Overexposed: The Complete Boxset: A Virgin Meets a Bad Boy Romance Read Online Free
Author: Rae Lynn Blaise
Klimpt, Gustave Courbet, and Anthony Christian to name a few.” I rattle off the names, betraying my formative years spent in an exclusive fine arts schools. Just because my situation derailed my college plans, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid or uneducated. Who does this uncultured ass think he is?
“There is a very real difference between art and what you are doing. If Picasso were to paint you, would you get your roots touched up? Would you have hired the spray tan expert? Or a makeup artist to coat your face in powders and creams, lipstick and eyeliner? Would you wear those fake eyelashes and nails, have your pussy and ass waxed? He pointedly stares at each part of my body as his now-vile tongue spits out the words with a special brand of contempt.
Flushing with anger and embarrassment, I feel even more naked than I was earlier at the beach. It is the most exposed I’ve felt in my entire life.
“The women they painted were real . Viewing them is like taking a glimpse into their intimate space–their private moments meant only for themselves. They are raw and beautiful because they aren’t trying to impress someone. They’re not pretending to be this carefully constructed version of themselves to please the viewer. Anyone who is in this business,” he pauses, almost breathless, “who claims that they are making ‘art,’ is really just whoring themselves out to the highest bidder.”
My eyes burn with unshed tears. He’ll never really know how his barbed words stuck and burrowed into my heart, how close to home his opinion has struck. I can’t let him see how he’s affected me. I won’t let him see how he’s affected me. “I call your bullshit.”
Devon blinked, his head tilting a fraction of the inch to the side. “I wasn’t aware I was spewing bullshit.”
Straightening my spine, I fix him with my stare. “You can sit there being a self-righteous asshole and try to make yourself swallow your own crap about art and what constitutes it–but it was you that perpetuated today’s shoot. You who directed me with your words, with your wants, with your fucking raging hard-on. Maybe you should be giving this little speech to your own fucked up proclivities and to your cock that, to all outward appearances, tends to disagree with the shit you’re trying to convince everyone you’re so above.”
Devon’s face is now unreadable, and I’m boosted by his silence. “You were well aware of what type of shoot you were signing up for, so your whining is falling on deaf ears. But I’ll give you some food for thought: if what you’re doing isn’t art, then what kind of artist are you?”
I don’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I turn on my heel and head inside. I pick up my plate of now cold food and make my way to my master suite. Once the door is shut and locked behind me, I place the plate on the side table and slump to the floor. Burying my face into my hands, I finally release the hot tears his confrontation has cost me. And while I’m proud of the fact that I stood up to him, his words battered against the armor I use to protect Anna from the lifestyle of Sierra. It was torture to not shout my secret in his face and make him eat his words.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling to be judged so harshly by someone I’m so deeply attracted too. I hate this. It’s dangerous to want his approval–a need that still stings and burns even after a long, slightly too-cold shower. Even though I usually don’t look at myself in the mirror, tonight I do. Uncounted minutes tick by as I study the shade of my brown eyes, the honey gold of my hair that I’ve combed and pulled back into a tight, wet ponytail. I don’t know why I never look at myself–I’ve tried not to overanalyze it. I just don’t. I only look at myself when I’m flipping through photos from shoots, and then it’s with a calm, detached business sense as I decide which shots to feature and which to cut.
I’m not sure how to feel about who I
“There is a very real difference between art and what you are doing. If Picasso were to paint you, would you get your roots touched up? Would you have hired the spray tan expert? Or a makeup artist to coat your face in powders and creams, lipstick and eyeliner? Would you wear those fake eyelashes and nails, have your pussy and ass waxed? He pointedly stares at each part of my body as his now-vile tongue spits out the words with a special brand of contempt.
Flushing with anger and embarrassment, I feel even more naked than I was earlier at the beach. It is the most exposed I’ve felt in my entire life.
“The women they painted were real . Viewing them is like taking a glimpse into their intimate space–their private moments meant only for themselves. They are raw and beautiful because they aren’t trying to impress someone. They’re not pretending to be this carefully constructed version of themselves to please the viewer. Anyone who is in this business,” he pauses, almost breathless, “who claims that they are making ‘art,’ is really just whoring themselves out to the highest bidder.”
My eyes burn with unshed tears. He’ll never really know how his barbed words stuck and burrowed into my heart, how close to home his opinion has struck. I can’t let him see how he’s affected me. I won’t let him see how he’s affected me. “I call your bullshit.”
Devon blinked, his head tilting a fraction of the inch to the side. “I wasn’t aware I was spewing bullshit.”
Straightening my spine, I fix him with my stare. “You can sit there being a self-righteous asshole and try to make yourself swallow your own crap about art and what constitutes it–but it was you that perpetuated today’s shoot. You who directed me with your words, with your wants, with your fucking raging hard-on. Maybe you should be giving this little speech to your own fucked up proclivities and to your cock that, to all outward appearances, tends to disagree with the shit you’re trying to convince everyone you’re so above.”
Devon’s face is now unreadable, and I’m boosted by his silence. “You were well aware of what type of shoot you were signing up for, so your whining is falling on deaf ears. But I’ll give you some food for thought: if what you’re doing isn’t art, then what kind of artist are you?”
I don’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I turn on my heel and head inside. I pick up my plate of now cold food and make my way to my master suite. Once the door is shut and locked behind me, I place the plate on the side table and slump to the floor. Burying my face into my hands, I finally release the hot tears his confrontation has cost me. And while I’m proud of the fact that I stood up to him, his words battered against the armor I use to protect Anna from the lifestyle of Sierra. It was torture to not shout my secret in his face and make him eat his words.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling to be judged so harshly by someone I’m so deeply attracted too. I hate this. It’s dangerous to want his approval–a need that still stings and burns even after a long, slightly too-cold shower. Even though I usually don’t look at myself in the mirror, tonight I do. Uncounted minutes tick by as I study the shade of my brown eyes, the honey gold of my hair that I’ve combed and pulled back into a tight, wet ponytail. I don’t know why I never look at myself–I’ve tried not to overanalyze it. I just don’t. I only look at myself when I’m flipping through photos from shoots, and then it’s with a calm, detached business sense as I decide which shots to feature and which to cut.
I’m not sure how to feel about who I
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