, and then through a steel door to the familiar studio where I'd come to audition. "This place is bigger than it looks."
"I have the second floor, too. It has two apartments and a shared kitchen."
"Do you live here?" The thought amuses me. Like an old-time artist living in a garret.
"Not technically. Frank lives and works in his apartment, but I use the other as an office. It has a Murphy bed, though, and lately I've been sleeping here. It's easier than going home even though I'm just over in Venice Beach." He smiles at me. "Better now?"
The question surprises me, and I realize that my nerves have faded. "Yeah," I say. "Better take some pictures quick before the nerves come back."
"I would, but I think you'll appreciate me waiting just a little longer."
I don't know what he means until he pulls out his phone and sends a text. A second later I hear a door open above us, then I see two sets of legs descending the stairs on the far side of the room. A moment later, I see who the legs are attached to, a lanky guy with a mop of dark hair that he wears in a man-bun, and a petite blonde in very impractical heels.
"Kelsey, this is Jon Paul, my assistant."
"Just JP," the guy says.
Wyatt turns his attention to the girl. "And you are . . .?" He trails off, and she thrusts out her hand toward him.
"Leah," she says. "I'm Siobhan's intern. She sent me over to drop off some mockups for the front of the catalog."
"They're on your desk," JP says. He looks at me. "Is she--I mean, are you--"
"She's just here for an audition," Wyatt says, then shoots me a warning look before I have the chance to ask him what the hell he means.
Leah looks at me. "I hope you get it. The show's so exciting. And the press is going to be all over it. Roger Jensen's already said he's going to cover it."
"Who's that?" I ask, and Leah looks at me as if I asked who Neil Armstrong was.
"He's an editor with the Pacific Shore Art Examiner, and he's brilliant. Plus, he has a syndicated column."
"Oh, well. Then that's great," I say, surprised that Wyatt doesn't look more pleased by news of the coverage.
"We were just about to head out," JP says. "I finished working on the plans with Mike, so he's good to go on the construction. But if you need me to help set up for Kelsey's audition, I can stay."
"You go on," Wyatt says. "I've got it."
"Great meeting you," Leah says, with a little wave to both of us.
JP says the same to me, and then they both head out. As soon as the door shuts behind them, I turn back to Wyatt. "Auditioning?"
"You're anonymous," he retorts, and I nod with sudden understanding.
"There's no way around JP, I'm afraid. But there's no need for an intern to know who you are. Hell, I'll keep it from Siobhan if I can. What?" he asks, peering at me.
I realize I'm smiling so broadly my cheeks hurt. "Nothing. It just feels nice to be taken care of."
"I like taking care of you," he says in a way that makes me feel all soft and gooey inside. "Speaking of. How are you doing? Butterflies still gone?"
"They're starting to come back," I admit.
He takes my hand and leads me over to the wall, then pulls the drape off one of the pictures. It's a woman standing in a steamy shower, her body dappled with soap bubbles. She's stroking herself, one hand on her breast, the other between her legs, and she's biting her lower lip in a way that makes it clear she isn't just washing.
But at the same time, she's staring straight through the water and the steam at the camera, at the audience. And she's bold and beautiful and unashamed.
"Remember what you told me in the parking lot?" he asks. "That you saw beauty and strength in my photos? Well, that's what I see in you. That's what the camera will see."
I gather his words and wrap them around my heart, wishing I could keep them with me always, because they calm me. More than that, they strengthen me.
"I'm sorry to be nervous," I say.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes," I say without hesitation.
"Then we'll do just fine." He nods toward the bed, still set up as a set. "Are you ready?"
"Don't I need a mask or something?"
"No. I want to see you. But I'll make sure to block your face later. There's a lot I can do in the darkroom, okay?"
"Darkroom?"
"I mean that in the broad sense," he says. "The show is a combination of images I've captured both digitally and on film. Some prints are purely digital. Some are purely film. Some are a mix. So when I talk about the darkroom, I'm talking either the literal room, or a figurative digital darkroom."
"I know nothing about photography," I tell him. "But I'm impressed."
He laughs. "Very glad to hear it."
"Do I need makeup?"
"Not tonight. For one, I'll be masking your face. For another, I'm shooting digital tonight, and we'll just do one or two poses to get you warmed up. I'm not even going to worry too much about the lighting. Just a little bit of reflected light and we'll be good to go." He smiles. "So, are you ready?"
I nod, though I'm not at all certain, and he sends me off to the bathroom to change into the fluffy robe again. "There's lingerie in a bureau in there," he tells me. "I have a slew of designers donating to me. Pick a thong you like and wear it under the robe."
He isn't kidding about the lingerie. The chest is crammed full of silk and satin in a variety of colors. I choose a thong in a deep purple. Then swallow hard when I realize he didn't tell me to choose a bra.
When I return to the studio, I have the robe cinched tight around my waist and feel a bit like a housewife. "I don't know what to do with my hair," I tell him. I haven't touched it since I took it out of the elastic, and it's wild and wind-tousled. "If you hand me my purse, I can brush it out."
"Not a chance. You look sex-rumpled and amazing. Which is pretty much the look I'm going for. Come on over here and climb onto the bed."
I do, then follow his instructions until I'm kneeling on the bed, my knees together and my rear on my heels. My back is straight, and pressed against the post. And my left arm is out of the robe, which hangs loose on that side.
"Good," he says.
"That's it?"
He chuckles. "No. That's a start."
He stands back, then rakes his eyes over me, his careful inspection firing my senses. And, oddly, settling my nerves.
After a moment, he turns around and moves a white screen that's a few yards away from the bed. I realize it's reflecting light, presumably for a softer effect.
He walks around me, then makes a few more adjustments, lost in his work. It's fascinating watching him, and the last wisps of nervousness fade away as I realize that I'm a part of this world that he loves, and essential to what he's trying to accomplish.
After a moment, he comes over to me sporting a wicked grin. "The lighting's set. Now it's time to work on you."
"Right," I say, expecting the nerves to return. But they don't. Because now I'm in Wyatt's hands, and I know he'll take care of me.
"We're going to do a lot of vignettes over the next few days,
and I'll pick the eight best. Some in a kitchen. Some at a desk. Some out in the world. Each one is supposed to tell a mini-story. And they build to a sensual climax--that's the dance. You'll still be anonymous, but you will need a mask for that. We'll film it opening night, and use that film for the run of the show."
"Do you need me to choreograph it?" The idea excites me. I've done choreography, but never with such an intimate purpose.
"Can you?"
I nod enthusiastically, and he smiles. "Well, then I guess we make a good team," he says, and I swallow a happy sigh.
"This is the lovers' vignette," he says, indicating me and the post. "He's gone away, and he wants to be sure she waits for him. So he binds her to the post." He slides his hand up my left side, his skin grazing mine so softly I have to bite my lip to keep from trembling.
And then, when his hand brushes the curve of my breast, and then strokes higher, teasing my nipple, I bite my lip even harder.
My breasts ache, and my nipple tightens, and I fight a whimper because I want his touch. But he doesn't satisfy my craving. Instead, his hand continues upward until he reaches my arm. And then, very gently, he raises it. Then he uses the sash of the robe to tie my wrist to the pole.
"Once bound, her lover goes away," Wyatt continues. "But he's gone too long. She's lonely. Frustrated. And her thoughts turn to what will happen when he gets back. But she's impatient and doesn't want to wait. With her right hand, she emulates her lover's touch."
Now, he lifts my hand and places my palm over my breast. His eyes meet mine, and as he moves my hand so that my palm lightly strokes my nipple, I see the flare of heat, and feel a corresponding tug between my thighs.
His lips curve up, as if he's perfectly aware of my reaction, and as he watches my face, he gently removes my hand and slides it down my belly until my fingertips graze the elastic band of the thong.
"She imagines his touch," he says, as he slides his palms down my thighs, urging them apart until I'm kneeling with my knees spread so far I'm almost doing the splits. He takes my right hand again, then places it on my inner thigh, covered by his own hand. "She strokes herself," he says, sliding my hand up until my fingertips graze the thin strip of material that is the crotch of the panties. "Teases and plays with herself as she waits for him, getting wetter and wetter and more and more turned on."