Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

"I have to work tonight." I lick the last remnant of ganache from the spoon before I toss it into a bucket reserved for dirty silverware in the industrial sink. "I'll be back again on Sunday."

"You'll take some pastries for your clients." She gestures towards the front of the bakery with her chin. "Then you'll call when you get to your studio so I know my Girlie is safe and sound."

I walk back to where she's still beating the dough to within an inch of its life. I lean down and kiss her forehead, using the moment to tuck the three one hundred dollar bills I've had clutched tightly in my hand into the pocket on the front of her apron. I've done the same thing twice a month for the past five months.

She didn't ask for my help. I never offered it outright but when Eli told me he heard her talking about the bills piling up and sales slowing, I started slipping the money into her apron.

Tonight, she does the very same thing she does every time I do it. She kisses my cheek, pats me on the back and tells me she loves me.

***

I've never shied away from going after what I want in life. It's the main reason why I run one of the most successful photography studios in New York City.

I'm not one of those people who have a five or ten year plan that they follow religiously. I set a goal and then I work my ass off to achieve it as quickly as I possibly can. If my parents taught me anything, it's that you have to work for what you want in life. No one is going to hand you a free ride, unless there's a hidden fare attached to it, be it in the form of having to sacrifice your heart or your soul.

There's no one in this world that I owe anything to. I paid off my student loans two months ago. I did that by working hard. That's exactly what I did tonight, when I photographed a couple with their newborn baby.

Before I took the job, I suggested I visit their apartment. In my experience, most new parents want the first professional images of their baby to be in their home. The setting adds something pleasantly abstract to the images, a sort of sense of belonging that isn't there when they sit or stand in front of a canvas under studio lights.

They were insistent that they wanted the shoot to be portrait style in front of a pink background. I'm always up for a challenge so I asked for the time of day when their baby girl was

most alert, then I booked them in, sent Remy to find a bright pink backdrop and instructed them to dress in white.

The results were well worth the three hours it took to get them. The shots I have are filled with whimsy and love. The photographs I took when the wife breastfed their daughter, while her husband stroked the baby's cheek, are the ones they'll treasure the most.

I asked them to allow me the opportunity to take pictures of that very intimate and tender moment. They agreed without question. It's that initiative that I'm drawing on now, as I lean against my studio door, take a deep breath and call Asher Foster even though it's almost midnight and, according to him, we've never gone an actual date.

CHAPTER 18

Asher

I think about her words as I walk down Madison, my head bowed, my hands tucked into the front pocket of my jeans. It's late for much of the city. Those who are out now, aren't looking to spot a famous face as they hurry home or to a club to pick up someone to make the night less lonely. An adventure waits around every corner in Manhattan. For me, that adventure is in the form of Falon Shaw, who called me less than fifteen minutes ago.

Her voice was soft as she joked that she knew she hadn't woken me. She spit my words back at me about dates, and midnight, burgers and rules.

I don't have rules. I've never had rules. If she was anyone else, I would have fucked her in her studio the other day, then walked out and even with the taste of her still on my lips, I would have been searching for the next woman to temporarily fill the growing pit inside of me.

With a determined stride, I walk faster, my pace quickening. I cross against the light, even though a car is coming towards me. I've lived in New York City long enough to know that he'll swerve around me with a honk and a cursed warning I'll never hear.

I approach her as she's standing on the sidewalk. The floral wrap dress she's wearing opening near her thigh. Her hair is blowing loosely in the still warm breeze that punctuates the nights in the summer.

"You made it." She glances down at the phone in her hand. "I didn't turn into a pumpkin after all."

I laugh at the reference to the fairy tale she talked about on the phone. I rushed to get to her, not because I'm hungry and she told me that she was going to eat pizza alone unless I met her in this exact spot, under the awning of a shoe store, before midnight.

"The best pizza is a block over." Her hand rises as she gestures to the right.

The scent of her skin hits me. It's flowery, sensual. It's what I imagine when I'm in bed at night, my cock so hard that if I gave it a single stroke, I'd come and I wouldn't be able to lay there awake for hours, throbbing while thinking about what her body would feel like wrapped around mine.

"You're from Brooklyn. You, of all people, should know the best slice is there," I quip.

Her eyes are wide and open as she turns to look right at me. "Once you taste this, you'll see what I mean. It's the best. Nothing tastes as good."

The words twist in my mind as they leave her full lips.

Once you taste this...the best…nothing as good.

Pizza is the last thing I want. I want to take her home, throw her on my bed and keep her there. I want to bury myself so deep in her that she'll feel the ache inside her pussy for days. I want to lick her nipples and sink my teeth into the flesh of her thigh. I want her in a way I've never wanted a woman. The desire to have her is relentless.