Page 29 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

SEB

W hen I said I’d do anything for her, I hadn’t anticipated what Erica might ask of me. But I’m nothing if not faithful to my word, so here I am, standing in the middle of a huge photographer’s studio that feels more like a warehouse and is teaming with people, waiting for her to show up.

I’ve agreed to pose with her for the launch of her new fragrance. This is likely to be the biggest launch of a temporary fake relationship ever.

In all honesty, I’d hoped for simpler pleasures.

To take her out to a restaurant. To hold her hand in public.

To listen to her laugh as we walk along the river, just the two of us.

To dance with her at parties. To do regular things that we might do if this relationship was real.

Things I’ve longed to do with her for years and never been able to.

Not pose for photographs that will be seen by millions of people.

It’s a harsh reminder that this is all for show, and Erica has gripped matters the way she would any other business opportunity: with a calculating exactitude that lacks any romance.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out and open the one word message.

Discretion .

It’s from Dad. He’s sent the same fucking word three times now and so far I’ve ignored them all.

The first one came after the images of me smashing a camera on Harley Street appeared on social media.

When I opened it, the message sent a chill through me.

Only he could send a one word message that fills me with fear.

It’s been a week since then, and although the word doesn’t quite have the impact it did the first time, I can’t shake the feeling of apprehension that settles over me when his name pops up on my phone.

I reckon he’s watching me. Sometimes, I suspect someone’s following me, but I’m probably being paranoid.

But either way, the words he spoke at our last meeting have been haunting me.

You have four months of freedom. Do whatever you want with it, but keep it discreet. Then you marry Diana.

Smashing a camera on Harley Street in front of dozens of people, and ushering one of the most famous women in the world into the back of my car, is far from discreet, and what I’m about to do is even worse.

I push Dad and his messages out of mind because if I think too hard on it, and the threats he made, I’ll break out into a cold sweat.

Erica appears, looking beautiful, but casual, in a white t-shirt and jeans as she greets me and we exchange pleasantries. She hooks her arm in mine. “I’ve made all the calls, so we’ll be able to redo all the marketing materials for the launch. The posters, billboards… all of it.”

“Couldn’t we have slid an article into the tabloids instead?” I ask.

“We’ll do that too when we formally announce our relationship status,” she says as though it’s all been decided.

She waves me off to the changing rooms, where I strip off and put all my stuff in a locker, putting my birthday in as the code.

A prickle runs up my spine as I do it, and although no one’s here, I get that sensation of being watched again.

It’s creepy, so I sling on the robe I’ve been given and leave.

Outside, an assistant greets me and escorts me to sit with a makeup artist, who pads my face with powder and god knows what.

A hair stylist applies something sticky to my hair, and then two more makeup artists appear, working in unison to paint tattoos on my forearms and chest, all the way up my neck.

The image is a specific one; an infinity symbol, which is the symbol for Erica’s brand, and also the name of the fragrance she’s launching. It takes hours.

By the time they finish, my muscles are aching from trying to hold still.

Two more people appear and help me change into an all-black outfit—boots, jeans and button-up shirt.

They roll the sleeves up carefully to expose the tattoos, but it leaves me wondering why the fuck I have tattoos on my chest if I’m wearing a shirt.

Finally, the photographer tells me to take a seat before a huge white screen.

I’m not a self-conscious guy, but this is fucking weird, what with all the lights and the cameras and the people milling around. When Erica suggested this, I thought we’d be doing a quiet shoot. Me and her and the photographer. Not this spectacle. These clothes. The body paint.

“Which agency are you with?” the photographer asks me as he walks around me, testing out the lens of his camera, coming up close and taking pictures of my face.

I blink as the camera clicks in my face. “What?”

“Which modelling agency?” He gives a low whistle as he looks at the digital screen of his camera. “I know Erica picked you for this, but whose books are you on?”

“He’s not a model,” comes Erica’s voice, and the photographer looks up from his camera, breaking into a smile as she approaches. “He’s actually my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend .

The word is a pinprick to my heart, sliding in like a needle that makes me wince.

It’s so fucking cruel that the first time I hear her say it, it’s not real.

But my reaction to the word is nothing compared to the insane twisting-flipping thing my stomach is doing at the sight of her.

She’s wearing only underwear and heels and looks every inch the model.

Black lace skims over her breasts, thin strips of it gracing each hipbone.

Her stomach is toned and flat and those legs really are the length of the fucking Nile. So. Much. Skin.

Fuck me .

The photographer greets her like an old friend, and Erica thanks him for doing this for us at late notice.

I can’t concentrate on what they’re saying because this is the first time I’ve ever seen her wearing as little as this in real life, and with her hair and makeup done too…

it’s a lot. She’s like a pinup from a magazine come to life.

She’s a different woman from the eighteen-year-old I saw in the housekeeper’s catalogue all those years ago, swamped in that cheap jumper and trousers. Then, she was beautiful but innocent. Now, she looks like sin, and I would follow her to hell without a second thought.

I’m not the only person who’s noticed, because the general bustle around us has stopped. People have slowed down to watch her, and the other guys around the set are suddenly sitting upright like a load of dogs waiting for her to drop treats into their open mouths.

I have to grip the edge of my seat to stop myself from erupting and throwing them all out.

“This is great news. You two will be completely comfortable with each other,” the photographer says. “What are we going for?” He pulls out his phone and scrolls as though he’s checking some list. “‘ Love that lasts forever. Passion across lifetimes. Desire that can never be exhausted ’.”

“Yeah,” Erica says. “I know we were going for purity and innocence, but we’re making some last minute changes. This is all about sensuality. Sexuality. The infinite love that everyone wants to find.”

“Perfect. Love it,” the photographer says.

Erica turns her attention to me. “You look great. Suits you,” she says, taking me in. “You’re not so preppy anymore.”

I pull back. “Preppy?”

“Yeah. You know. When you’re not in a suit, you’re always wearing polo shirts and chinos.

You’re a hair’s breadth from tying a cashmere jumper around your neck and sailing down the Thames.

” She mimes vomiting, and my mouth drops open.

I had no idea that’s what she thought of my casual attire.

“You do look great in a suit though,” she says, reaching out and rubbing my knee like she thinks I need the reassurance. Her touch burns through the jeans.

“What I want is for Erica to straddle you where you’re sitting,” the photographer interrupts.

Oh, fuck. “Really?”

The word pops out like the bleep of an alarm clock, and the photographer and Erica share a look as though they’d expect nothing less from someone who doesn’t do this for a living.

Be cool, Seb . Erica Lefroy is about to straddle you in underwear and heels in front of a shitload of people.

She steps right up to me, gives me a little smile, and proceeds to straddle me without a pause.

Her familiar scent wraps around me, both floral and lightly spiced, and I have to rein in the urge to press my nose to her neck and inhale it.

I don’t know where to put my hands, so they’re just hanging at my sides.

Her thighs are warm and heavy on mine, and her breasts are right there, soft flesh exposed over the top of the cups. I could dip my head and lick them.

Fuck it, in this position I could motorboat them, and I really fucking want to. This is a disaster. As if to drive the point home, my dick, which I’m all too aware is right beneath her, gives an unwelcome throb.

The photographer’s camera clicks a few times, then he stops and stares at me. “Sensuality,” he barks. “You know what that word means, right?”

“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath.

“You need to loosen up,” Erica whispers.

“Pretend I’m one of those women you take back to the hotel.

” She lifts my hands and settles them on her bare hips.

Oh, Jesus . I’ve dreamt of exactly this; the feel of her soft skin against my palms and the warmth of her body so close to mine.

The neural pathways are fucking ingrained.

If I close my eyes, I’ll be thrown into a fantasy of her riding me just like this, bouncing on my dick and looking like she’s having the time of her life.

I’m aching with a need that has no place here.

“Put a hand on her throat,” comes the photographer’s order.

My heart skips a beat, and the longing in my veins starts to fucking vibrate . If I put a hand on her throat when she’s sitting on my lap in her underwear, I’m definitely getting hard. There could be a hundred people watching and it would still happen.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Studio time is expensive.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got it covered,” I hiss back, which makes her roll her eyes.

“Erica,” the photographer says. “Lean in and undo two buttons on his shirt and slide your hand in. And Seb?”

“Yeah?”

“Try and look like you’re enjoying it.” I grimace.

If he knew how much I was enjoying it, he’d throw me off the set .

“Imagine this is the one woman in the world for you. You want her. She’s everything to you.

This isn’t just sex. It’s everlasting love that comes with a large side order of orgasms.” My dick pulses and I hope to God Erica can’t feel it.

Why does he have to throw out words like ‘orgasms’ when I am trying my best to hold my shit together?

“That’s what we’re selling here. Buy this fragrance and you’ll be desired and desirable.

We want people to look at this image and know the two of you had sex as soon as I put the camera down.

” My balls tighten like he’s just ordered them to prepare for action .

“Just relax and pretend you’re in private.

Be who you’d be if no one else was here. ”

I close my eyes, screwing up my face. This is torture. The fantasy of Erica riding my cock flashes through my mind and I snap my eyes open.

“Please try,” Erica hisses. “This is a key part of our plan.” She offers me a hesitant smile, holding my gaze as she undoes a button on my shirt.

It pops free, and a frisson of sexual energy runs through me.

I do my best to tamp it down by clenching my abs, but it doesn’t fucking work .

Erica bites her bottom lip, and all I want to do is suck it into my mouth and dig my teeth into it.

Her eyes are hooded as she takes in the tattoos covering my pecs.

“You don’t have a single tattoo in real life? ”

I swallow. “Nope. No tattoos.”

“Shame. They suit you.” Her hand slides beneath my shirt, and the touch is a gentle caress that raises every hair on my body.

She leans back a little more, and her pussy presses right against my dick.

I can’t help but shift my hips beneath her, increasing the contact.

She tips her head back, dark hair falling over her shoulders.

A pulse flutters in her neck, a delicate thrumming beneath the skin. If I could press a gentle kiss to the spot, I would. I’d swipe my tongue right up her throat. I’d—

She lets out the tiniest whimper, and the sound sets me on fire.

I want her to make that noise for me over and over again, moaning my name with the same level of whimpered desperation.

It takes all my restraint not to moan her name in response.

Without thinking, my hand rises to that expanse of her throat, closing softly around it.

Click.

The shutter noise on the camera might as well be a bomb. I jerk and turn to the photographer, who lowers the lens.

“Ignore me. Keep going,” he instructs.

Erica hasn’t let up in her ‘ I’m so turned on ’ act, and the photographer clicks away, moving around us.

She’s so convincing, thrusting her breasts in my face and arching her back, grinding on me like she can’t wait to get my clothes off, that I am struggling to convince my body this isn’t real.

Heat rages through me, and my blood is a power fuel that rockets to my dick. Prepare for fucking lift off .

Erica rubs her crotch against mine, and my hand moves up her throat and round the back of her neck like I have no control over it, but it knows exactly what it wants. And it’s this woman, just like this, under my control.

My dick starts to thicken in my jeans.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Her fingertips graze my nipple, teasing it beneath the shirt. Arousal builds in my core, my dick throbbing.

Any second now, she’s going to feel my erection right between her legs.

Her thumb brushes over my nipple again. Why the fuck is she doing that? No one can see beneath my shirt.

“I didn’t realise we were making porn here,” I murmur.

Her breath is hot as it hits my cheek, and she’s panting just a little. “Is that what this feels like to you?”

My stomach drops . Backtrack, backtrack. You fucking idiot. Why would this feel like porn unless it was turning you on?

“I just didn’t expect… I wasn’t ready…” I sound like I took my brain out when I removed my suit .

Erica slides her hand back out of my shirt and cups my face, pressing her forehead to mine, not dropping the act for a second. “I’m a model,” she says, the sensuality in her tone rippling over my skin. “This is what I do. I’d be a pretty shit one if I didn’t know how to use my body.”

“Right,” announces the photographer, looking delightedly at the screen on his camera. His gaze flicks up to me. “You. Seb. Lose the shirt. We’ll do the same again but topless this time, and then we’ll do the kiss, and then we’re covered.”

What the actual fuck?