Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

His index finger traces a slow path under his bottom lip. "I'm all yours, Falon. Work your magic."

I straighten, shrugging off the momentary thought of what it would be like if he was actually mine. That's my body's ache to be fucked trying to shepherd the direction of my imagination's path. I haven't had sex in three months. Why in the hell am I thinking about that now?

"Remy, let's go," I call across the room. My voice is pitchy, the tone too curt. "Let's get this done now."

"Are you okay?" Remy's hand trails across my back as soon as she's by my side. "You look flushed, you sound pissed."

She draws the last word across her tongue slowly as if its meaning will change with the speed at which she says it. She's questioning me in front of a client, not to mention the small army he walked in with. I don't need that. I scold her with a look that quiets her instantly.

The air conditioning is running on high but it's doing nothing to curb the heat that's being generated by all the warm bodies and movement in the room. I feel sweat dot my upper lip. I ignore it knowing that the sooner I start shooting him, the sooner he'll be out of my studio. Once that happens, I'll finally be able to breathe again.

This shoot wasn't supposed to happen until next Wednesday. That's when I booked him in, but less than an hour ago his manager called in a panic, wanting the session to happen today. I didn't want to lose the money so I pushed the jewelry shoot I was supposed to do this afternoon to tomorrow and I told her to bring Asher down as soon as she could. They arrived within minutes after that call with their own hair and make-up team in tow.

Not one of them has touched him. His hair is slightly damp as if he just stepped out of a shower but didn't have time to style it. He looks like they rushed him here without giving him a second to look in a mirror. He obviously didn't take the time to put on a pair of underwear. Unless he always walks around like that all the time, with his cock uncontrolled.

I'm doing it again.

This is a job. That's all it is. I'll take his picture, he'll leave and he'll go do whatever it is rock stars do when they're not on stage.

"Look this way, Asher," I call out without bothering to glance in his direction. "Look right at me."

"I am, Falon," he says gruffly, his voice carrying over the moderate hum in the room. It's a combination of the many conversations taking place among the people who follow him around, and the music that Remy turned on to help set the mood. I should be grateful that she had the insight to stream his album through the speakers, even though the low rasp in his voice as he sings is only intensifying whatever this is I'm feeling right now.

I look up, my heart pounding for no conceivable reason. I don't get nervous when I work. I'm not thrown off course because a hot guy smiles at me. No, this doesn't happen to me, yet it is right now.

I take one picture, then another, and as he turns slightly and poses for the camera, I listen to the soulful sound of his voice as it fills the room and I watch his expression as he stares right through the camera's lens and into me.

CHAPTER 2

Asher

I fucking hate this part of the job. Technically, it's not an actual job. People pay me for my music. It's a far cry from the life I used to lead.

There was a time, in the not-too-distant past, when I worked with my brothers. I was in charge of sales for one of the most recognizable fashion brands in the world. I did my job because my family expected me to. I hated it. I hated every hour, of every single day, that I had to put on a suit and tie and walk through the doors of that office building in lower Manhattan.

I'm not like Caleb or Gabriel, my older brothers. They were born to sit behind a desk and delegate. They love that life. They yearn for the rush that comes with current quarterly sales figures that exceed the profit the company made the year before. A day is a hailed a success when a prominent women's magazine does a spread on the lingerie line that Gabriel launched.

Working in that world suffocated me. It strangled every ounce of creativity I had out of my body. Now, that I'm making music and it's selling, I'm living my dream.

Having my picture taken is something I can do without, but the label insisted on it. They bitched about the last set of promotional shots I had. I don't blame them. I look nothing like I did a year ago. I eat clean, I work out, and I do it all to avoid the temptation of my addictions.

I thought my cousin, Noah Foster, one of the world's most recognized photographers, would handle this but he's the one who directed my publicist to Falon Shaw. She's a former assistant of his, and judging by the range of portraits on her website, she's the one almost everyone who works in entertainment, in New York City, goes to when they want to look good.

I hadn't bothered to check her 'About Me' page on her site because I didn't give a shit about who was behind the camera. That changed though when I walked into her studio and saw her.

The way she's pinned her brown hair up makes her look like she either just woke up or just got fucked. It's a reckless mess on the top of her head. Her blue eyes are piercing, striking and wide. Her lips are full and pink. If she's wearing any make-up, I can't tell. She's beautiful even though she's not trying to be.

I've known my fair share of women who are a vacant shell underneath the eye shadow, lipstick and bronzer they meticulously apply before they face the world. This one, the photographer who can't take her eyes off of me, is breathtaking in her own right.

The skirt she's wearing skims the middle of her thighs each time she moves. Her legs are long and toned. She's not rail thin, like the model I dated a few months ago. Falon's body is athletic. She's lean with curves in all the right places.

Even before she walked over to talk to me, I knew I'd need to ask her out. I doubt she'll say yes to me. She may be staring at me with the same hunger that I feel inside of myself, but there's something beneath the surface. I saw a flash of hesitation in her eyes when she studied my face. With my fucked up luck, she has a policy against dating celebrities. It wouldn't be the first time a woman caught my attention only to hear her tell me that she wasn't interested in a guy whose face pops up on every online gossip site at least once a week.

Fame is great until it steals your life away.

Falon stiffens at the exact moment my phone rings. I saw the sign posted on her studio door about silencing all electronic devices. I get that distractions mess with her creative process. It's the same for me. I shut myself off from the world when I'm writing music.

On any other day I would have turned my phone off or handed it to one of my assistants, but I've been waiting for this call since this morning. I'm not missing it, even if it pisses the hell out of Falon.