Want to know updates?
You reach for the phone, it's shrill ring jolting you out of the deep sleep you had fallen into. You lift the receiver, "Hello?" A male voice answers you, "I'm calling about the add you put in the paper. I'm interested." Your mind reels, still struggling to wake up. Then you remember. You had placed an add in the Boston Globe for a figure model. You sit up and get a pen and paper, "Oh that's great." You look at the clock, nearly one a.m.. "Describe yourself to me." He cleared his throat, "Uh, five foot ten, pretty good build, blond hair, blue eyes." You furiously write all this down, "Do you mind standing in the same position for long periods of time?" He answered that he did not. You stretch and think to yourself, 'why not meet this prospective model?' , heck you needed some caffeine anyway. "I know a cafe that is open all night, if you are free, I'd like to meet you." He is silent for a second, "Sure, give me a half hour and I'll be there." You give him the directions and hear him repeating them as he writes them down. You smile to yourself, knowing that is exactly what you do also. It hits you to ask for a name. "What is your name?" He clears his throat again, "Nick....Nick Carter." You let out an exasperated sigh, "Okay you fruitloop, I'll thank you not to waste my time. Nick Carter, please! At least be original!!" You slam the phone down without another word. You get up and shake your head at that idiot. You clean up the mess you had left lying around and hop in the shower to clean yourself off. When you get out, you slip into your favorite pair of jeans and a t-shirt, tying your hair back. You decide to go out and get that coffee anyway, too wound up to go back to sleep now. You knew the owner of the cafe, so if the fruitloop did show up, you weren't worried about anything. You would simply have him thrown out. You slide into your favorite chair at "your" table and pull out your sketchbook. You are intently sketching a couple sitting by the front window when a voice interrupts you. "Why did you hang up on me?" You lift your eyes off the paper and they see a pair of bluejeaned legs and as they travel upwards, you see the material nip in at a trim waist. A hunter green shirts takes up where the denim leaves off, covering a well built chest. Your eyes finally reach his face and you are stunned by the bluest eyes you've seen in a long time. Ice Blue. You feel the pencil drop out of your hand, as you realize that standing infront of you is Nick Carter. He crouches down and picks up your pencil, "You still haven't answered me, why did you hang up like that?" You take the pencil from him, collecting your thoughts. They had scattered in a million different directions at the sight of those ice blue eyes. "Because I thought you were a fruitloop." As soon as it is out of your mouth, you nearly stab yourself in the heart with the pencil that he had just handed you, damn that sounded stupid!!! You motion for him to sit, "I mean, come on, why would you be doing this, it's not like you need the money." He grinned and you nearly melted, "Nah, I don't. I just really enjoy your work. When I saw that ad, I had to at least call." You blush, "So you've seen my work?" He nods enthusiastically, "Love your stuff. I was at the exhibitions at...." He reels off the names of several galleries, "I am such a big fan of yours." It's official. You can now die happy. You find a smirk on your face and Nick calls you on it. "What is that smirk for?" You smile, "We could get a mutual admiration society going." He lifts an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling, "Your are a fan of mine?" You nod and take a sip of your coffee, "You could say that. I like painting to your music." He smiled, "Wow, I'm honored." You get the waitress' attention and look at Nick, "What would you like?" He smiles and orders a coffee. You take a sip of your own, "You do know what this job entails don't you? What would your mother say?" He laughed, "I'm 25, what can she do, ground me?" You laugh, "Just asking, I wouldn't want you killed by yourown mother."
You both sit in the cafe talking for hours, about theater, art, Boston, just everything and anything. By the wee hours of the morning, you had both reached an agreement, he would work on his album during the day, and work for you at night. That was fine with you, because you were more of a night owl anyway. You both went your separate ways, Nick's phone number tucked safely in your pocket. You spent the next day trying to mix a paint to match those mesmerizing eyes of his. Eight o'clock came a lot sooner than you had thought, as a knock sounds on the door to your loft. You open the door to see him standing there in a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt. He smiles, "Am I late?" You shake your head, "Nope, you are perfect....ly on time." Your voice catches on the word perfect, your mind screaming that yes, he was perfect. You show him in and he looks around at everything like a kid in a candy store. You hear his distinctive laugh peel through the loft and look up, then blush. He has found the bust your sculpted of him in school, which now was missing the back of it's head and you had filled the cranium with all of your brushes and tools. He gives you a grin, "I don't know if I should be insulted or not." You laugh and walk to the stereo, "What kind of music do you like?" He raised an eyebrow, "You don't know? And you call yourself a fan! For shame!!" You pop Journey's greatest hits in and the power ballad fills the room. You give Nick a 'so there!' look and he smiles, "Nice choice" You motion for him to sit on the couch opposite you and he untucks his shirt, pulling it over his head. You have to stop from having your eyes bug out and even thought it kills you, you stop him. "Nick, I'm just going to work on your face for awhile. Have a seat." Color rises to his cheeks as he sits on the couch, "Sorry." You smile, "Don't be. It's kinda nice to have a man willing to strip infront of you." He grins and catches your eye, "I bet you have plenty of guys willing do anything for you." Your turn to blush now. You pick up your pencil and sketchpad. An hour and a half later you have a scattered pile of sketches around your feet of different parts of his face. You set down your pencil and just look at his face. He's lost in thought, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth, remnants of a happy turn in his daydream. It's all you can do not to run your fingers over his face. The only thing that stops you is that it wouldn't be very professional. You get up, being careful not to disturb his reverie and get a cup of coffee for each of you. He has come out of his trance when you return and gratefully accepts the cup of coffee you hand him. Journey is on its second go round on the cd player, so you throw on Toni Braxton. He smiles and you see his body moving slightly to the music. You walk over to the part of the loft where your bedroom is and grab a terrycloth robe from the closet. You set it down on the couch he's sitting on and go back to your cup of coffee. You talk some more and he looks at the robe and then at you, "Now?" You nod, "Now." You point out the bedroom area, "You can change there." He comes back wrapped in the terry robe and blushing a little. You raise an eyebrow, "Are you sure about this?" He nods and opens the robe, the material falling in a pool on the floor. Your eyes take in the perfection that stands infront of you, as the rest of you tries it's damnedest not to react. Soft, tanned skin covers every angle and curve of his form and shadows play in the ridges formed of muscle and bone. You pull yourself together enough to pose him on the sofa, arranging limbs to show of his form to the best advantage. He lets you pose him, his blue eyes catching yours several times, until one of you breaks the connection. You wonder if he feels the magnetism that you do. Once you are satisfied with the composition, you go to your easel and start sketching his form on the blank canvas. His body was so easy to draw, the fact that you had been staring at those features for over ten years, that they were practically ingrained in your memory, helped. This was definitely more than the teen magazine pinups showed though. You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face as your carbon flew across the canvas. He smiled back, "You must really like doing this, you have the biggest smile on your face." You nod, "It helps when the subject is easy to draw." He raised his eyebrow, "Is that good?" You nod again, "Surely to god you have been told that you have a gorgeous body, artistically speaking." He chuckles and shakes his head, "No, not artistically speaking." You smile and focus your attention back onto the canvas, "You've been told." He laughs and settles back onto the couch. You get caught up in the process of transferring what you see to the canvas, that when you look up from your work, you see that he has fallen asleep, lulled by the soft scratch of carbon and the smooth sounds of Toni on the stereo. You get up and drape a blanket over him, giving into your urge to run your fingertips softly over the side of his face. He stirs and sighs softly, settling back down, never waking. You tenderly slide a tendril of hair off his forehead and go back to your work. The sky is lightening to a pearly gray color when you finish the last brushstroke. Too exhausted to even make it to your bed, you collapse on the other sofa and fall asleep, not even bothering to wash the paint off of you. Nick awakens to find the sun streaming into the studio, falling over your sleeping form on the couch beside the easel. He sees the blanket draped over him and sits up, wrapping it around himself. He pads lightly over to the easel, being careful not to wake you. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of himself sleeping on the canvas. He smiles, awestruck at the sight. He looks over at you on the sofa and takes the blanket from around him, spreading it over you. He takes one of your hands and holds it in both of his, lightly kissing the end of each paint covered finger. He's gone when you wake, the sunlight that was streaming in before is now weakened and the shadows have started to lengthen across the floor. You pull yourself out of sleep and find a muffin and some juice set out on the table infront of you. There is a note also, "Be back at eight, Nick." You smile as you eat your breakfast and still can't quite believe that Nick Carter was in your home, naked, and he was going to be there again that night. You look at your watch and fly into the shower, spending what is left of the day running errands. You walk back into your loft at eight fifteen and a familiar deep voice reaches your ears before the door is completely open. "You're late." You lift a handful of grocery bags onto the counter, "Needed food. And paint." You see him sitting on the fabric covered stool you had set up at one end of the loft, already naked. You smile, "Can I just hire you to be sitting there naked every time I get home? It's kinda nice." He smiles back, "I think you could pretty much talk me into doing anything for you." Your eyes widen at the suggestiveness of that comment, but you let it go. You put your groceries away and bring your art supplies to your easel. He walks over to the stereo and pops in some music, Seconds later there is a tap on your shoulder and when you turn around, he spins you into his arms and starts to waltz around the floor with you. You raise an eyebrow as you look into those mesmerizing blue eyes, "Do you usually dance naked with women?" He grins and shakes his head, "Nope, I have to say you are the first. I just really love this song." You have to admit that this was one of your favorite songs also. When the song finishes he pulls away and takes your hand, surprising you by turning your hand over and kissing the dead center of your palm. You try to hide the involuntary shudder as electricity races up your arm. His eyes raise until he is looking into yours, sparkling with mischief. Satisfied that he has rattled you, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go and walking back to the stool. You shake your head and step back behind the easel, hearing Nick chuckle. You look him over for a few minutes, deciding how you want him to pose. When you do pose him, you indulge yourself and let your fingers roam over his arms, his legs, over each one of his fingers, over his neck and his jaw. You hear his breath speed up a little and when your eyes roam over his body, you realize that he is a little "happy". Satisfied that you had turned the tables, you step back behind the easel and start to draw. Every time you look up from your work, you notice him staring at you. You pull your gaze off of his, time and again, goose bumps beginning to form on your skin. A couple hours later you tell him to take a break. He wraps the robe around himself and sits where he can see both you and what you are doing on the canvas. He watches your hands add layers of paint to the blank canvas, wishing that your fingers were running over his body with as much purpose. His eyes wander up your body, looking at the way you moved as you painted. He can't help but wonder how your body would move under him or how your bodies would move together, tangled in the blanket that was still thrown over the arm of the sofa. He hears a wistful sigh leave his lips. His eyes dart to your face, seeing if you had noticed. The same sigh had left your lips at the same moment as his. You could feel his eyes looking at you, you could hear your body telling you to turn around to feel his skin under your fingers, instead of slickness of the paint. A tremor causes the paintbrush to wobble and you let it fall out of your hands. One thought in your head, "The hell with it", he thinks. He can't be this close to you and not kiss you. He rises from his chair and closes the space between you, as you turn away from the canvas. Before either of you realizes what is happening, your lips meet, your arms tangling around each other. He crushes you to him so tightly that you can hardly breathe. Somehow, you don't mind. His tongue parts your lips and paints paths of fire in your mouth as your tongue answers back. The fingers of one hand tangle in your hair as he leans your head back, his lips sliding over your neck. You feel the hotness of his breath as his lips and tongue explore every inch of skin he can find. His lips press onto your jugular, feeling the rhythmic pulse. Then, slowly, he trails his tongue over the pulsating flesh, leaving a trail of cool wetness behind it. You shiver and pull his lips back up to yours, his kiss sending a flood of warmth through you. His fingers find the edge of your t-shirt and his hands slide over your sides as he lifts the material with them. You only break body contact to pull the shirt over your head, his hand flinging it off into a corner. Your bra follows seconds later as his lips explore the newly uncovered skin. You can hardly breathe as his lips close around one of your nipples and his fingers playfully torture the other one. Your hands dive under the terrycloth he is wrapped in and your fingers eagerly explore the back of his neck Your fingertips trace over the rim of his ear as his eyes meet yours and then your lips meet his. His lips leave yours again as he falls to his knees before you and presses the side of his face against your stomach, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing him closer to you, enjoying this intimate contact. After a minute, his lips start their exploration of this new part of your body. You are so lost in the sensations, that the only thing that brings your attention back to reality is a slight tug as Nick pulls on a belt loop of your jeans, silently asking your permission to take them off. He lets you undo the buttonfly, but when you go to slide them over your hips, he stills your hands and lowers them and your panties himself, planting butterfly kisses down your legs. You kick the last of your clothes off as they fall to your ankles and stand naked before him. Desire brings a hoarseness to his voice as he looks up at you, "My god you are beautiful, somebody oughta paint you." You smile down at him and somehow you end up lying on the dropcloth on the floor. He leans down and kisses you deeply, "Don't move." He grabs one of the new brushes you had bought at the art store and the glass of ice water you always kept beside your easel. Raising an eyebrow as you look up at him, he answers your question before you can even ask it. "My turn to paint." He dips the brush in the icy water and spreads its moisture over your lips. A low moan leaves your lips as your tongue runs over them, gathering the water droplets. He smiles and dips the brush in again, running it this time over your neck. You aren't sure if you are shivering from the icy water or what he is doing to your body. The brush is now trailing over your collarbone, darting in the little indent at the base of your throat, causing you to cry out from the shock of the icy water. He smiles and dips the brush again, then traces looping patterns on your breasts with it. You close your eyes, not remembering when you'd been so turned on your life. You hear him dip the brush again, then cry out as the bristles slide over your nipple, causing it to shudder and try to respond even more. He does the same to the other side with similar results. By this point you are gripping the dropcloth in your fists, praying to god you will make it through this without spontaneously combusting. The brush is now painting a trail down your stomach, teasing around the edge of your belly button, before plunging right in. Your back arches off the floor as you bite your lip to keep from crying out again. The brush continues it's trail downwards, tracing the edges of the hair between your legs. You feel your legs fall open as the remoistened brush traces every edge of the most intimate parts of you. Finally you can take it no more, you grab the edges of his robe and yank him down to you, giving him a kiss that he wouldn't soon forget. You bring your mouth to his ear and gently nibble on the lobe, "My turn." The voice that comes out of your throat is so husky, you almost don't recognize it as yours. You take the brush from him and toss it over your shoulder. You reach your hand into a box underneath your easel and pull out a stiff feather, dipping it in the water. You use the end of the quill to trace a line of water on his jaw, then down his neck, tracing around his adams apple. You feel him swallow deeply as he stifles a moan. The feather trails down his chest, tracing each muscle. You look up into his eyes and see the desire burning in them, his body raging out of control. You dip the feather once again and trace a path through the whorls of hair that hug the part of his body you hadn't been able to get out of your dirty little mind for two days now. He's so turned on by this point that you can practically see it throbbing. You take your feather and mark a trail up the shaft, over the top and down the underside. It was his turn to grip the dropsheet and cry out now. You dip the feather once again and trace wet rings from the base to the tip, teasing the head with the edge of the feather. A low tortured moan echoes through the room as he nearly arches off the floor. You lean down and gently lick the water off, hearing him cry out several times. When you take him into your mouth to suck the water off the tip, he loses all control. He practically drags you up his body, his lips capturing yours in a hard, desperate kiss. He rolls you both over, his body lying between your legs and inside of you before your back touches the dropcloth. You gasp as your body accommodates him and he freezes, thinking he has hurt you. He smoothes your hair back from your forehead, struggling to regain enough breath to talk, "Are you okay?" You shake your head, "No." He keeps still, "What's wrong?" You run your hand down the side of his face, "You stopped." He smiles, "We can fix that." He drives fully inside you and sets a hard, demanding rhythm. Your fingers slide over the slick, straining contours of his hips, stopping at the small of his back, feeling the muscles working as he thrust deeply inside of you. Cries leave your lips and his as your hips rock upwards to meet him thrust for thrust. Your rhythm becomes even more intense and feverish as it becomes impossible to hold back any longer. One right after the other, you lose control, your satisfied cries lingering in the shadowy corners of the room. You both lie there, a tangle of sweaty, shuddering limbs. Your hands wander absentmindedly over his back, until you feel his breath deepen as his body takes a well deserved rest. You run your fingers through his damp hair and your gaze stops on a mirror that is lying on the opposite side of the room, leaning up against the wall. You stare intently at the image of your tangled bodies in the mirror, memorizing every detail. The inspiration for your next painting.