Page 39 of Dirty Like Dylan
Chapter Eight
Amber
Holy… hell.
How could I not look?
I glimpsed Dylan through the windows on my way into the kitchen, in search of a glass of water. I was suddenly dying of thirst. It was plausible. A girl could get thirsty, right?
And there he was in the pool, swimming in place, just like he said he’d be, his muscular arms slicing through the current generated by the pool. At that point, I’d decided I was finished shooting the front hall. How many images of a staircase did a man really need?
Better to set up in the living room and capture that beautiful stone fireplace, with all the light flooding in through those big windows to the back deck…
So I did that.
But then Dylan got out of the pool. And Christ almighty.
Male beauty personified.
The water sluiced off his naked body, steamed off him, and my very first impulse was to swing my camera around and photograph him.
My next impulse was to drop to my knees in front of those washboard abs and suck on every inch of his glistening wet skin. And his…
Very large…
Hard…
Holy shit.
I looked away. Sort of.
Because I wasn’t gonna do any of those things.
Reason number one, I now worked for the man.
Reason number two, I wasn’t a pervert. It would be unprofessional to stare at him, much less photograph him, naked, without him knowing—not to mention wrong. Especially when he’d politely warned me to stay away from the back yard. I wasn’t about to go spying on him, camera in hand, like some creepy voyeur.
Well, other than that kiss this morning…
Which brought me to reason number three: he was gay.
Because, frankly, the universe always screwed me like that.
I should’ve known, from the first moment I laid eyes on him. It all made sense now. Because no man was that freakin’ perfect.
Well, he was perfect, I supposed, if you were his boyfriend. Like Ashley Player seemed to be.
If you were me, he was just another near-miss in a very long line of near-misses.
A sudden noise behind me startled me from my staring—and my skin. I actually screamed a little, almost swallowing my tongue trying to squelch it as a door swung open. When I whirled around, Ashley was standing in the doorway from the garage, grocery bags in hand, staring at me.
I got busy fumbling with my camera lens, trying like hell to pop the lens cap on and failing repeatedly. I was pretty good at appearing absorbed in my work, oblivious to my surroundings. But we both knew what he’d just caught me doing… which was nothing much at all except standing here and staring out the giant windows to the back deck—where the evidence of my perversion stood in full view: Dylan Cope, buck-naked.
He strolled leisurely toward the stairs that led down to the lower deck and the walk-out basement, his naked body gleaming, big dick swinging. Or rather, stabbing. He was still half-hard. He was casually drying himself off, and sort of half-heartedly covered himself with the towel as he went, like it was a total afterthought. Because this was his home, right? He should be able to walk around naked without being gawked at. But gawking was exactly what I’d been doing.
I flushed about a thousand guilty shades of red.
“I’m just packing up for the day,” I said, hastily doing just that, unscrewing my camera from the tripod and stuffing my things into my bag. “I should be able to finish up in the next two days, or maybe even one, and clear out of your house.”