Wild Temptation (2 page)

It’s kind of a shame though. I mean, he wouldn’t be a bad guy to have strings with. So what if his messy, dark-blond hair and pair of blue eyes are more fitting of California than Seattle? He’s stable. Steady. On one course without any intention of veering off—unlike me.

I get the feeling that, if Jackson hit a crossroads in his life, he’d know exactly which turn to take. Me? I’d dance around like a motherfucking fairy and change my mind ten times.

“So, I’ll call you?” Jackson says, moving some hair from my face.

Damn. The ‘call you’ question. “Sure,” I reply, trying to sound perky. Is it bad that I’m trying to work out how quickly I can change my number? Oh, god. It’s so bad. So, so bad.

“Great.” He smiles and dips his face toward mine before I can turn away. His lips touch mine, soft and warm but…boring. Huh.

I grip his shirt and step into him. Waiting, hoping, for something… Something sizzly. Sparky. Va-va-voomy. When, after a minute of brushing lips, my body is as flat as it was ten minutes ago, I move away.

“Thanks for tonight. It was fun.” I smile and duck into my taxi before he can say another word. Oh, god.

What kind of person lusts after someone for a year and a half then suddenly doesn’t?

Me.

There’s no reason I should be surprised. I bolt at the first sign of anything stronger than one night. I guess my hormones finally got that memo.

I lean back into the seat and stare out the window. Yes, it’s for the best that my vagina forgot to clench and get all excited when he walked into the restaurant. After all, he was late. Who’s late to a date? That’s my job.

I’m totally trying to justify this bullshit turn of events.

I throw a couple of bills into the driver’s lap and get out of the car to his call of, “Thanks, darlin’!” I let myself into my apartment block and press the elevator button repeatedly. Stupid thing is so slow.

“Now, if you’re home, I know that date was bullshit, darling.”

I turn at the sound of the disappointed voice and grin at Sean. “You have no idea. It’s like having sex and getting no orgasm at the end of it.”

“On the contrary, I think that’s exactly what happened.”

“What? No. I didn’t have sex with him.” I step into the elevator after him.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” He examines his reflection in the mirrored walls. I smack his arm.

I smack his arm. “Are you calling me a slut?”

“Never.” He flashes a smile at me. “What happened?”

I sigh as the doors open. “Jackson wasn’t all that after all. He was late, he tried to order for me, and the pre-cab kiss was all…lackluster. It was like having my first kiss all over again.”

Sean smacks his lips together. “I think your problem is Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

A low flutter erupts in my lower stomach at the mention of Mr. TDH. And don’t forget the Oh So British. I clap my hand over my tummy to stop that stupid feeling.

“Yes. He’s my problem. The guy whose name I don’t know but fucked anyway. I forgot the part where he’s consuming my every thought.”

Sean shrugs and opens his apartment door. “Wine?”

Well, I’m not turning down that offer after Disaster Date #768. Sometimes, living opposite a gay guy with a wine collection bigger than my shoe collection is really good for the soul. Not so good for the liver, admittedly, but good for the soul.

I close his door behind me and kick off my shoes, dumping my purse unceremoniously on the floor next to the nude heels. Sean’s sofa creaks as I fall back into the plush leather and swing my legs up.

He shoots me a dirty look and hands me a glass of wine. I take it with an eye roll.

“So tell me again why Mr. Dreamboat is so bad.”

I stare at my gay neighbor with all the disbelief I can muster. “Seriously? You didn’t get the whole disaster-date vibe from the turning-up-late-and-ordering-my-food thing?”

“Oh, shit. And the kiss was before you got in the cab?”

“Yep. All that pent-up sexual attraction is gone. It was the equivalent of kissing your aunt on the old excitement scale.”

“Ouch. What a douchenugget.” Sean takes a long drink of his wine. “I say Mr. TDH ruined you.”

I snort and the wine in my mouth makes a very undignified journey up my nose.
Oh, shit. That burns. Fuck, it burns.
I pinch my nose and shake my head.

Ruined. By sex. How hilarious.

“That’s adorable. Really. It’s not like he stole my orgasm.”

“Have you had an orgasm since him?”

“Uh, no.” I won’t tell him it’s not for lack of trying. Next time, the bullet can stay in the drawer and I’ll pull out Jack Rabbit. Sometimes, you just need the double whammy, right?

This time, Sean snorts. “You tell yourself that, honey. Maybe, if you see him again, he’ll give it back if you ask nicely.”

“I won’t see him again. You know how that shit works. One time. No more.” I wave my now-empty glass before he can speak again. “Jackson was different. I was only ever planning on seeing him in a professional capacity after I fucked his balls right off his body.”

“You’re a delight, Liv.” Sean explodes in laughter. “Truly. Oh my goodness. Okay. So Mr. TDH is also the Orgasm Catcher”—we both giggle—“and you have no intention of asking for it back.”

Because asking for that back would require actually knowing his name. Something I don’t know. And I’m fairly certain that stealing an orgasm is impossible. Illegal at the very least.

I roll my eyes again and grab the wine bottle from the fridge. “My orgasm is not lost or stolen. It’s just… particular. Some women can’t even orgasm at all, so it’s not shocking that mine should be so selective.”

“Selective. That’s what you’re calling it?”

“It’s reasonable.”

“Why don’t you think of him while you,
you know
? Do whatever it is you women do to orgasm by yourselves.”

My lips curve to one side. Oh, bless his heart. “No. I won’t think of him while I… Yes. That. If I do that, it could get dangerous. I might need to know who he is, and that would not end well.”

“You kicked Ross to the curb pretty good,” Sean replies after a moment of contemplation.

“That’s because Ross was sleeping with his coworker. Besides, I never really got it with Ross. He was good in the sack, but that’s about it.”

“I think you were a guy in a previous life. A straight one.”

“That’s exactly what Dayton says.” I grin. “Enough about me and my selective g-spot. What’s new in your life?”

And we talk for the next three hours, refilling our glasses until we both fall backward in a fit of giggles and pass out where we’re lying.

“Crap,” I mutter, reaching for my shrilly ringing cell. “Hello?” I groan into the receiver without looking at the caller ID.

“Liv.” My agent’s voice filters down the speaker. “I have some bad news.”

I sit upright in bed and smack my hand over my eyes at the sudden thump there. “Oh no.”

“Your shoot has—”

“Oh. God. Have they canceled it?”

“No, hon. Calm down. They’ve just rescheduled it for four this afternoon and at 961 Grenetia Garden.”

“I have no idea where that is.”

“I emailed you directions. You’ll need to leave in around forty-five minutes to get there on time.”

I quickly look at the screen of my cell. Fuck. “Okay. Cool. I’m ready to go.”

After a glass of water and two Tylenol, yeah.

“Great. Clara will meet you there, but call me after and let me know how it goes.”

“I will. Bye, Sheila.” I hang up and flop back on the bed. “Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.”

How could I have forgotten that shoot this afternoon? The fucking shoot that has the potential to make me a Victoria’s Secret Angel. This is the shoot that could change my goddamn freaking life and I’m hungover. Fantastic.

This is why I resolved three months ago to never accept Sean’s offer of wine.

Ignore the fact I’ve failed on numerous occasions. Last night, I should have remembered this. This is important. World-tilting important. Fuck that. Universe-shaking important!

I swing my legs from the bed and eye them carefully for hairs. Upon seeing a few suspect spots, I run my fingertips up my shin. Shitballs. I’m gonna need to shave.

I hobble into the bathroom and slather hair removal cream up my legs and along my bikini line. Sometimes, I’m really thankful that I live on the third floor. This is one of those times—could you imagine walking past someone’s window and seeing their lower extremities covered in white cream?

Awkward.

I pad into the kitchen, covered in the cream, and dig two Tylenol out from my “drug drawer,” as Dayton calls it. So I’m stocked for every sickness. Shoot me. I like to be prepared.

I down the glass of water and pills, choking briefly in my rush to swallow. By the time my eyes have stopped watering, I’m in the bathroom and stepping under the shower. I wash off and remove all the cream from my body, checking my armpits as a last-minute thought.

God. Preparing for a lingerie shoot is so glamorous.

Satisfied that I’m hair-free in all the places I should be, I glance at my toes to verify that my pedicure is still perfect—like it’s not too late to get it done—and grab my favorite set of underwear from the drawer.

My best friend, the queen of all lingerie, once told me that the right set of underwear will set a woman up for anything. And if you ever need setting up for anything, it’s a lingerie shoot.

I blast my hair with the hairdryer and brush my teeth at the same time, stopping halfway through to spit out my toothpaste. My eyes flit to the clock over and over, watching those little hands ticking incessantly. Reminding me how late I’m running.

I look at my concealer longingly, but when I glance at the clock and realize that I should have left almost five minutes ago, I bolt. After all, I’ll get made up at the shoot, but still.

No one needs to see this face without makeup. It’s not pretty.

My car roars to life as I pull out onto the street. Directions. Crap. I pull over on the side of the road, check my email, and put the destination into my GPS. Thank fuck for GPS.

The traffic is slow-moving downtown, and I take my tapping foot off the brake. Why does everyone feel the need to be somewhere on a Wednesday afternoon? Don’t they have work to do? Don’t they realize the importance of this shoot?

Okay.
Breathe, Liv.
Turning up there a hot mess won’t help matters, late or not. No traffic is moving, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Or two. Or three.

Fuck.

A horn beeps behind me and I open my eyes to the line in front of me rapidly disappearing…and the one behind me growing.

Still, there’s no need for the beep. I flip him the bird out my back window and put my foot down, taking a side street to get away from the main road. GPS redirects me and takes five minutes off my journey time.

How about that?

The house is on the outskirts of Seattle, a couple of neighborhoods over from Dayton’s place. But this has a certain charm about it—it’s closer to a cottage than a house. I glance at the back garden and the plants growing upward, obscuring my view.

It’s not really the typical lingerie shoot location, but I’ll take it.

Hell, I’d take a public restroom if it got me this Victoria’s Secret contract.

Clara, Sheila’s assistant, is standing on the doorstep. She’s fresh out of college, but that doesn’t mean she’s soft and quiet. She’s taken to the ruthlessness of this business all too quickly and it shows.

“You’re late.”

“Tell that to the traffic.”

She purses her pink lips. “Hair and makeup are waiting for you in the main room while the photographer sets up upstairs.” Her eyes scan my face. “Thankfully.”

Oh, bite me, bitch.

I smile at her sweetly. Or try. A bit of bitch might have crept in.

I pass her and push open the door. I’m immediately swept into the front room and deposited on a seat by a familiar body.

“Sit,” Nina says. “Dean, get to work on that mop she’s calling hair. Sara, get that rack of underwear over here.”