Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

CHAPTER 1

Falon

"Are they low enough?"

"Pull them up." I wave my arm in the air towards one of the three female assistants he walked in with. "I want them higher."

He pushes their eager hands away as he adjusts the waistband of his button-fly jeans. I'd told him to strip down to just his pants as soon as he stepped foot into my studio. He'd done that effortlessly. His hands tugging the white sweater he was wearing over his head to reveal a chiseled stomach and toned chest covered by the expected tattoos.

I'd walked closer to ask him to remove the bracelets and necklaces he had on. His eyes had been glued to mine the entire time.

I admit he's much more attractive than most of the men who traipse through here. His hair may be a tousled mess of brown, but his eyes more than make up for that. They're framed by long lashes, the irises a shade of chestnut I haven't seen before.

It's no surprise that he warrants the attention he does in the media.

Asher Foster has the number one song in the country right now. On top of that, he wrote it. I listened to it on my phone before he arrived. It's moody, soulful and surprisingly brilliant.

I look through the lens of my camera. "I need that light moved to the left."

My assistant, Remy, darts into action. She moves the base of the light along the floor until it's precisely where I need it to be. I'd be lost without her, especially right now, given that the small space is filled with at least ten people too many, all part of the entourage that arrived with Asher.

I take another glance. Everything is almost perfect except for the fact that when I asked him to show me some skin, he took it to a level that's bordering on obscene.

I step around the tripod that I've attached my camera to and walk back towards where he's standing in front of a pale, grey canvas hung from the ceiling.

I point towards his jeans. "You can button those back up."

He looks down. "I thought you wanted me almost naked."

He's taller than I am, but only by an inch or two. It helps that I'm wearing boots with heels today. I wouldn't have chosen this short of a skirt if I'd have known that he'd be here. I try my best to always look professional but when it's over one hundred degrees outside, you have to make concessions. I'm thankful that I, at least, took the time this morning to wash and sweep my curly brown hair up into a bun so it looks controllable.

I've already established myself as the go-to photographer for celebrities in New York City. Granted, it only constitutes part of my business, but it's the most lucrative part. I'm making enough off this shoot today to pay my rent for both the studio and my apartment for the next two months.

"It was my understanding that the photographs need to be tasteful."

"You don't think this is tasteful." There's a low growl to his voice. "Tell me what's not tasteful about it."

The room may be milling with people, but his focus is entirely on me. I've felt that since he walked in. I imagine he's used to women taking him up on everything he offers to them. There's no denying it's tempting. I only need to look down at the thick root of his cock that is partially visible through the opening of his jeans to know that the man is very comfortable with his body.

"I'd prefer if you buttoned your jeans up."

"Why?" His eyes darken. "You don't think I look good like this?"

There's no way in hell this man needs his ego stroked. If that's what fuels his fire he need only turn around to where every single woman in the room, including Remy, is standing with their lips at the ready.

I've always been mildly curious about why so many women are drawn to musicians. I don't have to wonder anymore. His confidence is undeniable, but it hasn’t crossed the line to cocky yet. He's just the right balance of tenderness mixed with blatant aggression.

"I think I look good." He playfully nods towards his groin. "You think I look good too, don't you, Falon?"

I look around the room before I rest my hand against his shoulder and lean in just a touch. "As impressive as your dick is, I don't want it in my pictures."

His mouth curves into a soft smile. "How can I resist when you put it like that?"

I keep my eyes locked to his even as I sense the movement of his hands as he buttons his jeans back up. I take the time to carefully study his face.

The draw to capture people in photographic form has been at the center of my life for as long as I can remember. It started as a hobby when my dad bought me a cheap used camera for my eighth birthday. He did it because I'd crafted a make believe camera out of cardboard, colored markers and tape.

Once I held the real camera in my hands, my drive to be creative was born from the necessity to make each image count. I couldn't afford to waste a single frame.

I took on extra chores to earn enough money to buy film and to pay for it to be processed at the photo lab that was tucked into the corner of the drugstore on our block.

My siblings, my parents, and my friends from school all became unwilling models. I'd take my time setting up each shot, opening and closing the horizontal vinyl blind in my bedroom to seize just the

right amount of sunlight to shadow my subject's face the way I wanted. It was a labor of love and to this day, I'm still proud of every single one of the small prints I took of the faces of the people who were the center of my world back then.

I keep them all in a photo album on a shelf in my studio. The composition and definition of the snapshots in that book pale in comparison to the images in my current portfolio. They're more a reminder of the people who believed in me than they are of my raw and natural talent.

"Is my face impressive too?"

"What?" I ask quietly. "Your face?"

"You're staring at me." He scratches the back of his neck. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. I'm just wondering if you like what you see."

I can't tell if he's trying to goad me into telling him how incredibly good-looking he is or if the question is genuine. "We should get to work. I'm ready. Are you?"