Sinner and Saint

Chapter Two

I wasn't really that piqued as Brax might have hoped.

Why? Because most people who wanted me associated with their company did so for two main reasons—my body and my reputation.

I do a lot of things both as a passion and profession but I mostly model lingerie—the really sexy kind. I wasn't tall or skinny enough for catwalk or editorial but I had all the right curves to make very pricey scraps of fabric look even more seductive. 'Voluptuous', as described by most people I worked with, still had a market.

I didn't mind it. It paid well and mostly tolerated all the body issues I'd struggled with for years—big boobs, big hips, big butt, big thighs. It wasn't because they realized the wrongness of measuring a woman's worth by her dress size. It was because they found a way to make money out of it.

Do I have a problem with that? Sure, I do, in some amount.

But at the same time, I reasoned with myself that since people were going to say shit about my body anyway whether I put it on print or not, I might as well get paid for it.

It was a more-than-decent income and a good slap in the face for anyone who doomed me with what I couldn't change. With time, it became easier to tune those people out and feel good about the very thing that's made me feel inadequate for years. And I haven't really looked back.

Nowadays, whether I was in just a thong, a bikini or a pair of designer jeans, my body appeared in billboards and magazine spreads. Even in the occasional exhibit by some prominent photographers. My figure was always a draw, but my features, thanks to my mutt-like mixed heritage, apparently made for an interesting and exotic combination. I was told I looked like a lot of different people but also like no one else.

And that wasn't a far cry from the truth because I looked nothing like the family I know, which is a total of one person—my adoptive mother.

All she could tell me was that my biological mother, who had been her costume-designer at one point, was of African-American and Spanish heritage while my father was from the Middle East. I ended up with very curly, brown-black hair which I kept short and loose. My skin was a deep, warm brown, and my face featured big, deep-set, amber-colored eyes, a prominent nose only softened by the slight upturn at the tip of it, sharp cheekbones, and full lips that sported the much-coveted just-bitten look.

So if you add all that to a bombshell body and a notorious reputation for being a wild, untameable party girl with a rebellious history, you've got yourself a vixen.

Yes. I just grouped all those adjectives into one sentence. Maybe it's too much but 'too much' is a common reference to me as well so there you go. That should give you a fairly good idea of what made me such a bestseller for brands who wanted to sell sex and sin.

"I don't work out at your gym and I don't want to lie about that," I said coolly, remembering the advice, Ellen, my agency manager, told me about trying not to piss off potential clients. "Besides, the most I do is swim and beat up a punching bag. I like to leave a little bit of cellulite on. Can't lie about that either."

Brax took his damn time appraising my figure from head to toe, clearly liking the inventory, not that I've met a man who hadn't. And the cellulite isn't exactly on display so he probably doesn't believe me. "Can't believe that's all it takes for all of that. You sure that's all you do to work up some sweat?"

I rolled my eyes, finally straightening up to a sitting position. "Alright. That's enough. I'm no Merriam-Webster but business is not synonymous to banging so go take your baby trunk arms and leave now."

Brax snorted out a laugh. "Oh, come on. You can't seriously be offended by that."

My eyes narrowed into slits. "You're right. That doesn't offend me. Your mere existence does. So leave, gym boy, before I make you."