Her Body Of Work. Marie Donovan
Rey held her breath as the wedge of brown skin widened. His eyes never left hers as the lapels fell open, baring him below the waist. One question answered. He wasn’t wearing briefs today. He shrugged the robe off his broad shoulders and dropped it on the floor. He stood naked in front of her, his topaz body a dark jewel against the crisp white linens.
Rey clutched the sides of her chair, cursing her own foolishness. A chunk of marble must have fallen on her head over the weekend, causing artistic amnesia. How else could she have dismissed the effect his naked body had on her? He had the perfect male silhouette—wide shoulders tapering to a taut waist. His tight buttocks capped the hard thighs she’d admired last Friday. And his arousal—it was even better than she remembered. She wanted his shaft against her damp center. He seemed to read her thoughts, because his hard cock bounced even higher, pointing to his navel.
No, she wasn’t an amnesiac. She was a full-blown sadomasochist and had no one to blame but herself. Here stood the world’s sexiest man and she couldn’t lay a finger on him. Not unless she wanted to renew the gossip that had mercifully died away.
“What do you want, Reina?” His silky accent slipped over her frayed nerves.
“I want you.” Her response slipped out, horrifying her. Would that be a Freudian slip or Freudian lingerie? “And why are you calling me Reina?”
“You are beautiful, like a queen. How does my queen want me?” He stepped closer to her.
“I mean, I want you to stand over here.” For someone who lived her life visually, Marco was a masterpiece. The Sistine Chapel, Taj Mahal and the Louvre had nothing on him. The Washington Monument came pretty close though, she thought, choking back a hysterical laugh.
“Reina? Are you all right?” The concerned look in his eyes grounded her flight of fancy.
“Fine. I’m just thinking about how to pose you.” She pulled a crate closer and covered it with a smaller sheet. “Stand here and put your right foot on the crate.”
He followed her directions, the pose throwing his erection into full view.
She tamped down her surge of lust and reached for her charcoal. Staring slack-jawed at her model wouldn’t pay the bills. “We’re going to start with some short poses to warm you up, so twist slightly at the waist.”
He twisted away from her.
“No, twist toward me. I need to see your chest.” She sketched quickly, but he was already losing the pose. “You’re moving a bit. Can you hold the pose longer?”
“Sure.” He turned again but not into the right position. She set down her charcoal and walked over to help. As soon as her hands touched him, she faltered, forgetting how she wanted him to pose.
Under the slight sheen on his skin from the space heaters, she glided her hands over his sleekly muscled shoulders. Instead of moving him into position, she reached around to the strong triangles of his shoulder blades, curving the tips of her fingers over his back muscles into the deep valley of his spine.
“Rey.” He murmured her name and reached for her.
She jumped away, yanking her hands off him. “Okay, um…” She took a deep breath, trying to forget how smooth his skin was. “Marco, move your shoulders a quarter turn toward me.”
He stalked toward her. “I’d feel better if you showed me again with your hands.”
That was her problem. If his body felt any better to her sensitive artist’s hands, she’d have an orgasm from just touching him. His eyes had darkened, and his erection had gotten even larger. Not that she was staring or anything.
She wished she’d just given him verbal instructions. Or better yet, oral… She mentally slapped herself and stepped away.
“That looks fine, Marco.” That was a lie and the truth at the same time. His pose looked awful, as if his torso were totally disconnected from his lower body. But his body, oh, that was still the most amazing sight she’d seen outside of an Italian art gallery.
Rey hurried to the safety of her easel and sketched the heavy muscle of his legs curving into his groin. She found herself stopping to stare inordinately at his erection, drawing its thick lines in great detail, curving the head and shading the heavy weight of his testicles dangling below.
She finally looked above his waist and grimaced. He’d bent his arms like a butler holding a tray, blocking the lines of his chest.
“Twist slightly at the waist.”
Marco complied awkwardly. Rey snapped a photo and examined the camera’s digital display. Something still didn’t seem quite right. She decided to try again and pressed the button to erase the photo.
“Okay, Marco, turn a bit more. That’s it. Look over your left shoulder.” She peered through the camera’s viewfinder and took another photo. She frowned at the new image. Marco seemed stiff, and not in a good way. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make some coffee while you put on your robe.”
He straightened and put on the robe. She peeked at him. His muscles must have tightened during their modeling session because he stretched his torso, rolling his head around. He was much more relaxed without her directions.
She measured several scoops of Gevalia Swedish coffee and pondered Marco’s awkwardness while modeling. His agent had assured her he was an experienced nude model, but Rey didn’t believe it for a second. She’d been drawing male nudes since her teens, and Marco was not a professional model. Not a good one, anyway. He also didn’t look much like his head-shot photo and tear sheets. They seemed to be a younger version of him.
Pouring some spring water into the coffeemaker, she thought of one possible explanation. If he’d been out of the modeling world for several years, he might be using old head shots and tear sheets until he got enough money for new photos. What had he done in the meantime?
She sighed. That was none of her business. Her business was to sculpt a ten-foot statue. But at this point her fabulous model resembled a block of marble more than a Roman god.
MARCO FLEXED HIS STIFF muscles, amazed at how difficult it was to hold a pose without twitching. He ran his hands through his hair, grimacing at the curly black tangles. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of clippers. But his hair was the least of his problems.
He could tell Rey was disappointed in their first modeling session, but he was honestly trying his best. All the smart-ass comments he’d made to his younger brother about getting paid to stand around looking pretty had come back to bite him. The next time he saw Francisco he’d apologize for being such a jerk.
The coffee hissed and trickled into the carafe. Rey came around the corner from her kitchenette with two steaming cups and a plate of cookies. He groaned inwardly. The strained look on her face was a far cry from the steamy sensuality he’d seen in her gaze just a few hours ago. Of course, that was before she’d discovered what a crappy model he was.
He had to give her credit for good manners, though. He sure wouldn’t bring cookies to a guy who was screwing up his career.
She set a mug of coffee and the cookie plate on a small table next to the platform. “Try these pepparkakor cookies. My mother sent them for Christmas. She and my father are spending the winter in Spain.”
“She must be a great baker.” He admired the heart-shaped brown cookies studded with round white sugar sprinkles.
“Hardly. The kitchen is the place where my mother gets cucumber slices for the bags under her eyes after a late evening out. These come from the Scandinavian bakery here in Chicago.”
He bit into a crispy gingerbread cookie and saw crumbs sprinkle the front of his robe, like some old housebound geezer who needed a bib to keep from dribbling on his bathrobe.
Rey pulled a chair over to the table and sat. She sipped her coffee, a thoughtful look on her face. “Marco, when was the last time you modeled?”
“Um, why do you