
By
Amanda Steiger
© copyright October 2004, Amanda SteigerCover Art by Amber Moon, © copyright October 2004New Concepts PublishingLake Park, GA 31636www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
"Are you nervous?" asked Greg. Nichole felt his warm fingers through the cotton robe as he touched her shoulder.
"A little," she said.
"Just try to relax. It won't seem so strange once we get started."
Nichole took a deep breath and let her robe slip to the floor. She was completely naked beneath. Her cheeks grew hot as her nipples tightened in the cool air. Instinctively, she reached down to cover the triangle of dark brown curls nestled between her thighs--then pulled her hand back. Considering what she was here for, her modesty was more than a little silly. How would she get through the rest of the evening if she couldn't even keep her robe off without blushing? "I'm kind of embarrassed, I guess," she admitted.
"Embarrassed?" His chuckle was warm and deep. "Why on earth would you be embarrassed?"
"I don't know. I'm just not used to this, I guess. I feel so..."
He smiled with one corner of his mouth. "Naked?"
"That about sums it up, I guess."
"Trust me, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. But if you're having second thoughts...."
She shook her head. "I promised you, didn't I?"
"You did." Greg's eyes moved in little flickers, studying different places on her body. They lingered on her lips, the delicate hollow between her collarbones, and her breasts, small and firm as peaches. Nichole's heart was beating quickly. The only other time she'd been naked with a man, it had been completely dark. Now, she stood in a brightly lit room, everything exposed to his eyes.
Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips. "Ready when you are," she said.
Greg sat on a rickety chair and picked up his sketch pad and pencil. "I'm all set."
Nichole looked around the cluttered art studio. "Where should I stand?"
"Over there, on the wooden block by that table. That's it. Now tilt your head back and look up. Stand with your legs apart, one foot with the heel off the ground, and your arm over your head, with the palm cupped, like you're holding something."
"Like this?"
"Good." He began to sketch, his eyes darting from the page to her body, then back to the page. "Am I the first person you've modeled for?"
She laughed. "Is it that obvious?"
"No, actually. You take instructions very well, and you're holding that pose like a pro. I'd almost think you had experience."
"You know me better than that. I don't think I could do this with a stranger. I'd probably faint with embarrassment."
"It's not that big a deal, once you get used to it." His features softened in a smile that transformed his whole face and filled his gray eyes with light. Many people never got to see that smile. It was a special expression he reserved for his closest friends. Nichole felt honored to be one of the privileged few. "It can be kind of a pain, though, standing in one place for so long," said Greg. "Like I said, I'm willing to pay you."
"Stop, Greg. We've been friends too long to even think about payment."
He shrugged. "Work is work. And I'm taking a lot of time out of your schedule."
"I don't mind. I'm just afraid Kathy will be jealous," she asked, only half-kidding. She knew how possessive Greg's girlfriend could be. They made jokes about it, but sometimes, it made Nichole genuinely nervous. "Don't tell her, okay?"
Greg's smile withered. "I won't," he said, and resumed drawing.
"Greg? What's wrong?"
"Kathy and I are through," he said, without looking up from his sketchpad.
Nichole's eyes widened. "What?"
"We broke up." He tore a page off the sketchpad.
"But ... why?"
Silence.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's not my business."
"It's all right." His voice was flat, the way it always got when he was trying to hide his emotions. For a moment, he stared silently down at the sketchbook, the pencil dangling between two long, graceful fingers. "It came out of the blue. She just came home from work one day and said she couldn't go on living like this, that she wants a real man with a real job, not some naïve kid who wants to make a career out of playing with clay."
Nichole's eyes widened. "She said that?"
"Well, not those exact words. I think she actually said 'Play-doh' instead of 'clay.' She gave me a choice. Give up my art and get a better-paying job, or say good-bye. I made my choice." He finished off his sketch with a few quick, sharp lines, and then tore off another page. "I always thought she cared enough about me that the money wasn't an issue. That she respected how serious I am about sculpting." He was making an effort to keep his voice level, but his jaw was clenched, showing the tension in his body. His hand moved in quick, violent jerks as he sketched. "When I told her it was too much a part of me to give up, she said I was being immature and selfish. Selfish. God, I must have been fooling myself, to believe she really loved me." The pencil tore through the page, and he muttered a soft, "Damn."
"I'm sorry," Nichole said quietly.
He sighed and ran a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe himself clean. "No ... I'm sorry. You didn't come here to listen to me rant. I wasn't planning to bring it up at all. I was going to wait until I'd calmed down a little before I told anyone. I feel like my insides are in a knot. My mom's going to love this. She's gotten it into her head that I'm going to marry Kathy. She even asked me once how many kids we were planning to have."
"My mom's the same way. I'm not even twenty-five, and she's already so desperate for grandkids that I think she's planning to steal someone else's," Nichole joked weakly. Then her smile faded. "Greg ... I really am sorry."
"I'm not," he said. "She did me a favor. She showed her true colors before I had the chance to fall deeper in love with her. I'm just angry at myself for not seeing it sooner." He rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips, and then picked up his pencil. "Lift your head a little more, please."
Nichole tilted her chin upward, watching Greg out of the corner of her eye. Her heart ached for him.
He made a few more quick sketches, then lay them all in a pile on a rickety stool. "Need a break yet?" he asked. "You've been holding that pose for awhile. I'll make some coffee, if you like."
"Sure," she said, and glanced at the clock on the paint-spattered wall. "Make it decaf, though. It's getting late."
He nodded. "You should probably get home soon."
"But you haven't even started the sculpture yet."
"We can start tomorrow." He picked up the stack of papers and shuffled through them. "I have some preliminary sketches now, at least. I can use them for reference when I make the armature, so I can start slapping the clay on next time you're here." He headed into the kitchen while Nichole slipped back into her jeans and T-shirt. Greg returned, carrying two large coffee mugs, and handed one to her. "You take it with half-and-half, right?"
She nodded and sipped, watching as he traced the rim of his cup with one finger. He had beautiful hands. The fingers, now smudged with pencil, were long and dexterous, and he had thick calluses on his palms with dirt engrained into them. He took a lot of odd jobs when he wasn't working on commissions. He'd been a part-time construction worker for the past few months, and the job had added definition to his muscles. He looked almost like one of his own sculptures.
She imagined one of those big, calloused hands slipping beneath her shirt to cup her breast ... then shoved the image away. Greg was her friend; that was all. They'd known each other since college, and although Nichole had always been a little infatuated with him, she'd known from the beginning he was out of her league. He was handsome, smart, sensitive, talented and affectionate, everything a woman could want. And though he never boasted, he was certainly aware that he could have just about any woman he chose. Nichole knew she'd never had a chance, especially with confident, red-haired, green-eyed Kathy in the picture.
"I'm surprised you chose me to model for you," Nichole remarked.
"Why's that?"
"Well ... you know," she said, staring into her coffee.
"No, I don't. Why?"
She shrugged. "I'm not what most people would call beautiful."
"Nichole, what in God's name gave you that idea? You're lovely."
She smiled. "And you're very sweet. But it's okay. You don't have to flatter me just because I'm your friend."
"I'm not flattering you." He set down his coffee cup and framed her face carefully with his hands. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as his thumbs lightly brushed her cheekbones. His large, gray eyes were focused on hers. "You've got exquisite bone structure--like a Greek statue. I can't tell you how many times I've thought about sculpting you, but I never asked because I always assumed you'd say no. You were always so shy about your body." He tilted her chin upward, studying her face from another angle. As if realizing what he was doing, he suddenly released her, cleared his throat and looked away.
Nichole's mouth was dry, her pulse a drumbeat in her throat. She could still feel the shape of his warm hands on her skin, as if they'd left a brand there. She wanted to touch his cheek, to feel the rough stubble beneath her fingertips. She started to lift her hand. Losing her nerve, she let it drop to her side. She finished her coffee. "I should get going, I guess. Work tomorrow."
"I'll drive you."
"That's okay. I'll take a cab."
"Cabs are hard to catch around here, and I don't like the idea of you walking around this late at night." His eyes met hers. "Let me drive you." His voice was gentle, but insistent. Nichole couldn't refuse.
The drive to her house was short but awkward. Neither of them spoke, so Nichole turned on the radio to fill up the silence. The music stood between them like a wall.
At last, Greg pulled up in front of her apartment building.
"Thanks, Greg," she said.
"No problem."
"See you soon?"
"Sure. I'll give you a call."
Nichole got out of the car and walked up to the door. Only when she was inside the building did he pull away from the curb and drive off. She watched him from the window. Then she walked up the stairs to her apartment.
She hadn't been living here very long, and the apartment was still a little cold and bare. There were white patches on the faded ivory walls where previous occupants had hung posters or pictures, but only a few scattered traces of her own personality: a brush on the dresser, a few pink pillows covered with embroidered blue flowers on the couch, a ceramic calico cat on the coffee table ... and on the wall, above the couch, one of Greg's drawings, framed and signed. A rare self-portrait. He didn't like drawing himself, but he'd done it at her request, as a birthday gift. The result was worth it. He'd captured himself perfectly: the lean face, the firm mouth and focused, intent gray eyes. Nichole paused a moment to admire it. Then, locking the door behind her, she headed into the bathroom, undressed and stepped into the shower stall.
As the hot water cascaded over her, she thought, once again, about Greg's hands on her skin and felt her nipples tightening, puckering. Closing her eyes, she touched one hard little peak and began to circle it slowly with her finger. She didn't touch herself often. It felt a little odd, but then, she wasn't often so aroused. She remembered a few times she'd woken up in the middle of the night, feverish with desire, her mind still filled with dreams of warm, male flesh and strong, knowing hands. Greg's hands.
She touched herself now, with a single, tentative finger, and moaned softly. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the shower-stall wall, water cascading over her long, thick brown hair, down her back. Slowly, uncertainly, she began to massage her sex, trying to imagine that it was Greg touching her. Biting her lower lip, she slipped a finger inside herself. She imagined those warm lips on her throat, her collarbones and breasts. She opened her eyes and watched the shower water dripping from the tips of her jutting nipples, trickling down her stomach and between her thighs. She had never been more aware of her own body. She felt as if she were on fire. She buried her hand deeper between her legs, panting, leaning against the shower-stall wall as she probed deeper into herself, fingers seeking something elusive, some sensitive spot buried inside her. Her walls clenched as her fingers touched an exquisitely sensitive spot. "Greg," she whispered--and came.
It took a moment for her to recover her breath. Her head spun with the intensity of the orgasm brought on by the mere thought of him. She wondered what it would be like to actually be his lover.
Although she was twenty-four, she'd only had one boyfriend: Andy, a young man she'd met in her Economics class. He'd taken an interest in her and wooed her mercilessly, with flowers and little velvet teddy bears and gallons of charm. Once he had her heart, he'd taken her virginity. Then he suddenly decided that he was overwhelmed by the intimacy and needed some personal space. He'd stopped returning her calls, and on the few occasions she managed to get a hold of him, he'd always found some excuse not to see her. After awhile, she'd stopped trying.
But surely, Greg wasn't like that. And now that Kathy was gone....
No. It was too soon. She couldn't start hitting on him right after his break-up. It would make it seem like she'd been waiting for the opportunity.
Had she?
Nichole turned off the shower water and stepped out of the stall. She caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror and paused to study it, watching water droplets roll down her skin and pool on the tiles beneath her feet. She forced herself to look at her body objectively and ask herself if there was anything there a man would desire. She had hardly any curves to speak of. Her breasts were too small, her hips narrow, and there were freckles on every part of her body that had been exposed to the sun. They dusted her shoulders and arms, her nose, her legs, even her feet. She couldn't stand them. They made her look like a kid.
Her hair was probably her best feature, long, wavy and glossy brown. Pretty, but not striking, like Kathy's. She wasn't Kathy. She was Nichole: sweet, innocent, boring Nichole Anders. She sighed, left the bathroom and slipped into her white nightgown--the one her mother had given her on her eighteenth birthday. She looked down at the long white sleeves with their lacy cuffs and wrinkled her nose. Even her clothes were chaste and dull.
Why not sleep naked, then? whispered a voice in her head. She shivered slightly. The thought was delicious, and no one would know, after all. She drew the curtains tightly shut, then unbuttoned her nightgown and let it slip to the floor, along with her panties. She climbed into bed and slid beneath the cotton sheets. They were soft and cool against her bare skin. She hugged herself, thinking about the way Greg's hands had felt on her skin.
Enough. She had to put Greg out of her mind and get some sleep. She had work tomorrow, and she would probably be going to Greg's apartment again in the evening to model for him. At that thought, a nervous shiver traced its way up her spine.
Sleep wasn't going to come easy.
Greg sat at the desk in his studio, a small lamp washing everything in dim yellow light. He squinted as he added another bit of clay to the small model. Another yawn escaped him, and he stifled it against a hand before taking another sip of hot, black coffee. He glanced at the window where the first, pink light of dawn stained the horizon. Gauzy purple clouds smeared the eastern sky.
Good thing he didn't have work tomorrow. He didn't trust himself to handle construction equipment when he was this tired. He felt as if there were lead weights dangling from his eyelids.
He'd gotten a lot done, though, and the progress was worth it. Art demanded sacrifices, after all. His phone company knew that all too well. He'd gotten another letter that morning, reminding him that he had bills to pay ... except he couldn't because he'd used up all the money on new clay for this commission. It was a miracle they hadn't disconnected him yet.
He turned the completed model around, studying it from all sides. Frowning in concentration, he wet his fingertips in a small bowl of water and smoothed out the imperfections, then measured the model from head to foot with a ruler, checking the proportions against the sketches he'd done earlier. It was a good start. The actual sculpture would be much bigger, of course, slightly larger than life-sized.
He could have hired a professional model, if he wanted. It would have required some extra work hours so he could scrape together his rent, but he'd always managed in the past.
He hadn't wanted a professional, though. He'd wanted Nichole. He'd known, somehow, that she would be perfect for this. And he'd been right.
He studied the sketches spread out on his messy desk, the clean, graceful lines of her body. Most artists would have chosen someone full-figured for a sculpture like this, someone with curvy hips and D-cup breasts--someone like Kathy--but Nichole had a slender, willowy beauty of her own. Slight as her curves were, the sketches left no doubt whatsoever as to her femininity.
Greg closed his eyes, thinking about that supple young body, about how that velvet skin would feel beneath his hands as he ran them over her breasts and thighs. He took a deep breath and tried to push the image away, but it just sprang back, vivid as ever. "This is wrong," he murmured. "You know it." He could tell himself that it was just aesthetic appreciation until he was blue in the face, but he knew the truth. He wanted her, and his desire was only growing stronger. Using her as a model felt too much like exploitation, even if she was ideal for this piece. But what was he supposed to do? Tell her he'd changed his mind, that he wanted to find someone else? He knew Nichole. He knew how much that would hurt her. But the only other alternative was to continue staring at her naked body hour after hour, while he tried not to imagine the feel of her tight, slick wetness around his cock as he thrust into her. Nichole, who had been his friend for so long, who trusted him enough to take off her clothes while she was alone with him in his studio, was now the object of his every fantasy.
He felt like an utter prick.
Greg closed his eyes and leaned his elbow against the desk, resting his forehead on his fingertips as the sun rose slowly in his window and flooded his studio with light.
He would see her again tonight, and have to deal with his feelings again. But for now, it was time to set his work aside and take a much-needed nap. He knew who would occupy his dreams.
Even when he slept, he couldn't escape his desire.
"Hey, Nicky, you okay?"
"Hm?" She looked up from her coffee, blinking. She hated it when Linda called her "Nicky." It made her sound like some eight-year-old boy. But she'd never quite had the guts to tell Linda that. She was her boss, after all. "Oh ... yeah. I'm fine."
"You sure? You seem really spaced out today," said Linda.
"Didn't sleep well." She closed her eyes and rubbed them with one fist. "I just need to have some coffee."
"Insomnia, huh?" asked Linda. "You should try some sleeping pills. My husband was having trouble sleeping a few years back, and the pills worked wonders for him."
Her bright, perky voice sounded unusually shrill this morning, though Nichole knew it was just her fatigue. She wanted nothing more than to put in some earplugs, lay her head down on the desk and take a nap. "I don't think I need pills. I just had a lot on my mind last night, that's all."
"Oh. Stress, huh? Well, if you need to take the day off, I'll understand. Don't want you drifting off in the middle of a call, and you haven't used up any of your sick days yet." She placed a hand on Nichole's forehead. "You sure you don't have a fever or anything, honey?"
Honey. Normally, Linda only used that word on people who were much younger than her. Sometimes, she seemed to forget that Nichole was her own age. Hell, nearly everyone in the office treated her as if she were fifteen. She guessed it was her appearance: just over five feet tall, and slight, with big, brown eyes. Some mornings, she considered wearing something scandalously low-cut to work, something that showed off her breasts, if just to remind the world that she had breasts. But of course, she'd never do any such thing.
"I'm fine," Nichole insisted, pulling away from Linda's cool, dry hand.
Linda shrugged. "If you say so." Then, mercifully, she left.
The hum of the office filled Nichole's ears: phones ringing, fax machines spitting out paper, voices saying "How can I help you?" and "Please hold." Nichole tuned it out as best she could, her head sinking toward the desk as she slipped into a daydream of making love to Greg in the middle of a lush, green field sprinkled with dandelions. The phone on her desk rang, distracting her from her reverie, and she picked it up. "Coleman's Gifts, this is Nichole speaking. How may I help you?"
Somehow, she managed to get through the day, although she nodded off a couple of times during slow hours. At five, she took a cab home, where she immediately curled up on her couch with a blanket wrapped around her and turned on the TV. The commercials were a low, soothing drone in the background of her thoughts. Her eyes drifted shut.
Just then, the phone rang.
Nichole sat up, turned off the TV and picked up the receiver, heart pounding. She felt suddenly wide awake. "Hello?"
"Hey, Nichole."
"Oh. Hi, Greg." Damn it. Her voice sounded so ... squeaky. She was mousy enough without sounding like one. She cleared her throat. "What's up?"
"I wondered if you could come over and model for me this evening. They shortened the deadline for this commission. I need to get it done as soon as possible."
"Oh...."
"If you're busy, I'll make do," he added. "I've already made a small model from the preliminary sketches. I know this is short notice. I don't want you to cancel anything important for me."
God, he had such a sexy voice. So deep and confident. Kathy had been insane to leave him. "No, I'm not busy. I--I'll be over around six. Is that okay?"
"That's fine. Have you eaten yet?"
"No."
"I'll make some dinner, then. Do you like spaghetti?"
"Sure. That sounds great."
"All right. See you then." A soft click.
Slowly, as if in a trance, she hung up and dried her sweaty palms on her slacks. "Relax," she murmured. "This is no a big deal. It's not a date or anything. He's just making dinner." She tried to remember if he'd ever done that for her before. They'd gone out for plenty of casual dinners at restaurants, but she was pretty sure Greg had never cooked.
She took a shower, wondered briefly if she should wear something a little fancy, and then nixed the idea. She'd be taking it off soon anyway. She put on her usual jeans and T-shirt instead, and left her apartment. She didn't bother to hail a cab. It was only a half-hour walk to Greg's apartment, and the weather was warm and sunny. Walking, however, gave her a long time to work herself into a ball of nervous energy. By the time she got there, her stomach was aflutter.
Forget butterflies. It felt as if someone had turned a flock of sparrows loose inside her.
What was the big deal, anyway? She'd always had a crush on Greg, but they'd been out together plenty of times as friends, and she'd never felt like this.
But then, in the past, he'd always been dating Kathy. She'd always known he was off limits. That made him somehow more comfortable to be around. She could safely fantasize about him, knowing he was inaccessible. It was almost like being infatuated with an actor or a pop-star, except that she could talk to him and spend time with him ... even touch him, if she wanted. The memory of those seemingly casual, friendly touches had kept her warm on many long, cold nights.
Nichole sighed. Was she really such a coward? Why was she so threatened by the idea that he might actually return her feelings? Was it the fear of disappointment? Knowing how much it would hurt if she dared to hope and then had those hopes crushed? Or was she just afraid to step out of her safe, comfortable, passionless little world?
She walked up the steps to the apartment door. Greg's apartment building was old and run down, the bricks faded from red to the dull orange of autumn leaves. To the building's right was a basketball court covered with cracked pavement and surrounded by a wire fence. A few gangly adolescents were shooting hoops, and the dull thud-thud of the bouncing basketball, the soft swish of the net, echoed through the silence. The wall beside the court was scrawled with graffiti. Beside the door was a set of doorbells with the last names of the building's occupants next to them on peeling brown tape. She rang Greg's bell and stood, clutching the strap of her purse in tight, nervous fingers. The door opened.
Nichole's stomach did a somersault. Greg stood there in a pair of tight jeans, faded to white at the knees, and an old, worn shirt, stained with splashes of dried slip the color of coffee with cream. The first few buttons were open, and a bit of chest-hair peeked out. He smiled at her and pushed a hand through his wavy brown hair. The fading daylight brought out the coppery undertones.
No matter how many times she saw him, she never got over how handsome he was. It made her ache.
"Hey," he said. "Come in. Spaghetti's almost done."
She followed him inside and up the stairs, which creaked beneath her feet and were covered in stained, faded, blue-gray carpet. As they neared the top, Nichole caught a whiff of something spicy. "Smells great," she said.
"Thanks. It's my mom's recipe." He chuckled. "She taught me how to cook. Said women love it when men cook for them."
"She was right."
Greg took out a key, unlocked the door to his room and held it open for her. Nichole entered. The windows were open, flooding his studio with the orange light of sunset. He pulled the curtains shut, giving them some privacy. The naked bulb overhead provided more than enough light.
The armature--the wire skeleton of his sculpture--stood in the middle of the room. All that remained was to add the clay, the flesh. Already, Nichole could see the sculpture's spirit emerging. It seemed to reach triumphantly toward the sky with its long, graceful arm. She could only imagine how beautiful it would be when it was done.
"Would you like to see the model?" Greg asked.
"Sure." She wished she could think of something wittier to say. It seemed she was always reduced to monosyllables around him, these days.
"It's pretty rough," said Greg. "It's just to give me something to work from when you're not around." He took a clay figure, about a foot tall, off the table.
Nichole's eyes widened. The figure was pretty rough--the features were just shallow indentations--but somehow, he'd captured her perfectly. "It's wonderful!"
"You're too kind." He set the model down, but his fingers lingered on it for a moment, touching its back almost lovingly.
A shiver traced its way up Nichole's spine. It was almost as if he'd touched her.
Greg glanced down at his splattered, half-open shirt. "Sorry I'm so messy, by the way. I've been working all day."
"It's okay." She set her purse down on the table. She found that rumpled, messy look indescribably appealing. There was a light shadow of stubble on his face and clay drying under his nails.
He rinsed his hands in the sink and dried them on a faded blue towel. "You want dinner before or after work?"
"After. I had a late lunch."
"All right. Go ahead and take off your clothes. I'll get my things ready."
She nodded and slipped out of her shirt. She'd thought it would be a little more comfortable now that she'd done it before, but she was still every bit as conscious of his eyes on her naked skin. She was also very aware of her own arousal. Every nerve was unbearably alive, her flesh almost painfully sensitized.
"Chilly?" asked Greg.
"I'm okay," she said. "Why?"
"Well, ah--" He gestured vaguely toward her.
Her cheeks reddened as realization dawned. Her nipples were hard as bullets. Quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest.
"I'll turn the heat up, if you like," he said.
"No, it's fine. Really." She stepped onto the wooden block and stood with her feet apart and one arm stretched toward the ceiling with the palm cupped. The final sculpture, she knew, would show a bird flying from her palm. It made her think of the old saying: if you love something, set it free.
"That's good," he said. "Hold that pose."
She watched from the corner of her eye as he set up his things, unwrapped a large block of the soft, gray clay, dipped his hands into the bucket of water nearby, and tore the block in half, his long fingers making deep indentations. He slapped chunks of clay onto the skeleton, joining and smoothing the pieces with slip. The sculpture took shape slowly beneath his gentle, skilled hands. From the shapeless clay emerged the soft roundness of calf, buttock and breast, the gentle slope of the shoulders, the curve of the spine.
Greg worked for several hours, adding thinner layers of clay, building up the contours of muscle and tendon ... until at last, a complete--if somewhat rough--figure stood there. Nichole knew, from watching him work on past sculptures, that this was the easiest part. The detail work would take much longer.
He wiped his brow with one sleeve. He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows. "Didn't realize how much time had passed. The spaghetti's going to be cold."
"It's okay," she said. "We can heat it up." She stepped down from the block and slipped into a soft, cotton robe.
"You make a great model," he said as they walked into the kitchen.
"Th-thank you." There was that squeaky voice again. Damn. Why couldn't she be cool and confident for once? Why did she always turn into a shy thirteen-year-old when Greg complimented her?
"I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you doing this," he added.
"No problem." She fingered the sash of her robe. "I've always wanted to. I just never thought you'd be interested. That, and I was worried that Kathy might get the wrong idea."
"She was always a little weird about that," Greg said, ladling spaghetti noodles onto a paper plate. "She never liked me to work from female models. She never outright told me not to, but I could tell she didn't like it. She asked me questions about them all the time."
"That doesn't seem fair."
He shrugged, spooning sauce onto the noodles, then put it in the microwave. "I guess it's for the best that we broke up. Still hurts like hell, but we just weren't compatible. Different interests, different lifestyles. All that."
"She wasn't good enough for you." The words slipped from Nichole's mouth before she could stop them.
Greg turned to look at her in surprise. "What?"
She lowered her eyes, biting her tongue. "Never mind. It's none of my business."
Greg said nothing, but he kept looking at her.
Nichole swallowed. She found herself speaking again, against her better judgment, as if her tongue had developed a will of its own. "She was wrong to try to push you into another career. She knew from the beginning that you didn't want that sort of life--the ladder-climbing, the back stabbing, and all that corporate bullshit--but she couldn't accept you for who you are. She asked you to give up your work, your passion, for her own convenience. And when she found out you weren't willing to change your life and personality for her, she dumped you. She didn't give a damn about how much pain she caused you. You deserve so much better than her."
For a long moment, Greg was silent. He finished heating the spaghetti and set the two plates on his small, rickety kitchen table, along with plastic forks and knives. "I've never had very good luck with women," he said at last. "I remember how upset my mom was when I told her I wanted to be a sculptor. She said that if that was what I planned to do with my college education, they were wasting their money on me. So I paid for my own education. Seems like that set the pattern for the rest of my life. Come to think of it, the only woman who's ever been happy with me as I am is you." His eyes met hers, and he smiled, a surprisingly young, almost shy smile. "You've always been there for me, when I needed to talk, or just be with someone who wouldn't tell me that I had my priorities wrong, or that I should be thinking about a real job at my age. You've always understood my choices."
Nichole was dimly aware that she wasn't breathing. At the moment, it didn't seem important. She was aware only of his eyes, those clear, light gray eyes, with their unusually thick, black lashes that made their color all the more striking. "I wouldn't change anything about you," she said.
"I can't think of anything I'd change about you, either." He got a beer out of the fridge. "Well ... maybe one thing."
She frowned slightly. "What's that?"
"You could use a little more self-confidence." He smiled. "Once you relax, you're a totally different person. But you're so quiet most of the time. If you'd just show your real self more, I think you'd be a lot happier."
"I wish I could. But sometimes it's hard." She sat at the table and stared at her plate, twisting a fork around in the noodles. "You wouldn't think it would be so hard, just to relax."
"Normally, you're relaxed around me," he said. "But not tonight. Tonight, you're all tense and closed up, and I can't figure out why. I know that this is how you get when you've been hurt, so now I'm wondering if I've done something to hurt you without realizing it."
"Oh, Greg ... it's not like that," she said quietly. "You haven't done anything wrong."
"Then what?"
She bit the inside of her cheek. "It's hard to explain. But it's not your fault."
"I wish you'd just talk to me." He paused. "Want something to drink? A beer, maybe?"
"Water's fine. Thanks."
He filled a glass from the sink, dropped in a few ice-cubes and handed it to her.
They ate their spaghetti in silence. Nichole couldn't seem to meet Greg's eyes. She was worried her own eyes would give away her feelings.
They finished their dinner, and Greg cleared away the plates. "Are you up for another few hours?" he said.
"Sure." She walked back into his studio. The blinds had been drawn over the windows, but she could tell that the sky outside was dark. She stepped up onto the wooden block and took off her robe.
She didn't know how long he worked. She watched as his hands made flesh out of clay, and time seemed to melt away. Only when her muscles began to stiffen did she realize how many hours had passed. "Hang on," she said, stepping down from the block. "I've got to stretch."
"It's getting late, anyway. Maybe we should call it a night."
"Okay," Nichole said, feeling a small twinge of disappointment, and slipped into her robe.
He washed his hands, then walked over to her. "Drive you home again?"
"Sure." She looked up at him. "Greg ... you're not upset with me, are you?"
"Huh? Why would I be?"
"Earlier, when you asked what was bothering me, I couldn't tell you. You've always been so open with me. It doesn't seem fair for me to keep things from you."
"Don't be silly. You're not obligated to tell me anything. You--"
She hugged him, suddenly, and felt his breath catch. Her breasts, still tight and sensitive, pressed against his hard chest.
Slowly, his arms surrounded her. She could feel the hardness of his muscles through his T-shirt, could feel his big heart pounding inside him, where her cheek was pressed against his chest. His warm, salty-sweet smell enveloped her. "The truth is that I couldn't tell you because I was afraid of what you'd think," she whispered.
"Think of what?" His voice was low and husky, and his skin had grown warmer. "What do you want to tell me?"
"That I like you as much more than a friend." She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and tilted her head back to meet his eyes. "I want you. In every way."
"Nichole...." Greg's eyes focused on her parted lips. He leaned down, and Nichole's breath caught in her throat as his lips touched her neck, just above her pulse. She felt his hot breath on her skin. Then his mouth was on hers, firm and hungry. She moaned, her lips parting to let his hot, wet tongue slide inside. Her heart and mind were racing. She couldn't believe this was really happening. She had fantasized so many times about kissing him, touching him, that this almost felt like another dream. She felt a soft, sweet ache growing between her thighs ... felt herself getting wet with desire. Her thighs pressed tightly together, rubbing against each other.
Greg pulled her closer, arms tightening around her. His hard cock pressed against her bare thigh, and she felt a surge of wild hunger: a primal, savage feeling. She was so tired of being shy--so tired of being the good girl, the cautious, sweet girl. She knew what she wanted and she wanted it now, with no more hesitation or hinting. She opened her robe, exposing her breasts completely.
Greg stared at them, eyes drinking in the smooth, silky flesh and round, swollen pink nipples. "Your breasts are beautiful."
"Say 'tits,'" said Nichole.
He met her eyes, a silent question in his own.
Her cheeks grew hot--but she didn't drop her gaze. "I want to hear you say you like my tits."
Greg's eyes never left hers. "I like your tits," he said. "You have the most gorgeous tits I've ever seen." He was breathing heavily. "I want squeeze them, and kiss them and suck your hard little nipples."
"Do it," whispered Nichole.
He smiled. "You know, I never had you pegged as the sort of girl who'd enjoy dirty talk."
"People can surprise you."
"You never stop surprising me, Nichole." He pinched her nipple, rolling it slowly between a thumb and forefinger, then tugging lightly. Nichole's eyelashes fluttered and her lips parted.
Greg cupped her breasts in both hands, weighing them on his palms ... then squeezed them, so sudden and hard that she gasped. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it, grazing it with his teeth. Meanwhile, his hands moved over her body, beneath her robe, caressing her shoulders and back, slipping beneath her buttocks, then parting and kneading them. "You're beautiful, Nichole. Every part of you." His hands continued to move over her. She had watched those same hands, so many times, moving over damp clay, molding it into beautiful shapes, transforming earth into flesh with his hands and will alone. She'd always thought it was so sexy, the way his hands moved over that clay. Now, they touched her the same way--with the same reverence, the same firm, knowing surety. His fingers were hard against her soft, yielding skin, molding her. One finger toyed with her navel, circling it, then slipping inside.
His lips brushed her ear. "Are you wet?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Open your legs."
A shiver traced its way up her spine. Slowly, she parted her legs. He squeezed her soft, pale thighs, pushing them further apart, hands tantalizingly close to her sex. She wriggled impatiently, her need outweighing the flickers of nervousness and hesitance she felt. She wanted him to touch her, to claim her, to fill the aching, hungry void between her thighs.
With one strong arm still encircling her waist, he cupped her plump mound and rubbed his palm against it ... lightly at first, then harder, grinding his hard calluses against the slick, velvet flesh, pressing his palm against her throbbing center. He thrust a long, hard finger into her core. The sudden invasion made Nichole gasp. She clutched his shoulders, moaning as he slid the finger in and out of her slick passage, giving her a taste of what was to come. "Does that feel good?" he whispered.
"Yes," she whispered.
"You want more?"
"Yes!"
Another finger thrust into her passage, then a third. He spread his fingers, stretching her slick, hot walls. His thumb found her clitoris and began to rotate slowly around it. The friction of his rough skin against her soft, slick flesh was delicious.
"You're so tight," he whispered. "So hot and tight."
Nichole licked her lips. She felt wonderful, so sexy and alive and powerful. "Take me," she said, loving how her voice sounded, deep, husky, and in control.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"This is happening so fast," he murmured. His fingers were still inside her, driving her insane with need. Now, he pulled them out, and Nichole cried out softly in protest. "Shhh." He was still breathing hard, his body hot with arousal, but there was concern in his eyes as he looked into hers. "I just want to make sure you won't regret this. You mean a lot to me, Nichole. I don't want to hurt you."
"I want this," she whispered. "I've wanted it for so long, Greg. I need to feel you inside me. Please?"
He took a deep breath and nodded. Cupping her face with one hand, he kissed her again, a slow, lingering kiss. She touched his cheek, feeling his stubble beneath her fingertips. It felt delicious. His mouth was exquisite, his lips firm and knowing as they pressed against hers. She could feel her own mouth trembling against his as his tongue slipped inside again, tasting her.
He lifted her into his arms and slowly lowered her to the floor. He was still wearing his jeans, but she could see the hard bulge of his cock outlined in denim. He undid the buckle of his belt and pulled it off, letting his jeans and boxers slide down to reveal his long, thick organ. "You're so big," she whispered. She curled her fingers around it, and Greg moaned, deep in his throat. His cock felt hard and hot, and so alive. It throbbed in her hand. The dark sack behind it looked full and heavy.
She started to slide her hand up and down his length, but he caught her wrist. "If you keep that up, I'm going to come before we've even started." His hand moved between her thighs again and squeezed her mound. "Ready?"
Nichole spread her legs as wide as they'd go. The dark-haired lips parted, and she blossomed open for him like a flower, revealing every fold and secret.
He straddled her. Gripping her wrists, he pinned her hands to the floor as he pushed his cock slowly into her hot, wet core. He stretched her wide open, filling her completely.
"Oh, my God," Nichole breathed. "Oh, Greg."
He kept her wrists pinned down, holding her immobile as he began to thrust into her body, seeming to penetrate her a little deeper each time. The friction of his hard organ moving against the soft, giving flesh inside her body stimulated something primal deep inside her, some bone-deep pleasure that reverberated through her whole body. She arched upward into his thrusts, moaning, gripping his shoulders. She couldn't get enough.
Greg suddenly stiffened atop her, hissing softly through his teeth as he came. She felt his hot seed shooting deep into her body, trickling into places that no one would ever touch. "Damn," he muttered. "Too soon." She felt his cock going limp inside her, and whimpered in frustration. Greg pulled out, grunting softly, then lifted her legs onto his shoulders. A moment later, his tongue was in her folds, making her gasp. He licked her deeply, again and again, paying special attention to her clitoris. His tongue circled it, then stroked it, mercilessly stimulating her and driving her toward the edge. She heard herself crying out, but seemed to have no control over her voice or body. Her hips pushed forward, bringing his hot, wet tongue more firmly against her clit, until at last, the pleasure spiked and her fingers and toes clenched as she rode the wave of orgasm.
Nichole went limp, staring up at the ceiling through wide eyes. Greg lay next to her, panting softly. His whole body glistened with sweat. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. She wanted to tell him how incredible, how wonderful that had been ... but she didn't want to cheapen the moment with words, knowing that anything she said would be just a pale shadow of what she felt. Instead, she rolled onto her side and kissed him softly on the mouth, the only gesture that could come close to expressing her feelings. Greg gave her a brief, tight hug and buried his face in her hair, breathing in its scent.
Nichole was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, as if it would somehow shatter the moment. She never wanted this moment to end. It seemed too much to hope that there might be more pleasure and joy ahead.
"I got you all messy," Greg said at last, his voice soft and hoarse. His eyes moved down the length of her sweaty body and lingered between her legs. He touched the clear, sticky fluid on one thigh. "Would you like to shower with me?"
"Sure," she breathed.
He stood and offered her his hand. She took it, and he led her out of the studio, into a small bathroom. "Sorry," he said, pulling the shower curtain aside to reveal a tiny stall, obviously designed for one person. "I know it's not much. It'll be a tight squeeze."
"I don't mind," she said.
Greg grinned and turned on the water, then began to undress. She watched as he slipped out of his shirt, revealing his lean upper body, the sharply defined muscles in his arms and shoulders, the curls of reddish hair on his chest, the pinkish-brown buds of his nipples. She gave one a light tweak, and he laughed. "Careful with those. They're sensitive."
"Oh really?" She leaned forward and licked one, tasting the sweet-salty heat of his flesh. The nipple hardened and puckered as her saliva cooled on it. "Does that feel good?"
"I'd prefer your tongue further down." He grinned and stepped into the shower stall. She followed him, sighing with pleasure as the hot spray hit her skin.
They stood together under the soothing cascade, flesh pressed against bare flesh. One of Greg's big, warm hands combed through her hair and stroked her smooth back, tracing the shallow groove of her spine, then slipping down to cup one buttock. Nichole closed her eyes, smiling. Spent as she was, she was able to enjoy the simple pleasure of being close to him, feeling his arms around her. It was a different feeling than desire, but no less powerful.
When he slipped one long finger between the tight cheeks of her ass and teased the entrance to her sex, however, she began to realize that she might not be totally spent after all. Fresh wetness seeped from her opening as he ran the finger lightly up and down the hot, moist crease of her womanhood. His other hand slid deeper into her hair, massaging the back of her neck while he continued to stimulate her wet, pink flesh. His head dipped down, and he lightly bit the firm, springy tip of her left breast. His teeth felt hard and dangerous.
Nichole moaned slightly. "God. You make me feel so good." She felt his cock hardening, pressing against her thigh, and smiled. "I guess the feeling is mutual." She ran her nails lightly along the surface of his cock. "Lean back against the wall."
"All right," he said. He pressed his back against the wet tiles. "Like this?"
"Yeah." She knelt in front of him, then carefully lifted his blood-dark organ and ran her tongue along its length. He moaned softly, his eyes slipping shut. Taking the first few inches of his cock into her mouth, she grazed it with her teeth. Another moan, a little louder. It was like playing some exceptionally sensitive musical instrument. The thought made her smile. She took him deeper into her mouth, wrapping her lips around him firmly, and began to slide them slowly up and down. As she did, she watched his face, the way his eyes widened when she ran her tongue over his head, then rolled back in pleasure as she sucked him harder. The feeling of power was wonderful.
Carefully, she slipped a hand behind his balls. She remembered reading, in some book her mother would never have approved of, about an exceptionally sensitive place on a man's body. With one finger, she carefully explored the hot, dry flesh behind his sack, until she heard him pull in his breath sharply, and knew she'd found it.
"N-Nichole ... what did you...."
She probed the spot again, harder, and his words dissolved into another moan.
In that moment, he was hers completely. She held him on the brink of orgasm with just the power of her hands and mouth. She scraped her teeth lightly against the surface of his deliciously sensitive cock, but she had stopped sucking. She didn't want him to come yet. She wanted to hold him here a little longer.
With her fingertips, she lightly stroked his balls, enjoying their texture. He was hers, every beautiful inch of him, the man she had admired and wanted for so long, and now, she had him up against the wall of the shower stall, the hot water beating down on both of them as she held him captive with pleasure.
"Please," he whispered.
She slid her mouth free of his hard cock. "Do you want to come?"
"God, yes. Please. I need it."
She gripped his wrists, pinning them to the wall, and nuzzled his organ. "How much do you need it?"
"Christ, Nichole, I'm begging you!"
She grinned wickedly and engulfed him again, this time taking him as deep as she could. His hips thrust forward, pushing into her, and she gagged as the tip of his cock bumped against the back of her throat ... but she didn't pull back. She began to suck, her hot, wet mouth tugging at him relentlessly. He gripped her wet hair tightly in his hands and came, his hot seed flooding her throat. Nichole choked and pulled back. She doubled over, one hand to her throat, coughing so hard that her eyes watered.
"Nichole!" Greg shut off the water and crouched, slipping an arm around her. He lifted her chin to look into her watery eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah." She smiled, coughing the last of the thick, salty liquid out of her windpipe and swallowing it. "Just caught me off guard."
"Sorry."
She laughed and playfully tugged a lock of his auburn hair. Wet, it looked even redder than usual. "It's not your fault."
He smiled. Reaching outside of the shower stall, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her. "That was amazing, Nichole," he said. "You're amazing."
"So are you." She leaned her head against his shoulder as he gently towel dried her pale, freckled shoulders and slender arms. "You know one thing I like about you?" she asked. "You've never called me 'Nicky.'"
"Do other people call you that?"
"Some of them."
"I never noticed. I guess you just don't look like a 'Nicky' to me." He pulled her into his lap and dried each breast, handling them as carefully as if they were porcelain. He leaned down to kiss one nipple. "Nichole ... you never finished, did you?" His hand slipped between her thighs and stroked her mound.
"Mmm..." She closed her eyes, lips parted as he rubbed her clit between a thumb and forefinger. His lips brushed hers, and then pressed against them more firmly as he deepened the kiss. He gave her clit a light squeeze, as if he were testing a piece of fruit for ripeness. He seemed to know exactly how much pressure to apply to stimulate that little velvet nub without hurting it. Each rub and squeeze brought her a little closer to the edge, until at last, a slow stroke of his thumb brought her over. She lay limp in his arms, sweat cooling on her skin, eyes unfocused and content as they gazed at the ceiling.
"Will you spend the night with me?" he whispered. "I want to listen to your breathing and feel your soft skin all night."
"You know I will," she said. She slipped her arms around him.
Greg lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hall into the bedroom. As she lay next to him, combing her fingers through his thick hair, Nichole felt warm in a way that went beyond the heat of his body against hers. She closed her eyes, wrapped in contentment, and drifted off.
"It's amazing, Greg. It looks so real." Nichole walked slowly around the sculpture. He had captured every detail of her body in clay, even the rapturous expression on her face as she gazed up at the heavens. Her hair flowed behind her, as if a gentle wind moved through it. He had not sculpted each individual strand, but he'd somehow managed to make it look as if he had. A clay bird was perched on her palm, wings spread as it prepared to take flight, and a fawn lay beside her, head laid trustingly at her feet. "You know, I've been modeling for you all this time, and you never told me what this statue is for, or even what it's called."
"Eve Before the Fall," said Greg.
Her eyes widened. "I'm Eve?"
He laughed. "That's right. What's so surprising about that?"
"I always thought of Eve as having big ... you know." She cupped her hands beneath her own modest breasts.
"I think yours are perfect," he said, and squeezed one lightly through her shirt as he bent to kiss her neck.
"Thanks." She grinned and nuzzled against his chest. "So, where will this be displayed?"
"A church. Where else?"
She looked up at him, mouth hanging open. "You've got to be kidding."
"Nope. They wanted a sculpture of Eve before the Fall, so that's what I made."
"Are they going to put fig leaves over the naughty bits or something?"
"Don't know. In any case, they can't get mad at me. They approved my concept sketches."
"Must be a very liberal church. What's the statue itself going to be made of?"
He ran a gentle hand down the sculpture's back. "They're going to make a mold of this, and then pour in melted bronze. What comes out of that mold will be the finished product. It'll stand out in the open where everyone can see how beautiful you are."
"But they won't know it's me," said Nichole.
"Not your name, no. But I want them all to know, just by looking at this, what sort of person you are. I want to show them your soul." He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her.
She giggled softly. "You're making me feel very naked."
"Do you mind?"
"Not a bit." She slipped her arms around his neck.
Greg traced her lips with one finger, then ran it lightly along her chin and down her slender, pale neck. "You know, when you first started modeling for me, I felt like such a cad."
"Why?"
"Because I lusted after you from the very beginning, but I never knew you felt the same. I felt like I was taking advantage of you. You know, ogling you under the pretense of art. It was a relief to find out how you felt. More than a relief, actually. A revelation." He pulled down the collar of her shirt to reveal one smooth shoulder, and kissed it lightly. "I want you, Nichole. More than that, I care about you. Not that I haven't always cared about you, but I never realized how deep it went ... how important you are to me."
She looked up into his eyes. "I've wanted you since our first year of college together. You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that."
"I think I do ... because I feel the same way." He stroked her cheek with the back of one finger. "No one's ever made me feel the way you do."
"Even Kathy?"
"Not even Kathy." His steady gaze never wavered. "Do you believe me?"
"I do. I'm just not sure I understand. She's so much more than me in some ways. She's stronger."
Greg frowned. "What do you mean?"
"More confident. More secure with herself."
"She wasn't. Not really. She acted bold, but beneath the surface, she was very jealous and insecure. I think she believed that I was cheating on her. She always seemed suspicious. You're just the opposite. You seem shy and reserved to most people, but beneath the surface, you're very comfortable with yourself. Very strong and in control." He leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Don't think I've forgotten what you did to me in the shower that first night we made love. Remember?"
"Of course I remember. I'm getting wet just thinking about it."
"Are you?" He undid the buttons of her jeans, slipped a hand into her panties and sampled her wetness with a fingertip.
"Mm ... oh, Greg."
He kissed her neck. "What say we celebrate the completion of our sculpture?"
She grinned and pushed him to the floor.

