Chapter 11 #2
“Your eyes are so fucking perfect,” he whispers.
There’s no way I’m not visibly blushing. He snaps a few more photos.
“Are you comfortable laying on the floor?”
“Sure!” I shoot off the sofa, my voice way too loud. Be more obvious.
“Right here.” He points to the rug.
Once I’m on my back, he sinks to his knees and straddles my midsection. Whoa.
“This okay?” he asks.
I bob my head up and down.
He sets his camera on the floor. “Do you mind if I adjust your hair?”
“No.” I lift my head, and he plants a palm next to my ear, using his free hand to fan out the strands to his liking. Then he picks up his camera again, aiming it at me.
“Look right into the lens, Kelly.”
My chest rises and falls as I peer up at him.
“Stunning.” He smiles and gives a subtle shake of his head behind the camera. “You’re so good at that.”
My laugh is awkward and forced. He smiles wider.
“You don’t have to be shy,” he says. “It’s just me.”
I nod. “I know.”
“Are you uncomfortable?”
In the best way. “No.”
Quit sexualizing him. You’re making it weird.
“Good.”
This is one of the most arousing nights I’ve experienced in a while. It’s hotter than any foreplay I had with Jason, yet Logan and I are both fully clothed. I remind myself that the tension between us is in my imagination only. Dad always said I was great at playing make-believe.
My gaze travels to his neck and broad shoulders, tracing the tattoos that peek out of his collar. “Eyes on me, remember.”
I refocus. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re doing great.”
My inhibitions lower every time he praises me. He pauses shooting to stand, retreating a few steps. “Okay, now sit up, lean back on your palms, and pull your knees up.”
I switch to a sitting position, and he drops to a crouch in front of me.
“Have you ever considered doing boudoir photography?” He can create a vibe, that’s for sure.
He smirks. “Inviting women over to strip down and let me take my time with them? No, but it sounds like fun. I like where your head’s at.”
I huff a breath, ignoring the tinge of jealousy. “You just ruined it.”
“I’m only teasing you.” He laughs. “It’s cute you think I’d photograph anyone else like this.” His massive hand cups the back of my calf, and he slides it over a few inches, then winks at me. “Keep your thighs open.”
Logan is sexy as hell when he’s behind a lens, bossing me around. Especially when he uses that calm, controlled tone—the one that makes me want to push back, just to see what happens.
He lowers his camera, eyes fixed on me. It’s not professional, hell, it’s predatory, like he’s been imagining stripping me down and taking his time. What is he waiting for?
“Aren’t you going to take the photo?” I mumble.
“This one’s not for the camera. This one stays with me—safe in my head, where I can look at it whenever I want.”
Holy hell.
His voice is quiet but rough. It’s what I imagine he sounds like first thing in the morning, that sexy rasp after a night of little sleep.
The image of waking up naked next to him forms in my thoughts.
No, no way. I shake my head. Blistering heat and nervous giggles bubble to the surface, which only adds to my embarrassment.
“You’re such a freak.”
My laughter seems to break Logan out of his silly trance. He raises his camera again, taking a couple photos.
“You like it,” he whispers from behind the lens.
My teeth bite into my lower lip as a flutter spreads throughout my chest. He’s right .
. . I kinda do. Logan hits the shutter at least half a dozen times in quick succession.
I blink out of the haze. Shit. I shouldn’t have had that old-fashioned.
I’m far too relaxed. This is getting out of control, he must be messing with me.
Logan delves a hand into my hair again, fluffing it up. It’s hard to resist closing my eyes and giving in to the sensation. “When was the last time you posed?”
I clear my throat. “Not since college, for figure painting.”
“Nude?”
“Sometimes.”
“Hm.” His jaw tightens along with the rest of his features.
“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s not sexual.” We’re back to that conversation from the attic.
“I just don’t like the idea of you on display for a room full of people.”
“Why, ’cause I’m like your sister?” I avert my gaze.
He smirks. “If I thought of you like a sister, we wouldn’t be here right now.” I swear a record scratches. What did he just say?
My face slackens. “You don’t?”
“No.” He clicks the shutter. “Keep right like that.”
Oh. I hold still while he works. My thoughts are racing, but none will hold still long enough for me to give them attention.
“Why do you seem so shocked?” He chuckles from behind the camera. “Focus on me, Chaos.”
Wait—what the hell is happening right now?
“There she is . . . Those are the eyes I want.” His grin is wicked. “Fuck, the way you’re staring has me almost believing it.”
There’s no way he just said what I think he said. I must have misheard him. I blink a few times. “You once said I was like a sister to you. You used to call me Junior . . .”
It was easier to pose for him when there wasn’t a chance in hell of him being attracted to me. But . . . what is he saying?
Earlier, I brushed off his flirtation as him helping to set the mood for photos or trying to get a rise out of me, but now I can’t help but wonder if it was more than that.
I gaze into the camera lens.
“Why do you think I started calling you Chaos?”
Jesus Christ.
He snaps more photos.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I ignore the intrusive thoughts of him.
This is the product of alcohol and an inconvenient ovulation schedule.
I can’t let him muddy my emotions. Thankfully, I don’t need to speak to him, I just need to complete the task at hand: hold still and take direction. So that’s exactly what I do.
He remains quiet and professional for the rest of the shoot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was by design, forcing me to sit with my thoughts. After two hours, we wrap up.
“Thanks, Kel. You did a fantastic job,” he comments, flipping through the shots he took on the small camera screen. “I think these will turn out perfect.”
He sounds so pragmatic. Was that it? Was it all for show?
“Anything . . . for a friend.” I put on my socks and shoes, waiting for him to say something. Correct me, laugh at the statement, shake his head—something.
He doesn’t so much as glance in my direction.
Logan simply hands me my jacket to send me on my way. “I’ll edit these tomorrow. Let me know if you need any help moving boxes out of the attic this weekend.”
He seems completely unfazed by my phrasing, and I hate the sinking feeling in my stomach. We’ve only ever just been friends. He’s made that clear over and over, yet I keep seeking more. The tendrils of my teenage crush have me in their clutch again.
Logan and I walk to my car parked outside, and I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Drive safe,” he says.
I nod and shut my door, eager to get out of here. As soon as I pull out of my parking space and turn the block, a lump forms in my throat and my eyes swell with tears.