Iris Blaire - Dark Frame

“Well?” He leans against the open door frame, his brown eyes caught on my own. “What do you say?”

I bite my lip. It’s not like Miles isn’t my type. Any guy that’s cute, can make me laugh, and is smart enough to get into Harvard definitely has my attention. “I just… I’m really busy.”

“I know this amazing Italian place in Boston. Has the best gnocchi you will ever taste in your life.”

“I’m also vegan. I’m busy and I’m vegan.”

He looks offended. “What is wrong with you?”

I laugh. “I’m sorry! I’m really not trying to blow you off. It’s just that I have a pretty demanding job and school is already overloading me. I have two exams in the next week.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Or you think I’m annoying.”

I keep a straight face. “That too.”

He dramatically grasps onto his door frame and swings into his room. “Goodnight, Evan.”

“Wait!” I shuffle with my keys and open my door, racing to the tin can on the windowsill that holds my pens. I grab a Sharpie and hurry back to Miles, taking his wrist and sloppily writing my number on it. “Call me Friday, and I’ll let you know if my schedule has cleared up.”

I have to get back into my modeling groove. I haven’t modeled for an issue in months. Normally, I try not to think about school when I’m working, even if I’m super behind on homework or have a test coming up.

Grad school—at Harvard—that’s a bit different.

The team from Amora arrived early this morning, and apparently haven’t taken a break (or a nap) since they got off the plane. They hustle around in their black clothes with their iPads, mapping out the entire house for possible shoot locations and bossing their tech and work team around.

I got to Veda Manor at seven this morning and was the third girl into hair and makeup. Everyone—even the models, act uptight and on crack. Maybe because if anyone steps out of line at all, Britain takes to barking at them. She’s already screamed at Adam and Jaime at least four times this morning.

When I’m done with my hair, Britain approaches me, a tall, dark, and incredibly handsome man following right behind her.

“Rylan, I’d like you to meet…” her eyes grow wide and she points to my lap. “What is that ?”

I shift my legs awkwardly beneath the weight of my textbook. “Dude, I’m not an undergrad anymore. If I don’t keep up on my work—″

“I’m teasing you, chill.” She gestures to the man behind her. “This is Miguel, one of our models I hired after the last issue. I’ll have him shoot with you today, and if the images turn out, I’ll continue to pair you up.”

Miguel smiles at me, and I nod. “Hi.”

“He took some amazing photos with Delilah during his audition back in June.” She lowers her voice to a whisper and says, “But I think he has even more potential with you,” and winks at me.

“Cool,” I say. “Well, just so you know, Miguel, I like to improvise.”

“I can work with that,” he replies before Britain ushers him into hair and makeup.

The safest, most controlled space that I can find to work is one of the cages. I spread out my textbooks and binder around me as I take notes on the Danielli-Davson model and how I will be incorporating it into my research project. I’m dressed only in a robe and lingerie and can feel the eyes of others as they pass. I try my damnedest to tune them out and work furiously until the chandelier extinguishes and the set lights are turned on. It’s almost go-time.

Britain ushers me over and introduces me to a woman named Melissa and a man named Dwain. Apparently these two are A.J.’s primary assistants and will be closely keeping tabs on the shoots.

I can tell from Britain’s face that this isn’t what she wants—to be directed . I can also predict that she’ll be giving them lip the second either of them open their mouths to give her instruction.

Luckily, I’m allowed to wear a pair of black leather driving gloves for the shoot. I nearly shredded my hands last night when I practiced climbing. As I put on the gloves, Melissa studies me and says, “She should be naked.”

Britain sneers. “Topless.”

“It won’t be edgy enough.”

Britain’s eyes roll to the ceiling as she tries to keep her patience. I know it isn’t working. I want to laugh so badly. She looks at me and says, “Take your top off and climb the damn scarves.”

I do as she says, feeling everyone’s eyes on my tits. It’s the same every shoot. You’d think that the shock of boobs would get old after a while for erotic magazine workers, but it doesn’t. Not even for Britain, because Britain is totally a voyeur, even if she won’t admit it.

I took an aerial yoga class a few years ago when initially trying to get in shape to start modeling. It was a lot of fun until I no longer had time for the bi-weekly, hour-long session.

“Quiet on set,” Britain yells as I place my hands on the scarfs.

“This is going to look less spooky and more circusy,” I say.

“Wait!” one of the makeup artists yells. He runs forward and hands me a sequined masquerade mask.

“Yes!” Britain says. “Perfect. Put that on.”

I do so. The mask might be a good idea. I know every model is in the room right now, sitting on the edges of the cages. The mask will help me focus.

I begin to climb.

I’m so thankful that Britain fought to make this a topless shoot. My legs are slipping all over the place climbing these scarves, and this moment would be extremely X-rated if I didn’t have panties on. Finally, I find my place, wrap my arms in the scarves, and hold myself up long enough for Britain to take a few shots.

“I need a boy—hurry!”

The first one to come running is Jaime, and Britain rolls her eyes. “Hold her up, please, while we get the scarves wrapped around her legs.”

By the look on Britain’s face, I half-expect Jaime to hold me up by my ass, but he doesn’t. With very gentle hands, he pushes against my lower back and my right thigh, keeping me airborne as Delilah pushes over a ladder and climbs it.

“You know, we have a team to help you with the technical stuff,” Dwain says dryly.

“Yeah, but my models know what I want,” Britain snaps back, and this time, I can’t hold in my laughter. We exchange glances and she grins.

Delilah, who took the aerial yoga class with me, wraps the scarfs at the perfect angle around my thighs. With each leg in a separate scarf, I hold myself up like I’m on a swing, wrapping my wrists in the crimson, silky fabric.

“Perfect. Hold it. Open your mouth a bit. There we go.”

I unravel my wrists and lean backward until I’m upside-down. If it weren’t for the terror in the back of my mind that I could fall any moment, I’d feel like I was underwater. Weightless, without a care in the world.

“Careful,” Britain says. “Miguel, get beneath her. Hold her hands and kiss her.

Miguel walks into the light and stops right below me. I’m about seven feet off the ground, the perfect height for him to reach up and take both of my hands. He doesn’t look nervous at all.

“I might fall,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. Good God, this boy has amazing bedroom eyes. “I won’t let you fall,” he says.

I relax my legs enough to release the tension of the scarves, and Miguel holds me up. He cranes his neck as I drop down, and our lips meet.

A purely physical surge of lust rushes through me as his tongue teases my lips. He’s a good kisser, that’s for sure. After a few seconds of bliss, I lose my balance and become untangled from the scarfs. I cry out, but Miguel is paying attention. He catches me awkwardly, lowering me to the ground.