Luster

“
Y
ou’re late
, princess.”

I know without checking my phone that he’s right, but the comment still comes out of left field. Did he really just say that to me?

He certainly doesn’t need to start off our interview being an asshole. After all, I’m here to set up a contract with him that’ll pay for his apartment several times over. And in the heart of San Francisco that’s saying something.

I’ve been raised right and know that I should apologize for coming by after our scheduled time, but now I sorta don’t want to. Serves him right. And who the hell does he think he is, calling me princess?

But then I look up from the bare feet of the man who’s opened the door and I feel my resolve crumble into tiny insignificant pieces. Holy hell. There’s no way. This can’t be the guy I’m meant to see.

My mouth is working hard to try and string a coherent sentence together, but all I can think about in my head is why on earth is he shirtless? But at the same time—why does he have to be wearing anything at all?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Walsh,” I say carefully, in hopes of not stuttering along. This isn’t my first rodeo and I want to maintain every bit of professionalism that I can. I will remain calm and collected. Even though I’ve just spotted his dark blonde happy trail and now it’s taking my eyes off his face… “There was an accident down on Market Street so I had to take a quick detour, but it didn’t turn out to be so quick. In fact, that was what held me up—traffic. Usually I’m very prompt for my meetings with clients. Although my clients are usually dressed for the occasion.”

My professionalism takes off high into the sky, waving at me as it flies away.

Mr. Walsh looks down at me from under a thick frame of gorgeous eyelashes and pulls himself away from the door frame, leaving me still standing outside. “You comin’ in or not?” he calls from over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes and don’t bother saying anything—it’s clear this guy doesn’t have the best set of bedside manners—and follow behind him. I want to look around the small apartment but my eyes are drawn to how low-slung his jeans are. It’s as if his hips are a promise of what’s to come. Impossible to decide which side is nicer—front or back. From the front I got an amazing view of his rugged and handsome face, even though he looked like I just woke him from hibernation. And those abs. I could wash my shirts on them. He’s got a lean build, but he must work out because there’s a whole lot of muscle packed on in all the right places.

But he’s walking away from me now, and my gaze is zoned in on his ass. No one has an ass that round and tight without putting in the hours at a gym.

Get your shit together, Falyn. Stop mooning over him and get the interview done.

I know I need to pull my head out of the clouds and get down to business with him, but it’s hard not to stare when he’s not looking. The naughtier part of me says there’s definitely some business I’d like to get down to with him, but I tell that part of me to pipe the hell down and focus. I’ve got a job to do.

He leads me into the foyer area where there’s another door at the end. He’s slipping on a pair of shoes by the door and I have to quickly catch up as he walks on through.

Figuring we’d do a simple question and answer bit in his apartment, I’m completely shocked to see the room we’ve walked into.

I thank god for makeup because I just know my face is flushing red. Mr. Walsh has led us to what I’m assuming is his studio. And all I can see are scores of naked women everywhere.

There are numerous giant sketchpad drawings of women in different positions papering the walls around us. It’s like I’m standing in a room covered in XXX-rated wallpaper.

I bring my hand up to cover my mouth and check to make sure my jaw hasn’t actually unhinged itself. I’ve never seen anything like this. Or like him, for that matter.

Mr. Walsh pulls up a metal stool next to the loveseat that’s covered by a tattered drop-cloth. I don’t know whether he means for me to sit on the stool or the couch, and I oddly hover about like a bird. The impatient look on his face makes me flush deeper.

Why am I acting like such a rookie? He’s just a guy. Just a client. I’ve met plenty of them before.

“Feel free to sit when you’re ready,” he says as he braces himself against the stool, crossing one ankle over the other.

The corded muscles in his arms flex and I find myself ungraciously plopping down onto the loveseat as if his words have commanded my body.

Clearing my throat of the silly nervousness, I pull out my notepad and pen, ready to get this ball rolling. Matthew Walsh is the most talked-about young artist at the moment, and to help prove to my father that I’m fit to take over the Interior Design Department at Morrissey Regent Incorporated, I have specifically sought him out. I’m here to contract his work out for each of our forty-seven hotels dotted along the West Coast. Which involves a lot of ass-kissing and a big financial transaction for the lucky guy. His larger metal sculptures are easily worth a cool million a piece. And all I can see is a new and unique work in the lobby of every Morrissey Regent, something I know my father will be proud of.

All I need to do now is keep it together enough to ask Mr. Walsh a few questions for our company’s press release, and to get him to sign the contract. Then I’ll be walking right up to our main office and shoving it right into my father’s stubborn face.

I get the tingles just thinking about the look he’ll give me…

Except I realize I’ve spaced out a bit and the look Mr. Walsh is giving me is sending a whole different type of chills through me.

“So,” I try to begin, pasting on the smile I use with my father’s clients. “Where does Matthew Walsh get his inspiration for his work?”

He’s glancing at me from the corner of his eye, an amused look flitting across his face. “It’s just Matt.” He folds his arms across his broad chest and gives me a calculated look before his eyes focus on something behind me. “My inspiration comes from real life, mostly. As you can see.” He points to the numerous sketches hanging on the walls around us.

It’s hard not to stare at the practical porn that’s on every surface it seems. Real life? There’s so many different women… so many different faces. Was he involved with all of them? Or any at all? And why the hell do I care?

“I, uh, that’s interesting. I’ve only seen a few of your pieces, like the one at the de Young. I had no idea…” my voice trails off, and suddenly Matt is smirking at me. I’m glad he thinks this is so funny.

“Do they bother you? You look a little uncomfortable there Miss uh—”

“Morrissey. Falyn Morrissey,” I say my own name breathlessly, catching my lip between my teeth. He doesn’t even remember me calling and speaking with him yesterday?

“Right. So do they? Bother you, that is.”

I glance down, embarrassed to see how my entire chest is tinged pink. Damn him. “No. I wouldn’t say that exactly. Why do you think I’m bothered?” Clearly this interview is getting off to a successful start.

“Not a fan of the naked human form, I take it? That’s really a shame,” he ignores my question, still smirking at me. What the hell is his deal?

“So this press release—ah, can you tell me how long you’ve been working with your hands? What’s the process like?”

“You want me to show you how I work with my hands?” he asks, clearly enjoying watching me squirm in my seat.

He’s biting the pad of his thumb, gauging my reaction. I push a stray piece of hair away from my face and purse my lips. He may be panty-scorchingly sexy, but I can’t just let him run our business off track here. I won’t.

“Mr. Walsh—”

“Matt, I said.” He’s positively beaming through that sexy crooked smile of his. Oh no you don’t.

“Okay,
Matt
. Can we just go ahead and get through these questions so you can sign the contract and I can be on my way? I still have quite a few other important business matters to attend to.”

I don’t mean to come off so rushed and agitated, but it doesn’t even faze him. If he would just stop doing whatever it is he’s doing, then I could get out of this weird room and take a breath of fresh air. I’m only now noticing how tight my chest feels when I take in the drawings, the half-formed sculpture projects, and the area of the room where he must sit and actually work with the metal.

I have to admit it. Being around Matt in his creative space is pretty intimidating.

He lifts a brow at me. “You’re terrified of being here with all of these drawings, aren’t you? Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever met another grown woman who’s scared of her body. Usually beautiful women are so sure of themselves. Nakedness just doesn’t affect them.”

Uh, what now? I want to focus on the part where he called me beautiful, but his arrogance and insinuation ruins it for me. “First of all, I am not scared of my own body. I’m perfectly fine with what I have. Second, plenty of beautiful women have body image issues of their own. I don’t know who told you otherwise, but they’re wrong. And so are you.”

Matt puts his hands up in mock protest, still amused with me. “Whoa, whoa. I only say that because the beautiful women I drew here had no qualms with getting naked in front of me. Why would they? It’s just a body. A skeleton wearing muscles and skin and hair.”

But the way I can tell he took his time with these drawings…I know they weren’t ‘just bodies’ to him. There was something more to it than that.

“I’m sure they had no problem getting naked for you. They’re models. That’s what they do.”

I’m getting way off track here.

He cocks his head to the side, challenging me. “So? I’m not a model and I have zero issues getting naked whenever the fuck I feel like it.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already proving his point by pulling himself to a stand. His hands yank at the button of his pants, rip at the zipper and the next thing I know, Matt Walsh is standing naked in his studio. I can’t tear my eyes away from the way his thick cock is dangling between his toned thighs.

Holy. Shit. What have I got myself into?