May (Calendar Girl #5) Read Online Free PDF Page A

it. Funny boy, he would learn real quick who was boss. I just hoped in the end, it would still be me.
     

Chapter 3
     
    Black tribal tattoos. Drool worthy, thick, corded muscles wrapped in intricate weaving designs, cascaded all over tanned, toned, male skin. From the top of his left shoulder, down his bulging bicep, over his ribcage, waist, dipped into the sarong that covered his male essence and beyond. The black ropes of ink then scaled down from his tree-trunk sized thigh, along a tight, carved out calf, to stop bluntly at the ankle. I could barely feel the sand burning the soles of my feet as I stood there in awe of the magnificent creature before me. He turned sideways, giving me a lickable view of a strong, well-formed back, one that could easily lift me and two friends and toss us into the ocean just beyond where he stood. A camera clicked repeatedly, and then he looked at me. No, he didn’t look at me. His eyes sought mine across the thirty-foot expanse between us. Brown eyes, the color of the deepest, darkest cocoa bean sizzled as they took in every ounce of my form.
    The stranger’s gaze slid over me like a burning caress, so heated I fanned my face trying to remove the searing feeling that encapsulated my skin. An Italian accented voice called out some commands, and finally, Mr. Tattoo looked away, releasing the hold he had over me. I was freed but felt an odd, niggling sense of loss instead. The way this man looked at me was a calling, a beacon of desire needling at my psyche. One I was all too familiar with, as the space between my thighs swelled and softened. I stood and watched as the man behind the camera took a dozen more photos then abruptly made a slashing gesture with his hand.
    “ Finito !” he said, followed by a, “ Perfetto .”
    Ripping my eyes away from the overly delicious male, I watched as the photographer twisted around, his face turned toward me. He had on a woven, brown fedora style sun hat, cargo shorts, and a white linen shirt that was held together by a single button that did nothing to hide the svelte body underneath it. He smiled wide and trudged over to me, sand kicking up with each step. I stood stock-still where the limo driver had suggested when he parked and pointed at the tent on the beach. He said my boss was behind the camera. I hadn’t anticipated my client would also be the man taking the pictures for the campaign. Either way, it didn’t matter much to me. Work was work, and as long as it came with a hundred thousand dollar check, I was all in.
    As he came closer up the beach, I could see a soft smile, white teeth, and small wrinkles at the edges of his kind blue eyes and more around his mouth. His handsome face showed he’d aged well, and his salt and pepper hair spiked out from under the fedora.
    “ Bella donna ,” he said grasping my shoulders in a warm embrace then leaning forward and air kissing both cheeks. “I am Angel D’Amico, and you are more beautiful than I anticipated when my wife said we must have you for our campaign.”
    At the mention of his wife, a statuesque Latina exited a white tent, her brown skin glimmering in the sunlight. A fiery red sarong-style halter dress wrapped around her curvaceous form and flapped in the breeze. Her dark hair was long and whisked out as if she had a personal fan blowing directly on her to accentuate her features. Talk about beauty. This woman had loads of it. Angel clapped his hands as the woman headed our way. “Ah, my wife. Takes away breath, yes?” His Italian accent was more prevalent. I nodded because she had stolen my breath; she was that stunning.
    A huge smile graced her lips. “Mia, it is so lovely to have you as part of our project.” She also leaned forward and air kissed both of my cheeks. Now that she was close, I could see she had also been kissed by age, but it did not take away from her beauty. Aunt Millie told me that the designer and his wife were around fifty. These two could easily pass for