It’s another thirty minutes before the gallery opens, and I spend that time trying not to ruin my make-up, and trying to go through in my head just how I’m going to pretend to have sex and orgasms for as long as this gallery is open. I keep seeing Andrew rush around, seeing to last minute details, and every time I do, I feel his hand run down my skin. I love the fact that he forgot himself, that I could make him do that. I want to see him forget himself a little more.

Five minutes before the doors open, I’m lying on the little platform. All around me are other models. Some are standing in the middle of the gallery, others are slouched against the wall by some of the gorgeous paintings. But Andrew didn’t lie—I’m clearly in the center of it.

Andrew and a woman who I assume must be Heather walk toward the front doors, and May snaps all of us to attention. I put myself in the position Andrew chose, arching my back to the point of pain as I hear the outside doors open and the waiting crowd starts to enter. It’s a launch, so the people invited are all from the fashion world. There won’t be just anybody walking in who thinks they can touch the models. That’s a relief.

I hear the gasps from the crowd as they walk into the room. It is a beautiful sight. And as the music starts to flow, I start to move. It’s awkward, trying to move my body in slow motion, and how on earth am I supposed to pretend that I’m having sex?

A person pauses beside me, and I feel myself blush. This is ridiculous. Someone is watching me writhe on the floor. I don’t know why I thought that this wouldn’t me humiliating. I know my movements are awkward and jerky. Not what Andrew wants. Not what he described, and I feel the heat in my cheeks grow. Thank god I’m painted blue and no one will notice what a red mess I am at the moment.

Slowly turning my head, I look toward the door. Andrew is there greeting people, but as if I called his name, he looks right at me. That pull between us snaps into place, and I feel it. I feel how to move. I imagine that the arch in my body is arching up into him. That the way I spread my legs and close my eyes is so that he can taste me. Slowly, slowly, I let my mind linger on images of his tongue inside me, fingers gripping my thighs until they shake and I’m moaning his name. A real moan comes from my throat and I bite my lip. He said nothing was too far, but that moan is just for him. I don’t want to share it with the rest of the audience.

And audience there is. They mill around, watching the performances and commenting on the clothing and art. I hear Andrew’s voice weaving through the crowd, talking and selling and making small talk. I focus on the sound when I can’t see him, let that voice weave through my head so I can feel that hand on my skin again. Imagine that he’s sliding inside me. That his head has dropped close enough to mine to kiss me while he plunges deep inside, taking me slowly until I’m screaming. I shiver, the images too real.

God, I’m aroused right now. The temptation to reach down and touch myself is so strong, but I don’t. Because it’s all for him. I’ll give this audience what they want. I’ll give them a siren’s ecstasy, but my pleasure, that’s all mine.

I feel it when he comes and stands next to the platform. I’m blinded by the lights above me but I know that it’s him. I put every ounce of passion that I’ve been imagining into my face, into the way my body strains in the slow motion. The way I subtly reach for him.

It’s a long time before he moves on, and I wish I could have seen his expression. Or maybe I don’t. If it’s not what I hope, then maybe I don’t want to know.

When the last person has left the gallery, I collapse in a heap on the platform. Every muscle in my body hurts and the pent up sexual energy I have has me craving sex or chocolate. Okay, really only sex, but since I don’t think it’s an option, I’ll settle for chocolate.

I grab some water and change into the clothes I brought with me. No chance I’m getting this make-up off until I get in the shower, so I don’t even try. But I need to see Andrew. I need to at least ask him what he thought, and see if I can tell if he can feel what I’m feeling. It’s impossible that he didn’t, right?

I spot him across the room, and head towards him where he’s in conversation with someone. He spots me coming and excuses himself before I get there, and I arrive where he was standing just as he’s disappearing around the corner. I follow him into the main room of the gallery where he’s speaking to May. Again he sees me coming and leaves. This time I don’t follow. It stings after what happened before the show. After what I felt was obvious between us.

May approaches me. “He doesn’t.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t anything with people who work for him. No matter what he feels, he is a professional first. So if you’re looking for that from him, don’t expect it.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t.” It comes out too defensive, and I know it. “I mostly wanted feedback on my performance, but he seems to be avoiding me.”

She smiles kindly at me. “He thought your performance was lovely. I’m sure he’ll tell you himself when you see him next. He’s just left to go home.”

“Oh, okay.” I try to ignore the stab of disappointment in my chest. “Thanks, May.”

“He’ll have something more for you soon, so I’ll be in touch after the weekend, all right?”

“Sure.”

On the way home I find the biggest chocolate bar I can find, and even that isn’t enough. But it isn’t like we even know each other that well. He’s my boss. We’ve never dated; there are no promises. Do I really have a right to get upset with someone over something they never offered? No. But it sucks all the same and I’m going to make sure I get some action, even if it’s solo. When I get home I relive the evening, this time with a vibrator. I recreate those phantom images of Andrew making me come, of him fucking me until there’s too much pleasure, and I don’t stop until I’m exhausted and tumble into sleep.