“A Parker?”

“You, Duchess, are the coolest.”

I laughed loudly before turning back around in the chair to face the laptop. “Can I see more?”

He stepped up behind me and kissed the top of my head as he clicked through his files to where all his shoots were. “Knock yourself out. If you don’t want to stay through the whole shoot, I’ll call you when I’m done, all right?”

I nodded and tilted my head to the side when he brushed his lips against my neck, and shamelessly watched as he set up his studio. But by the time his client got there, I’d barely spared the guy a glance before getting caught up in the thousands upon thousands of pictures on Coen’s laptop.

There were some more like the first one I’d looked through. Some ­couple shots and weddings. The ones of the guy when I’d first come to the studio, and a lot of this guy I was having trouble figuring out if he was a firefighter, model, or fitness athlete. Then there were the more artistic ones, where every new set had me leaning closer to the laptop, and falling more in love with Coen’s style.

Clicking on the last file, labeled “bullshit,” my eyebrows rose and eyes darted to Coen before quickly going back to the screen. My mouth slowly fell open as I clicked through picture after picture of Coen. It was at probably the twelfth photo that my eyebrows dropped and pinched together, before I rapidly clicked back to the beginning and started over again, this time going through faster.

Sitting back in the chair, I folded my arms over my chest and angled my head to the side as I stared at the picture of him filling the screen. I don’t know how many pictures I’d finally gone through of him before stopping. Close to one hundred? Every one of them had been amazing, or funny, or artsy, or just sexy as sin. But that’s not why I couldn’t go through any more. I couldn’t go through any more because in every single picture, Coen’s face was somehow covered. Either by a shadow, glasses, mask, hat, cameras, paint . . . something. There wasn’t one that was just him.

“I didn’t think you’d sta—­find the lame folder.”

Looking up at him, I pointed to the screen. “Do you have an issue with your face?”

He looked at me like I was losing it before laughing awkwardly. “Uh. What?”

“Your face”—­sitting back up, I pushed down the left arrow and let it flip through the pictures—­“is covered in every single one of these pictures. Why?”

“I don’t know, I like being weird? Or going for that artsy shit.”

“You sure that’s it?”

Coen shook his head slowly, like he didn’t know what other answer I could possibly be expecting. “I’m pretty sure. I mean, you’ve seen my face. If I had an issue with it, I wouldn’t let you see it.”

“Exactly,” I whispered when I looked back at the screen.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, babe.”

I took a deep breath in before looking at him. “All those pictures—­and there’s a lot of them—­were taken in the last ­couple years.”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“Whatever happened for you to have your demons, when did it happen?”

Coen straightened and continued to stare at me without responding.

“Was it before—­”

“There were missions throughout the last five years, it’s from all of them.”

“The main thing,” I pressed. “There has to be something crucial that happened. I don’t doubt there was bad shit every time you were sent somewhere. But I also don’t doubt there was something huge that is tormenting you.” When I realized he wasn’t going to answer, and that I’d probably asked way too much of him, I clicked out of the pictures and curled in on myself. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—­”

“Two and a half years ago.”

I looked up into his haunted eyes, and ached to help him somehow.

“It was two and a half years ago. About four or five months before any of those pictures of me. I, uh, deleted all the pictures of me from before that time.”

I just nodded when his eyes focused back on me. That’s what I’d been worried about. Not that the pictures of him weren’t incredible, but somehow, I’d known. Coen was always, even subconsciously, hiding the place where his demons resided.

“Come here,” Coen said suddenly.

I shot him a look but gave him my hand to pull me up.

“Follow me.”

“Okay . . .” The word trailed off as Coen pulled his shirt over his head, and continued walking toward where all the equipment was set up.

Flipping off a few things, and switching others on, he moved his camera and played with it for a while before coming back over to me.

“You ready?”

“Um, I’m actually kind of lost right now. You took off your shirt and I started staring, and then you were playing with everything . . .”

He grinned before grabbing the bottom of my shirt, and slowly pulled it off my body.

“What are you—­”

“I’m showing my girlfriend that she’s more beautiful than any of the girls she saw in those photos. I’m about to do my first shoot with someone. And if anything will be covering my face, it will be some part of you.” Unclasping my bra, he slid the straps down my arms before letting it drop to the floor.

“Coen,” I said breathlessly, my lips pulling into a grin. I knew he was distracting me, I knew he was distracting himself . . . but I didn’t care. I loved that he was doing this.

“And, besides, that bed and couch are both new. I knew if I ever wanted you on anything in this studio, I didn’t want it to have been touched before or to have any memories tied to it. They were delivered yesterday . . . so I think we should break them in, what about you?”

I smiled and leaned up to capture his bottom lip between my teeth. “My parents can’t see these pictures.”

He laughed. “Or your brother.”

We started standing. Both keeping only our jeans on as we posed chest to chest, his chest to my back with his tattooed arms covering my breasts, and me behind him—­clinging to his body. Then he moved me so my back was against the wall, legs around his hips, chests flush as he tortured my lips with teasing bites.

By the time he released my legs, and began unbuttoning my jeans, I’d forgotten we were doing this in front of his camera.

He finished pulling my jeans off before walking us toward the large bed and getting us both on top of it. Holding his body over mine, I ran my hands over the hard muscles in his arms and hiked one bare leg up around his hip. It wasn’t until the flash that I realized why he’d been slowly moving my arm until it was covering my exposed breasts, or why he’d continued nudging my head back with his nose to hang off the side of the bed. Through this slow-­building, erotic type of foreplay we’d started on, he was still positioning us, still making sure I was somehow covered, and, I’m sure, still making it all look effortless.

Because with him, it was.

And it was soon after, when he pulled off my underwear, and allowed me to rid him of his jeans and boxer briefs as he tossed aside the remote for the camera, that I realized I was no longer okay with not having a forever with Coen Steele. As he slowly made love to me on that bed, I knew that I’d fallen in love with him, and anything less than forever wouldn’t be enough.

Chapter Nine

Coen—­September 25, 2010

KNOCKING QUICKLY ON Reagan’s door, I glanced at my car and blew out a quick breath before facing the door again right before it was flung open.

“Coen!”

“What’s up, bud?” Grabbing under Parker’s arms, I lifted him into a hug before throwing him over my shoulder.

He laughed wildly and slapped on my back. “Hey, I thought you weren’t strong!”

“I’m not.” I gasped, and stopped walking. Letting my legs shake a little, I acted like my knees were buckling under his weight. “You’re too heavy for me.”

“No, I’m not!” he squealed.

“Either we’re both going down, or just you.”

“Both!”

Letting him slide forward on my shoulder a little bit, I gasped and pretended to struggle. “I can’t keep you up—­I can’t.” Sliding him the rest of the way off, I swung him down, acting like I just barely caught him before his head hit the floor.

His laughter filled the entire apartment before he lifted his head and slapped on my forearms. “Do it again.”

I widened my eyes, and let my face fall. “I can’t . . . you’re still . . . too . . . heavy,” I grunted out each word as I let him slip down onto the carpet an inch at a time. Once he was on the floor, I doubled over, breathing heavily.

Parker jumped up and tackled me onto the ground. “You’re weak, Coen, you shoulda eaten your food growing up.”

I smiled over at him. “Shoulda. How was school yesterday?”

“It was cool.”

“You and Jason still best friends?”

“Yep.”

“Girls still have cooties?”

Parker’s eyes widened, and he stopped where he’d been tracing one of the stars on my forearm. “Yeah,” he said softly. Like I should have known his answer wouldn’t have changed in a day. But with six-­year-­olds, you never knew. He and Jason decided they hated each other and were back to best friends twice in one day.

Holding up my fist for him to bump, I ruffled his hair and stood up. “Sounds like your world is still pretty perfect then, bud. Come on, let’s go see what’s taking your mom—­” I cut off and froze when I saw Reagan standing there. She looked beautiful. Clearing my throat, I licked my lips and finished my sentence. “So long.”

Raising an eyebrow, an amused smirk tugged at her full lips before she pushed off the wall to walk toward us. “Take me so long, huh? I’ve been ready.”