Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“Anyway, see you later,” I say. “Love you, Lola.”
“Love you, Dad.”
I let those words settle deep inside of me, as though they’ll form an effective shield against the bursting desire, trying to escape, to guide my actions constantly.
After hanging up the phone, I walk over to the window, looking down at Faye. It’s a warm day, and she’s wearing a summer dress since I told her there’s no need to dress professionally.
She’s got her hair down to her shoulders, the waviness drawing my eye, making my hand twitch with the urge to touch her.
She smiles tightly up at me, and I do my best to return it, my gaze feasting on her cleavage from this angle. My manhood gets rock-hard at the sight…and the thought of moving up behind her, reaching up and massaging her tits, pushing them together as she drives back with her full round ass.
Turning away, I decided to go downstairs to ask her about the model and check her progress on the Europe photos.
She’s doing a fantastic job so far, with only a few dozen left to go.
As I descend the stairs, a voice whispers knowingly inside of me, telling me I’m not going down to check on her work.
It’s just to see her, be near her, and let her scent move around me.
“Hey,” she says, smiling as I approach.
I have to force myself to behave in a civilized way when she turns to me, offering me an even closer look at her cleavage. I think about another man looking at her breasts trapped gorgeously in the dress, and I almost turn savage right here, grab her hard and tell her very fucking firmly that she’s only to show her body to me, just me, forever.
Nobody else, Faye. I don’t know what I’d do if another man tried to touch you.
“Hi,” I say, trying for another smile.
“She’s going to be here in thirty minutes,” Faye says. “Is the studio ready?”
I think about the studio upstairs, the city backdrop, the test shoot…all things that are making my belly swirl in disgust. It doesn’t matter if I’d never, in a million goddamn years, choose this woman over my Faye.
It doesn’t matter if nobody else could ever compete with her.
Faye doesn’t know any of this. Maybe she thinks I will get some sexual satisfaction from this shoot.
Or maybe she doesn’t care, seeing it only as a job.
She’s given me no sign she feels the same.
“Yeah,” I say after a way-too-long pause.
“And I’ll help with lighting and everything,” Faye continues, her voice trembling.
Is that jealousy? Do I want it to be?
“Yeah,” I say, voice grave. “What sort of model did you choose?”
“She’s beautiful,” Faye says. “I mean, drop-dead gorgeous. I think that’s what we wanted, right? Well, what you want for the contrast with the city, right?”
“Yeah.” My throat suddenly feels dry. “That’s the idea of the piece.”
The piece I already regret putting in motion.
I try to think about going through with this, staring at another so-called gorgeous woman, staring and photographing any woman who isn’t Faye.
“Can I see her?” I ask.
Faye looks at me, her eyes going wide. It’s like she’s going to let out a shaky sob, the way she’s staring at me as if my question has sent pain surging through her.
Or maybe that’s my imagination.
“Um, sure,” she murmurs. “Here you go.”
She reaches into the top drawer of her desk. Pride whelms in me when I see how much care she takes to keep her workstation tidy, everything neat, and in order.
The pride turns to nasty darkness when I wonder if she learned that from Lola.
She hands me the folder. Our fingers don’t touch, not like in Lola’s apartment when she handed me her phone. It’s probably for the best.
We’re alone here. I don’t think I’d be able to tame my burning lust, my rock-solid manhood, if we touched.
I open the folder, and my gaze moves quickly over the woman. She looks like dozens of other models I’ve seen, with long legs and a thinner build. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with her, but I don’t feel anything.
Not a stir. Nothing.
All I can think is, I’d rather photograph Faye instead.
The model’s name is Jeneva, and her phone number is listed.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning back to the staircase.
Back in my office, I dial Jeneva’s number. I feel my temples pulsing, hammering heavily, but I’m getting used to that now.
It’s the same way I’m getting used to falling asleep – when I finally do – with tempting images of Faye in my mind.
Or love-filled flickers, Faye, holding our child, walking toward me, radiant and beautiful on our wedding day, laughing at some family function as Lola stands at her side. And in the fantasy, there’s no hate between them, no drama, no resentment.
In this make-believe world, everything works out okay.