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Her eyes crinkle.
Mosely enters the room, his footsteps thudding loud.
“Sir, what’s the holdup? The director is asking if there’s something wrong.”
There’s something wrong, alright.
Yaya gives Mosely a thumbs-up, her smile far more cheerful than it has a right to be.
“I’m going to take that as an ‘I’m ready’,” Mosely says, returning a hesitant thumbs-up in our direction.
Yaya gestures for me to follow her back to the tape that marks our spot.
I stomp behind her, unwilling to let go of our conversation. When she looks up at me, I sign, “Are you still talking to any of those male models?”
She tilts her head up, eyes feigning innocence.
I know she understands me.
“Yaya.”
She shakes her head and motions for me to come closer.
Gruffly, I draw near.
She presses a hand to me, right above the undone button of my shirt. Her nails scrape the hair sprinkled over my chest and I forget how to breathe.
Pulling her eyes from my chest to my face, Yaya signs, “Is it okay if I touch you?”
My heart decides now would be a good time to drop-kick all twelve of my ribs.
I cinch my fingers into fists quickly. I don’t trust myself to respond in a polite manner. I’m ravenous for this woman and I doubt she understands how much I want her. Where I want her. How filthy my mind is.
That stupid contract.
It’s got me bound to keep my distance.
But she’s free to do what she likes.
You can touch me anywhere, sweetheart. What do I need to take off first?
I hear the distinct sound of footsteps and voices as the door to the studio opens and the entire crew comes pouring back in.
My heart isn’t slowing down.
Yaya glances down at my pants and looks pleased.
Naughty girl. Is this revenge for teasing her in the car?
I take deep breaths. Long, soul-deep breaths.
And think about baseball, Cullen Tech and Carmichael’s wrinkly face. It’s enough—just barely enough—to keep the entire room from knowing how much one little question from Yaya Williams affected me.
The lights turn back on and the crew members fix our makeup and make slight adjustments to the set. We’re drawn away from each other by our individual glam team, but I keep turning back to stare at Yaya.
“Mr. Sullivan, please,” the tall, green-haired makeup artist rasps at me, “your girlfriend won’t fly away when you’re not looking.”
I scowl at him but remain still until they’re done.
