Her Body Of Work. Marie Donovan
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from between light brown lashes.
“You must be Francisco. Come in and get warm.” She reached out a paint-stained hand and tugged him inside. Her full breasts bounced gently under her light blue sweater.
She had called him Francisco. There was no way he wanted to hear his brother’s name come out of her sexy mouth. “Actually I go by Marco.”
“Oh, I probably misheard your agent. My name is Rey Martinson.”
Rey? The blond goddess was the artist? She hustled him inside the foyer to a large loft space full of canvases, drop cloths and what looked like chisels and hammers. Gloomy afternoon light filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining a long redbrick wall. He craned his neck and saw a rumpled bed in the far corner of the loft.
“I’ll hang up your coat so you can go change in the dressing room.” She pointed to a small curtained cubicle next to a platform.
“Change?”
“So I can see if you’d be a good fit for my new project.” She hustled off to adjust a camera tripod.
Francisco had told him this wasn’t a fashion-modeling audition. He stood still for a second and decided to go along with whatever Rey wanted. He shut himself inside the drafty cubicle and shucked off his ice-crusted black jeans, cold fingers fumbling with the buttons on his short-sleeved black shirt. He looked for the outfit he was supposed to model but the only clothing was a ratty-looking bathrobe.
“Your agent said you’ve done life modeling before?” she asked.
“Sure, I’ve done it before,” he answered. Life modeling? He’d briefly dated a chain-smoking artist who painted what she called “still lifes”—big ugly bowls of rotting fruit that were supposed to say something deep about the futility of existence or some garbage like that. Maybe Rey wanted him to hold a fruit bowl while she painted his picture.
“Oh, great. I always find experienced life models easier to work with.” Her cheerful voice floated over the wall. Her English was very precise, with a slight lilt on the vowels—as if she’d grown up speaking two languages, as he had.
“Um, what do you want me to wear?” he finally had to ask.
“You are so funny.” Her giggle made him smile, but he had no idea what the joke was. “Just put on the bathrobe.”
The clothes must be hanging outside. He left on his black bikini briefs and tugged the well-worn black terry cloth around him. It gaped across his chest and skimmed the tops of his thighs.
Pulling at the robe one more time, he stepped out and almost bumped into her. She had stripped off her blue sweater and wore a tight white tank top. She was as smooth and pale as a marble statue.
She looked up from the digital camera in front of her. “Come stand on the platform and take off the robe.”
What? Marco tried to examine her expression for some clue, but she had returned to fiddling with that damn camera. Remembering his younger brother’s excitement to audition in L.A., he loosened the belt and dropped the robe. She circled him slowly, appraising his pecs and abs. Francisco actually got paid for this?
“Would you be willing to shave?”
He fingered the stubble on his jaw. Not wanting to get the job, he hadn’t bothered to shave that day. “I thought the unkempt look was in now.”
“Not your face, your chest. Most models actually wax their chests.”
His stubbled chin nearly hit the floor. “Wax my chest?” He’d have to have a serious talk with his younger brother about what was and what was not acceptable for Cuban men to do.
She shrugged. “Or not. Your chest hair isn’t so thick that I can’t see your muscles underneath.”
“Okay.” He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. He jumped as her finger stroked his back. “You have quite a few scars. You must live an interesting life.”
“I haven’t always been a model.” Hell, he’d only been one for about thirty seconds.
“You’re a welcome change. Most male models are cookie-cutter pretty boys. But you—you have quite a unique look.” He fought to stare straight ahead as her warm breath tickled the nape of his neck.
“I hope that’s a good thing,” Marco managed as he tried to control his hardening penis. Even though Francisco could be a pain, he didn’t deserve to have his modeling career wrecked because his brother got a hard-on in front of the boss.
“It’s a very good thing,” she reassured him. “Seeing you has given me some great ideas for my newest commission.”
“What kind of artwork do you do?” He hadn’t seen any fruit bowls, so he might be spared from still lifes.
“All sorts—painting, photography and sculpture. My body of work has a definite unifying theme.” She gestured to the expansive loft.
He looked around and saw something he hadn’t noticed before. All the paintings and sculptures in Rey’s studio were of men.
Naked men.
He muttered another Spanish curse that would have earned him a smack from his mamá. What had his brother gotten him into?
He actually flinched as her silky hair brushed his shoulder, sending a rush of blood to his cock. Rey had barely touched him and already he was painfully erect. She couldn’t miss seeing it.
“Marco, I think you’d be the perfect model for my new commission.” She smiled and he gulped. “Please take off your underwear so I can see the rest of your body.” Her smile widened, two deep dimples creasing her apple-smooth cheeks.
How could he refuse? He hooked his thumbs under the silk waistband and pushed down his briefs. His erection sprang free. He forced himself to stand still and not look away in embarrassment.
Her sky-blue eyes widened. “Fantastic. You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.”
“Uh, thank you.” A blond goddess loved his body. Modeling wasn’t so bad, after all.
MARCO GRINNED AND REY couldn’t help grinning back. She couldn’t believe her luck in finding him. When the agency had sent over his head shot and tear sheets, she hadn’t been terribly impressed. He had been handsome in the photos, but his features looked somewhat soft and unformed.
But in person—oh, my God—there was nothing soft about him. His cheekbones sliced across his face, forming a sharp T with his narrow, aristocratic nose. Piercing hazel eyes examined her with more shrewdness than she expected from an average model.
His black curls and caramel skin told her he had quite a bit of Spanish blood in him. He reminded her of a Renaissance Spanish angel, lean and intense with burning eyes.
His body was a sculptor’s dream. Think Michelangelo’s David with an erection. She itched to touch his textbook musculature, but that was a professional no-no. His abs and pecs rippled under his skin, which shone even in the dim winter sunlight. When she had looked at his back, she had seen his hard buttocks flexing under his tiny black briefs and she had barely been able to resist filling each hand with a perfect mound.
But the clincher to offering him the modeling gig was his impressive arousal. Long, thick and jutting out from a thatch of black curling hair, it was exactly what she needed—for her commission.
Not for herself. No more models. Their arousals didn’t mean much. Most were so narcissistic that just the sight of their own naked body was enough to give them an erection. It didn’t have anything to do with the person they were with.
On the other hand, Marco was enough to make her throw her rule out her twelve-foot-high windows.
She pulled back from that dangerous thought and focused on Marco’s nude body. She could tell he was uncomfortable standing there fully aroused, but he refused to hide himself or look away from her