Page 6 of Most Likely to Score
Everywhere, there were dicks. It was a parade of appendages and swinging parts, sticks and balls as far as the eye could see.
I love my job, I want to be respected, and I absolutely want to be taken seriously.
That’s why I won’t even risk looking at Jones’s ridiculous body, not now from my spot against the wall in the studio, and not even when the photographer, who I know well from having worked on tons ofSporting Worldspreads with her, lowers her camera and calls me over. “Come see these shots, Jillian. Pretty sure they’re the definition of cover-worthy.”
That piques my interest big time. A cover wasalways my secret hope. There are never any guarantees which athlete will make it from the pages all the way to the cover, and with a dozen elite stars from all sorts of sports tapped for the shoot, the odds are slim. But the chance to have one of my guys on the cover would be quite a coup for the team. And helpful for him.
I join her and peer at the back of her Nikon as she toggles through shot after shot of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. My mouth goes dry. A pulse of heat races down my body as I ogle him in the viewfinder. Fine, I’m not unbiased, but I dare anyone to disagree that he’s cover-worthy.
“Are any decent? Or do you think we need to shoot the whole round again on account of me being so unphotogenic?” Jones calls out, that deep, rumbly voice tingling over my skin.
“That’s true. You really do take awful pictures,” I say drily, since he knows he takes nothing of the sort.
“That’s what I figured. They’re all hideous, no doubt.”
I glance at Christine. “You can find a way to Photoshop these and make him look decent, right? Maybe halfway normal?” I ask, a desperate plea in my voice.
Christine laughs. “I’ll certainly do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“That’s a shame. Why don’t I check them out with you?” Jones suggests in a serious tone, going along with the ruse.
My pulse quickens to rocket speed when I hear him drop the football to the floor with athunk.
Dear Lord, he’s naked right now. One hundred percent naked.
Eyes up, eyes up, eyes up.
“I’ll just grab my towel,” he says, and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. He won’t be standing next to me in his naked glory after all. God bless towels so very much.
Jones strides over to us, and I’m so glad he has that towel around his waist. As he moves next to me to check out the pictures, his bare arm a mere millimeter away, he shifts something to his shoulders.
I gasp when I realize what he draped on them.
His towel.
His freaking towel is on his shoulders.
Jones Beckett, object of my dirty dreams, is in my personal zone, without a stitch of clothing on.
Christine appears unfazed. I want to know her trick.
I draw a quick, quiet breath, calling on all my reserves as the three of us crowd the camera, admiring this man’s ability to pose. “These are fantastic,” I tell him, keeping the mood as light as I can.
May he never know he’s killing me with his nearness.
“Glad you like them,” Jones says, no teasing or sarcasm now.
I glance up briefly from the small screen, and a bolt of heat runs from my chest down my body as his gaze meets mine.
I look away, and review the photos. Flipping through every gorgeous shot.
“I’m going to go back up this card now,” Christinesays when we’re through and excuses herself to huddle with her laptop in another section of the studio.
It’s just Jones and me, some lights, and some equipment. A black cloth hangs on the back wall. All noises echo. I flash him a professional smile and swallow past the dryness in my throat, fixing on my professional demeanor like it’s a well-tailored skirt. “Great work today. I’m so glad you could make time to do this issue.” As one of our marquee players, the man is in demand, so I need to make sure he knows how grateful I am.
“No need to thank me. It wasallmy pleasure.” Then he glances at the towel on his shoulder, like he just realized it was there. “Oops. My bad.” In a flash, he drops a football to the floor, then whips the towel around his waist.
Wait.He was holding the football against his dick the whole time? He must have picked it back up and carried it over. I didn’t notice because . . . I WAS TRYING NOT TO NOTICE.
