I grab her by the waist and pull her on top of me, feeling her long legs straddle my waist as her laughter echoes in my ears. Opening my eyes, I find her staring at me with a big smile on her face. I lift a hand and stroke the side of her small, perfect tit covered in silk with the back of my fingers, enjoying the sensation of her body trembling under my touch.

“Now, this is a view to wake up to,” I say, observing the tips of her hard nipples outline the cream material that covers them.

“You’re insatiable,” she teases. “But look!” She reaches for an item lying next to her and shows it to me. It turns out to be a magazine with my face stamped on it. The title of the cover claims me as the next prodigy in photography.

Excitedly, Rachel opens the magazine and flips the pages swiftly until she finds the article she’s interested in. Giving me a saucy look, she clears her throat with aplomb and begins to read.

“Ronan Geraghty, the face of a Hollywood heartthrob with a one of a kind, rare talent: his lens. When I first heard rumblings that the Carl Brunswick, owner of the very exclusive and what is considered to be the Holy Grail of art galleries, The Jackson, had taken under his wing a new talent, my interest was immediately piqued.” Rachel pauses to smile at me.

“The ability to impress Carl’s discerning eye isn’t an everyday occurrence. And when it does happen, you don’t want to be the last one to find out—to miss what usually becomes a storm about to rage chaos in the art scene. And what sensual, daring chaos is Mr. Geraghty about to rage on us, his poor unsuspecting victims? I was invited to go inside his studio and take a first look at his work and what I’m sure will be the beginning of an illustrious career. The photographs are thought provoking, sensual to the point of almost being indecent, and every single one of them took my breath away …”

Satisfied, Rachel places the article next to her leg. “You’re going to be a star, Ronan. I can feel it. Look at them, losing their minds over you already.”

I think of the woman who came to the studio that Carl provided and whose presence I forgot all about once I began to photograph the model posing for me, trying to capture her soul with the click of the camera.

“You think?” I ask, hating the uncertainty that tinges my voice.

“Without a doubt.” Rachel leans forward, rubbing her chest against mine invitingly, before placing her mouth on mine and kissing me.

I snake my hands under her silk baby doll, finding her bare, and knead my fingers in the soft flesh of her ass. I start to move her back and forth, lazily grinding her hot, wet cunt against my growing cock.

Rachel ends the kiss with a frustrated groan and buries her face in the crook of my neck. “My God, you drive me crazy. I don’t recognize myself when I’m with you. I want you too much.”

I twist her hair in my hand, tug it back, and make her look at me, absorbing the lovely blush coating the crests of her cheeks. My heart remains silent, but I can’t deny the fact that I like her, that my body hungers for her, and that I can’t get enough of her. I need Rachel to soothe the pain and fill the emptiness threatening to swallow me whole.

“I want you, too. So damn much.”

She bites her bottom lip while a shadow sweeps across her clear blue eyes, muting their color momentarily. I rub that same lip with my thumb, feeling its heat.

“What is it?”

“Tell me about her,” she whispers.

I pause momentarily as Blaire’s memory blinds me and I feel as though I am falling down a deep well where there’s no escape. But I push past it until it’s Rachel and her blonde hair and her body on mine that hold me to this place, to her.