Page 42 of In Love with Lewis Prescott
When he disappears, I take a second to think about what’s about to go down. A nude photo shoot of Lewis with me as the photographer. Holy shit.
“Are you ready?”
Lewis flashes a crooked smile at my question, his eye contact steady, completely unfazed by the fact that in a matter of seconds, he’ll be totally naked in front of me.
“I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
His hand falls to the belt of his robe, and like a reflex my gaze follows. He moves like he’s about to loosen it, and my eyes widen. He tightens it instead, and I quietly clear my throat.
“Hey now. Eyes up here.”
My cheeks catch fire at his teasing. When I look up at him, he winks, which makes me flash what I’m certain is the goofiest grin ever.
I quickly reel it in. “Just doing a quick wardrobe check.”
“Wardrobe check? On a nude photo shoot?” He chuckles. “How very thorough of you. And professional.”
“That’s me. One hundred percent professional all the time.” I turn toward the veranda, twisting my head away so that he can’t see the giddy smile I fail to hold back.
He follows me out onto the veranda and I point to the chaise lounge. “Wanna start there?”
“Sure.”
Sweat beads at my brow. And the back of my neck. And between my boobs. I’m about to photograph one of the hottest TV stars in the world. In my house. Butt-ass naked.
I swallow all the saliva in my mouth and hold up his phone. “Whenever you’re ready. Whatever pose you’d like to start with.”
“I was actually wondering if you had any ideas on where you’d like me to start. I know this is pretty casual, but you’re the photographer—the one in charge. You get to tell me what to do.”
My gaze lands on his hand while he plays with the knot of his robe.
“Where do you want me?”
My throat goes dry at his perfectly reasonable question.
What are you, thirteen? Get it together.
I start to answer, but then he pulls the belt completely loose and in one swift move shrugs off his robe. A millisecond later I’m staring at Lewis in his birthday suit.
I tell my eyes to behave themselves. I remind myself of the manners my parents ingrained in me since I was a little kid, of how it’s impolite to stare. But if my parents were standing here looking at Lewis in all his nude glory, they’d be staring wide-eyed too. Anyone would be.
Any semblance of the half-hearted professionalism I’ve been maintaining ever since we kicked off this shoot goes flying out the window. Because all I can process in this moment is how incredible Lewis looks.
I scan his body from head to toe in a millisecond, but I capture a lot in that small amount of time. His six-foot-three frame is a beautiful blend of lean muscle, tan skin, and golden body hair. And lines. So many hard lines. Like the ones running along his abs. And his chest. And separating his impressive quads from his hamstrings. And those deep V lines running along his obliques that lead straight to his...
The breath I let out while I fixate on his impressive length is so hot, I fog up my own glasses.
Dear god. You are such a cliché.
“I look okay, then?”
I divert my bulging eyes back up to his face, which is sporting a cheeky grin.
I clear my throat. “I think you’re well aware of how you look.” I’m proud of just how steady my voice sounds when I’m a raging five-alarm fire on the inside.
His smile widens, and that dimple I love so much appears in his right cheek.
“I am aware. But it’s always nice to hear from the photographer on a shoot if they think I look good. Helps build up the confidence to get a professional’s opinion, you know?”
