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She’s included a link at the bottom of her text.
Part of me is a little scared to tap on that link. The last thing I need is memories of that day coming back. How badly Gage and I wanted each other. And howgoodit was when we finally gave in.
But the other part of me is curious. I’ve never had a formal photoshoot like that, and I can’t help but wonder how the photos turned out.
I type out a quick message to Natasha reassuring her that Gage’s bad mood at the shoot wasn’t her fault and thanking her for sending us the photographs.
Then I click the link.
The first photos are about what I expect. Gage and I looking like a beautifully lit—but incredibly awkward—couple. But as the photos go on, the awkwardness falls away. The photos look artsy, expensive, and glamorous.
But they’re also incredibly sexual.
In the shots where he’s kissing me, Gage doesn’t look like a man who’s faking it. If anything, he looks like some old-fashioned romantic hero who’s finally returned from the wars to lay claim to his woman. He’s that kind of beautiful.
I can hardly believe that the woman he’s kissing in that photo is me.
Because I look gorgeous too. Between the dress, the lighting, and the angle of the photo, I look like...well, like the kind of woman a man like Gage would fall for.
Then there’s the ones of us kissing with our backs to the camera. Somehow the anonymous nature of these photos makes them even hotter. I find myself staring at Gage’s hands, first on my bare back, then tangled in my hair. I can’t help remembering all the things those hands did once we got back to the apartment.
I scroll to the final photo. The one where Gage is braced over me, kissing the side of my neck while my face is tilted toward the camera. My eyes are dark, my cheeks flushed, and my mouth parted. Gage looks like some kind of powerful sex god, and I’m his willing sacrifice.
I shift under the sheets and suddenly realize how turned on I am.
What would Gage think if he saw these photos?
Why the hell did I tell him we should only be a one-time thing?
There’s a soft knock on my bedroom door.
I sit up, heart racing. “Yes?”
Gage opens the door, frowning into my dark room. “You were asleep.”
“No. I was looking at...” I trail off as my courage fails me. “I wasn’t asleep. What’s up?”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether or not he wants to press for details.
In the end, he looks away. “The Colorado Coyotes are inviting potential buyers to tour the facility and meet the team’s leadership. We’re going this weekend.”
“We?”
“We. Unless you have objections?”
You rescued me tonight like a knight in shining armor, I’m pretty sure I might be falling for you, and I’m embarrassingly close to masturbating to photos of you, I think. The last thing I need is forty-eight hours traveling with him, pretending to the whole world we’re a couple.
But I can’t say any of that. Instead, I smile and say, “What objections would I have? I’ve never been to Colorado. It will be fun.”
“Good,” he says, firmly.
But he doesn’t leave.
For a second we just stare at each other. Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m sitting in bed, bra-less in threadbare pajamas.
If I invited him into my bed right now, would he do it?
And if he did, would it mean anything to him? Or would I eventually be just one of the dozens of women Gage Crawford has fucked and forgotten?
