Panting, gasping, we both go still in the aftermath. My head is slow to clear as Luka sets me on the floor and braces himself with a hand on the door.
I shiver as the cool air washes over my sweat- and paint-slicked skin. I already miss his heat. I catch his eyes and tip my chin up for a kiss. He’s so close, I could get on my tiptoes and take his mouth myself. I shift to do just that, but he leans away.
His eyes go cold as he looks me over.
I don’t like that detached stare, that critical gaze. The flare of hope inside me immediately snuffs out. I should have known this wouldn’t be more than a booty call for him.
He turns and grabs something from a table, then tosses it at me. A box of tissues.
“Clean yourself up and then go fix your paint.”
“Really?” I shoot back, glaring. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
His face remains impassive and I hate the sting of rejection I feel. His paint is nearly perfect, though he’ll probably need to touch up the smeared strokes of dark navy on his dick. Leave it to Luka to be completely unaffected by any of this. It was just another fuck for him.
“You and Mateo made such a show of getting my attention. I’m sure he’ll be happy to fix the mess I just made.”
I bite my lip, realizing what this was all about. Luka taking out his jealousy by branding me and then nonchalantly sending me back to Mateo to clean up his sex mess. It’s a power trip for him, just like always. Now he’s abandoning me again, and it hurts like hell.
“The paint’s not that smudged,” I say defiantly. “I look fine.”
With a frown, he pulls me over to a full-length mirror and stands behind me in the glass. I can’t help liking what I see as I’m struck by how we look together. His tall, muscular body behind my seductive, curvier one. Even the contrast of our body paint colors is breathtaking.
A new flame of desire ignites between my legs. I wish the mirror had been closer while we were going at it. What a gorgeous show it would have been. Maybe we should do it again.
“You don’t look fine.” He gestures to my lower half, his harsh voice pulling me from my fantasy. “You look freshly fucked. I know you’re comfortable with that, but my image needs to be cleaner than that.” He turns away and crosses back to the door. “So, clean yourself up.”
I watch him in the mirror as he leaves, shutting the door hard behind him. My body is still singing from his touch, even as my gut wrenches from his cold demeanor.
My husband is such an asshole. Why, why do I keep allowing him to get to me like this? He fills me with pleasure, which gives me hope that we can make things work, and then afterward I get slapped in the face with reality. He’s not even close to forgiving me or letting me back into his life the way I’d hoped.
I’ve tried apologizing. I’ve tried using my body for seduction. I’ve tried making him jealous. I’ve lost more sleep over this marriage than I can keep track of. What more can I do?
Luka is making his feelings clear at every turn, yet time and time again, I keep putting myself in his path. He despises me.
So why can’t I seem to get over him?
Brooklyn
Chapter 10
“See this?” Emzee huffs. “The model probably tilted her head at the last second. That’s why you get these shadows in the hollows of her eyes and under her nose, instead of a soft illumination highlighting the planes of her face. Amateurish.”
She gestures at the dark areas on the photo with her pen and looks at me expectantly.
“Make sense, or am I just rambling?”
“No, it makes perfect sense,” I say. “Though it does look kind of artsy that way.”
She shakes her head. “Even if the guy arranged this shot intentionally, he shouldn’t have. Shooting fashion photography for DRM is all about being glossy. Flawless. Uncomplicated.”
The image is still beautiful, of course, but the way Emzee just described it may have made more of an impact on me than the actual photo.
We’re standing over a table in one of the large conference rooms at the Danica Rose Management offices, sifting through images from a photoshoot that a group of DRM models went to yesterday. Emzee is giving each of the hundred or so printouts a once-over with her professional eye. I’m just along to keep her company before we head out for lunch at Aroy.
We’ve looked at so many photos by now that the colors, faces, and backgrounds are blending together. I don’t know how she can weigh the small details anymore. Everything looks the same to me and my brain protests each time she asks for my opinion. She’s supposed to be judging a potential new photographer’s style—studying the angles, lighting, colors. Emzee doesn’t seem impressed. She’s been nitpicking every single image. Another Zoric perfectionist.
“There’s too much background focus in these ones. He should have played with the depth of field.” She pulls up another and holds it at arm’s length. “And look. See how her hip juts out all weird? That’ll have to be photoshopped, and you know how people hate that these days.”
I laugh at her angst. “Emzee, you’re stressing over every single picture.”
“Because none of them are right!”
“Then tell your brothers you can’t commit to hiring anyone yet,” I say more gently. “I’m sure there are plenty more out there who’d love to come in and show you what they’ve got.”
DRM has been testing out new portfolio photographers this week, preparing for an influx of work that they hope will be coming to their models soon. It’s all been very hush-hush.
“You seem edgy today,” I add, realizing how ridiculous it sounds as the words leave my mouth. Emzee is always edgy; it’s her default. Her cool, precise, no-nonsense demeanor rubs a lot of people wrong, but I’ve finally gotten used to it. In fact, I’m a little jealous of my sister-in-law’s ability to carry herself like an absolute queen.
She shrugs and starts to collect up the images. “Maybe. It’s just infuriating seeing subpar work from someone who made such a big deal about how they went to ‘Rhode Island School of Design’ and shot a campaign for ‘Chanel’ and whatever. It’s like being lied to, right to your face. Besides, I wanted to hire another woman. There’s way too much testosterone around here.”
Drumming my nails on the tabletop, I lean closer and smile. “Boy trouble?”
She narrows her eyes. “Look at the men in my family. You think I’m capable of dating?”
It’s a good mysterious answer from her. On one hand, she might mean that she has a skewed view of what men are like. On the other, maybe she’s saying she wouldn’t want to bring a guy home to meet them. It isn’t much of an answer, either way. Emzee could very well be dating someone in secret. But if that’s her choice, I’m happy to respect her privacy.
“Well, don’t worry,” I tell her. “You’ve got Munchkin and he’s perfect.”
“He is, isn’t he?” she coos. “Did I text you the picture of him in his bunny costume?”
“Yep.”
If Emzee has one true love in this world, it has got to be her French bulldog.