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With the tip of his finger, Lucas tilted up the chin of the waif seated across from him and did his best to ignore the enthusiastic chitters of the designer and the stylist standing just behind the photographer they hired for that day's shoot. He also pretended not to see the blush that crept across the waif's face. If she ruined the shot because she couldn't keep her lust to herself and Lucas was forced to stay longer in the rundown apartment chosen as a backdrop, he'd lock her in the bathroom and walk out.

At least he could count on the level-headedness of the photographer. The magazine didn't pay him an obscene fee to ogle the models. Although, sleeping with them after the shoot was fair game.

"That's good, Lucas," he encouraged.

A series of clicks and flashes of light followed his words.

"Lean into her more," he said.

Lucas did as he was told, except he looked beyond the waif. He knew if he stared into her eyes she'd faint, which meant working overtime. He had learned his lesson when he first started out. No staring at the models. The technique didn't come from a place of arrogance or an inflated sense of self. It was just a fact that women, men, it didn't matter, if he locked eyes with them they fainted in five seconds.

"That's good." More clicks. "Okay, Olga, put your arm over his shoulder. You're lovers. Show me the heat."

Lucas suppressed a grimace. He had worked with Olga many times, and her overenthusiasm to please sickened him. Where was her sense of pride for her work?

He blamed it on her age. She had reached that breakpoint where models usually retired. Someone younger and thinner always waited in the wings to take her place.

"Give it to me, Lucas," the photographer said.

Having had enough of Olga's none too subtle advances—she practically shoved her hand down his pants—Lucas cupped her face with one hand while he pulled her close with his arm around her tiny waist. He stared into her eyes and counted down in his head.

Five . . .

Four . . .

Three . . .

Two . . .

"Someone get Olga the smelling salts, please," the stylist said, fanning his flushed face.

"That's a wrap, everyone!" the photographer announced and a round of applause followed.

Lucas draped Olga's body across the settee they were on and stood up. He removed the jacket and handed it to the designer who appeared by his side as if by magic.

"Magnificent as always, Lucas," the designer said, undressing him with his eyes.

Lucas tried not to show the cringe that crawled over his skin on his face. "Thank you, Marcus. Your clothes are always a pleasure to wear."

The designer stared up at him like the clouds parted and a deity floated down from the heavens. Lucas was silently grateful he didn't have the ability to hear thoughts. The look on the designer's face held nothing PG for sure. Why were people in fashion so damn horny all the time? It was a veritable orgy every time he walked onto the set.

"A bunch of us are grabbing drinks later," Marcus said when he finally managed to string words together again.

Lucas raised his hand to stop the rest of what the designer had to say. He had heard the offer often enough. "Thank you, but I have somewhere I need to be." He moved toward the designated dressing area.

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