6. Chapter 6
Chapter six
~DOMINIC~
Tinnie owes me a fucking apology.
She “kindly requested” that Jessica and I participate in a sports magazine promotional shoot, but anyone with half a brain knows Tinnie doesn’t request. And apparently, captain of the Miami Blazers or not, I’m not immune to her bulldozing.
So here I am, in a studio, under lights, being poked by a woman who’s giving me eyes like she wants to crawl inside my pants and take a nap.
“Relax your shoulders for me, Captain,” the stylist purrs, sliding her fingertips along my collar way too slowly to be professional.
“They’re relaxed,” I grunt .
“They’re granite,” she giggles.
That’s because all I’ve done for the past five days is think about Jessica Brooks.
Ever since the launch event, the little menace has taken up residence in my skull. Every smile, every glare, every quip, every little comment replays like a highlight reel.
The cameras aren’t even on yet, and I’m already regretting showing up.
“This looks really good on you,” the stylist coos.
She’s standing way too close, fingertips grazing the line of my collar as she pretends to adjust it. Her eyes drag down my chest like she’s mentally undressing me, and if she licks her lips one more time, I’m leaving.
The stylist reaches for my belt loops, and before I can stop her, Jessica beats me to it.
Heels click across the studio—sharp, fast, cutting through the chatter.
My spine reacts before I register it. She appears in my peripheral vision in a tight little black outfit that’s been making me semi-hard all morning. Her eyes go to me, then to the stylist’s hands on me, and her entire face changes .
“Hi! I’m almost done with—” the stylist begins.
“Yeah, no,” Jessica says flatly, sashaying between us. “You’re done.”
Oh, she’s jealous.
Fuck me, I feel that in my bloodstream.
The stylist blinks. “I’m… sorry?”
Jessica plucks the lint brush from her hand.
“I’ll be styling him.”
The stylist looks at me like I’m supposed to save her.
I lift a brow. “Don’t look at me. I don’t argue with her.”
Jessica cocks her head at the distressed stylist.
Fuck, she’s cute when she’s homicidal.
The stylist backs away, heels clacking as she disappears, and Jessica steps into her space.
My world narrows. She’s close enough that I can smell the faint sweetness of her perfume. I’m already leaning into it.
Jessica steps right up to me, chin lifted.
“You gonna tell me what that was?” I murmur.
“She was doing a terrible job,” Jessica huffs. “She put you in a beige shirt. Who does that to someone with your coloring? ”
“My… coloring.”
“It’s basically your skin color. It washes you out,” she lectures, snatching at the fabric. “Take this off.”
I’m not a man who follows orders easily. But this one? This one I follow.
Slowly.
I undo the first button and pause. I watch her throat move as I drag the second button open. Her cheeks flush when I pull the shirt off my shoulders, flexing my muscles more than necessary.
Jessica rips her gaze away and thrusts a black shirt at my chest.
“Put that on.”
“Bossy.” I raise a brow.
I take the shirt, then tilt my head, letting my eyes drop to her mouth. “You want this on me?”
“Yes,” she says, irritated. “Obviously. It frames your shoulders better and makes you look—”
“Then do it.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
“You want to be my stylist?” I say, taunting. “Dress me. ”
She looks at the shirt, then up at me. She grudgingly steps in, lifting the black shirt and slipping it onto my arms. Her fingers graze my shoulders as she smooths the fabric.
It’s a tiny, barely-there touch, but it feels like lightning against my skin. Her hands glide down my chest to align the buttons, and my body locks tight.
Fuck.
She buttons the first one, biting her lip in concentration, pretending she doesn’t feel the heat. She reaches the second button, and her knuckles brush the center of my chest. She moves to the third.
I’m gone.
“See?” she murmurs, her eyes flicking up, searching my face. “Much better.”
“Are you complimenting me?” I step forward, forcing her to tilt her head up to keep eye contact.
“I’m complimenting myself and my ability to fix messes.” She lifts her chin proudly.
“Jessica, sweetheart, let’s get a few solo shots first,” the photographer calls out.
He’s exactly what I expected when I saw the name on the call sheet: early thirties, tiny rectangle glasses, all-white outfit, expensive sneakers, wrists covered in bracelets. The type who drinks iced Americanos in winter and calls everyone darling.
Jessica brightens and steps under the lights, and I can’t stop looking at her.
She’s not posing. She’s just there, natural and calm. That influencer life carved her into a camera’s dream.
Her lashes lower and lift gently with each flash. Her lips part slightly with each direction he gives. Her shoulders relax, head tilts, chin angles. It’s not theatrics, not stiff, self-conscious movement. She glows.
I study her shamelessly: the curve of her jaw, the tiny beauty mark on her neck, her delicate collarbone, the flush on her cheeks.
The photographer circles her slowly, shutter clicking.
“Beautiful, Jessica. Chin down a bit, yes, hold that. Gorgeous. Your skin tone is incredible on this backdrop. ”
My jaw ticks. He’s… close. I don’t like the way he’s talking to her.
“Relax your hands,” he murmurs, guiding her wrists lightly. “Lovely. Let your lips soften… yes, that’s it.”
My teeth grind.
Across the room, a makeup artist inches toward me with a powder puff.
“Don’t,” I snap.
She stops mid-step.
I don’t look at her. My eyes are glued to the photographer now leaning in to adjust Jessica’s posture.
He places a hand on her waist.
And I hear something crack. Probably his bones in my imagination.
“Hands off.” My voice booms across the studio.
The photographer startles, blinking up at me while Jessica shoots me a confused look.
I step forward, enough to make the photographer back off.
“I’m just posing her for the shot.” He straightens with raised hands .
“You’re touching,” I say, eyes dropping to where his fingers brushed her waist. “Her.”
Jessica’s eyes widen in half shock, half something else.
“Captain,” the photographer says carefully, “I think now’s the time to tell you…” He gestures to himself. “I’m gay.”
The room is silent apart from Jessica’s tiny giggle.
I blink once, almost laugh too, but manage to keep it in.
“And I’m Dom,” I deadpan. “So unless you’re blind and stupid on top of being chatty, you should understand one thing. Don’t put your hands on my woman.”
A ripple shoots through the room.
“What the hell are you— I’m so, so sorry,” Jessica starts apologizing to the photographer, but he simply throws his hands up, laughing.
“No, no. I get it,” he nods. “No touching.”
He turns to Jessica and winks before whispering, “Lucky you.”
I stare him down until he backs up a full three feet .
Jessica looks up at me, and I see it all in her eyes. She liked hearing the sound of that, and for some reason I’m not examining, I fucking loved saying it.
“Okay! Couple shots,” the photographer chirps. “Let’s get you two together.”
I exhale through my nose. I’m already on edge.
Jessica’s photo session nearly killed me.
My solo shots were somewhat of a disaster, with the photographer reminding me not to scowl before each one. And now we’re doing joint photos.
Jessica walks toward me with her little ass swaying confidently.
My pulse spikes, and I will myself to keep my eyes on her face.
“Sit,” the photographer says, pointing to a chair angled toward the backdrop.
I sit slowly and look at him.
Jessica stops in front of me and turns to the photographer. “Where do you want me?”
“On him, darling!” the photographer exclaims .
Shit.
She snaps her gaze to me, brows up, and her eyes drop to my crotch.
“Sit on the Captain’s lap, darling.” The photographer beams. “Let’s capture that warmth.”
Warmth. If only he fucking knew.
Jessica slowly steps between my legs, and I stiffen. Her hands brush my chest as she turns sideways and lowers onto my lap.
And...
FUCK.
It’s over.
Her weight settles onto me, and my entire nervous system shuts down. She’s soft everywhere I’m hard. Warm where I’m burning. Close where I’m losing what little control I have left.
She shifts once to adjust, and her ass slides over my cock. My vision blurs.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She’s doing it on purpose. She knows exactly where her body is. Exactly what she’s pressing against.
“Comfortable?” she murmurs .
Instead of responding, I curl my hand around her waist, fingers digging into her hip hard enough to make her suck in a breath.
“Keep testing me and find out.”
The photographer claps. “Gorgeous! Jessica, lean back a little on the Captain’s chest. Let him hold more of your weight.”
She leans back into me, and her spine melts against my torso. Her hair brushes my jaw, and her scent invades every fucking sense I have. She’s right on top of my cock, pressing, wiggling, soft. I can’t fucking take it with all these people looking.
I grab her thigh and squeeze, warning her to keep the fuck still.
She gasps, barely audible, but I hear it.
“Jessica.” My voice is a strangled warning. “Sit fucking still.”
She turns her head just enough that her cheek grazes my jaw. “You seem tense.”
Tense?
I’m a split atom.
The photographer snaps a few shots. “Beautiful! Captain, maybe touch her somewhere? ”
I already fucking am. He wants more?
Fine.
I slide my hand from her hip to her stomach and pull her back against me.
She stiffens, then melts, and I feel every perfect line of her body molding to mine. I wish my dick was resting against my right thigh instead of my left, where Jessica’s ass is currently very comfortable.
The photographer walks closer. “Jessica, babe, lift your chin up toward him, like you’re about to whisper something sweet.”
She turns her head toward me and looks up.
The photographer snaps rapid-fire shots, eating this up like candy.