VAIN (The VAIN Series) (5 page)

"You're taking off?" A bottle of beer dangles from his hand as he saunters back into what I've now coined as the room of broken dreams. Orgasmic dreams, that is.

Considering how focused he was when he was taking my picture, there's no use bringing up the almost fucking session that never happened. That large, veiny, thick ship has sailed right past my vagina. "I'm meeting a friend." Why bother offering more? He obviously got me all worked into a horny frenzy so he could take my picture. Asshole.

"A boyfriend?" He cocks a brow as he settles on the edge of the bed.

Did he seriously just ask me if I have a boyfriend? That might have been a more appropriate question before his face was buried tongue deep between my thighs. "Boyfriend?" I repeat back.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" He brings the bottle to his mouth and I watch him take a large gulp of the beer.

"No boyfriend." I chuckle half-heartedly.

"You're pissed that I didn't fuck you, aren't you?" The amusement lacing the question grates on my nerves.

He's an egomaniac. He wants to hear me tell him that my body is empty now that it will never have the pleasure of officially meeting the Noah Foster's cock. "Not at all." That actually sounded semi-sincere. I just need to keep up this veil of obscurity until I'm at the club with some random guy's hand up my skirt.

"You're lying."

Sweet Jesus, seriously? Are you actually allowed to be this in awe of yourself because you've sold a few dozen photographs worth hundreds of thousands of dollars? 

"I'm not lying," I answer. To be precise, I'm not actually lying about being pissed that we didn't have sex. I am lying about the fact that I'm lying. I'm enraged that he had me wanting him so much and he could just drop it all in favor of a picture. I'm also humiliated by it.

"Where are you and your non-boyfriend going?" he asks, doing very little to hide the obvious enjoyment in his voice. 

I'll use one of his signature moves and ignore the line of questioning. "How many more sessions do you think we'll need to have?"

"Why?" He's delving into my playbook now with the question in answer to a question. He's more blonde than he looks considering he's a gorgeous brunette.

"I need to focus on some school stuff." I scan my phone and look for any messages from my friend, Kayla. We're supposed to meet in less than twenty minutes downtown and I want to make sure that she's not bailing on me at the last minute too.

"What kind of school stuff?" He edges forward as if he's trying to get a glimpse of my smartphone screen.

"Just stuff." I toss my phone back into my bag. "If you could give me a rough schedule of the days and times you need me that would be great."

"I guess I could do that." He scratches his head right behind his ear before pulling his hand across his forehead. "I'll text it to you. Tomorrow, okay?"

"That's perfect."

"You're actually going to leave? You don't want to finish what we started?" His hand lazily runs over the tip of his semi-erect penis. How is it that I've never seen him with a limp dick?

I pull my gaze back to his face and think for a moment before I speak. "If it was meant to happen, it would have."

"So that's it?" There actual surprise in his voice. I'm not sure if he's trying to temper that or not, but it's obvious that he wasn't expecting me to pack up and walk out.

"That's it." I turn to leave.

"Alexa." I sense movement behind me before I feel his hand grip tightly to my elbow. "I want to fuck you."

My body reacts to the words, even if I don't want it to. This is too reminiscent of Paris. The push and pull is in my past. I need to keep it there even if it means passing on amazing sex with Noah. "I have plans, Noah." I pull my arm free. "I'm meeting an old friend. I don't have time to stick around."

He doesn't respond. It's not that I expected him to. Something deep within me has always known that
no
isn't a word he hears often.

***

"Wait, wait, wait." Kayla, one of my sorority sisters, teeters on the edge of a bar stool, with some ridiculously expensive drink perched in her hand. "You're telling me you were tied to a guy's bed and he was about to fuck you, but then changed his mind?"

Why does it sound so much worse coming from her? I guess if I had broken my non-disclosure agreement and confessed that the man in question decided to take my picture instead of fucking me that it would sound a little less pitiful. Would it? It sounds super humiliating regardless of how I spin the details.

"That's it in a nut shell." I tip my glass to her before taking a large gulp. Despite my desire to wash away the bitter taste of rejection with a strong drink, I've opted for a soda water. I'm done with ignoring what is really important in my life. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I'm going to hit the pavement and the bus stop so I can find a job that doesn't involve taking my clothes off for tattooed jerks. 

"You haven't talked much about Paris. I'm here if you need a shoulder." 

"Thanks." I smile back at her. After my completely disappointing evening with Noah earlier, I needed this more than I realized. Letting go and having some fun is the perfect prescription for what ails me.

"What happened?" She asks as she leans forward to take a sip from the glass. "I thought you'd stay there and marry him."

"You didn't really think that," I tease. "You knew I couldn't stay away from you forever."

"Ah, Lex." She swats her hand across my knee. "You're a princess."

A princess? Sure. I'm a fucking princess who has now made two dumb ass, consecutive choices in men. "What about you?" A change of subject won't hurt anyone, other than me when Kayla starts rambling off about all the fun she's had while I've been gone.

"No." Her hand darts up so quickly she almost taps me across the nose. "Don't try that."

"Try what?" I lean back, determined to get out of her line of fire.

"You were broken up on the phone when you called me from there." She taps her hand on my knee. "I'm here to talk. Spill it."

I want to. I haven't talked to anyone, including Sadie, about what happened in Paris. Given the fact that Sadie's husband was engaged to someone else when they met, it wasn't fair to dredge all that up by throwing my relationship woes in her direction. At least, in her case, Hunter didn't love the woman he almost married before her. In my case, it was an entirely different story.

"He was involved with another woman." I've practiced saying those words so many times that now that I've actually uttered them aloud; they sound distant, misplaced and much less intense than they feel.

"What?" Kayla's shriek pulls me back to the reality of the statement. I'd confided to her in texts and phone calls that I was in love with the man in Paris. She knows that.  Trying to temper it now isn't going to help me get over it. "How did you find out?"

"I saw them." I bite my lip to quash the memory of that morning. I'd just crawled out of my bed and was searching for him when I ran down to the corner café to fetch a latte. That's when I saw them together. His arm lovingly wrapped around her waist, her hand cradling his chin as she kissed him.

"Did you confront them?" She leans forward as if that's going to pull all the sordid details from deep within me.

I shake my head slightly. "No." I want to expand. I want to tell her that I couldn't do it. I want to tell her why but I can't. I won't.  He set me up. He knew I went to that café every single morning. He knew that I'd show up there and that's why he brought her there, so I'd see them together and so he could see the look of utter disillusionment on my face. It took me weeks to realize that he did it because it fed something inside of him.

"So you haven't talked to Beck since?"

I sit up straighter, consciously aware of how his nickname impacts me. "We've talked but it's over."

"I'm sorry, Lex." She jumps off the stool to pull me into a warm embrace. "I'm really sorry."

"You may just have the best looking ass on the planet."

Yeah, yeah, sure. I roll my eyes as I tuck my face further into the soft sheet on Noah's bed. "You say that to all the girls," I mutter under my breath.

"Did you say something?" he asks just as I feel the bed shift next to me. "What was that?"

"Are we just doing ass shots today?" I toss back. I need to keep this arrangement strictly on a business level. There's no way in hell that I'm going to allow myself to get back into a position where Noah's cock is anywhere near entering my body in any capacity. That should cover all bases.

"You said you were dealing with some school stuff."

I nod. I don’t want to share any details of my life with him. He doesn't care and as soon as I do share, I'm going to be disappointed. This is a job. It's just like when I worked at Star Bistro, minus the hot guy and his impressive oral skills. 

"Is that all you've got going on?" he asks as I hear the click of the camera. I know he's fishing for information about whether I hooked up with another guy since I left his place the other night. The answer to that question is a resounding and unequivocal no.

"Why aren't you asking if I like anal?" In any other circumstance that would be a conversation ender, not starter, but I am on my stomach, completely nude in the bed of one of the only men on the planet who can talk so openly about sex without being sued for harassment.

Any movement beyond my own stops and his breathing stalls. "Did you just say something about anal?"

"You were about to. I just beat you to it." I toss my head to the side so I can glance up at him. I work to level my gaze at his face instead of his ever growing penis. Would it really be that hard to take a decent picture with a pair of boxer briefs on?

"I assure you, I wasn't." He cocks a brow and lazily runs his hand over the length of his dick.

Fuck me. I can't be looking at that.
I twist my head back to a forward position, instantly regretful that I looked in his direction at all.

"That's not part of your process?" I pull air quotes around the
words, which isn't easy considering I'm certain I look like a beached whale at this point.

"My process varies from day-to-day." The words accompany a major shift on the mattress and I realize he's now down on his knees.

I try to move my body slightly to the right to gain distance from his leg, which is now pressing against mine. The hand on my hip stops that in its tracks.

"How long have you been doing this?" I ask after pulling my arms under my head. I wish I had thought ahead enough to grab a pillow. This position is becoming uncomfortable fast.

"Taking pictures?" It's a rhetorical question but it sucks up a few seconds of time. I'm grateful for that. I've been fishing blindly for the last hour for any subject to talk about that doesn't involve what didn't happen between us the other night. According to the text message he sent me two days ago, after today I only had to be subjected to his company two more times. I could see the finish line and my five thousand dollars in the very near distance.

"Yes. When did you get interested in it?" The words float from my lips without any curiosity attached to them. I already know the answer. After meeting Kayla at the bar, I had spent hours that night researching more about him. I'd watched a video on a website that was filmed years ago where he spoke eloquently about his love of photography. It was difficult to watch. He was scar free, much younger and had a very carefree air about him. The barrier that was an integral part of his demeanor now didn't seem to exist back then.

"When I was a kid…" his voice trails into the distance, as I close my eyes, drifting into a place of utter silence and solitude.

The now too familiar sound of a picture being taken rouses me from a dream. My eyes flutter open and I'm instantly assaulted with the lens of a camera, mere inches from my face. I push at it without thinking.

"Hey. Don't." His voice is soft and calm. There's a playful edge to it that is unfamiliar to me.

"Noah?" I push the camera aside now and he's there, right there. He's kneeling next to the side of the bed. "You can't take pictures of my face."

"These are only for me." He pushes a button on the camera and stares at it. I know he's checking the images he just took. I recognize the focused intent on his face.

"I fell asleep." I clear my throat to chase away the rumbling purr that's there. "I'm sorry."

He places the camera down next to me before resting his chin on the side of the bed. "Your body is so perfect. I got all the shots I need."

A wave of disappointment rushes through me even though those were the words I've longed to hear. It meant that I didn't need to come here anymore. It meant we had no reason to see one another. "So we're done?"

"No." His index finger pushes a stray hair back from my forehead. "We're not done. We're done for today."

I don't say anything. I'm not sure why I reacted so strongly to the idea of being done with him. I'm days away from that now. I want this to be done, don't I?

"Are you going to the show when it opens?" He taps his index finger on my arm. "I think you should be there."

"Will you be there?" I counter back. I hadn't even entertained the idea of going to his show. Seeing my own naked body on full display wasn't on my bucket list.

He pulls his full lips into a straight line. "I haven't decided yet."

"You don't go out at all, do you?" The fact that his coffee table is always littered with take-out boxes, and the call girl who arrived almost at the same time as me that first night, were both glaring signs of his preference for being at home. Everything he needed to be satiated was delivered right to his doorstep.

He rests his chin on the bed as his eyes scan my face. "Would you go out if your face looked like mine?"

"You know that it looks different to you than anyone else." I don’t meet his eye. I can't. I don't want him to see any of the lingering desire that I still feel for him. I can't temper that. I've tried to since I came into his apartment, but it's futile.

"How so?" His brow softens.

"When I look at you it's just part of your face." I pull my hand into a tight fist to ward off the temptation to reach out and graze my fingers along the scar. "It doesn't take anything away from how you look, it adds to it."

He stills as if he's absorbing the words. I expect a dismissive retort. I assume he's going to tell me that I can't measure how it feels. He doesn't flinch as his eyes dart from my face to my lips and back again. "Tell me about your friend. You said she has a scar."

"On her chest," I offer. "She had a transplant."

"That's easier to accept."

I know the intention of his words. "Because she can hide it under her clothing?"

"That and…" he begins before he stalls to take a heavy swallow. "The circumstances."

"The circumstances?" I push myself up so my head is resting against my hand.

"I fell in love with a woman once," he whispers the words softly. "She loved someone else."

I sigh heavily. He's going to confess something to me now. He's going to pull down the wall that surrounds him and let me beyond it. If that happens, the entire dynamic of this is going to shift to a place where I'll want him as desperately as I did the other night when he had me bound to his bed.

"He found out about me and this happened." His hand touches his cheek over the scar. "And this…" His other hand rests just above the large tattoo that adorns his shoulder. "And this…" His hand slides to his chest and yet another intricate tattoo that I've become familiar with when I've stared at him.

I lean closer to him on the bed, not caring that my breasts have popped out from beneath the sheet that he draped over me. "You were stabbed?" My voice is barely audible as I study his body, noticing the thin raised scars that transverse his shoulder, his arm and his chest.

He only nods in response. "It was easy to cover these." His chin tilts down. "Not so easy to cover this." The hand that is still resting on his cheek quivers slightly.

"You hide because of that?" I want desperately to reach out to cover his hand with my own but I can't do that. I won't allow myself to get that close to him. I know that he can't be vulnerable. I know that he doesn't want to be.

"It's not hiding." There's no anger in his tone, only quiet clarification. "It's a reminder of something I'll never have again."

"What?"

He pulls his lips into a thin line. "I chase perfection. It's why I'm the way I am."

Before this conversation I'd absorb that statement as swollen arrogance but not now. "You want perfection because you don't think you'll ever be perfect?"

"I used to be." He sounds distant. "I'm not now."

"No one is." It's not only the right thing to say, it's the truth. In his convoluted, world famous photographer mind he may think he was once perfect, but that's simply not true. Hasn't anyone ever told him that before?

"I once was." He stalls as his eyes scan my face. "I once was as perfect as you."