Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) Read Online Free Page B

being sexy."
    "Am I?" He cocks a brow.
    "You know you're sexy. Don't pretend otherwise." Thank goodness for my camera. I could never, in a million years, say anything this potentially embarrassing without the photography equipment shielding me. "Give me a few more. Be yourself."
    He does. He shifts back on the bed. Oh lord. He unzips his jeans. Slides them off his hips. To his knees. His feet. He leans back, over the edge of the bed.
    Oh, shit. "Tom, you're going to fall."
    He does fall. With quite the thud. I bite my lip, bracing myself for a bad reaction.
    But he jumps to his feet and laughs it off. He's a little scraped, but it's no big deal.
    I set my camera down. "Are you okay?"
    He nods to his scraped knee. "Occupational hazard."
    He's effortless about everything. It must be nice to take life in stride. To be fearless.
    I look back at Tom. "Those are great. I should have plenty."
    "Let me see."
    "After I edit them." And after a cold shower. "You're a good model."
    "I know." He gets back into his clothes and walks to the door. His voice gets serious. "You can tell me tomorrow. About what it is you're running from."
    Oh. That. I nod despite the dread forming in my gut. "Goodnight."
    "Sweet dreams, kid."
    The heavy door slams into the frame.
    I plug my computer into the wall and get to uploading the images. The slow progress bar gives my thoughts time to sink in. They're heavy enough to weigh me down.
    My first priority is getting far away from Bradley. Done. For now. My second is getting this application in. If I get the job, I'll move into a nice building with security and front gates that lock. If I don't get the job, well, I'll figure out something less depressing than crashing in my brother's spare room until the end of time.
    One day, when I'm good enough, I'll open my own studio. I'll get magazine assignments. Editorials. Portraits. Beautiful photos that are packed with personality. I can fill in the gaps with headshots and boudoir.
    Finally, the photos finish uploading. I go over them one by one. In every single shot, Tom is relaxed, confident, hot as the molten center of the Earth. It must be nice being that comfortable with yourself, your sexuality. Knowing how badly everyone wants you.
    He lives with gusto. I try to imagine myself in one of his poses, confident and sexy and seizing the fucking day, but the mental image won't come together. The Willow in my imagination is awkward and stiff, afraid of what might happen if she so much as takes off her tank top, desperate to get out of the spotlight and behind the camera.
    I narrow it down to ten photographs. There's no time to give each image the editing it deserves. Better be as efficient as possible. Exposure. Color. Contrast.
    My eyelids get heavy. Okay. It's nearly three a.m. I can finish this in the morning. I get ready for bed, set the alarm clock to give me enough time to finish editing, and surrender to the embrace of the comforter.
    It's been such a long day.
    ***
    T he weight shifts as a man sits on the bed. "I've been thinking about you all night," he says. "Can't sleep."
    The voice is familiar. I need it in my ears. Need him in my bed.
    I shift closer, until the heat of his body warms mine. That electricity again. This time it's not a hint. I'm buzzing like a power line.
    His mouth goes to my neck. Then down my chest. He pulls my tank top aside. His tongue flicks over my nipples. It's aggressive and precise at once. Nothing like with Bradley. Leagues better.
    His lips trail down my stomach. Below my belly button. His hands go to my hips. He pulls my shorts down an inch. His lips press into the now revealed skin. He does it again. Again.
    Until he's almost there.
    Who is he? I should know, I should care.
    Then his mouth is on me, and my whole body is abuzz. I thrash and tug at his hair.
    My lips part and a sound escapes. A moan.
    And then I'm saying something.
    "Tom."
    His name.
    What, Tom?
    There's no telling with his face planted between my thighs. His