when she finally crept out of the changing room and slipped in behind the other models. “In a circle now. I need silhouettes. Arms over your heads. Reaching...that’s right... reaching.”
And seven women’s arms went over their heads. Seven women reached, stretched.
Six moved smoothly, their gestures flowing, their bodies curving.
The seventh trembled.
Gib lowered the camera. “Chloe,” he said. “Straighten up.”
She gave him a quick desperate glance. She nodded. She ran her tongue over her lips. She straightened up.
“Reach,” he commanded.
Chloe reached. Her hair bounced.
Her breasts did, too.
And Gib’s mouth went dry. His palms went damp. His body got hard. Like he was some damn teenager, for heaven’s sake!
He’d seen breasts before. Hundreds. Thousands. He’d probably seen more women’s breasts in the last twelve years than most men did in a lifetime.
But most of the breasts he’d seen didn’t—he ran his tongue over his lips—well, they didn’t...bounce.
The other thousands of breasts Gib had seen had been firm, perky, plastic almost. And there had never been very much of them. Not even a handful.
Chloe was rather more... voluptuous.
The shirtwaist gone, she was Marilyn unbound.
Gib shut his eyes and shoved the thought away. But the moment he opened them, his gaze, and the thought, immediately snapped back right to her.
“Reach,” he barked at her. And when she reached—and jiggled—he bit out, “I didn’t say lunge, sweetheart! I said, reach. Like you’re reaching for your lover.”
Her whole body blushed.
Gibson lowered the camera. He blinked. He shifted position, disbelieving, wanting to see her more clearly. He’d never seen a full body blush. He was amazed. Intrigued. Enchanted.
Well, no. Not enchanted. That was stretching things too far.
Gibson Walker was not enchanted by women. He hadn’t been enchanted by any woman since...
He squelched that thought.
“Stop shaking,” he commanded her. “Or I’ll have six lovely ladies and a blur.”
“S-sorry.” But she still shook. She didn’t stop.
Gib shook his head, then picked up the camera again. He shot. He moved. He directed.
“Swim,” he told them. “Languid, easy movements overhead. Like you’re going through water.”
They swam. Easy overhand strokes. They went up on tiptoe. They floated.
Chloe jiggled.
Gib ground his teeth.
He looked away, focused on another of the women. They moved and Chloe hove into view once more. He cleared his throat and tried to find a rhythm. “Let’s see those lips. Purse those lips. Kisses. I want kisses.”
And damned if Chloe didn’t look straight at him, face aflame, body blushing, lips pursed!
Gib blew out a harsh exclamation of air. “Not me, sweetheart!” he said in a slightly strangled tone. “I want profiles. Kiss your lover. You do have a lover, don’t you?”
Whoa. The flush was back—with a vengeance. Too bad the ad wasn’t going to be in color. That was some rosy glow.
Gib let out a pent-up breath. He wiped suddenly damp palms on the sides of his jeans, then ran his tongue over his lips. Focus, damn it, he told himself.
He was focusing. That was the problem.
Don’t focus on her!
He tried not to. He moved, he crouched. He willed himself to ignore the growing insistence in his body. He pointed the camera at all seven women. Unerringly it found Chloe.
He tried to remember all the ways he wanted them to move. His mind was a blank. Well, no, not really a blank. There were very definite curves on his mind. A very definite body.
A very sexy body.
A real body. Unlike the other six, Chloe seemed to respond to his direction with more than her muscles. She was unguarded, open. He said, “Lover,” and she blushed. He said, “Kiss,” and he saw longing on her face.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s it. Like that. More. Give me more, sweetheart.”
They all looked at him.
“Er, sweethearts,” he corrected. He smiled at them all. He looked at Chloe.
She trembled. She blushed. Her breasts jiggled.
Then he heard a commotion in the outer office. A “You can’t go in there!” followed by “Of course I can. I’m late!”
And the door burst open and Tasha, a top flight model he’d worked with lots of times, burst into the room.
“Ah, Gibson, I am zo zorry! Zee taxi! Zhe break down! Zee driver! He say I can’t leave without pay! I say, No pay! You don’t go where I mus’ go! No pay! Then he grab me! An’ I scream! I say, he kidnapping me! He say, I cheating him! Oh!” She shook a yard of flaming red hair. “Zhose police! Zhey never listen! You zhink zhey would listen to be-you-tif-ful girl, yes? No! Zhey listen to dumbest taxi driver!”
And while she delivered this entire monologue, Tasha was busily flinging off her clothes. First the skimpy halter top, then the minuscule bra. One foot came up and a sandal slipped off. The other followed. She unzipped her mini-skirt and wiggled it past mini-hips over mini-thighs down ski slope legs.
“I tell you, zhese police, zhey know from nozhing!” To punctuate her declaration, she peeled off her underpants and flung them in the air. Then she lifted her arms and beamed at Gibson.
“We begin now, yes? I am ready!”
In the silence that followed, Gibson was conscious of shutting his mouth.
He was conscious of looking from Tasha, standing bare and beautiful in the middle of the room, full-frontal fantastic and not jiggling at all, to the rest of the naked women who surrounded her.
His gaze moved slowly. From body to body to body. From face to face to face. They looked at him, then at each other. Their eyes seemed to be doing the same thing his were.
Counting.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
His eyes went to Chloe. Trembling. Jiggling. Blushing. Seven.
And Tasha made...
Eight.
