Page 3 of Snapping the Ice
“I went to school for art, photography. Are you surprised?” He turned my face, inspecting me. “I’m going to add a little powder, just to take the shine off your face.”
“My uh, my face is shiny?” As he bent over, checking his tins of powders, I looked at myself. He’d made the blue of my eyes pop with the eyeliner. I’d seen my brother do this before he went to the gay bar. Maybe more straight men should wear makeup? Didn’t all the cool rockstars in the 1980s wear makeup? And they had plenty of chicks.
“Just a little.” He snatched up a tin. “This one.” He faced me again and patted the powder on my nose, forehead and chin with an even fatter brush than before. “There. You were gorgewhen you came in here, but now…” Pressing his lips together, he bit the lower one. “Anyway, you can get undressed by the clothing rack. Your PR person brought some gear in for you all to wear on the bottom.” Buzzing sounded. “Shit.” He stepped away from me. “Leave your chest bare.”
“Yeah, sure.” I strolled to the clothing rack full of breezers and a bin of hockey gear on the floor. Glancing at him, I rubbed my chin. It felt weird getting undressed in front of him. But why? I always undressed in front of guys in the locker room.
“Hey, Tate.” He huffed a sigh, holding his phone to his face. “There are two more today.”
I slid my jeans down my legs and kicked them off. Were pads really necessary? It seemed silly…I rummaged through the bin, found a size that worked and held them up.
“No, they’re…just hockey players. Why do you care?” He rubbed his forehead, pacing across the floor of the studio. “We talked about this. I have a job to do.” He glanced at me, his gaze raking over my body, and then he turned his back to me.
As I slid on some pads, I peered at him. Who was Tate? A friend maybe?
“Stop it. Don’t be like that.” He scoffed and sat at a black desk opposite the makeup stations, his body shrinking into the leather chair. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m listening. I won’t speak to you that way again.” Propping his elbow on the desk, he leaned his forehead against his hand.
What the fuck? Was he arguing with this Tate guy? I skimmed the breezers up my legs, fastened everything and rolled socks up my legs. No skates. I guess he wouldn’t be taking photos of my feet.
“There’s no need to come here. I’m fine. These guys are…” With his brows furrowing, he glanced at me. “They’re straight.”
I stepped toward him and planted my hands on my hips. Tate had to be a boyfriend. A very jealous one by the sound ofit. “Hey, I’m ready.” If he didn’t want a shiny face, should I put oil on my chest?
“Tate, I have to go. My next client is ready for his shoot.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Whatever you say.” He stood. “Bye. Love you.” His jaw muscle bulged, and he straightened his shoulders. “Sorry about that.” He threw the phone on the desk. “My boyfriend.” He pursed his lips.
Should I say anything? Fuck yes, I would. “Yeah. He sounds jealous.” I watched him. Would he admit it?
“Oh, he’s ah, protective. I think protecting me is his love language.” With a sigh, he strode to a small round table with his camera resting on top. “Anyway, use the oil there.” He glanced at the door. “I’ll have to do your back for you.” Biting the side of his lower lip, he jogged to me. “Turn around.”
“Okay.” I twisted, putting my back toward him. If I had a girlfriend whose job involved photographing jocks and oiling them up, would I be upset about it?
He squirted oil on his fingers and worked it over my shoulders.
As his fingers rubbed into my skin, sparks lit inside me. “Damn, you should have been a masseuse.” With a chuckle, I lifted my arm as he worked his fingers down my spine and around my hips.
“Tate says I’m terrible at…” he mumbled. “Never mind.” He blew out a stuttered breath. “You’re bigger than White.”
“White’s a center. I’m a D-man. We have to be bigger.” Plus, I’d been working on adding muscle to my frame this year. I turned and his hands landed on my abs, our gazes snapping together. His palms burned into my skin and my cock took notice. Ho-ly fuck. He has a boyfriend. Not like I was queer anyhow. What was wrong with my dick?
“Oh, uh, sorry.” His hands lingered for another beat, and hepeeled them off. “Here, you can do your front.” He handed me the bottle of oil and stepped toward his camera.
I checked the bottle’s label. “Muscle glaze posing oil?” Where the hell had he gotten this? I slathered some on my fingers and spread it over my chest and arms.
“Yeah, it’s what body builders use for competitions. It smells nice too, doesn’t it?” He fiddled with his camera.
I sniffed my hand and the scent of coconut and maybe lavender filled my nose. “Yeah, it does.” After setting the oil on the station counter, I strolled to the posing area, the lights already heating my skin. “Okay, how do we do this?”
“You pose and I shoot.” He held the camera to his face, and it clicked. Shifting positions, he clicked again. “Go ahead, do what feels natural.”
“So, no Arnold Schwarzenegger poses?” With a soft laugh, I pressed my hands together in front of my chest, making my pecs and arm muscles bulge.
He freed a sharp snort and dropped the camera to his side. “No, you’re supposed to look sexy, not silly.” His smile faded.
“Oh, so how’s this?” I turned to the side, curled one arm at shoulder height, flexing my biceps and the other arm behind me, while lunging. I ticked my brows. “Sexy?”
He held his camera up. “No, stop it.” He chuckled. “Give me something serious.”
“Like this?” I held my arms in front of me, making arcs, and flexed my pecs and arms. I made him laugh. Finally. His smile was amazing.
