Ryan Kendall - Working It

He’d stuffed his feet into the shoes and pleaded with her, his arms out to his sides. “See. I’ll survive for an hour.”

Apparently mollified, Fiona merely nodded, and I released a deep exhale.

The photo shoot began, and watching Ben work was wonderful. He made it look so easy. It was clear that both he and Madeline were experienced professionals. They worked well together, posing, moving against each other to create interesting angles as the photographer clicked away.

I’d never get tired of looking at him. My body exploded as awareness, endorphins, and desire flooded my system. Remembering our secret conversation last night made it even hotter. His intense gaze landed on mine as he continued to pose for the photographer, and I swear, the look in his smoldering gaze was pure sex. Good Lord, I was going to need to change my panties soon. Note to self: At the next photo shoot, pack Fiona flats and an extra pair of panties for me.

When the shoot wrapped, Madeline immediately disappeared with her handler, and Ben and Fiona wandered back into the dressing area, seemingly in the middle of an intense conversation. I wondered what they could be discussing that was so serious, since his performance today seemed impeccable.

I busied myself packing everything up and even helped the photographer carry equipment to his car, but I could linger for only so long. Not to mention I was beginning to feel like an idiot for thinking that Ben and I actually shared something the previous night. He’d been bored, tired, drunk, or jetlagged—who knows, maybe all of the above. I hated how desperate I was to get another look at him and made myself move on. Big-girl panties, Em.

I decided to walk back rather than take the Metro so that I could find a cute little sidewalk café at which to treat myself. Two glasses of red wine and one delicious tarte au chocolat later, I was en route to the hotel, stumbling against the uneven cobblestone streets, delightfully buzzed and carefree. Ben who? I could take on the world right now. Or just master this archaic elevator to get to my room. Either way, I was counting tonight as a win.

When I reached my hotel room I was lightheaded and buzzed—from the wine, the sugar, my beautiful surroundings, or probably all three, but I wasn’t tired. After changing into my PJs, I fell into bed with my laptop. Perhaps some further stalking of Ben would relax me.

But before I could even open my browser, my inbox showed I had one new message.

The sender was Benjamin Riley Shaw.

My heart fluttered like a little idiot inside my chest as I waited for the message to load.

Ben: You disappeared today, Tennessee. Make it back to the hotel okay?

I hit reply, my breathing coming in fast pants.

Me: Back safe and sound. You looked great today, BTW.

The email notification blinked within seconds. So he was awake and at his computer, too, it seemed. My heartbeat thumped unevenly in my chest.

Ben: Thank you. It was fun today. I worked out after so I should be tired, but I’m not.

I worried why he seemed to have trouble sleeping. Perhaps it was the time zone change? And what about Gunnar’s comments today? Another message popped up before I could respond.

Ben: Want to entertain me?

Holy shit. How did he make four little words sound so fucking hot? Especially since I heard his deep, masculine voice in my head as I read them. I took my time, thinking of a cheeky response before I replied.

Me: Hmm. What does that involve, Mr. Shaw? I should probably behave myself.

Ben: You don’t have to behave.

If that wasn’t an open invitation to flirt with him, I didn’t know what was. I giggled to myself in the otherwise-silent room, wondering how to respond, when he sent another message through.

Ben: You want to text instead?

Me: Yes.

And by yes, I meant, God Bless America.

His phone number appeared in my inbox: 917 area code. How very New York City of him.

I crossed the room and grabbed my phone, typing in his number to compose a new text. One word—simple. It was my attempt at keeping things casual so I could see where he wanted to take this.

Me: Hi

His response came almost immediately.

Ben: Hi darlin’

Me: How do I know this isn’t someone pretending to be you? I’m slightly worried I could be talking to a forty-year-old overweight creeper. ;)

Ben was silent for a moment. Then my phone blinked at me, informing me I had a new photo message. It took my trembling fingers three attempts to tap the correct button on the screen to open it.

Ben was leaning against the headboard wearing a white V-neck T-shirt. His hair, though still shiny and full of pomade from earlier, had been fussed with, like he’d run his hands through it several times, giving it a messy just-been-fucked look. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked sexy as hell gazing thoughtfully into the camera. My heart pounded painfully hard. Seeing his photo made this all the more real.

Ben: Here’s your 40-year-old creeper ;)

Me: Cute.

Ben: Send me one of you.

I scrolled through the photos I already had on my phone. Crap. All of these were either me with Ellie, or with our dog Buck back home. I ran to the mirror, added some lip gloss, and fluffed my flat hair. I didn’t want him to think I was taking too long or overthinking this, so I snapped a quick selfie and hit send. It wasn’t my best picture, but it wasn’t horrible either. The lighting in my room was soft and lent a sort of romantic feel to it.

Ben: You look like a girl I fucked once.

Holy crap! He did not just say that to me. His responses floored me. He seemed so polite and well mannered one minute and then BAM! Filthy mouthed the next. I’d honestly wondered what he thought of my looks, and his comment, however crass, told me that perhaps I did measure up.

My phone pinged with a new message. That little ping was the sweetest sound.

Ben: What kind of panties are you wearing?

My pulse sped up. I wore full-bottomed undies, none of those damn dental-floss impersonating G-strings, thank you very much. Those blasted things felt like they were chaffing your ass like a piece of sandpaper. But dear Ben didn’t need to know all that information. I thoughtfully typed out my response.

Me: Depends on the day’s outfit. Right now I’m in pink lacy boy shorts.

Ben: It’d be better if they were around your ankles, but I approve.

Holy. Crap. Moisture dampened my panties. I fought to keep my thoughts under control and jumping into the gutter. I ran through a mental list of nonsexy things: his schedule this week, the location of his next photo shoot, what he smelled like, his dick size. Gah! Where did that come from? I bit my lip. I knew I should keep it clean, but being naughty sounded like so much more fun. He was proving to be a terrible influence on me.

Me: Eager tonight, aren’t we, Mr. Shaw?

Ben: Always, doll.

Me: Do you always text like this with Fiona’s assistants?

Ben: No. They’re usually men. And I told you, I like pussy.

God, anytime he used the p-word, I swear my lady parts clenched. Who knew I was such a glutton for a little dirty talk?

Me: How could I forget? You worded that so eloquently. Fine then, do you text like this w/ other girls often?

Ben: Depends on if I want to play with them or not.

I took a moment to compose myself and tried to decipher his words. He didn’t deny it. But did that mean he was playing with me? Or that I was special because I was one of the few he wanted to play with? I felt a wine headache coming on and typed out the first thing I could think of.