Modelling lingerie for her arch-nemesis was not on Christina’s to-do list.
Then again, neither was he.
Aaron Penn might be the talk of the advertising school they both attend, but to Christina he’s just an egomaniac with a cocky smirk to match. Fast forward to the end of term, when a class project gone wrong has her stripping down to a negligee and letting Aaron photograph her to advertise a line of women’s underwear.
She expects suggestive comments and smarmy-eyed stares, but when Aaron gets behind the camera he treats her body like a work of art. Even though all she’s got on is a scrap of satin, the room suddenly feels way too hot.
As the tension between them builds to expensive-panty-melting-levels, Christina finds herself caught between falling for the complicated artist who knows just what poses to put her in, and wondering why he acts like such an irritating hotshot around everyone else.
“No way,” I gasp, staring at the very large, very professional-looking camera in Aaron’s hands. “Did you just steal that?”
He looks up after setting the camera down on the desk next to the carefully arranged lingerie.
“Really?” he demands, cocking a brow. “Is your opinion of me actually so bad that your first assumption is to think I stole this?”
I give him a look that suggests exactly that.
“I didn’t steal it,” he confirms. “It’s mine. I…”
His eyes drift to the floor and he takes a moment to heft the gear bag he has thrown over his shoulder onto the desk, turning away from me as he does.
“I do photography sometimes,” he continues. “It’s just a hobby. I was going to come back in here after the shoot and play around a bit.”
“That looks like more than just a hobby.” I gesture towards all his gear as he turns back to face me.
He shrugs, avoiding my eye. “I mean, I have to look good in all my selfies.”
“It’s like being a douchebag is just a reflex for you,” I sigh. “I almost can’t even blame you for it.”
He starts unzipping the bag and pulls out a few lenses. As I watch, it occurs to me that even though we’ve now got a camera and someone who knows how to use it, our problems are far from solved.
“So do you have a C cup model hiding in that bag?” I ask him. “Because if not, we’re still screwed.”
“You must be at least a C cup,” he responds, not looking up from the lenses.
I’m about to ask what that has to do with anything when the realization of what he’s suggesting hits.
Oh hell no.
As promised, the
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- One signed copy of Thigh Highs