Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Jordana
To my relief, an empty apartment greeted me. I needed total focus to prepare for this shoot, and if Eden saw me, she’d know something was up.
Hustling into my room, I threw open my dresser and closet, comparing form-fitting options. Purple leggings and a sports bra — or a tank top? No, the sports bra. But Gavin had also suggested a swimsuit.
I whipped out a white bikini and wiggled out of my dress, bra, and underwear.
Naked, I stared down at myself.
All of me would be on display for him. Alone together in his apartment, exposed to his gaze under bright lights. I sat on my bed and pressed my fingers to my temples, dizzy, excited, and nervous as fuck.
I couldn’t remember ever getting totally naked during sex. I always kept at least one thing on.
Pulling myself together, I put on a sunny pop playlist. As I stepped into the white bikini bottoms and tied the triangle top, I faced my mirrored closet doors. My hands spanned my hips, traced the curves of my breasts, and I shivered.
Would Gavin touch me during the shoot?
Before I could lose my nerve, I threw on a pale-blue negligee-style robe. I sat at my desk, adjusted my mirror, and went for an innocent “makeup-free” look with a palette of pinks and browns.
As I swept on blush, traced my brows with pencil, and lightly contoured my eyes, I kept remembering what Gavin said about a journey.
I wanted that journey for myself.
To be innocent again. To lose that innocence in a different way than I actually had, a better way.
Stepping into a pair of knee-high boots for warmth, I pulled on my cheetah coat and hurried outside.
The night was calm and clear as I crossed the lawn between my building and Gavin’s. Brilliant stars freckled the dark sky, and the air smelled of woodsmoke.
At the entrance to Gavin’s brick building, I pressed the bell for 4C, bouncing on my toes. He buzzed me up immediately.
Inside the small foyer, a staircase rose beside the mailboxes. My heart beat faster as I climbed.
When I reached the top floor, the blankness of Gavin’s door stood out. There was no welcome mat, no painted nameplate, no friendly plants or mud-spattered shoes. Nothing that gave a sense of home, or the man within.
What was I getting myself into?
I forced myself to knock.
The door swung open. Gavin had swapped his flannel shirt and jeans for a black tank top and sweatpants. I was falling into his golden-brown eyes, like a well of honey.
“Come in.”
I followed him inside.
His shoulders were a work of art. Literally. You could’ve framed the tattoos that formed full sleeves on his sleek, defined arms.
My gaze dropped to his hard waist and compact ass. A shiver skittered down my spine when the door clicked closed.
Cardboard boxes covered the wood floor of the living room, open and half-unpacked. Bare white walls framed tall windows and the arched entrance to the dining room. The layout mirrored my own apartment, but the furniture was sparse.
A red camp chair in a corner, a card table with four mismatched chairs in the dining room — that was it, except for a workstation by one window with a laptop, a large monitor, and a wireless keyboard and trackpad.
Against the opposite wall, a plywood bookcase groaned under the weight of the books crammed on its shelves.
But the lighting was soft and warm, with shaded lamps in the corners and a cozy plaid blanket draped over the chair.
“Welcome to my new home.” Gavin spread his hands. “Believe it or not, it looks better than it did twenty minutes ago.”
I peered at his flushed face and sweat-dampened hair. “You didn’t have to clean for me.”
He shrugged it off, but his attempt to appear calm and cool didn’t fool me. Holy shit, he wanted to impress me. He was nervous.
“It looks great.”
His smile broke through. “It’s coming along. I left most of my old furniture in New York. Eventually, I’ll get what I need.”
It was so damn intimate, being in Gavin’s apartment.
I inspected the bookshelf, which held a ton of fantasy and science fiction titles.
That made sense — Gavin’s portfolio was basically its own fantasy world.
Mixed in were art and photography books, graphic novels, and books on theater and lighting design.
He came up behind me and pulled a book off the shelf. “Have you read this?”
I studied the cover. Tennessee Williams: Mad Pilgrimage of the Flesh. A biography of the playwright of A Streetcar Named Desire.
“No. But I can relate to the title.” As soon as I said it, I blushed. Why remind Gavin of how much I’d slept around?
“Well, with all the free time you’ll have this week, which is basically none, you might enjoy it. Feel free to borrow it or anything else.”
He set the book on the shelf. I was sweating, almost swooning from the heat of his body and the layers I wore.
“Let me take your coat,” he offered, as if he’d read my mind. “Can I get you water?”
“That’s okay.”
I gave him my coat, and he hung it up in the hall closet. He was being so formal, such a gentleman. Was this really the same man who’d ordered me to crawl across a diner floor?
Returning, Gavin cleared his throat. “You’re wearing a robe. Good. Nice boots, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I murmured.
Abruptly, he went to his workstation and futzed with the computer. The printer on the shelf beneath it hummed, spitting out sheets of paper. Stapling the stack, he handed it to me along with a pen.
“Here’s our contract. It’s got all the details of the shoot — hours, boundaries, payment. Have a seat. Look it over. Let me know if you have any questions.”
My hand twitched around the stack of papers. “Gavin, wait. I don’t need to be paid.”
“Excuse me?”
“Really. It’s not necessary. I’m just doing this to help you out.”
“Why wouldn’t I pay you? It’s non-negotiable. If you do the work, you’re getting paid.”
I glanced at his sparse furniture, afraid I’d offend him.
“Look, you have an idea of my background. Silver spoon, cushy upbringing, prep schools, fancy vacations—”
“Why would that make a difference?”
“You clearly need it more than I do, okay?”
His eyebrows shot up, and he folded his arms. Now, he did look offended.
“Anyway,” I muttered, “my parents are splitting up and my mom’s pressuring me to produce money. I’d probably end up giving it to her to get her off my back.”
“Are you kidding?” He held up his hands. “Never mind. It’s none of my business what you do with it. But this project? It’s my business. If you work with me, you get paid. Period.”
I gripped the back of the chair, staring at the hardwood floor.
“Jordana?” he coaxed, more softly.
“You’re…the first person I’ve told.”
It was hard to talk. Hard to breathe. I couldn’t act worth shit in this moment, couldn’t cover anything up.
“About my parents. I haven’t told anyone else. I just found out yesterday. That they’re getting divorced.”
His breath hissed out. He took a step toward me.
Was he coming in for a hug? He couldn’t be. Not when the tension between us quivered like Jell-O.
He walked past the table and put his arms around me. Carefully.
I stepped into the embrace. His grip tightened. My arms rose tentatively to wrap around his back.
“I understand.” His voice was rough and warm.
There was so much meaning in those two words. It wasn’t a throwaway gesture. He understood. He knew.
I tucked my cheek into his shoulder. His body was as hard as it looked, making me ultra-aware of every soft part that pressed against him. When he nuzzled the top of my head, heat poured over me.
I’d never been held like this. Gavin’s embrace was undoing me and keeping me intact, all at once.
But I was also putting the pieces together: his scant furniture, his sudden move from New York, the fact that he’d left most of his old furnishings behind. His closed-off attitude, his obvious desire for me that he refused to act on for “reasons” unexplained.
What he’d said about the photography project ruining lives.
“You do understand,” I whispered. “Because you’ve been through it.”
He tensed. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Recently.”
“Is it over?”
“It’s over. I’ve been separated for about six months. My divorce was finalized a few weeks ago.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded against his shoulder. We stood in silence.
“I’m glad you came here,” I murmured.
He let out a low sound. I thought he’d pull me closer, but instead, he let me go and stepped back.
“Whatever’s going on with your family, you deserve to be paid. Do you want to live off that silver spoon forever?”
Embarrassment colored my cheeks. I stared at the contract on the table.
“Sorry.” Gavin pushed his hands into his hair. “I went too far.”
“I worked when I was younger,” I muttered. “I acted professionally. My dad put a stop to it, though, like he wanted me to depend on him. When I tried to get jobs in high school, he discouraged me. Said I should focus on my studies. I haven’t worked for money in a long time.”
“So start now. Value yourself and your time. And when someone says they’ll pay you, accept it.”
I gave a quick nod. Picking up the contract, I skimmed the typed words, the air heavy and charged between us.
“Did I offend you by offering to work for free?” I asked.
“A little. But you meant well.” He smiled wryly. “I’m going to set up. You’ll find me in the bedroom.”
The bedroom. His bedroom? Where I’d be disrobing very soon?
Excitement curled through me as I read the contract. I initialed the areas on hours, boundaries, and payment, signing at the end. Jordana Louisa Green. Gavin’s signature was already scrawled below mine, quick and slashing. Gavin Lockwood.
For the first time, it truly hit me what I was going to do.
This book would last forever. People would buy it, display it in their homes. In fifty years, there would still be pictures of me naked and bound, at the age of twenty-one. Frozen in time. Forever erotic. I’d change, but the pictures would remain.
I might regret them. Or they might be the best decision I’d ever make.
Contract in hand, I walked down the hall.
A lighted doorway stood open.