I scan the room to assess the lighting situation. There are reading lamps on each side of the king bed. There's a bright fluorescent bulb above the couch. Then there's the bathroom.

My options are limited. But I can work with that. I take a few pictures of the room to see how it looks on screen. Too dark, no contrast. I turn my camera to Tom. He looks right into the lens.

"We starting already?" he asks.

"Not yet."

Click. It's hard to make out his expression. But one thing is certain.

He's trouble.

He plays with the zipper of his hoodie, raising a brow. "You need me to start stripping, Mistress Photographer?"

Oh yeah. Trouble.

It takes great restraint to stay calm and professional. "Not yet. We'll start with you fully dressed."

I set my camera down and mess with the lights. With no way to angle them, my options are limited. I arrange the lamps sans shades until the room is filled with an angelic glow. The soft lighting will be a perfect contrast to the mischievous look in Tom's eyes.

When I'm finished, I turn my attention back to him.

Deep breath. I'm a photographer. If I want any chance of working with clients, I need to get over my shyness. Doesn't matter that my current model is smoking hot and about to strip. It's part of the job.

I look at Tom like he's a prop. Okay. That's it. I point to a spot in front of the bed. "Can you stand there?"

"Naked?" He teases.

My cheeks flush. He's a prop. "No. As you are."

He moves. His hands go to the zipper of his hoodie. He raises a brow. "Do I need to model?"

"If you want."

Something in his expression shifts, more posed and more relaxed at once. He is modeling. And he's good at it too. His expression is playful and sexy. It's perfect.

Click, click, click.

"Tease the camera." I motion to his zipper. "Like you're teasing me."

"You sure? Don't want to get you all worked up and send you home wanting."

My cheeks flush again. It's damn hot in here. I have to tease him back, make him think I'm as comfortable with this as he is. "It's an occupational hazard."

"Shit. Never thought I'd want to be anything other than a drummer." A cocky smile spreads over his face as he unzips his hoodie. He raises a brow as if to say do you want me? I know you do.

My, does he look good on film. Digital, technically. It takes great effort to stay professional. Somehow, I manage. I can't do many things, really. I can swim for hours. I can cook a decent meal. And I can take a fantastic set of photographs.

Hopefully.

"Take off your shirt." It comes out more demanding than I mean it to. "Please."

"You're so polite, Mistress Photographer. Are you trying to butter me up to get me naked?" He winks.

"Would I have to butter you up?"

"No. But my ego always enjoys a good stroking."

"You're trying to make me blush, aren't you?"

Tom smiles. "I'd never."

"Right. You're a nice guy."

He nods. "The nicest."

He spends ages pulling his shirt up his stomach, revealing inch after inch of defined abs. He has those v-lines. They make it nearly impossible to concentrate.

Tom doesn't wait for my order. He sits back on the bed and spreads his legs in a position that invites someone between them. Me. Well, the camera.

Prop. I need to think of him as a prop. Even if my palms are sweating and my mouth is dry.

Okay. It's way too hot in here. I set the camera down and do away with my sweater.

"Didn't realize it was that kind of photo shoot." Tom winks and pats the bed next to him. "I won't bite. Unless you want me to."

"No. It's just—"

"Where have I seen that before?" His eyes go to my chest. Well, the tattoo just above my chest.

"Drew has one." It's quite dramatic. A shattered glass heart, broken and bloody. "His is on his shoulder."

Tom's eyes fix on my chest. "Can't say I find his nearly appealing as yours."

"Thanks." I try to come up with some way to change the subject. There are way too many memories attached to this thing. Awful memories that will get in the way of getting this done.

"Does it mean anything special?"

I swallow hard. "I got it after I broke up with my ex. To remind myself... of something. That I could survive a broken heart, I guess." I can't handle this conversation. It's too revealing. I point to the tattoo on Tom's chest. "What about your lion?"

"Loved The Lion King when I was a kid."

"You did not."

"You're right." He spreads his legs wider. "My mom, adopted mom, is an anthropologist. She always had tribal art on the walls." He points to her chest. "This is one of her favorite paintings."

"Did you get it for her?" I ask.

"Not exactly."

"What about your arm?"

"Liked the design."

"That's it?"

He nods. "Tell you what. I'll think a little harder about my next tat."

"It's your body. You should do whatever pleases you."

"Oh, that's what you're after." He reaches for the button of his jeans.

Oh God. He's about to take them off.

"No." I bite my lip to keep from blushing. Okay. I need to get back behind my camera. Out of the fray. No chance of getting hurt. I line up another shot of Tom. That's better. "Lie on your back. Please."

His body stretches long as he leans back. That's yummy. I snap more photos than I could ever use. This angle isn't quite right. I try getting closer but that's not it. The left side. Yes.

Without instructions, Tom slides his hand down his torso. Like he's going to start touching himself.

Deep breath. This is normal boudoir stuff. If I can't handle it, then I won't hack it with actual clients.

God, he's sexy. A natural. Click, click, click. His hand skims the waistband of his jeans. Click, click, click.

His hand is on the waistband of his jeans. The button.

I can't take it anymore.

I clear my throat as I set my camera down. "Maybe try a few sitting up."

He smirks, his eyes catching mine as he sits up straight. He knows how badly I want him. It's written all over his face.

Still, he is an accommodating model. He messes around on the bed. Copies half a dozen men's magazine glamour model poses. Kneeling. On all fours. Sticking his ass in the air.

"That better?" he asks.

I laugh. "You're better at being sexy."

"Am I?" He cocks a brow.

"You know you're sexy. Don't pretend otherwise." Thank goodness for my camera. I could never, in a million years, say anything this potentially embarrassing without the photography equipment shielding me. "Give me a few more. Be yourself."

He does. He shifts back on the bed. Oh lord. He unzips his jeans. Slides them off his hips. To his knees. His feet. He leans back, over the edge of the bed.

Oh, shit. "Tom, you're going to fall."

He does fall. With quite the thud. I bite my lip, bracing myself for a bad reaction.

But he jumps to his feet and laughs it off. He's a little scraped, but it's no big deal.

I set my camera down. "Are you okay?"

He nods to his scraped knee. "Occupational hazard."

He's effortless about everything. It must be nice to take life in stride. To be fearless.

I look back at Tom. "Those are great. I should have plenty."

"Let me see."

"After I edit them." And after a cold shower. "You're a good model."

"I know." He gets back into his clothes and walks to the door. His voice gets serious. "You can tell me tomorrow. About what it is you're running from."

Oh. That. I nod despite the dread forming in my gut. "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams, kid."

The heavy door slams into the frame.

I plug my computer into the wall and get to uploading the images. The slow progress bar gives my thoughts time to sink in. They're heavy enough to weigh me down.

My first priority is getting far away from Bradley. Done. For now. My second is getting this application in. If I get the job, I'll move into a nice building with security and front gates that lock. If I don't get the job, well, I'll figure out something less depressing than crashing in my brother's spare room until the end of time.

One day, when I'm good enough, I'll open my own studio. I'll get magazine assignments. Editorials. Portraits. Beautiful photos that are packed with personality. I can fill in the gaps with headshots and boudoir.

Finally, the photos finish uploading. I go over them one by one. In every single shot, Tom is relaxed, confident, hot as the molten center of the Earth. It must be nice being that comfortable with yourself, your sexuality. Knowing how badly everyone wants you.

He lives with gusto. I try to imagine myself in one of his poses, confident and sexy and seizing the fucking day, but the mental image won't come together. The Willow in my imagination is awkward and stiff, afraid of what might happen if she so much as takes off her tank top, desperate to get out of the spotlight and behind the camera.

I narrow it down to ten photographs. There's no time to give each image the editing it deserves. Better be as efficient as possible. Exposure. Color. Contrast.

My eyelids get heavy. Okay. It's nearly three a.m. I can finish this in the morning. I get ready for bed, set the alarm clock to give me enough time to finish editing, and surrender to the embrace of the comforter.

It's been such a long day.

* * *

The weight shifts as a man sits on the bed. "I've been thinking about you all night," he says. "Can't sleep."

The voice is familiar. I need it in my ears. Need him in my bed.

I shift closer, until the heat of his body warms mine. That electricity again. This time it's not a hint. I'm buzzing like a power line.

His mouth goes to my neck. Then down my chest. He pulls my tank top aside. His tongue flicks over my nipples. It's aggressive and precise at once. Nothing like with Bradley. Leagues better.

His lips trail down my stomach. Below my belly button. His hands go to my hips. He pulls my shorts down an inch. His lips press into the now revealed skin. He does it again. Again.

Until he's almost there.

Who is he? I should know, I should care.

Then his mouth is on me, and my whole body is abuzz. I thrash and tug at his hair.

My lips part and a sound escapes. A moan.

And then I'm saying something.

"Tom."

His name.

What, Tom?

There's no telling with his face planted between my thighs. His hair is about the right length. The right color.

Pleasure overwhelms me. Hard to focus on figuring out who he is. It's just a dream. What does it matter? I arch my back as my sex clenches. How long has it been since I've came?

Too long.

I tug at his hair. Almost.

His lips press against my thigh. "Not so hard, kid." He looks up at me. "Save it for round two."

Those mischievous green eyes.

Tom.

His tongue slides over my clit.

Oh, God, Tom.

Nothing else matters. Nothing but the pleasure spreading all the way to my limbs. My body shakes as an orgasm overtakes me.

I reach for him and he comes closer. His body is on top of mine, warm and heavy in just the right way. Hard. He's hard—his shoulders, his chest, his abs.

His cock.

I slides my hand below his belly button, over a soft tuft of pubic hair. My fingers brush his shaft. His tip. The hard metal of his piercing.

"I thought you had another three weeks." I groan as I wrap my hand around him.

"Not for you."

He takes my hand and presses it against his hard chest. I spread my legs as he shifts into position.

Almost.

Almost...