Close Up

I didn't do second dates.
Not ever.
Like never, ever.
No judgment, no censure or self-loathing. I took what men were willing to give for one night and moved on.
Except for Damon Wood. He was beyond hot and I definitely liked him. But I hadn't had him. Because I knew if I did once would not be enough.
Damon was a photographer by trade and since I was a former model, our paths had crossed plenty. He was professional, sexy as sin, and could have me in stitches at the exact wrong, or depending on the shot he was after, the exact right moment. So aside from his killer personality and gorgeous body, his photographs of me were my favorites.
As in I cherished them.
More than that, I dreamed about him—about Damon in my bed, against a wall, on the kitchen counter, the shower. And maybe . . . I dreamed about him in my life.
As thus, I'd never dipped into the pool that was Damon Wood and never would. No way, no how, no—
But then our paths crossed unexpectantly.
Then I had a weak moment. Then he ended up naked in my bed.
And then . . . he wouldn't leave.