Page 5 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

JESSE

I FEEL LIKE my spine's been replaced with a metal rod. For someone who spends his nights surrounded by naked people grinding on each other, you'd think standing shirtless in front of a camera would be a walk in the park. Spoiler alert: it's not.

My muscles seem to have developed a mind of their own, each one determined to be as unnatural as possible. Even my face feels weird, like I've suddenly become aware of every tiny muscle that controls my expression.

Seriously, who knew there were so many ways to stand wrong?

"Relax," Austin says from behind his camera, his voice steady and professional. "It's just pictures."

Easy for him to say. He's not the one half-naked with his jeans hanging open, feeling the air conditioning hit his bare chest like a judgmental breeze. I try to loosen up, but now I'm actively thinking about trying to loosen up, which only makes me more aware of how stiff I am.

Austin lowers his camera and walks over to his laptop. "Come here," he says, waving me over with a casual flick of his wrist. "Look at these."

I move to peer over his shoulder at the screen, and.

.. holy shit. That can't be me. I mean, logically I know it is—that's definitely my tattoo sneaking out from under where the light hits my chest, those are definitely my abs—which, okay, look way better than I expected—and that's absolutely my awkward stance.

But there's something about the shots that makes them look. .. raw. Real.

Like he caught me in between moments, vulnerable but powerful at the same time. It's like looking at myself through someone else's eyes, someone who sees past the surface to something I didn't even know was there.

"See?" Austin's voice has a hint of satisfaction, maybe even pride. "Natural is good."

I nod, still mesmerized by the images.

Okay. Maybe this wasn't such a terrible idea after all.

Back in position, I find myself actually listening as Austin directs me, his voice clear and steady over the quiet hum of the air conditioning. "Turn your head to the left." Click . "Lower your chin." Click . "Put your thumbs in your belt loops."

Each instruction is clear, professional. Clinical, almost. I follow them, feeling more at ease with each shot. This isn't so bad. It's just following directions, right? Like a complicated dance where I don't have to move my feet. I can handle this.

"Your shoulders are too stiff."

Before I can process what's happening, Austin is right there, his camera dangling from its strap against his chest. His hands land on my shoulders. His touch is firm as he adjusts my posture, professional but somehow... not.

It's like being touched by two different people at once—the photographer who knows exactly what he wants, and... someone else. Someone whose hands seem to linger a fraction longer than necessary.

"Like this," he says, his voice closer than I expected, close enough that I can feel his breath ghost across my shoulder.

I manage a nod, proud that I keep my composure even though my skin feels electric where his hands made contact. It's like he left fingerprints of lightning on my skin, tiny sparks that refuse to fade even after he steps away.

We continue shooting, but something's different now.

Each time Austin steps in to adjust a pose—turning my torso slightly, lifting my arm, angling my head—I become hyperaware of the contact.

It's like my body is keeping a running tally of every touch, every adjustment, every moment his fingers brush against my skin.

Each touch feels more significant than the last, like we're building up to something, though I couldn't say what.

"We need to angle your hips more toward the light."

His hands are warm against my skin. Those hands that so confidently handle thousand-dollar equipment are now handling me with the same precise care. He adjusts my stance with small, deliberate movements, each tiny shift of his fingers sending new waves of awareness through my body.

But then…

It hits me like a ton of bricks.

Smashing me to the ground, shattering my body and crushing my skull until I'm nothing more than a puddle of bones and skin and insights I didn't ask for.

It's not a memory, really. There are no images, no sounds, no glimpses of conversations.

Just the knowing.

We're back in high school, and it's almost summer, and Austin's gay.

I don't know how I know that, but I just know I do. He's gay and it wouldn't matter in the slightest if it weren't for his hand, currently pressed against my hip, his thumb resting right above the waistband of my jeans, sending sparks through my skin that definitely shouldn't be there.

I try to focus on the shoot, on being a good subject, on following directions like a proper model or whatever the hell I'm pretending to be right now.

But my mind keeps wandering back to Austin's hands, to the way they felt on my skin, professional yet somehow intimate.

To the way his presence behind me made my spine tingle with awareness.

"Turn your body about forty-five degrees to your right," Austin calls out from behind his camera.

I turn slightly left instead, fighting to keep my expression neutral. "Like this?"

"Other way," he says, still safely behind his camera. "More of an angle."

I make another adjustment, this time turning way too far, probably looking like a contortionist having a stroke.

I can see Austin's patience wearing thin.

I'm not sure I'm ready to admit that's exactly what a part of me was hoping for.

"Here, let me—" The camera drops from his face and he sets it down, moving toward me with purpose. My pulse quickens with each step he takes, like some sort of twisted countdown.

When he reaches me, one hand lands on my shoulder while the other finds my hip again. The touch is firm but not forceful as he guides my body into the correct position. I can feel the warmth of his palms through my skin, and I have to actively remind myself that breathing is not optional.

"There," he says, but his hands linger for a few more beats. "That's what I meant."

I manage a nod, not trusting my voice to come out steady. As Austin walks back to his camera, I'm already plotting my next mistake.

"Now, can you angle your chin down? Just slightly."

I tilt my head back instead, fighting the smile that threatens to break across my face. "This?"

Austin sighs. "No, down." When I maintain my best impression of someone who's never heard of directions before, he sets his camera down again. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

There's something in his voice—amusement?

annoyance?—that makes my stomach do a slow roll.

But before I can defend my complete lack of spatial awareness, Austin is there again, this time standing directly in front of me.

He reaches up and cups my jaw with one hand, guiding my chin down to the perfect angle.

The touch is different this time—more intimate somehow. Maybe it's because we're face to face, or maybe it's because his thumb accidentally brushes against my lower lip as he adjusts the angle. Either way, I feel my breath hitch in my chest.

"Like this," he says softly, his hand still on my jaw. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I swear the air between us crackles.

Then, Austin drops his hand and steps back, clearing his throat. "Try to keep that angle."

I maintain the position he set, but my mind is racing a million miles an hour. What the hell am I doing? Why am I deliberately trying to get him to touch me? And more importantly, why does each touch feel like a live wire against my skin?

This isn't... I'm not...

But my body seems to have other ideas, because every time Austin's hands land on me, adjusting, positioning, directing, heat pools low in my belly.

And now, standing here trying to keep my chin at the exact angle he placed it at, all I can think about is his thumb brushing my lip, and how for a split second I wanted to. ..

Oh fuck.

Fuck .

I can feel the unmistakable twitch inside my jeans, and panic floods my system. This cannot be happening. Not here, not now, not with him. This isn't—I don't—

"I think we've got enough for today."

Thank every deity that might exist.

"Great!" My voice comes out an octave higher than usual, but I'm already moving, practically sprinting to where I left my clothes in a pile. I grab my t-shirt and yank it over my head, grateful for the cover it provides as I try to get my body under control.

But even as I'm pulling my hoodie on, I can't stop thinking about his hands on my skin. About the way his touch felt both professional and intimate at the same time. About that fragment of memory that surfaced—a high school party, Austin, and something else.

Something just out of reach.

"You okay?" Austin's voice comes from somewhere behind me, and I jump like I've been caught doing something wrong.

"Yeah! Yeah, totally fine." I'm already backing toward the door, fumbling to zip up my hoodie with hands that don't want to cooperate. "Just remembered I have to... um... I should probably head home. Early morning tomorrow and all that."

"I can send you the photos later tonight if you give me your email," Austin calls after me, but I barely register his words.

My mind is too busy spinning, trying to make sense of what just happened. Of why I kept playing dumb just to feel his hands on me again. Of why my skin still tingles where he touched me.

Of why I'm half-hard in my jeans.

This isn't... I mean, I'm not...

But maybe I am?

No. No, no, no. I can't deal with this right now. I need to get out of here, need to clear my head, need to figure out what the hell is happening to me.

"Thanks for... yeah. Thanks," I mutter, probably not even loud enough for him to hear, and then I'm out the door and speed-walking down the hallway, trying to remember the way out through this maze of corridors.

I am so monumentally fucked.