Wicked Grind (Stark World 1)

"I guess that's for you to say."

She licked her lips, and he felt the quickening of his pulse. "I thought you were going to take my picture."

"That's definitely on the agenda. But I need to set the stage first." He whispered the words in her ear even as he reached down with his other hand and slid the sheet back over her leg, his palm stroking her smooth skin until only a sliver of material covered her.

Then he stepped back and examined what he'd created--and he had to admit she was perfect.

She was on her side, her head resting on her bent arm. Her other arm was draped over the curve of her waist, just above the swell of her hip. A bit of rumpled sheet rested on her hip, a small section of which hung down to keep her modestly covered. But just barely. Her thigh was exposed, as was her calf, and he liked the fact that though she was essentially naked and facing him straight on, he couldn't tell if she was waxed. But only that one intimate area was covered, and that added a punch of allure to the overall composition.

"Just like that," he said, raising his camera, then moving slowly as he took a variety of shots from different angles and with different exposures. "Now slide the sheet all the way off and cover yourself with your hand. Actually," he amended.

"Don't just cover yourself. Spread your legs and press your hands on your cunt. And close your eyes, Kelsey. I want to see you get off. I want to capture it."

He wasn't even trying to yank her chain--not anymore. She was so damned beautiful. So ripe and strong and alluring, and he wanted that shot. Knew it would be perfect. A woman alone, exploring her body. He had to capture it. Had to pull it into the show.

He was so sure of the perfection of the image that it took him a moment to realize that she'd frozen. He bit back a sigh of frustration, knowing damn well that he'd moved too fast. Whate

ver he'd told her about punishment, he didn't mean it. Not really. Not if it meant losing the shot.

"Sorry," he said, and watched as her eyes fluttered to his.

"That was wrong of me."

"I don't have to pose like that?"

"Not now. I get that it's too much. We can work up to it. Tomorrow. Or even the next day."

"But you want it."

"Hell, yes. It'll be stunning. I mean, come look at what we got right now, and it's only the first day." He turned to the monitor he kept set up on the far side of the room, then looked back to make sure she was following.

His breath hitched as he watched her slip back into the robe and then hurry toward him, her cheeks beet red. "You see?" he said when she arrived.

He stepped aside so that she could see the monitor and the incredible, sensual images of her he'd managed to capture.

She drew in a breath, then whispered, ever so softly, "I'm sorry."

"Are you kidding? These pictures are amazing. And we can get more tomorrow. You're right. It is late." He shoved a hand into his pocket, feeling almost like a teenager again. "I'm sorry if I've been an ass." He wasn't entirely sorry, and he still didn't trust her. But he was absolutely certain that with her in front of the camera, he'd be able to blow this show out of the water.

"Wyatt," she began.

"It'll get easier as we go on."

"Wyatt," she repeated. "I'm really sorry."

He froze. He just froze. "What exactly are you talking about?"

"I thought I could. But I was wrong.

I--I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it would be like this."

"Like what?" he asked, but she just shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I just can't do it."

14

I'm a block away before the tears start, and I pull over, my hands tight around the steering wheel as my body shakes with the violent onslaught of my sobs.