Page 8 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

JESSE

I'M PRESSED AGAINST the wall like I'm trying to become one with it, which might actually be preferable to dealing with the fact that my entire nervous system has apparently decided to throw a rave.

Every nerve is firing like the Fourth of July, and all because Austin is over there doing his photographer magic on some guy who probably bench-presses small cars for fun.

His hands move over the model like he's sculpting him from clay, adjusting a shoulder here, angling a hip there.

Professional. Clinical.

Except there's nothing clinical about the way my skin burns every time I remember how those same hands felt on me yesterday. The grip on my shoulders. The thumb that brushed my lip like he was testing whether I was real.

I shift against the wall, trying to find a position where my jeans don't feel like they're cutting off circulation to important parts of my anatomy. This is ridiculous. It was just a photoshoot.

A weird and confusing one, but still.

"Nice." Austin's voice cuts through my mental breakdown. "Can you get hard for me?"

I'm sorry, what now?

The model just nods like Austin asked him to turn slightly to the left and starts palming himself through his underwear with the casual efficiency of someone who's done this more times than I've had hot dinners.

Austin fiddles with his camera settings, giving the model privacy while staying completely professional about the whole thing.

Meanwhile, I'm having what can only be described as a full-scale psychological event.

The model's dick thickens under the fabric, obvious and unapologetic, and my face burns like I've just accidentally walked in on my parents. This feels voyeuristic as hell. Like I should excuse myself and go contemplate my life choices in the hallway.

But Austin keeps shooting like this is Tuesday at the office. Moving around his subject, capturing angles, treating the guy's obvious boner like it's just another element in his composition toolbox.

And that thought? That thought goes straight to my cock. The idea that this is Austin's normal. That he's used to directing people through various states of arousal, used to capturing these intimate moments with that steady, unflappable calm.

What really fucks with my head is how artistic it all looks. The model's erection hits me with its pornographic realness, but somehow Austin transforms it into something that belongs in a museum. Light and shadow dancing, careful composition turning raw sexuality into actual art.

Dangerous territory. Because now my traitor brain is painting me into the model's place. Me under Austin's gaze. Me with his camera pointed at me while I'm...

Nope. Absolutely fucking not.

"Alright, I think we've got it," Austin announces. "Great job, man. We'll wrap for today."

The model reaches for his clothes, already switching back to normal human mode, and that's when it hits me.

It's my turn.

My stomach drops somewhere around my ankles. What the hell was I thinking? After witnessing that masterclass in professional intimacy, after seeing the level of vulnerability Austin expects, how am I supposed to just strip down and—

Fuck me sideways.

Austin's already resetting his equipment. Backing out now would be worse than following through. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti as I push off the wall, each step toward the backdrop feeling like a march toward my own execution.

Or rebirth. Jury's still out on that one.

The door clicks shut behind the model, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Quieter. Like all the oxygen got sucked out with him, leaving just me and Austin and enough tension to cover my arms with goosebumps. And that'll look great in the photos...

I stop in the middle of the space, unsure what to do with my hands, unsure which piece of the floor I should occupy. None, probably. The smartest thing would be to not be here at all.

Austin approaches with a small bundle of black fabric. "Here," he says. "These should fit."

I unfold his offering, and have to consciously use my forehead muscles to keep my eyebrows at least somewhat in place.

A black tie and boxer briefs. That's it. The entire costume department, right there in my hands.

This is way more naked than I bargained for, though what exactly was I expecting? A three-piece suit and a chat about the weather?

The privacy screen in the corner is practically begging me to use it. To maintain some semblance of dignity while I strip down to basically nothing.

I look at it. Look at Austin. Look at the screen again.

Then I meet Austin's eyes and start pulling my shirt off.

Because apparently, I've lost my goddamn mind.

Austin's professional mask stays perfectly in place, but I catch his reflection in one of the mirrors. He's adjusting camera settings with the intense focus of a brain surgeon, which is about as subtle as a neon sign screaming " I'm trying not to look! "

Something about it makes me want to burst out laughing. It all feels ridiculous somehow.

I fold my shirt with deliberate slowness, the air conditioning kissing my bare chest like a cold judgment. My hands find my jeans zipper.

Last chance to preserve what's left of my dignity.

I unzip instead.

The sound ricochets around the quiet room like a gunshot. I let the denim pool at my ankles, step out, and suddenly I'm standing here in my dark blue boxers feeling more exposed than if I were buck naked in Times Square.

Because Austin is looking now.

And okay, looking may be an overstatement. It's more of a passing glance rather than staring, but the way my brain interprets and over-blows it, he might as well be holding binoculars.

Does he…feel anything? Is the image making him breathe a certain way, or am I just a natural part of the surroundings, no different than a studio lamp? And why do I suddenly want to know?

It's because of what I remember, that's why. Because of what I now know, unlike the last time I took off my clothes in his vicinity.

Part of me wants answers. Another part wants to hide behind the privacy screen until next Tuesday.

The hiding part wins and I practically dive for the screen, yanking it between us like armor.

Behind it, I try to piece together what's left of my sanity. And I fail.

Because deep down I know what I'm about to do. A decision has been made, and it feels like my free will wasn't invited to the process of making it. Instead I'm being presented with the final result, like I'm a mere observer of the present moment, not an active participant.

"You okay in there?" Austin's voice carries just enough professional concern to be convincing.

"Yeah," I lie, because I'm about as far from okay as a person can get without requiring psychiatric intervention.

I change into the boxer briefs, trying not to think about how they fit like they were made for me. How Austin somehow knows my exact measurements. Did he guess? Has he actually spent time thinking about it? Does it matter?

The tie goes around my neck, loose and casual. Then, it's showtime.

I step out from behind the screen and catch the exact moment Austin's professional mask slips. His eyes dart down my body, then up again, before he looks away. It's brief, but it's there, like distant thunder—not yet a threat, but enough to make you wonder if the storm's coming your way.

Then, the mask snaps back into place, reminding me that he's a professional.

"Stand by the backdrop."

I do as instructed, uncomfortably aware of how the thin fabric clings to absolutely everything. There's no hiding anything in these boxer briefs. They're basically a second skin with delusions of grandeur.

"Turn your head to the right."

Click.

"Lower your chin."

Click.

"Let the tie fall to the side."

Click.

The instructions feel more like commands, and for a brief moment I wonder if maybe he's enjoying this. Enjoying making me do things, making me march to whatever drumbeat he sets.

But I don't have time to ponder it now.

Because a decision has been made.

And although I know it's probably the worst idea in the history of bad ideas, I'm somehow powerless to change my own mind.

All I can do is execute.

I meet the camera lens dead-on, unprompted.

And before Austin can point out that's not what he asked for, I slide my hand down my chest, fingers trailing over my abs, feeling them twitch, before reaching the waistband.

Then, I palm myself through the barely-there fabric, working my cock to full hardness with deliberate, measured strokes.

Austin's sharp inhale could probably be heard from space.

"What are you doing?" He sounds like he's being strangled with a wire.

I keep stroking, watching his knuckles go white where he grips the camera. "Same thing he did." My voice comes out husky. "That's what you want, right? Authenticity?"

The camera lowers. His face is fully visible now, pupils blown, cheeks half a shade darker than they were just seconds ago.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Do I?

Maybe…maybe not this part. Maybe stroking my cock in front of another man—or anyone, really—isn't the most comfortable thing in the world.

But I do want him to capture it. To make it art somehow, just like he did for that other guy.

And if that makes me sound like Rose from Titanic, so be it, because that's easier to tolerate than the other possibility.

That there is this strange, unexplored part of me that wants him to see me like this. Because that's scary.

My cock is fully hard now, tenting the boxer briefs obscenely. A wet spot blooms where the head presses against fabric, and I'm waiting for the embarrassment to kick in.

It doesn't. Instead, I feel powerful.

Austin raises his camera again, but his breathing fills the quiet room like he's right next to me instead of across it.

The camera clicks in rapid succession.

"Turn your hips toward the light."

I shift the wrong direction. "Like this?"

Austin's mask cracks like ice under pressure before he schools his features. "No, here—"

He sets down the camera and crosses to me in three long strides.

Then, I have him where I want him. The thought is uncomfortable. Heavy. But it's there nonetheless.

His hands land on my hips, fingers burning through the thin fabric, digging in just enough to make me move and ache for more, before he steps back, way too fast.

"Like that. Hold it. Try to concentrate."

But my skin tingles where he touched me, making concentration about as likely as winning the lottery. The camera captures shot after shot while I'm already plotting my next mistake.

The second he gives me another command, I execute.

It's like I no longer care if he notices.

We continue this dance—me playing dumb, him being forced to put his hands on me. Each touch more intimate than the last. His palms on my shoulders, my waist, the back of my thigh.

Every point of contact feels important somehow, like it was always meant to be there.

It isn't lost on me that I'm still hard, even though at least an hour must have passed since my little show he never asked for, and the only thing keeping me from complete mortification is that this is technically part of the job.

I'm playing with fire.

Each click captures not just my nearly naked body, but the heat building within me. Heat I can't explain. Heat I miss every time he walks away.

Finally, Austin lowers his camera. "That's good. I think we're done."

But I don't move. Can't move.

We stare at each other for a charged moment, his camera hanging forgotten while I stand here, still hard, still wanting…something.

The professional pretense has worn thinner than tissue paper.

Austin starts packing with mechanical precision, but I'm not ready for this to end.

I watch him hunch over his laptop, his back rigid with enough tension to snap steel cables.

Fuck it. I already jumped off the cliff. Time to see if I can fly.

"Can I see?" I ask, moving behind him without waiting for permission.

Close enough that one shift forward would press my bare chest against his back.

"Sure." His voice sounds like he's reading from a script, but his fingers shake as he clicks through photos.

I'm not looking at the screen.

I'm cataloging this moment. How his breath catches when I shift closer. How his shirt whispers against my chest. The tremor in his hands that he's trying so hard to hide.

"These turned out well," he says, voice strained like he's lifting weights.

"Mm-hmm." I move closer, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough for our body heat to mingle.

I'm not even sure what I'm doing.

His breathing goes shallow. His clicking becomes erratic, like he's forgotten how mice work.

He spins around, probably meaning to create distance.

I don't back up.

We're face to face now, a breath apart, and his eyes are darker than a power outage at midnight. The moment stretches between us like a rubber band about to snap.

My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to probably show through my chest.

And then, words fall out of me. Words I don't plan, don't form. Words that were never a thought, yet somehow materialize themselves as a vibration of sound. "You could kiss me now."

They're barely audible, but they might as well be shouted through a megaphone.

I hold my breath.

"I know," he says.

And then, he doesn't.

We stay frozen like that. My confession hangs in the air between us, unanswered but not rejected.

Just suspended. Like us.