Dante (Boys & Toys Season 2 3)

“Oh?” I start shutting off the lights one by one, starting with the stripbox.

“Yeah. My boyfriend and I …” He chuckles. “I don’t know if this is TMI, but he kind of ordered me to come and get some sexy photos done. You have a reputation, I guess, for being …” He struggles to figure out his next words.

I push shut a drawer, then turn and face him, arms crossed. “No, don’t you stop there.”

“Uh, what?”

“Go on. Tell me what I got a reputation for.”

He sits down to retie his shoelaces, which were apparently bothering him, but stops to glance up at me. “You have a reputation for … being the only photographer who takes his craft seriously, who isn’t a creep, and who doesn’t hit on his clients.”

My eyebrows lift a millimeter. That conveys my complete and utter surprise at his answer, by the way. I wasn’t expecting something nice.

“Oh. Is … Is that unusual?” he asks, noting the (very) subtle change in my expression. “To have that kind of reputation?”

I give him a microscopic shrug. “That isn’t the usual thing I hear about myself.”

He squints. “What’s the usual thing?”

Intimidating. Moody. Hard-ass because of my hard-ass Italian pops. Secretly a sweet softie because of my loving Black mama. Yeah, you bet I’ve heard everything whispered about me.

“Oh. That bad, huh?” he mutters after a while. He lifts his hands. “It’s okay. We don’t have to hit a sore subject. I should head out, anyway. My boyfriend said he’d punish me if I kept him waiting too long.” He squirms a bit as he pulls his phone out of a tight pocket, taking note of the time. “Ten to eight. Shit. Looks like I’ll be late.”

I smirk. “Sounds like someone wanted to get punished.”

He gives me a look, blushing.

I get a sick thrill out of calling people out.

Just before he heads for my door, he says, “Oh, did I leave you my email? It’s G dot Haines with an underscore and … uh, actually, no, sorry, that’s my work email.” He laughs, embarrassed. “Dumb. I always get a bit nervous when I know I’m going home to a punishment. Sorry. I bet you get clients like this all the time.”

All the fucking time. “Never.”

“Y’know what? Your email is on your card you gave me. I’ll just email you when I get home.” He sees himself to the door, then stops. “Thanks.”

“Close the door on your way out,” I call out to him as I take the memory card out of the camera. “Last shoot of the day’s over,” I say to myself as I breathe a deep sigh of relief. “And now, finally time to rest.” I cross my apartment, bringing the tiny card over to my computer and setting it on the desk next to a notepad, upon which I write “Garret Haines” with the date and time.

I’ll get to editing in the morning.

For now: a fucking long-overdue shower.

I peel off my black t-shirt, which sticks to my frame like glue, then pitch it aside. My boots are next, followed by my jeans and my bikini briefs. My naked ass starts strutting toward my walk-in shower at the back corner of my pad, desperately ready to wash away this hellhole of a day.

Until I hear the knock, stopping me.

It isn’t just any knock. It’s a soft, gentle rapping that, even in its wooden hollowness, sounds shy. As I stand there halfway to my bathroom, naked as fuck, I turn my head toward the noise.

Then: “Hello?”

The greeting is as timid as the knock.

Seems like my client isn’t so good at obeying orders as he claimed—even simple ones, like having the decency to close the damned door behind him on his way out of someone else’s home.

To be clear, there is nothing in this world I want more right now than to feel the steaming lava-hot beating of water down my back, washing away my stresses.

To have my pursuit of that heavenly shower interrupted makes me chew my damned teeth.

I snatch a towel off the rack, throw it around my waist, then march toward my door. If it’s Brett regarding that discolored spot on his ceiling—which is not a damned leak—I swear I’m gonna give him a word. If it’s Lex from 101, then I guess I’m about to give him a coronary with the mere sight of me in a towel, which is probably the subject of his every fantasy—and that’s just fact, not me being vain.

I round the corner of the front entryway.

Then I stop dead in my barefoot tracks.

Eyes wide. Heart racing. Lips parted.

2

Standing at that doorway is a young man with a buzzed head, which makes his bright blue eyes shimmer with a striking, deceptive innocence. He could be a sweetheart … or the devil in disguise. His black-and-white graphic t-shirt fits his slender, long torso exquisitely, outlining two small pecs and tapering to a tiny waist, his jeans cinched by a belt with a shiny silver buckle that reads “BOY”.