Taming His Tutor(7)

By: Natalie Anderson



“You can do practical at the same time.”

Abbi glanced at the twenty other sex products Nadia had thrown on her desk. Tingle gel, soft satin blindfold, edible prophylactics, and some metal items that looked more like torture devices than orgasm inducers. “Aren’t you supposed to test these for your column?”

Nadia was the sex and relationships guru.

“No, you are. Test and report back.” Nadia rolled her eyes. Her teasing gaze narrowed at something in a clear plastic wrapper on Abbi’s desk. “You know that clit clamp is the best sex toy on the market.”

Abbi winced and spun her chair away from her screen, her knees firmly together. “Never going to happen.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Nadia snorted. “At least start with the basics. Let’s get some visuals going to get the motor running again, shall we?”

Abbi suppressed her sigh and stood. Getting away from watching the new software load painfully slowly wasn’t a bad idea. As they walked out to the lobby, the bass beat thumped up the stairwell.

A minute later, from the open doorway of the fourth-floor studio, Abbi saw that three office chairs had been set up in a line and a business-wear-clad model sat on each. With the music pumping, the models primed, the photographer was in full flight, calling out instructions to light, hair, and makeup assistants. Abbi paused, not going into the room. She wasn’t in the mood for the perfect people today, even though they were perfectly lovely women with whom she liked having a laugh.

“Come on.” Nadia grabbed her hand and marched her through the door.

Abbi stepped to the side, keeping out of the way. There was the usual plethora of assistants armed with lights, cameras, and tackle boxes spilling makeup, but Abbi’s attention was caught by the man standing with his back to her. Actually he was bending over a desk, so it was more his butt facing her. It was a fine, tight butt heading up long, long legs, all encased in slimline navy sweatpants. The pants hung in a way that implied long, strong muscles. A bright white shirt was loose at his narrow waist, but then stretched tight over his broad shoulders. The brightness accentuated his tanned forearms. Wow.

As she stared, he straightened up. All. The. Way.

Abbi’s heart stopped.

Joe was the new personal training go-to guy? The one who’d be doing the weekly online feature showing off exercise moves and giving tips? He’d be all over the website—all over her domain in his let-me-get-sweaty get-fit gear?

Abbi drew in a deep breath. “I don’t think I want to—”

“Yeah you do.” Nadia chuckled. Her friend angled her head to the side as one of the female models stretched back on the swivel chair and spread her legs wide to the sides.

“Can someone fix Tracy’s skirt? I don’t want to see her sparkly thong,” the photographer shouted.

“No?” Tracy fluttered her lashes at Joe. “Who’s to say I’m wearing a thong?”

Nadia chuckled. Abbi grimaced bitchily—according to the article in last month’s mag, vajazzling was so last year.

“Don’t try to mess with him.” The photographer snorted. “He’s seen better.”

Tracy poked her tongue out and the photographer laughed.

Joe grinned but said nothing.

Abbi gritted her teeth. It figured. Joe Fuller had seen more than his share of beautiful women, and now here he was in the middle of a photo shoot with three of them.

So what was he going to get them to do? Were they going to use their laptops as free weights?

Abbi waited, her irritation that it wasn’t just Tracy trying to impress him growing—all the models were smiling and laughing and eager to do whatever he wanted them to.

Oh yeah, they were all so willing to let him.

“It’s all about sneaking in some exercise while at work,” Nadia said.

“Because we’re all so desperate to do that,” Abbi said acidly.

She watched Joe talk the women through the next pose and then manipulate one model into position as the photographer snapped pictures. Joe’s hands glided over the girl’s limbs like he’d been touching her that way for years. Like he was used to having total control over a woman’s body.

Liquid heat scalded Abbi’s gut. Her abs clenched. Indigestion, that was all.

“Hold it as long as you can,” he instructed the model, turning around with a smile. “Hold it tight. I want you to feel the burn.” Confident, authoritative. Bossy.

He glanced over to the doorway and stilled. He blinked, cocking his head slightly as his gaze locked on her. He stared, then, slowly, his gaze drifted down over her body, then back up.

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