Wild Temptation (Wild #1)(37)
Author: Emma Hart

I can. It’s zinging between us, coated in a sweet layer of lust.

“And we’re done,” Tyler says, lowering his camera. He turns away, and I take the robe offered to me by a wardrobe assistant. I’m tying the belt around my waist when he says, “Would you like to take a look?”

“I’d love to,” I respond, polite and professional. I join him at his laptop and take the seat in front of him.

He puts one hand on the back of the chair and one on a wireless mouse. He leans forward, and his breath flutters my hair, his thumb gently stroking my back. No one can see—they’re all too busy. This is a stolen private moment in an open, professional setting.

“Here we are.” He double-clicks a folder and a stream of images appears on the screen. “These are really great,” he says aloud. He bends down a little farther and whispers, “My c**k is f**king hard right now. I hope you appreciate the torture I’m about to endure.”

I chew my lip so I don’t smile. “I really like this one.” I point to one where I’m sitting on the floor, leaning back on my hand. My head is tipped back, my eyes closed, my other hand in my hair.

He groans quietly. “Liv, you’re killing me, babe.”

“This one is good, too.” I’m standing, looking over my shoulder at the camera.

“Don’t drive to work tonight,” he whispers, leaning forward even more. His lips brush my jaw. “I’ll get you after.”

“Thank you for letting me see these. They’re great.” I stand, knowing that my indifference is pissing him off. Truth is, I’m not indifferent. I’m aching for him.

“It was my pleasure.” He takes my hand and leans in to kiss my cheek. “And my pain,” he murmurs. “Wear black.”

I smile to myself as I leave the studio. In the dressing room, I change into jeans and a chunky sweater and wrap a scarf around my neck. My phone buzzes and I dig it from my purse.

Tell me you pissed him off. Please,

Dayton texts.

He’s not going to enjoy the next few hours, I know that much,

I send back.

That’s my girl. I’m joining him for “experience” in an hour. Tried getting there for yours but he said no. Douchenugget.

I laugh loudly and climb into my car. Before I start her up, I email Sheila and tell her that I think it went okay. The pictures really did look good—but then again, I’m up against a few known names.

No one knows me. I’m still just Liv from Seattle, trying to get a late break.

I head toward the gym to work off the takeout from last night before work. Of course, if I put any weight on, I can blame Tyler because it was his idea to eat calorie-and-carb-laden food and veg around on the sofa for two hours. I’m fairly certain any calories were burned after those two hours when his hands started wandering, but I’ll still blame him because I can.

And because it’s easier to blame him than myself. Easier to blame him for calories than to blame myself for wiping out a line.

But it was nice. More than nice, actually. Spending the evening with him, mostly chilling out, reminded me how great it is to do that. How much nicer it is for someone to stay after sex instead of walking straight out.

I get out of the car, figuring that I have half an hour on the treadmill before I have to leave for work. I change quickly and hit the second floor, grabbing a machine. I start up my iPod and put the earbuds in my ears. Waves by Mr. Probz blasts into my ears, and I’m drawn to the lyrics. Because I am drifting away. Slowly, but I’m drifting. Every line, every word, is so right.

My mind focuses back on last night as I increase the incline on the treadmill. I wish I could define whatever it is between us. It’s not quite no-strings and not quite dating. It’s an odd concept, hanging suspended in limbo. I wish I could put my finger on it. I wish I could figure out what makes a few strings with Tyler okay despite the obvious risks.

A sex addict and a love addict together is a preposterous idea. It’s pure stupidity. Idiocy. Fucked up.

It can only end in one way—and I’m not talking about an orgasm. Heartbreak.

I told Tyler that I’m trusting him. If only I knew what I was trusting him with. My heart? My body? My desires?

I know the last two are definitely true. I trust him with my body and my desires. I trust him to not abuse them, but instead to take them and spin them into pleasure. And he is sure as hell doing that.

In the several times we’ve been together now, we’ve only stretched the boundaries once. Both of us, I know, have more things we want to try. Both of us have ideas and dreams and wishes for what we can do…together.

Just like he said, we’re perfect together in the bedroom. We’re magic, completely in tune.

The music in my ears switches to my alarm and I slow my speed until I stop. I have no time to shower, so back in the dressing room, I douse myself in spray and dig my work clothes out from my bag. Black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt—with a low neckline.

I squirm into the clothes and drive toward the bar. I glance through the back window, and it’s completely dead. I’m supposed to finish at nine tonight, and my body tingles just thinking about it.

I join Rosie at the bar. She’s on the long shift today, starting at one and finishing at midnight. I look around the nearly dead bar and raise my eyebrows.

“Really? They need two of us for this?”

“Right?” she replies, sighing. “This is going to be a boring shift.”

We spoke too soon.

Our first few hours were quiet. It picked up a bit around dinner but then dropped off. We thought we were getting it easy until bam. A fifty-strong bachelorette party strolled through the door. Since then, a twenty-strong bachelor party has joined them. Not connected—we checked.

They’re splitting their time between us and the cocktail bar upstairs. Unfortunately, they seem to like the louder music and space to dance down here because they’re drinking us out of white wine.

I pour four glasses and add them to the tab before I turn and pour three beers straight off. Rosie is the same at the other end. Both parties have mixed and no one seems to care anymore. In fact, I think a bridesmaid and an usher are making out in the corner.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, and Rosie joins me at the register. “Liv, can you stay?” she asks. “I hate to do this, but I can’t handle this by myself. Donny won’t be here until eleven.”

“Of course. I’m not leaving you with these guys.” I turn and see two of the bachelorette party bitching at each other—heatedly. Jesus, nine p.m. and it’s started already. “Hey! Hey!”