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?"