Chapter Nine
Despite being pissed about being spoken to like an errant puppy, I decide to do as I’m told. He is my boss, after all. I sit.
“What was it that you wanted to see me about?”
I sit up as straight as I can and level him with my best steely gaze, but it’s so hard to keep my composure while looking into those eyes. He stares back at me, unflinching and unsmiling, back to the closed-book routine he does so well. I brace myself, knowing this is going to be bad. Why else would he be so dressed up, and approaching this whole thing so formally? After what feels like an eternity, he speaks.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Not what I was expecting to hear. Oh God, he’s not going to pull some kind of Indecent Proposal or Pretty Woman shit on me, is he? Like ask me to be his concubine, or whatever. I’ll die if he does. Literally die. I would pay good money to be anywhere else right now.
“Oooooohkaaaaaay…?” I say.
I’m sure he can hear the trepidation in my voice. I must have good reason to be nervous—he’s shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and suddenly unable to look me in the eye. Fuck.
“I want you to come on tour with us.”
Sweet baby cheeses, he really is propositioning me!
“What? Why?” Yeah, Sherlock Holmes I ain’t.
“Don’t look and sound so outraged. It’s all legit so you can get your filthy mind out of the gutter. I want you to be our, no, my official photographer.”
What? This is weirder than I had imagined. Is this some kind of kinky shit he’s got going on?
“I’m sorry if I’m being really dense here, but I don’t understand what you’re asking me.” It’s true. I don’t have the faintest clue.
“Relax, Tog. London,” he corrects, hastily. “It’s nothing crooked, I promise. About two years ago, Paul, my manager, pretty much conned me into signing a deal with a publishing house to produce a coffee table book basically about me. My travels, touring, partying, hanging with the band, and ‘the rest,’ if you know what I mean.” He winks. Oh, I can definitely imagine what the rest refers to.
“Sorry, but how can someone trick you into signing a publishing deal? Don’t you have lawyers to look over stuff like that for you?”
Plus I’ve heard him on the phone around the house, he’s a pretty shrewd operator where his businesses are concerned—he definitely doesn’t seem like the type to let anyone stiff him over a contract, or anything else, for that matter.
“Of course I do, but unless there are major legal implications, they advise on whether a contract is sound, not whether or not it’s a damned fool idea. Anyway, let’s just say he caught me at a weak moment. I was partying pretty hard, and not as focused as I could have been. I agreed to it more to get him off my back than anything.
“One small mercy is that I was at least compos mentis enough to ensure that I could nominate the photographer. Even half cut, I knew I didn’t want some asshole shadowing my every move. In the cold light of day, I couldn’t think of anything worse than months on the road in close quarters with a stranger.
“I’ve been giving them the brush-off since I signed, with one excuse after another about why it’s not the right time, hoping that they’d get bored and back out. Which of course, they haven’t. They want their pound of Arlo Jones flesh too bad for that, and their patience has pretty much worn out. There have been heavy hints that if I don’t nominate someone to shoot the rest of the tour stat, they will. If I don’t play ball, they’ll take me to court for breach of contract.”
A vein in his temple throbs as he speaks. If it’s one thing I’ve learned about Arlo in the time I’ve known him, it’s that he likes to be the one calling the shots. It’s clear he’s not happy about being strong-armed into upholding a contract, even one that he signed of his own free (if not sound) will. The look on his face as he speaks confirms my suspicions.
“I was starting to think that I was going to have to concede, and was feeling pretty shitty about the prospect, when just in the nick of time you turned up in my shower, in all your birthday-suited glory. As fate would have it, you’re the perfect man for the job, Tog.”
Looks like the new nickname has well and truly stuck.
“Woman.”
“What?”
“I’m the perfect woman for the job.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t. You may have seen me in my birthday suit, but you hardly know me, so how do you know I’d be the best person for the job? You haven’t even seen my work, I could be shit for all you know. Actually, I could just be some crazy stalker girl who made up the whole photography thing as a ruse to get into your pants,” I counter.
“Touché, Ms. Llwellyn. Tou-fucking-ché.” Laughing softly, he gives me a slow, sarcastic round of applause. “However, you’re forgetting that not only have I done more than just see you naked”—he busts out his most wolfish smirk—”but I have seen your work. Those photos you took of me in bed are insanely good. They’re what got me thinking about you taking on this gig, actually.
“Plus, you’re underestimating the power of Google. You’re not the only one capable of cyberstalking, you know. Just like you’ve snooped on me online, I may have done a little research on you in return. Remember when I called you to offer you the housekeeper job? I told you I got your number from your website, right? I’ve had a good look at your online portfolio. You’re an exceptionally good photographer.”
Of course. I do remember him mentioning that he’d tracked me down online. I don’t know why, but my cheeks heat at the compliment.
“I was mesmerized by some of your portraits. You’ve got a real talent for people and light. Taking good action shots at gigs isn’t easy, but your ballet shots show that you can handle the changes in light, pace, and mood. They want some good candid behind-the-scenes shots on the road, too, so your work backstage at the ballet is also perfect. You’re perfect. I even got dressed up for our meeting, so you know I’m serious.” His tone is soft.
He’s beaming, and does genuinely seem excited at the proposal. This kind of effusiveness isn’t his usual style. I don’t quite know what to make of it, so I stay quiet, waiting for him to continue.
“And for the record, just because the contract says I can designate the photographer, it doesn’t mean they’re going to let me hire just any clown. Ultimately, they have to sanction my choice. I’ve already floated the idea with the publisher, my management, and the record label. Everyone involved has seen your work, and agrees that you’re the right choice. They’re all pumped to finally get this happening, and now that you’re in the picture, so am I.”
Although I’m inwardly glowing with pride at his praise, I still make no move to respond, so he continues.
“As well as the book, there’s a launch event at a gallery, where the photos can be viewed, and prints sold, just prior to the book release. It will be amazing publicity for you—everyone who’s anyone in the industry will be there. Music people, photography people, music photography people, journalists, the full nine yards. This’ll be big news. Not to blow smoke up my own butt hole, but you know that anything that has my name on it will attract an insane amount of attention. It’ll be a massive jumpstart to your photography career. There’s no better way to get your name out there—and bring in some decent coin to set up your studio. It’s win-win.”
Holy shit, he’s actually for real. I almost thought he was pranking me, and that the person he was really meeting with was going to walk in at any moment, and they’d both have a good laugh at my expense. Stupid really, but it somehow seemed more likely than Arlo Jones offering me the gig of a lifetime. Literally. I’m momentarily floored, but have enough pride not to want Arlo to know what a big deal this is for me. I recover myself quickly and respond in a tone that totally plays down my shock and awe.
“Win-win, apart from the whole hanging around with Arlo Jones 24/7 on the road bit,” I tease.
“Yeah, there is that. And touring with a bunch of feral guys ain’t easy, either.” He smiles ruefully. “But other than that, it’s pretty much the perfect gig for you, so what do you say?”
Nothing, it would seem. Literally. I’ve got nothing. Ummm… wow. It doesn’t happen often, but London Llwellyn is completely lost for words.
Arlo seems to sense my unease. “You don’t have to make a decision now. The publisher’s lawyers have drawn up the initial draft of the contract. The terms are very favorable—a great overall package, and a percentage of all sales. Have a look at it, have your lawyer go through it, and then let me know what you think,” he says.
He sounds like he’s really put some serious thought into this whole thing—maybe he doesn’t just want to put my pussy on the payroll, after all. I glance down at the contract as he slides it toward me, flicking through it as nonchalantly as I can.
Holy. Fuckety. Fuck. I cannot believe what I’m seeing. I’m pretty sure that my eyebrows shoot up so far, they end up somewhere near the back of my neck.
I don’t know much about publishing, but to me, this looks like a great deal. One that would allow me to make some life-changing moves long before I thought I could, and never look back. Arlo’s right—this could pretty much set me up for life, if I play it right. Arlo’s contract even includes an option for a follow-up book if the first one does well, so that’s reflected in my contract too. Holy shit! I can feel the blood draining from my cheeks as I meet Arlo’s eager gaze, and try to keep my cool.
“Yep, it looks, um, okay to me. But yeah… I’ll have my lawyer look it over and get back to you. When do they need an answer?”
I think I’m pulling off the fake indifference act. I certainly sound convincing to my own ears, anyway.
“We need to get all the details for the rest of the tour nailed down like, yesterday, so we need any questions, queries, or changes ironed out, and the whole thing done and dusted by the beginning of next week—or so I’m told by the powers that be.”
“All right, that sounds good. Umm… yeah, no problem, I’ll do that. And Arlo?”
“Yeah?”
“Be honest with me. Do you really like my work, or is this just an elaborate ruse to get into my underwear?”
Now it’s his turn to look startled. Looks like I’ve shocked the unshockable Mr. Jones. I silently high-five myself. He recovers himself quickly.
“Newsflash, darlin’, I’ve already been in your underwear and beyond, so that’s a moot point.” He winks, of course.
“Touché, Mr. Jones, touché.” I return the slow round of applause that he gave me earlier.
“I’m not gonna lie—I like the idea of you being on tour with us a hell of a lot more than the thought of you knocking around here while we’re away, so that’s a definite bonus. Honestly though, I wouldn’t let just anyone shoot this, no matter how much I love being in their underwear. It’s really not about that, so stop second-guessing my motives, and your ability, and get packing.”
As he cracks out one of his fifty-billion-watt smiles, underwear all over the globe turns to cinders, including mine. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how devastatingly good-looking this man is, especially when he smiles. I need to get out of here so that I can decide what to do without being blinded by my attraction to him. I want to make this decision with my brain, not my libido.
“Okay, thanks for clarifying. And for the record, I was never questioning my ability, just your integrity.” More bravado on my part, but sometimes he’s so cocky, I just want to wipe the sexy smirk off his smug face.
“Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out, then.”
As I stand to leave, Arlo is behind me in a flash.
“Tog?”
“Yeah?”
I pivot and pretty much run face-first into that brick wall of a chest. I want to reach up and stroke it, but refrain. Instead, I stare ahead mutely, waiting for him to speak.
“Tog?” He’s more insistent now.
I’m assuming the business part of our meeting is over, given that he’s back to using my nickname.
“Yeah?” This time I tilt my head to meet his eyes, and as I do, he moves quickly, lacing his hands into my hair and pulling my mouth firmly toward his. We’re immediately locked in a punishingly passionate kiss—lips and tongues ravaging each other’s. As the kiss goes on, our hands begin to roam.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to part anyone from their clothing as much as I want Arlo naked right now. Our lips separate momentarily while he removes first his own shirt, and then mine.
“Christ!” Arlo’s eyes widen as he catches sight of me standing in front of him in just my boots, bra, and short shorts.
His gaze sweeps my body several times before returning to meet mine again. That look alone is enough to stiffen my nipples to two firm pebbles.
“You’re incredible, L. Unbelievable.”
He reaches down and begins stroking my nipples through the sheer fabric of my bra. It’s ecstasy and agony all at once.
I suddenly understand what people mean when they talk about going weak at the knees—I’m starting to feel lightheaded at his touch, like my legs could give out on me. Lust sweeps over me, and I tilt my head back again, allowing Arlo access to my neck, which he hungrily accepts. He slides his hands back into my hair and gives it a tug back, raining kisses on my neck and collarbone.
“You always smell good enough to eat. When you left my bed that night, your smell was all over my sheets. I could have slept on them forever like that, just breathing in your scent, but then you changed them the next day. You’re too good at your job.”
“Arlo?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Shut up and fuck me before I lose my mind.” Wait. Did I just say that aloud?
“I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
I definitely know what I want. I’ve never been this direct with a guy. Not that anyone could have accused me of being a wallflower before, but this is something else. Arlo seems to bring out animal instincts in me I didn’t even know I had.
His mouth has reached my breasts, which he’s freed from the flimsy confines of my bra, and is alternating between them, sucking each in turn as though eating a juicy ripe peach. He’s obviously noted that my nipples are my most erogenous area, and is making the most of that fact. What I don’t think he realizes is that he could make me come just doing this. I’m already so close.
“Come here.” He starts walking backward.
I walk toward him, and he turns me around so I’m facing the bench, then walks me closer to it, pushing my hands down onto the top. Then he quickly reaches around to the front of my shorts, undoes the button and zipper, and yanks them down along with my underwear.
It’s a shame he doesn’t get a look at my panties. For once they match my bra, and they’re hot with a capital K-I-N-K-Y—sheer all over with lace in all the right places. Oh well, next time. Wait. What am I thinking? There won’t be a next time. There shouldn’t even be this time, but I already know it’s a sure thing. There’s no way in hell I could stop now, even if I wanted to.
I register Arlo’s sharp intake of breath as he takes in the view of my naked behind. He obviously likes what he sees, with or without the matching underwear. He pushes my legs apart with his knees and strokes my wetness lightly with his forefinger. Leaning forward until his mouth is level with my ear, he whispers, ”So wet for me again, I see. Hold on tight, babe, this is going to be hard and fast.”
Wet doesn’t even begin to describe what’s going on between my legs, and I’m quivering in anticipation. He pauses to reach over, pull a condom from the kitchen drawer, and roll it on—he’s nothing if not always prepared. When he slips inside me from behind moments later, my whole body is wracked with deep waves of arousal.
He wasn’t lying when he said it was going to be fast and furious. He places one hand on my shoulder, pulling me toward him, while the other massages my butt as he pounds into me, each thrust harder than the last. I need to brace myself, so I grab on to the edge of the counter for dear life. Even though his huge length fills me to the hilt, I crave more. I can’t seem to get enough of him. I reach around and grab his butt—it’s so tight, pretty much solid muscle. With each thrust, I pull him deeper.
“Arlo… Arlo…,” I pant. “Arlo… Arlo….”
It’s a chant—each word gasped out as he slams home. It’s the most frenetic sex I’ve ever experienced. Arlo stills every few thrusts, pausing while buried deep inside me. He’s trying to slow things down—I can feel him pulse and twitch inside me each time.
“Arlo… Arlo….” He’s biting and sucking along my neck now. Hard. It’s painful, but deliciously so.
“Arlo… I’m… I’m….”
“Coming!” he roars through gritted teeth as he drives into me one last time. I’m coming too, and it’s the orgasm to end all orgasms. I think I lose consciousness for a micromoment, and when I come to, Arlo is whispering against my neck, stroking stray strands of hair from my shoulder.
“I always get what I want.”
I can’t quite pick his intent from his tone, so it takes me a few moments to work out what he’s referring to, and then it clicks. Well crap, he’s right. He had me from behind, bent over the kitchen bench, just like he wanted to that first time, before I introduced the palm of my hand to his cheek. Part of me hates that he got his way, but another part of me (much bigger than the first) doesn’t give a flying fuck after the orgasm he just gifted me.
His mouth is still level with my ear, his voice a sexy low growl. “This was hotter than I could ever have imagined, though.”
Him and me both.
As I leave Rosemond House later that day, I grab my cell and fire off a group text to Marko and Nic.
Me: OMG! You’ll NEVER guess what just happened. We need a family meeting. PRONTO. Like yesterday or sooner.
Marko: Let me guess. You had blisteringly hot sex with a rock star? Oh wait, that was last week!
Me: Oh hahaha. Asshole. Yes I did, but that’s not it.
Nic: Bahahahaha, Marko. Too funny. I can’t guess. You need to tell us. Now!
Me: NFW. I need to tell you in person. Head to ours. Marko is cooking.
Marko: What? I can’t. I’m busy right now.
Me: “Busy.” FFS, you can tell us you’re with your girlfriend. We won’t mock you. Much. Tell Jordan you have important family business to take care of, and you’ll see her tomorrow.
Nic: GIRLFRIEND!!!! WTF people! WHO the fuck is Jordan???
Me: I’ll tell you when you’re on the couch with a glass of wine. Too much happening at the moment to spill here. We all need wine first.
Nic: Okay, heading over now. Marko, this dinner better be good, I’m fucking starving. Also, wine.
Marko: Her name is Jourdan, not Jordan, and she’s not my GF. Not even close. AND how come I always cook? Why can’t one of you two do it for once?
Nic: We don’t cook, we’re feminists. You know that.
Me: Anyway, if I cook it will take longer and taste worse. If you’re not cooking, we might as well just order pizza right now.
Marko: No more goddamned takeout. I’ll fucking do it then, like the good little housewife that I am. This had better be worth it, Wifey.
Me: Don’t worry, it IS. And even if it’s not, you love me, so it’s totes okes ;-)
Marko: PS - KMA you bishes
When I get home, I fill three wine glasses, then fill my two best friends in on the events of the last few hours. They’re as shocked as I am at the offer on the table. When I bring out the contract, Marko snatches it from my hands eagerly, and pores over it. He’s had a lot of experience with contracts over the years. Being as sought after as he is, he’s constantly being made offers he “can’t refuse,” though more often than not, he does exactly that.
Marko is not only an outstanding dancer, but like Arlo, he’s also shrewd financially, and a master negotiator, which is why he owns the amazing apartment we live in, and several others, while I live with him for well below market rent. He wouldn’t be taking any rent at all if I hadn’t insisted. He says it’s because he likes to know someone’s there when he’s traveling (which he does often), but I know it’s because he can’t bear the thought of me renting the kind of place that I can actually afford, now that Danny is gone and I only have one income to live on. Plus, I don’t think he likes the idea of me living alone—so this way he gets to keep an eye on me also—not that he’d ever admit it. It’s kind of funny that Arlo thinks Marko’s trying to get into my pants—he’s more like a protective big brother than anything.
On first glance at the contract, he declares it to be an essentially sound deal, but says it would need to be looked over by a professional before we could be 100 percent sure. I was totally bullshitting when I told Arlo I’d have my lawyer look at it. Not being anywhere near as senior or in demand as Marko, I’ve never needed one, so Marko says he’ll pass it on to the same firm he uses. In any case, we unanimously agree that this is an offer I can’t refuse. I’d be fool not to take it. That established, we decide to celebrate by getting thoroughly and epically wasted.