I dust sand off my ass when I stand tall. “It’s okay. You should go to bed,” I suggest. “It's another early start tomorrow. No rest for the wicked.” A faint blast of air shoots down my nose. I can’t remember the last time I was filthy dirty and wicked.
Her shoulders drop, and she sighs. “Are you sure? We can grab a cocktail after you hit the gym?” She offers a forced eyebrow quirk and tries to hide a yawn as it creeps into her mouth. There’s no doubt Alexa would fall asleep before a cosmopolitan cocktail wet her lips.
“I’ll go for a swim after my session, and then I’ll turn in early for the night. I’m exhausted, too.” My bare feet plough the sand as I move towards her and onto the boardwalk. I throw an arm around her shoulder and kiss the side of her head. “We’ll do something tomorrow, when the shoot is over.”
“Okay, pretty boy. They were happy with the lighting today. You should get finished early tomorrow, and the afternoon will be your own.” She pushes my chest, nudging me away. “I know you’re golden, Noah, but that fake tan is over the top. Even the mosquitos are sticking to it.”
“Tell me about it.” I smirk, swatting away an airborne creature the size of a toy helicopter.
“Here.” She pulls my phone from her bag. “Why did you turn your notifications back on when they overwhelm you so much? You got two hundred and forty-five messages after the beach view story.”
I blink slowly. “Oh, did I?” The muscles in my shoulders squeeze with the casual lie. I switched them on back in Ontario on route to the airport, should Rowan get in touch or something like that.
“Why are you acting shady?” Alexa swipes the phone away from my outstretched hand.
“I’m not.” Amber eyes squint, assessing me like she always does. “Phone please, I have to call Willow.” I manage not to rub my jaw because I’m an awful liar, and she’d see right through me.
“Willow?” I sense suspicion in her high pitch and see a twitch of inquisitiveness stirring in her curled fingers.
“Willow.” I drawl. “My sister.” This game isn’t going anywhere fast. I want my phone back, now. “Go to bed, Alexa.”
After a beat, Alexa shifts and begrudgingly offers me the phone with tight lips pushed outwards. “You’re acting odder than normal, pretty boy. I smell a rat, or a female perhaps?”
My laughter rolls with the waves meeting the shore, hoping she’ll leave me in peace to be non-committal about the pestering interest I have for a woman. “Yeah, you smell two hundred and forty-five women, each one of them hoping I’ll read their message and reply. It’s been a long day. I’m going to take a shower.”
I saunter away, leaving her on the sandy walkway. The hotel is only a few feet from where I posed a gazillion times in various colors of sport shorts, low armhole tees and skimpy Speedos. The company gifted the entire wardrobe to me in the hope I’ll wear the collection in public, but I’ve committed to only wearing Travis’s new branding when I’m not working.
The bathroom walls are marbled and clean with a fresh essence of eucalyptus to invigorate tired minds. Large seashells adorn flat surfaces with an oceanic theme, and I oddly think of seahorses, which quickly turns to Rowan. Holy fuck, I’m becoming obsessed with a stranger in a damn photo.
My reflection is lit up by a line of uncovered bulbs framing the mammoth-sized mirror. If I angle myself the right way, I’ll get the perfect shot of washboard abs and bronze shimmer. I snap once, twice and then on repeat. To the untrained eye they all look the same, but to me there are obvious differences. It angers me how shallow I feel as I flip from image to image. They’re saved to my phone, so I can pick one later.
As I hold the phone in my hand, my horny dick brain takes over, and I flick through the unread private messages in my social media account. Bingo. Rowan Hudson replied to my beach view story. I tap it open to find an overcast sky, minus her foxy face and copper hair. “College life,” I mutter, reading her hashtag.
It’s not any old snapshot. Professional shading has highlighted heavy clouds, and the precise slant of the camera catches the peak of a church spire with all its elaborate architecture. The composition is a vivid contrast of man-made versus nature. I’m putting way too much emphasis on it, probably because it's one of those pictures that draws you inside with minor details, or because Rowan took it. Who knows?
When I save it to my phone, a pinch of discontent seeps in. I want more. I scroll along and there it is—a photo of her feet. Shit. I missed this one and her comment about a perfect 10. I’m widening and stretching the damn image to find any trace or clue that will give me more intel.
Delicate ankles lead to pale shins, and then the image cuts off. How incon-fucking-siderate. My balls are all tingly and hot. Rowan’s not the type to send a sexy photo, or she would have done that already, but this—this is sexier than a naked woman straddling a rocket ship birthday cake. Sounds weird, but that’s the unimpressive images I get pinged into my private inbox regularly. That’s also the reason I turned off my notifications until yesterday.
I stare at her lacquered black nails and elegant toes, wishing she added a voice note too. A wave of lust sucks me down a rabbit hole, imagining those ankles locked around me and her legs gripping my hips as I deepen my dick into her. Fuck yeah. I should be grossed out by feet and turned on by tits, but hell if I know why this evokes something inside me.
I think of her innocent eyes widening, her pearly cheeks blushing and my dick in her throat. This basic photo isn’t enough. I’m interested in the whole package. Every inch of skin, stripped bare, scattered in goosebumps because of my touch. And those toes, they need to curl with pleasure when I’m devouring her.
My shorts tent as my hardness swells with an excruciating throb. This is irrational and one hell of a turn on.
Then without thinking, I close the image before I take it one step too far and jerk off on the spot. I’ll save that for the shower because it will be an almighty release after this.
Maybe it’s the lack of sex that’s driving me to distraction. Perhaps if other women turned me on the way she does, then this whole Rowan thing could be easily forgotten.
I could possibly cure my obsession with a one night hook up. To test the theory, I select a few messages below hers. They’re mostly contrived pictures of hot women with strategically squished boobs, colorful lollipops dipping in and out of their mouths, dirty text talk and—boring.
Rowan’s message was simple. She’s not trying to win me over with that cute smile of hers or offer me any contrived incentive to fuck her.
That’s what I’m used to. I’m more than just an image on a billboard; I’m a person with opinions and have more to offer than the visual aspect of my being. I guess that’s the price to pay for fame and fortune.
I wonder how I’d react if she sent me a sexy selfie with daring fingers placed between her thighs. Wow, blood rush. My head spins. I grip the counter as my pulse jumps. I’m so contrary. Rowan has me questioning this shit. My dirty imagination hurts my dick.
The instinct to browse her account takes over. I’m standing before my unwashed reflection wearing black sports shorts, with a bare chest and full-blown hard on, stalking Rowan’s life over the past few months. I can tell she’s a talented photographer. Most of the images are landscapes with modifications to alter the saturation and contrast. The scenery in Ireland is like something from “Game of Thrones,” but it’s not half as impressive as the image I keep revisiting.