Model Release (The Art of Domination #1) by Erika Masten Page A

attention to my reaction. “No, I was just wrapping up with
them. It always takes a while to transition, though. You mind, Iva? Rather we
worked alone?”
    “No,” I blurted, my
negative reaction being split between the suggestion that I would want to be alone with Beal and the
unnerving intimacy of hearing him use my first name. Luckily, my response
actually sounded like I was answering his questions instead of cursing in
distress. “Can we just—?”
    “Get this done, yes.”
The photographer straightened a little, enough to remind me he had at least six
or seven inches on my five-and-a-half-foot height. The posture broadened his
shoulders and chest, like… like a bird of prey spreading his wings just
before…. Just before what, Iva? Strangely, I wondered if the gesture was a prelude to devouring me or
sheltering me, falling upon me or taking me under those wings.
    “Take your clothes
off,” he instructed with his voice lowered and smoothed. When my eyes flared so
wide they felt like saucers, a smirk flashed at one corner of Beal’s full lips.
Bastard. He was thinking devour ,
definitely devour. And he had the nasty habit of playing with his food. With
the nod of his head, the man motioned to one of three small dressing rooms.
Thick black curtains gaped to reveal crumpled street clothing on the floor,
dresses and lingerie hanging from knobby metal pegs. “Your outfits for the
shoot are in the middle room.”
    I stomped off behind
the curtains of the number two dressing room, no time to fret over the idea of
multiple costume changes. My irritation at my situation and my body’s reaction
to Beal verged on irrational and showed in the brusque jerk of my movements. It
was all too revealing. Had to get ahold of myself. Taking off my sweats and
hanging them neatly, meticulously on bare pegs ate up a few extra moments while
I breathed through my anger and anxiety like a Lamaze class valedictorian. I
couldn’t have been more grateful to hear activity and conversation flare beyond
the curtain, as Beal discussed the prior shoot with the models and issued
instructions for breaking down the set and changing to another. The flurry
diverted scrutiny from me, gave me a moment to hide away, detach, steel myself.
Theoretically.
    The outfits selected
for me—by Stan, by Beal?—consisted mostly of black slips, either silky and lacy
or thick and constricting vintage styles. I found the thought of taking off my
bra unreasonably disturbing, vulnerable. It wasn’t like I’d have been topless.
Yet I felt completely exposed in those few seconds I stripped off the garment
in preparation for sliding one of the soft black slips over my head. The air abruptly
cooled ten degrees, or at least felt like it on my naked skin. My nipples were
embarrassingly hard, and I was absurdly afraid of Beal seeing that. Luckily, a
seam running up the middle of each silky cup obscured the telltale points. Only
I knew, which was bad enough.
    When I forced myself
out of the dressing room, clacking loudly in the pointy-toed black stilettos
that were the only shoes selected for me, I found the photographer still
conferring with the makeup artist and models. Neither of the blondes had
changed back into street clothes or wandered away to wash off the dramatic
makeup required for the camera. The teenager and Stan were just finishing their
work placing a black velvet loveseat with wooden scrollwork details in front of
a plain, dove-gray backdrop that curved down along the floor as well. And
everyone— everyone —stopped to turn and
look at me.
    Nolan Beal frowned. And
I felt my bones go cold as my skin flushed hot.
    “What?” I asked more
defensively than I would have liked. My resentment and embarrassment was
palpable enough to taste, an acetone burn at the back of my tongue. I really
could have done without the subtle blanch in the male model’s expression, the
dismissive shake of Rilla’s head. Stan and his teen sidekick exchanged an awkward
glance for