It’s the end of another long, hot workday. I’m tired and painfully horny. The handsome disappointment in the room can’t help my predicament since he contributed to it.
The male model—someone who shall remain nameless—never shifts his Asian-shaped green eyes from me as he zips his jeans. My gaze travels over his bronze chest before I pick up my tank top from the floor and push past him.
“Sin, don’t be this way,” he pleads. “If I were available, I’d take you up on your offer. You’re a beautiful woman, but I don’t cheat on my partner.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble. Insulting my intelligence isn’t necessary. “You should have led with the fact you’re off the market.”
“I thought you knew.” His incredulous voice comes out in a whisper.
I ignore him and continue getting dressed.
He grabs my arm, stopping me. “How is it you don’t know about me and my partner? Everyone I work with knows.”
I yank my arm back, tug my top over my head, and glare at him. Time ebbs and flows with neither of us speaking a word. I purse my lips and zip up my overnight bag.
There are days I love what I do. I meet new people, and I’m treated like royalty. But then there are times like now. No one thinks about the problems cover models encounter on photo shoots with hot guys. I’ve been aroused by plenty of my co-workers. Most of the time I have no issues. We either have a quick fuck afterward or we go our separate ways with no more than a handshake.
Today, however, was different. I haven’t been laid in over a month. The drought, I guess, has made me a little desperate. When I received the call to pose with the androgynous but appealing male, I jumped at the chance.
The photographer posed us in countless semi-nude poses all afternoon. Each precarious position tested my resolve. By the end of the session, I was turned on. Through it all, though, my co-worker never said a word about his partner. No. He waited until after the session when I tried to kiss him. Such a great time to let me know he’s in a committed relationship with a dude.
“Say something, Sin. I like working with you, but we can’t do this again.” He stands beside me, still shirtless, with his arms outstretched.
I’m unable to peel my gaze from his plump, kissable lips. Unbelievable. I’m still thinking about kissing him.
All I can say is his partner should count his blessings. I can overlook a lot of crap in life, but competing with a man isn’t one of them.
Why are the best-looking men always taken, gay, or both?
“Put a damn shirt on,” I bark and grab my bag. “Listen, do me a favor. Turn down the next assignment with me. You’re right. We can’t do this shit again.”
“No problem,” he yells to my back. “I heard you could be a bitch. Now I know.”
A shiver snakes down my spine. That stung a bit. I don’t say another word. My heels pounding the tile floor echo behind me as I exit the room.
Once outside I lean against the building. I wasn’t always this way. Too many hard knocks will change a person. Or maybe it’s just my desperation unleashing my ugly side. To be honest, I have no issue with his sexuality. I’m fucking happy for him. It’s hard (pun intended) to find someone to spend your life with regardless of your preference. When I get home, I’ll remember to drink a toast in their damned honor.
I slip off my shoes and push off the wall. The asphalt burns as I drag my feet through the studio’s parking lot. The pain on my soles, however, is nothing compared to the throbbing between my legs. All of this is my own damn fault. I knew who I’d be doing the session with. And yes, everyone knows about his partner—a heartthrob wanna-be actor. I chose to ignore the fact.
Of course, I could scroll through my contacts and find another guy to satisfy my needs. But I’ve had enough of the grab-and-fuck scene. I can’t take another sexual encounter with a guy who manhandles my tits and fucks me too quick and hard. The worst part is afterward. There’s no concern about my feelings. Not even a “Did I please you, baby?”
And there’s a reason why I let myself get carried away. The man is the most kindhearted person I’ve ever worked with. Not once did he treat me like a stuck-up model without a brain cell. Working with him was like hanging out with a friend.
Most men I know see me as just another beautiful face, and I’m tired of it. I need more in my life. Hell, I deserve a man who wants all of me, and not just what’s between my legs. Once upon a time I had that. If I shut my eyes, I can still picture his handsome face. But his love didn’t come with an expense account to take care of all my needs.
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