Page 1 of Hot Stuff
Walker
“C’mon, don’t be shy, show me the goods.”
I’m pretty sure the curl of my lips is not the cocky smirk I’m going for but when I drop my jeans, the smile I couldn’t muster two seconds ago blooms bright when the woman in front of me chokes on a sucked-in breath and lowers her camera.
Her gaze is glued to what I’ve revealed. It takes her a minute before she gulps—hard—averts her eyes and stammers, “W-where are the, ah, your, um”—she waves a hand in the direction of my groin as she swallows again—“underwear?”
Keeping her gaze averted, she scans the room and I study her. She isn’t bad looking. Actually, she’s kind of hot and could easily be on this side of the camera but my dick didn’t even twitch when she was looking at it.
One more thing to blame on Kristina, the woman I once thought I might spend my life with. Over the last year she systematically killed any possibility of forever we had right along with my libido.
This morning’s events dealt the final blow to my tolerance of her drama.
And that was before I sat in the doctor’s office and had the professional life I had planned from the age of four completely derailed.
Fuck my life. The whole thing is screwed.
Personal. Professional. Nothing is the way I thought it would be at this point in time.
Whatever relationship I had with Kristina was over months ago, and my career took the final blow today.
The bubble of hope I’ve been living in burst completely during today’s appointment.
I can’t deny it any longer.
As soon as news gets out, I’ll be lucky to keep this sponsorship deal, never mind fucking it up by flashing my dick at the photographer.
I’m reaching down for my pants when I hear, “All right, hot stuff, put that thing away.”
I can’t see the person behind the voice because of the studio lights, but the voice alone gets a reaction below the belt I haven’t felt in over a year.
“You always go commando, hot stuff?”
Clearing my throat, I answer, “No.” I don’t elaborate; there’s no way I’m offering up the reason for my lack of underwear. “This is a shoot for compression shorts, right?”
I’ll be honest. I figured the fact I had no clean briefs and this sponsorship being for Rogue’s latest athletic underwear line, turning up commando wouldn’t matter.
Clearly I should have asked where the merchandise was before dropping my pants.
“Yes, sorry I’m late.” I can hear amusement in the words as well as movement behind the glare of lights but still have no visual of the owner of that sexy rasp. “Although it was totally worth the perv.”
Shit! What the fuck am I doing?
Scrambling to pull up my jeans, I barely get them past my thighs when the hottest woman I’ve ever seen—and believe me when I say I’ve seen plenty of hot women, but this one…Jesus fucking Christ…—comes strolling into view.
In a split second that below the belt quiver goes from a mild tremor to a house-crumbling quake. And that floppy disinterested muscle between my legs turns into a flagpole.
If you Google the phrase ‘sex on legs’, you’ll get a screen filled with the vision walking toward me.
Fuck!
I cup my junk, needing both hands to cover the no longer flaccid appendage—the one that has deserted me in recent months but now shows up in all its glory.
I feel like a teenager with an unfortunate case of hormone overload.
The knowing smirk on the stunning face in front of me doesn’t help me at all. That sexy tilt of her lips makes me want to kiss her until we’re both stupid.
Hell. I’m already there. Stupid as any pre-pubescent boy getting his first look at an in-the-flesh naked woman.
