Angela, Carla - Full Exposure (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (4 page)

Hunter nodded, licking his lips. ‘I know the suburb.’ Lake rummaged in her backpack for her notepad again, scrawled the address on a sheet of paper and ripped it off, handing it to him, although not before adding her phone number in enlarged handwriting at the bottom. So he could ring and let her know he was on his way, Lake told him, more so in truth informing herself of her reasons.

Again, their hands brushed as the paper was exchanged, causing an electrical current to bolt straight from his fingertips to her nether region.

Prising away her hand, Lake ducked her head and quickly murmured, ‘I’ll let myself out,’ before heading back toward the glass, bifold door, hips swiveling.

* * * *

It was late. Lake was on her laptop by lamplight in her bedroom, knowing she should turn in, that she had a lot of work to get through tomorrow, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the screen and the photos of Hunter. Particularly the shots of him in the pool, like a half-naked merman.

Who was this mysterious guy? What made him tick? He certainly wasn’t the type of man to sign up to online dating or to, in fact, be photographing. He was much more than just a pair of none-too-hairy nostrils or someone with a knack for photographing himself in the most unflattering of lights.

Lake’s butterscotch eyes raked over the screen and his dripping wet frame depicted. From his ocean-like peepers and shadowy jaw to his well-defined pectorals and bulging arms, she drank all of him in.

While the photo didn’t show it, when he’d emerged from the pool, her mind’s eye had captured the faint, manly snail trail, snaking down from his bellybutton to below the water’s surface, like an arrowed sign, saying, ‘This way.’ It made Lake feel hot and heavy just thinking about it

Crash!

Lake jumped, slamming her laptop shut ashamedly. Her heart beating, her gaze was pulled toward the open window of her one-storey unit.

Then she let out a sigh. ‘Cupcakes!’

It was just her ginger cat—an attractive redhead like Lake—jumping inside for the night, knocking over a small pot of lavender on the window ledge in the process. Really! This was her signal to go to bed, to pry her hungry eyes away from Hunter’s photos. She was like a junkie wanting her fix.

Powering off her laptop resolutely, she walked around her double bed to the window, picked up the lavender pot, pushing the tiny amount of fallen soil back in, and scooped Cupcakes up into her arms, carrying him to his basket at the foot of her bed. He was the only bedroom companion she needed. She didn’t need her heart broken again by any man.
Hu
man.

Lake was obviously more tired than she’d given herself credit for, because moments after she’d crawled into bed, she was asleep. But it wasn’t a
sound
sleep exactly. Before long she was writhing about, clutching at the starched, white sheets with sweaty hands, softly moaning.

In her dreams, it wasn’t Cupcakes who’d pounced through the window, but Hunter, like a creature of the night. In his package-hugging, faded jeans and V-neck, blue tee, revealing just a hint of manly, tanned skin and tufts of blond hair, he’d climbed through the window and gently called out her name, like a finger tracing its way down her spine.

She’d awakened immediately, at least in her dreams, propping up on her elbows, albeit paralyzed, superglued to her pillow-top mattress. Her strappy, deep purple, silk nightie betrayed her, though, by falling from her milky shoulders, revealing her erect, rosebud nipples beneath. She wanted to protest, to tell him to leave immediately. But she couldn’t speak. The cat had got her tongue, so to speak.

In her dream, he’d gazed at her with those X-ray-like, piercing blue eyes and then, in a single stride, was standing at the foot of her bed. His eyes now fixated on her nipples, he slowly—tantalizingly—unbuckled his chocolate-hued belt. Then, changing the tempo, he thrust off his jeans, quick as a flash, so that they pooled somewhere below the foot of the bed in a denim-coloured heap. It was then that, at last, a sound came out of Lake’s lips. A gasp.

Because just like Hunter had to chosen not to wear footwear earlier on, it also seemed that he preferred not to wear underwear—at least in her dreams. Standing to attention now, straining against the outside hem of his T-shirt, was a thick, vein-riddled shaft, like an irresistible lollipop. His crown jewels. A soft moan bubbled out of Lake from deep within.

Before he removed his T-shirt, Hunter was kneeling on the bed, tugging at Lake’s nightie. All Lake, in her dream, could do was obediently sit up and put her arms up over her head and let him pull it off, so that the cool material skimmed over her skin, causing it to break out in a rash of goose bumps. A second later, though, she was distracted by his full, pink lips drawing closer and closer. Lake sucked in a breath.

Then she felt wetness on her right nipple. He’d plunged his mouth there and was sucking and sucking. Like it was a chocolate ball, and he wanted to get to the sweet, honeycomb centre. Lake felt slick between her thighs. Trying to take control, she clawed at the T-shirt fabric on his back.

Instead of taking the hint to finally remove it, he stopped nipple-sucking and pinned her arms up past her ears on the bed with his hands. Then that beautiful mouth of his dipped toward her own, and it was like a rocket landing when it made contact, sizzling like a hot plate. His tongue thrust in, exploring every nook and cranny of her mouth.

Then, disappointingly, he stopped again, removing his hands and lips from hers, leaving her freezer-cold for a moment. But it was only to rip off his T-shirt and just as quickly help her discard her panties.

Then Hunter had her thighs clamped between his own, the warmth of his skin against hers pushing her temperature to boiling point, and with a suddenness, he plunged into her wet centre, massaging her handful-sized, milky breasts simultaneously as he rode her. And rode her. And rode her. In her dreams, Lake felt every thrust like a shockwave reverberating through her. She clutched at his toned buttocks, pushing him in deeper. And deeper. It was an exquisite feeling.

Then she felt herself at the edge as though dangling on a cliff top, looking down. Then, suddenly, like a tsunami, a flood of ecstasy was washing over her, engulfing her every pore, her every cell, causing her body to shudder under his as wave after wave hit, his own body echoing her rhythms. Finally, Hunter flung himself beside her, breathlessly, satisfied…

Then, mid-pant herself, Lake’s eyes had suddenly snapped open, the night air now cool on her skin, her nether region still throbbing. Tender. Raw. All at once she was alone again, sans Cupcakes curled up in his basket at the foot of her bed. Lake’s eyes peeked over at the black, rectangular alarm clock on her bedside table. It flashed 12:03 a.m. in red digits. Darn. She’d only been asleep for an hour, and she was already having dirty dreams about Hunter.

Brushing away her disappointment that it was all just a dream, Lake threw back the covers, padded out of bed toward the window, and slammed it shut. Just to be sure.

Then she nestled back into bed, avoiding the wet patch, willing herself to concentrate on counting sheep instead and strictly
not
uberhot wolves in sheep’s clothing or Adonises in bedraggled attire.

Still, she couldn’t help from feeling a pit of dread in her stomach at the prospect of handing over those slick, glossy photos to him. As soon as he uploaded them, he’d no doubt have hordes of women beating a path to his door.

Right now, she much preferred the idea of him marketing himself via his up-the-nose shot than anything she’d helped produce. Darn it all.

Chapter Four

Lake ran a quizzical eye over the black-and-white photo held up between her fingers in her darkroom’s dim, red lighting. She hoped to use the picture as a replacement for another she wasn’t entirely happy with in her exhibition. She bit her lip, tracing the naked, feminine curves in the photo with her eye, pulling at her ponytail absentmindedly with her other hand.

The headless woman captured sat with her legs drawn up to her chest. She looked vulnerable. Stripped bare, literally and otherwise. At her feet lay a thorny rose, symbolizing beauty and danger, with the power to cut deep, and cast aside was an abandoned, glittering engagement ring. Lake hoped it suitably conveyed the gut-wrenching, dark flipside of love she was aiming for.

And what the audience at the exhibition opening wouldn’t actually know? That the headless woman was
her
. Lake had put the camera on timer and set up the lighting, as well as posed for the shot. It was self-portraiture.

Deciding she was, at last, happy with the quality of the redone image, Lake gently put it aside on the work bench. She’d take it to the gallery later for display. Then, snapping her thin, white plastic gloves back on, she dipped her fingers into the tray of watery photographic fixer to dislodge another replacement photo.

While Lake used digital photography for her day-to-day work, in her spare time she loved the old-school process of printing from film, despite the foul-smelling chemicals that came with it. The quality of the image, the grain of the film, the magic of the whole process… Lake liked to think of the familiar process as her own form of meditation. She had blacked out the windows of the old toolshed at the back of her unit to create her own makeshift darkroom and spent every spare moment there. She didn’t like anyone to disturb her mid-process, except Cupcakes, who was now winding his way between her legs in a vigorous figure eight.

Knock, knock!

Lake jumped, almost pushing over the tray of fixer in shock. Who the heck could that be? A salesperson, trying to sell her insurance? Girl Guides proffering cookies? Better just to ignore it and hope they’d go away.

‘Lake, are you in there?’

The voice sounded slightly muffled from behind the shed door, but its owner was unmistakable, that silky and commanding sound.

Hunter.

An image from her dream—him buck naked at the foot of her bed, his manhood standing to attention—flashed through her mind. Immediately, Lake’s skin prickled and grew hot, like she’d just rolled in poison ivy.

How the hell did he know she was here? Had he been wandering around her unit, checking out just how
un
-palatial it was compared to his abode?

Darn! Of course. She’d put her mobile phone on silent while she worked. She must have missed his call, letting her know he was on his way.

She could still ignore the door-knocking, insurance salesman or not, and pray he’d go away. Maybe she could even slip the disc of photos for him under the door, which she had tucked away in her work-apron pocket, and say that she couldn’t be disturbed mid-process? After all, she’d expected him to come by much later.

But, no, that wouldn’t seem professional. Besides, her last photo was in the fixer, so it wouldn’t wreck the image if she allowed him to open the door, bringing in the sunlight with him and his manly, intoxicating, un-hobo-like scent. She had no excuse. There was nothing else to do.

She’d keep it brief, and soon he’d be out of her life—for good. No doubt in the arms of some curvy brunette or willowy blonde. Not a pale redhead with comparatively miniature, handful-sized breasts. So why did her nether region quiver all the same?

Snapping her gloves off, she moved toward the door, stepping over Cupcakes in the process. ‘Coming!’ she called out, before instantly clapping her hand over her mouth. Why, oh why, couldn’t she have thought of a better, totally nonsexual word to say at that moment? Thank God for the dim, red lighting. She could always blame the blush no doubt creeping over her face on that.

Lake waited at the peeling, paint-ridden wooden door, her hand on the handle, sucking in deep breaths. Then, squaring her shoulders, she flicked her wrist to open it, pushing on its frame. The door creaked a little on its hinges in protest before fully opening.

The sunlight pierced her in the eye before she could focus on Hunter’s back-lit, hulking frame a few steps from the doorframe. Today, like after his dip in the pool before the photo session, he looked clean-cut and pin-up worthy in a fitted, black tee and those same faded denim jeans, which hugged his frame.

There wasn’t a hint of vagrant about him today, unlike their initial meeting. The radiant, golden light encircling his frame contrasted with the wicked, devilish thoughts she’d just had of him. Why the hell would he need to market himself online for love? She’d have him right there and then on the concrete path.