Page 2 of B is for Beg

“Yeah, probably. What do you want me to wear first?”

The parcel has already been opened, so I assume he’s looked at the contents to plan the shots he wants to take.

“You choose.”

Normally, the photographer will dictate the outfits I wear and in which order. I’m not used to having to choose. Not that I’m not up to the challenge.

“Okay.” I hug the parcel to my chest. “I won’t be long.”

“Take your time. I’ve got no other shoots booked today, so I’m all yours.”

I arch an eyebrow as I fail to suppress an appreciative smile. I know he’snotflirting, but I wouldn’t be upset if he was. In the corner, Ivy rolls her eyes before turning back to her desk. I’d be happy if she wanted to flirt too.

I enter a changing area with a comfy chair and a locker. There’s a bathroom with a posh shower, a fluffy white robe, and some disposable slippers. I strip, take a shower—damn, Calvin has invested in some costly shower gel—get dried, and then put some make-up on. Nothing much, just a bit of foundation to even out my skin tone and a touch of eyeliner and mascara so my eyes will pop in the photos. Next, I investigate the package from UnMentionable. There are a dozen different garments inside, each sexier than the last. The best part? I get to take anything I wear home with me. Is it wrong to hope we get througheverypiece of lingerie?

I settle for a black lacey hooded dressing gown and a matching thong. The lace is soft. It glides over my skin and isn’t itchy like cheap lace often is. I should know. I made that mistake way too many times before I decided to splash out and buy more expensive underwear. I use the belt to draw the dressing gown around my body and look at myself in the mirror. The material is pretty much see-through except for opaque dots on the lace, and it only just covers my arse. I glance at the full-length towelling dressing gown hanging on the door but don’t bother putting it on. Calvin and Ivy are going to be seeing me in a lot less than the outfit I’m currently wearing.

When I leave the changing room, Calvin is sitting at his desk, looking at his camera. Ivy’s still at her desk, not paying me any attention at all.

Calvin looks up and grins. “Nice shower?”

“Yes. I hope I didn’t take too long?”

“Not at all.” His gaze flicks over me.

I’ll swear in a court of law that he’s smiling as he checks me out. I wish he really was mentally undressing me.

“Is this the kind of shoot you normally do?” I ask.

“Sometimes, but it’s more of a sideline. My main business is boudoir photography—making women and a few men—feel good about their bodies.”

“You show them how beautiful they are?”

“I try.”

I look at the wall the desks are pushed up against. There are samples of Calvin’s boudoir photography along it. Each photo is a different person, their skin colours, body types, and appearances all vastly different from one another. They all look amazing and relaxed, so much so, the photos take my breath away.

“It looks like you succeed. Your photos are amazing,” I say.

Calvin strokes his chin. “Thank you.”

“Careful,” Ivy says without looking around. “You’ll give him a big head.”

I smile at her comment but don’t rise to it. Nor does Calvin.

“Do you take photos too?” I ask her.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “Nope, Calvin is the artist, not me. I do some of the post-processing.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It is, but like I said, Calvin is the artist. He can work with even the most nervous client and get a whole string of amazing photos by the end of the shoot.”

“You must be good at helping people relax,” I say to Calvin.

He chuckles. “I suppose so.”

I’d love to know how he puts people at ease, but it’s probably not appropriate to ask. Instead, I say something even less appropriate. “Where do you want me?”