Iris Blaire - Dark Frame

Hopefully, it’s enough to do the trick.

He opens the door a few seconds after I knock, already dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. I can see the ripples of his abs through the fabric.

He looks surprised. “Wow. I really wasn’t expecting you to show up.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I say, sliding between him and the door and strutting into the room.

He scratches his head. “So I guess I owe you a clue now as to why I strung tampons outside your bedroom window.”

I cross my arms and lean back against the bedroom desk. “I believe you do,” I say, keeping a straight face.

He bites down on his full bottom lip, the lip I was biting on yesterday.

“And please, don’t tell me it’s because you had a crush on me.”

He grins. “It’s not that simple. You see, most teenage boys are total dicks.”

“I’m aware.”

“And don’t understand the female body at all.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

“You were thirteen, Britain. You were… pretty, and growing up. All of those boys you brought over to your house to go swimming you flirted like hell with.”

I scoff. “Of course. I liked them, hello.”

“And I was jealous I hadn’t once seen that side of you.”

I open my mouth, but his confession catches me off guard. “You what?”

“So, I took the most feminine thing I could find in your bathroom and I embarrassed you with it.”

My head is reeling. “That is… wow. So misogynistic.”

“Tell me about it.” He rubs his hand over his head as he stares at me. “This isn’t an excuse, but no one ever told me how to treat girls when I was a teenager. I thought I was doing alright.”

I laugh in disbelief, shaking my head.

“And then I had a couple of hard slaps with reality and I learned the truth really damn quick.” He sighs. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Wow, Jaime.” I inhale deeply, tuggineg on the end of my braid. “That took some guts to tell me the truth.”

He sits on the bed, clasping his hands in between his legs. “You really shouldn’t forgive me.”

“Probably not.” I quickly change the subject. “So why did you steal my underwear and hang them on the fence?”

He slowly raises a dark eyebrow. “I’m pretty wrung for confessions at the moment.”

I push myself away from the desk, brushing my fingers along the waistband of my jeans. Slowly, I pop the button and unzip my fly.

His jaw drops.

“I think you made a promise.”

He watches as I slide my jeans past my hips and step out of them, leaving them in a pool on the floor. My heart’s hammering in my chest, but I can’t stop now.

I have to go through with this.

When I reach him, I slide onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. He looks like he’s trying to formulate words, but nothing is leaving that gorgeous mouth of his.

The light of the chandelier catches his eyes, and for the first time, I see how many earthy colors are inside of them.

“Brit, I… I can’t do this.”

I cock my head. That was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

“What do you mean?”

“Cameron would murder me.”

Oh, please.

I don’t say that, exactly, but I know he can read my face. I trace my finger along his soft bottom lip, and he shudders. “Here’s a little lesson in feminism.” He rolls his eyes as if he knows where this is going, but I continue. “I’m twenty-two and completely capable of making my own decisions. I’m also not Cameron’s property. Got it?”

“Brit…”

I trace my finger down the center of his chest, and his eyes flutter shut. “I’m not asking you to fall in love with me, Jaime.” I lean forward, my nose brushing his. “You’ve been at this game for far too long, and I’m finally showing you that two can play.” When his eyes open, I whisper, “So play with me.”

It’s enough. He cups the back of my neck and pulls my mouth to his. It isn’t like the kiss we shared last night. He’s rough and needy, biting my lip, sliding his tongue into my mouth and tasting me over and over.

His hand slides up my shirt and he softly palms my breast. I release a sharp gasp when his thumb rubs against the fabric covering my nipple.

“Oh, God,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Oh, God, this can’t be happening.” He cups both of my breasts and looks down at them. “You know, I’ve fantasized about touching you this way.”

I lean into his ear. “I have some clues for you now.” I press a kiss to his neck. “Clues about my fantasies.”

Just like that, I slide off of him, turning to retrieve my pants. When I’ve slipped them on and buttoned them, he says breathlessly, “I give up, Brit. What do I have to do?”

I study him. He looks so helpless, leaning back on his hands, begging me with his eyes, his erection straining against his jeans. I nearly melt into a puddle at the site of him. I’ve never seen him look so desperate. Not in twenty years.

“You’ll get them with your next apology,” I say, turning on my heel and walking out of his room.

When I’m halfway down the stairs to the second floor, I press my hand to my chest, feeling the thrum of my heart. And then I laugh to myself.

This might be the best idea Evan has ever had.

Evan

Every time I return to the house, Britain finds somewhere even more disturbing to shoot.

This time, it’s the gardens.

You wouldn’t normally think gardens to be creepy, now would you? But the Veda gardens are different. First of all, they’re monstrous. The staff here is only hired seasonally, and because the gardens aren’t open to the public, only the outer, visible edges of them are really taken care of.

Once you get in closer to the center of the gardens, they are wild and untamed. The hedges have grown high enough to block out any direct sun in the part of the garden that Britain chose.

Appropriately, the section of the garden we are going to be shooting in has a huge, aged gargoyle statue watching over it. In the center is an old three-tiered fountain, stagnant water covered in algae and moss. The unruly plants are mostly bare, but still make my insides twist when I look at them. The gnarled, spiky vines have dominated the space because they’ve been left unattended for so long.

Dallas and I will be partaking in a gothic-Victorian style shoot. The dress I am wearing mimics the style of the old Victorian dresses, but mine is thinner and entirely made of chiffon, meaning that it’s completely see-through.

And, of course, I am wearing nothing underneath. The only thing that’s keeping me from not being exposed to everyone right now is the jacket I have wrapped around me.

Dallas has it much easier. He is wearing an older rendition of what he wears practically every day—beige pants and a white button-down shirt.

“Is it weird being naked in front of your ex?” I turn. It’s Ella. We’re both watching as Britain and some of the AA crew set up the portion of the garden—throwing cold buckets of water all over the ground to make everything really muddy.

Oh, joy.

“No,” I say honestly. “I’m naked in front of everyone always.”

She shrugs. “I know that. It would still bother me, though.”

Being naked in front of Dallas isn’t the issue. It’s being on top of him while I’m naked that is. While the set is undergoing maintenance, Dallas stands next to the gargoyle with the other male models. He keeps his eyes off me as they talk, casually sipping the coffee in his hand.

“What a douche.”

“What?” says Ella.

“What? Nothing.”

“Is he really a douche or are you just saying that to make yourself feel better?”