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I grinned. “Nah. She can stay there.”
When the women moved into view again, Alys looked better than I’d imagined when I thought this whole thing up. She wore red Converse, knee-high white socks, and an honest-to-God poodle skirt, complete with the poofy petticoat underneath.
It really was big.
On top of that, she had a black lace and satin, Madonna-style corset under a flannel shirt, and lace gloves. Her hair was teased up and out. Combined with the pink color, she’d make Cyndi Lauper jealous.
I made a kissing motion with my fingers and my lips. “Perfection.”
Alys blushed.
Correction. That was perfection. When I did the hand painting on the photo, both her hair and her cheeks were going pink, regardless of what part of the image they landed in.
Maybe she’d let me help her out of everything when we were done.
Just because I’d never crossed that line with her didn’t mean I hadn’t fantasized about it.
“I have to get up front again, but holler if you need me,” Aubrey said.
Alys pushed her toward the main shop. “We will. Thank you.” She turned to me when we were alone. “What’s with the video setup?”
I explained what Adam asked for, and her smile froze.
“Is that okay?” I wouldn’t force her into it.
Alys nodded. “Totally. It might take me a minute to warm up to the idea, but I’m in. Where do you want me?”
I pressed record, and stepped behind the Fuji to focus it. “Right there.” I guided her toward the right spot in our makeshift stage.
“What do you want me to do?” She fiddled with her fingers and tugged at her skirt.
“You don’t have to do anything fancy. Twirl. Show off the outfit. Sway your hips. Blow kisses at the camera.”
Alys did each thing, like she was checking off a mental list. The more she moved, the more the jerkiness of her motions coincided with her growing scowl.
I didn’t want this to frustrate her, and if we kept going like this, the feeling would become contagious.
I grabbed the remote control I had hooked up to the shutter, and joined her in front of the camera. When I stepped behind her and gripped her hips, her entire back went ramrod straight.
“Relax.” I pulled her closer, to press into her back.
“I’m trying.”
“No pressure.”
She barked a laugh. “Okay. Whatever.”
“I’m serious.” As I talked, I swayed my hips slowly, and moved her to the same beat. “It doesn’t matter what happens here.”
“It does. Getting into the contest rides on this.”
“No. These photos will look incredible if you’re up for it, because you look incredible. But the world won’t end if we need to switch directions. We always make the qualifying round, and we will this year, too.”
“I guess.” Despite the doubt in her voice, her movements were becoming more fluid.
The way she felt, pressed into me, was more tempting than I expected. Her heat. Her weight slightly leaned against me. Thank fuck there were about five billion layers of skirt between her ass and my half-hard cock. “You just have to flow with the movement,” I said. “Supermodels take hundreds of photos to get one good one. We’re allowed to do the same.”
“I’m not a supermodel.”
