One (Love by Numbers Book 5)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Books by E.S. Carter

  Quote

  Dedication

  Note for the reader

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Special Note

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Copyright 2016 by E.S. Carter

  The Love by Numbers series

  Nineteen

  Twenty-One

  Three

  Thirteen

  One

  In dreams and in love there are no impossibilities

  – Janos Arany

  To G for being my soul mate and best friend; trust I seek and I find in you.

  To L, G & A for inspiring me to be better.

  To P for being the best big brother a girl could ever want. I miss you.

  To everyone who is missing someone. Remember them with smiles and not tears.

  The entire ‘Love by Numbers’ series, including this book, is set in Britain and has been written using U.K. English. It contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the British spoken word, which is the basis for this book’s writing style.

  Please remember that the words are not misspelled, neither are any of the words that use U.K. spellings.

  If you would like further explanation, or to discuss the translation or meaning of a particular word, please do not hesitate to contact the author. Contact details can be found at the back of the book.

  The incessant buzz of the tattooist’s gun fizzles through my mind, becoming a physical manifestation on my skin in the form of goose bumps.

  It’s not the mechanics of getting a tattoo that has such a profound effect on me; it’s the finality. Choosing to have these words made indelible is what has my mind spinning.

  When I walked into ‘Blue Door Ink’ a shitty looking tattoo parlour on some unknown street in L.A., I had zero intention of doing anything except looking. I hadn’t yearned for a tattoo or thought over my plans. I simply walked in because my last shoot had been a bust and the name above the bright blue door was cool. Plus, the burlesque girl behind the counter with a Monroe piercing and full sleeve tattoos made my dick stand to attention in a way nobody had for a long time.

  Now I’m lying here, underneath said girl, and not in the way I had first intended.

  She’s going to mark me.

  She’s going to use her delicate and elegant hands, fingers tipped with talon red fingernails, to wield a needle dipped in ink across my shoulders and scar my virgin skin.

  I’m not thinking about her, though.

  When her weapon of choice makes initial contact with my skin and a thousand red ants feel like they are chomping on that one specific point of my epidermis, I think about him.

  Acceptance is Serenity

  Not for him.

  These words are not for him.

  Click.

  Fine mist settles against smooth, tanned skin in perfect iridescent droplets.

  Click.

  A single bead of moisture engulfs all the smaller ones in its path, growing bigger with every inch of caramel skin it caresses until it pools in the hollow of her neck.

  Click.

  She swallows and that tempting drop of water, an enticing, cool spring well to my parched throat rolls onwards, over the graceful sweep of her clavicle, down, down, down between the small, firm mounds of her bare breasts.

  Click.

  It gathers momentum as it licks over her sternum, haphazardly following a path dictated by the fine hairs on her silky skin.

  Click.

  I lick my lips, swallowing hard as my thirsty lens tracks each millimetre, capturing the very moment that dewy bead hesitates before it tumbles over the edge and disappears into her belly button.

  Click.

  “I get so turned on during a session with you, Isaac.”

  I normally find her husky voice attractive, but I’m annoyed that she’s moved her position to run her fingers over her breasts and down through the slowly evaporating path of moisture, obliterating the perfection I was still hungering to capture.

  “I told you not to move.”

  My voice is stern, a warning. Céline’s ears only hear it as a temptation and her fingers continue to feather across her damp skin, ruining my frames.

  “I can’t help it, Mon Amour. You make me hot and needy. I need you to fill this ache. Scratch my itch.”

  Her fingers travel further south, slipping under the waistband of the flesh-coloured knickers that barely cover her pussy lips. My eyes flick to the darkening tone of the fabric and the evidence of her arousal. She’s wet for me, and my initial annoyance flees with the stirring of my cock.

  “Dammit, Céline. Get your fingers off your clit. This shoot isn’t over.”

  I scowl and drop my camera to my side, pushing myself up from my sprawled position and onto my knees.

  “The agency is sending over another model. They want both soft curves and masculine planes. Apparently, sex still sells, and that applies to bottled water too.” I give her a disdainful look meant to reprimand.

  “So take a break and get make-up to retouch your skin. I want it looking like silk for the next round.”

  She pouts her plump mouth and brazenly flicks over her clit a few more times trying to provoke a response. I give her nothing but a blank stare, despite my growing erection.

  I mean, come on, I’m a hot-blooded man watching a beautiful woman masturbate. I’m only human. I’m also a professional, on set at least. When I’m on the job, I’m all in.

  When I’m off the clock, I’ll make her pay.

  Céline eases from her position with the grace of a feline. She’s all soft curves and toned skin. Womanly perfection encased in a beautiful shell. She’s also fame-hungry, which makes her a dangerous conquest. In this business, I dare not taint my professional reputation with my desires for sins of the flesh. Not in public, at least.

  “I thought you’d be more fun,” she huffs as she walks away. Unbothered with her nakedness, she ignores the robe she previously wore into the studio and sways her hips seductively on her way to the dressing room.

  She halts at the door, her head turning to look at me over her shoulder. “Let’s hope the new guy they’re sending is more playful. I’d hate to be left wanting.”

  She’s gone before I can offer a response. Not that I have one. I’d bite my tongue off before I propositioned her on the job. That doesn’t mean she won’t be in my bed tonight. I need the release. I feel stretched thin, taut like an archer’s bow, stressed to the point of snapping. Losing myself in Céline’s body won’t fix what’s wrong, not that I even know what’s wrong with me lately, but it will ease the tension inside me, if only for a little while.

  Ever since my brother, Jake, got married I’ve felt off kilter.

  I can’t explain it. I
mean, I’m happy for him, ecstatically happy, but Jake was the last person I ever thought would get his shit together, and it’s left me a little adrift. I’m questioning everything I thought I wanted in my life and coming up short on the answers.

  Seconds pass before I realise I’m staring at the empty space where Céline recently stood. I turn myself away from the studio door and make my way over to the set. The lighting needs some adjustments; the softbox needs to add more diffusion, while the honeycombs need to concentrate it on the areas I’m focusing. I should call the tech in to help, but I like my sets closed. I like the control I have when it’s just me and my subject.

  It’s intimate, personal, and my only requirement.

  You can’t get that same level of connection when others are milling around or gawking. All I want on set is me, my equipment, my camera and something beautiful in front of my lens.

  My thoughts stray to less professional activities as I scan through this morning’s frames. Shot after shot of smooth, wet skin, and of the sumptuous dips and curves of Céline’s tight body.

  This shoot is for Wicked Water, the premium drink brand that makes billions selling what is most likely tap water, to the aspiring masses. It is my job to convince a significant percentage of those masses that drinking this water will make you as sexy as the beautiful people advertising it.

  This morning was all about Céline but this afternoon sees a male model brought into the mix and like the professional I am, I haven’t even bothered to check out who he is. All I know is he’s due any minute now.

  Almost as if my mind has summoned him, the studio door swings open and I feel, rather than see, another male presence in the room. Even as my eyes remain fixed on the screen in front me, I can feel him, and a crushing sense of deja-vu skitters down my spine. I’m frozen, torn between needing to look and wanting to remain oblivious. Don’t ask me how I know; maybe it’s his smell or just his presence, but I know it’s him.

  Him.

  Flynn Phillips.

  Gorgeous, successful, sinfully hot, and straight Flynn Phillips.

  The last time I saw him was the night I swallowed his cock, and he roared his appreciation down my throat in hot spurts, before turning over and fucking our third, a model called Evangeline with his still rock hard dick, never sparing me a second glance. Maybe that was the problem; I was the third, not Evangeline. I was the spare part in a bed made for two. It didn’t feel that way, though. For someone who has lived his life not looking for a connection, I was unprepared when my crackling awareness of Flynn Phillips hit me full force. What also hit me, like a sucker punch to the throat was the realisation that this connection was one-sided. His eyes, his body, his entire being, fooled me into thinking he felt this weird vibe between us, or maybe it was my eyes, my body, my entire being that made me the fool. It doesn’t matter now, not when he’s less than a few feet away from me in my studio, my space, my domain.

  All that matters is facing him with my dignity intact and the foolish buzzing in my belly under wraps.

  “Hey, Isaac. It’s good to see you again, man.”

  Fuck. His voice. The one that’s made him millions, along with his ripped body, slides over my skin like a benediction. I’m not a religious man, but that voice makes me want to pray. Pray for strength, pray for weakness, pray for something inexpressible.

  Someone listens because I spin to face him with an easy smile on my face and a cheery welcome that sounds authentic, even to my ears.

  “Good to see you, Flynn. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were booked for this gig. I guess I should pay more attention to the brief, hey.”

  If he knew any of my tells, he would see by the way I run my fingers over and over the ridges on the circumference of my camera lens how off my nerves are. But he doesn’t know me at all. My secret is safe, and I lose myself in the comforting texture of the solid grooves against my fingertips and the sight of the sinfully hot man mere feet away.

  “It was a last minute thing, my agent called with the offer just yesterday and seeing as I had a spare few days between countries, and I’d heard you were shooting, I thought why the hell not.” His deep brown eyes crinkle at the corners with his easy smile, and I daren’t let my gaze rove any further than his masculine, yet beautiful face. Flynn Phillips is all man. From the tips of his toes to the ends of his unruly, dark brown hair. I want to drink him in from top to bottom. I want to set aside my camera and memorise every inch with just my eyes, sating this weird craving I have whenever he is near. Yes, it’s a need that begins in my cock, but it’s more than that, he’s more than that, and the truth of my obsession with him will knock me sideways if I allow it.

  “It’s good to know you’re eager to work with me again.” I get the words out, but they feel thick with meaning on my tongue and I drop my eyes and turn my back to Flynn in the hopes he doesn’t taste their hidden truth. “I thought a gig like this wouldn’t be on your radar anymore. I mean, you’re doing good for yourself, Flynn. Real good.”

  I make myself look busy, collecting up equipment, moving things around the set. I do anything and everything to stop myself looking back at the man behind me.

  “Yeah, it’s been a wild ride. I never know what country I’m going to be in next and the second book went straight to the top of the charts in over seventy countries. Who’d have thought a lad from a council estate in Bristol would become a jet-setter just from some fitness and cooking videos? It’s been a whirlwind, and as much as I’ve enjoyed every minute, I’d kill for a few months to myself.” I can hear him take a seat on the only sofa in the room, but I remain ‘busy’ enough to avoid looking his way.

  “Don’t take that the wrong way,” he adds when I don’t say anything in return. “I’m grateful for the opportunities and loving every second, but isn’t it funny how when you get everything you thought you ever wanted, it turns out to not be the thing you wanted after all.” His voice has changed from confident to contemplative, and it’s enough for me to look at him once more.

  He’s sat, stretched out across the small sofa, his gaze off somewhere in the distance, allowing me to soak up the view.

  Pale grey sports bottoms hang loosely off his narrow hips, a plain white t-shirt stretches taut across his broad and leanly muscled chest, and his skin holds a deeper tan than when we last met. Tied around his wrist is a well-worn leather bracelet that looks handmade, and his feet are clad in his prerequisite sports shoes by the world famous brand with who I know he’s just got a huge sponsorship deal.

  You see, Flynn Phillips still believes he’s an ordinary bloke who once lived in a two-bedroom flat with his factory worker father, stay-at-home mother and older brother, and to a large extent he is, except he was always more than that and now the whole world knows it too.

  Flynn, a sports fanatic from an early age, studied health and fitness in college, and, as a laugh, began posting videos of himself on Instagram. His workouts and healthy meal ideas, combined with his boyish charm and ridiculously beautiful face saw him amass over one million followers in a matter of months. Sponsorship, publishing and business deals poured in and just over a year later, Flynn Phillips is an advertising guru’s wet dream and the hottest property around.

  He’s still staring into nothingness a few moments later. Maybe I should say something profound, but I can’t get into anything with him again. I’m feeling off as it is, and I can’t allow something that happened over a year ago to muddy my head up any further.

  “Why don’t you head into the dressing room and get Zoey to sort out your bed head and stubble. I’ll be calling you back in to shoot in around thirty minutes or so.”

  His head jerks towards me so fast I think he forgot we were in the same room. He shakes off the slight air of melancholy and replies with a grin, “Hey, this is not bed head, my friend. This,” he motions to his thick, dark, wavy hair, “is what my stylist calls, ‘Fuckable Couture’. I thought you artsy types all knew the latest trends.”

  His voice is teasing a
nd his smile genuine, but all I garner from his light-hearted response is ‘You gay types all like fashion’.

  I shouldn’t be surprised, I’ve lived with stereotypes my entire adult life, but I won’t take it from a straight man whose cock has been so deep down my throat that I can still taste him on my tongue months later.

  I’m livid and the deep breath I drag into my tight chest does nothing to alleviate the urge I have to use my fists on his too beautiful face.

  “Yeah, well, this artsy type couldn’t give a fuck about the latest trends and doesn’t want to hear their model’s existential musings about why their glamorous life isn’t as amazing as it ought to be. So do us all a favour and get your makeup done so I can wrap this fucking shoot up without acting on my urge to turn your ‘Fuckable Couture’ into ‘Fucked-up Roadkill.’”

  My fists clench so tight I can feel my short fingernails breaking into the skin of my palms. I no longer want to pound Flynn into the wall; I want to beat my own head in for losing my cool with this guy when I should’ve just smiled at his thoughtless quip and not lost my professional cool.

  “I meant nothing by…” he tries to explain but I’m done with Flynn Phillips and I need him out of my space.

  “Don’t apologise. It’s been a long day, just…” I motion to the door, “get Zoey to sort you out and let’s get today over and done.”

  I’m such a fucking prick.

  Flynn nods once and gets to his feet. His face is a mask of guilt and apology, and I can see he genuinely did not mean his words the way I interpreted them. Maybe I’m the judgemental fool.

  I’m such a huge, fucking prick.

  I watch as Flynn walks to the door, and just as he touches the handle, I offer my apology.

  “Listen, Flynn. I’m sorry for the rant. It wasn’t cool and it’d be great for us and the shoot if we could start again.”

  Without turning back to look at me, he nods once more and leaves the room.

  Way to go Iz. Way to fucking go.

  Why did I come here? Why did I agree to take on this job when I could’ve used a few days of R and R? I should’ve taken Elaina up on her offer of a couple of days at the beach. Instead, I got offered a shoot with Isaac Fox, the hottest photographer around right now, and I blew her off. Not a smart decision on my part especially after the last time we met, or rather, the morning after the last time we met.