“We’re ready for you, Katrina,” he heard the assistant say.
The models were clustered in shaded cabanas before the shoot, so he’d only caught glimpses of them.
Katrina stepped out, a gorgeous woman with long hair the color of midnight, wearing a swimsuit bottom that barely clung to her hips. It was more like two tiny pieces of cloth tied together with scraps. There wasn’t much to the top, either. Just a couple of triangles that hardly covered her generous breasts.
She was curved in all the right places, and after she bent over so they could spray her hair wet, she straightened, flipped her hair back, and gave him a look.
Wow. Those eyes. They were so deep blue they were almost violet. Maybe they were violet. He had no idea, because he’d been struck dumb as she approached him.
He’d been around plenty of beautiful women before, but Katrina was . . . wow. Photos of her didn’t do justice to what a knockout she really was.
“Grant Cassidy, this is Katrina Korsova.”
She gave him a quick nod, then turned to the director, obviously all business and not as thunderstruck by him as he had been by her.
He was going to try to not be offended by that. Then again, she likely worked around good-looking male models all the time. He was no big deal, at least not in the modeling world.
“I want your arm around his, Katrina,” the director said. “Katrina, your right breast against his chest, with you facing him. Let’s see some heat here.”
And just like that, she moved into him, her body warm and pliant as she slid her hand into his hair and tilted her head back. Their hips touched, their thighs made contact, and then she looked at him.
He’d never felt that pow of instant connection before, but he sure as hell felt it now. It was as if lightning had struck the center of his universe, and every part of him felt it.
Katrina blinked a few times, then frowned.
“Something wrong?”
“The angle. Give me a second,” she said. He’d expected some type of Russian accent, but there was none, just the smoky hot darkness of her voice spilling from her lips. It was like drinking whiskey on a cold night. The sound of her voice heated him from the inside out. He’d never been slammed as hard as this before.
Katrina adjusted, her fingers tangling in his hair, giving him just a bit of a tug.
His lips curved. “So, you like that?” he asked.
“Just a job,” she responded, then gave him a smoldering look, tilted her head toward him, and jutted her hips out just enough to hit him right in the crotch.
Goddammit. She’d done that on purpose.
He could do it as well. He raised his hand and laid it just above her hip, knowing he couldn’t obscure the swimwear. After all, that’s what they were advertising. His fingers bit into her skin, just enough that he caught the flash of awareness in her eyes.
“Yes, that’s perfect,” the director said. “Hold it there.”
Grant heard the camera click several times.
“Now move. Get into each other. Lean in, touch. Be mindful of your angles, Katrina. And Grant, follow her lead.”
“Yes, Grant,” Katrina said, shifting just a touch, then picking up his hand and placing it on her butt. “Follow my lead.”
It wasn’t like he’d never posed for a photo session before. He wasn’t a rookie here. He knew what he was doing, how to move and react to the camera, and when to be still.
Katrina might be the pro here, but he could play the game, too. He cupped her butt, making sure he didn’t squeeze—just slid his fingers lightly over her skin, tucking his fingertips just inside the edge of her suit.
He heard every breath she took, saw the smoldering look in her eyes, and his body reacted.
So did hers, as her nipples pebbled, brushing against his chest.
His lips curved.
“Just a job” his ass.
And as he heard every few clicks of the camera, he turned his head, moved his body against hers, making sure their clothes remained the focus while keeping his gaze intently on hers. When he drew a strand of her hair between his fingers, letting his knuckles brush the swell of her breasts, he heard her sharp intake of breath.
“Just a job, right?” he asked, turning her around so her back was to him, so he could skim his hand down her arm, letting his fingers rest at her hip.
“This is perfect,” the director said. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”
He listened to the sound of Katrina’s breaths, got comfortable with her ass nestled into his crotch.
They fit damned perfect together. She was tall—taller than the average woman. He didn’t have to crouch down to fit her to him. She had long legs. Really nice legs, too.
“Okay, let’s break for a few,” the director said. “You both need an outfit change. Then we’ll resume.”
Before he had a chance to say anything to her, she pushed off and walked away, heading into the cabana. An assistant handed her a bottle of water.
And just like that, she disappeared.