Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  Nick seemed distracted by the number of restaurants they could see as they strolled through Cannes. He hadn’t eaten all day but had drunk a liter of water straight down once the shoot was over.

  Elisa had gently instructed him that he could have seafood or chicken and salad tonight. Still no carbs since there was another day of shooting yet, this time on location at a private beach.

  Anna wasn’t relishing going through it all again, but at least this time they wouldn’t be stuck in the confines of a stuffy studio, and if she needed to go for a walk, the beach would be perfect.

  Nick watched as Anna pointed at the menu, choosing a shrimp paella, then placed his own order for seafood salad. He promised himself that he’d have one of everything on the menu tomorrow night.

  Anna had been quieter than usual at the shoot and Nick was astute enough to see that she was feeling excluded, maybe even slightly threatened. At first, he’d concentrated on trying to relax while posing naked, but as the morning had gone on and his confidence had returned, he’d gradually become more and more involved in the process of modelling and the way Massimo worked.

  He didn’t always understand the reason for the slight changes to his position or to the lighting that Massimo asked for, but he tried to work out the reasoning. In other words, he soaked up everything he could about the experience, finding it far more complex and interesting than he’d expected.

  When they’d taken a break and Brendan had told him that Anna had gone out, he’d been disappointed not to be able to discuss it all with her. But something about the way Brendan said it made him wonder how Anna was feeling about the shoot.

  He put himself in her shoes and knew instantly that he’d be mad as hell if she was posing nude in front of a bunch of strangers, in front of men.

  But then again, she had talked him into this gig. Although he was well aware of her reasons.

  It was hard to put into words how he felt: drifting was the word that came closest to how he’d been feeling.

  And bored. That was the other word.

  He’d been looking forward eagerly to a life where he didn’t get injured all the time, but he missed the rush of adrenaline that came from scoring a great try or leading his team to victory. He missed being part of a team.

  Get over it, a voice inside told him, and maybe that voice had an American accent a lot like Anna’s.

  His smile was wistful. Yes, he had to find a way to move on with his life. Drifting was no way for a man to live.

  When the seafood salad arrived, he ate slowly, forcing himself to enjoy the good food, the beautiful views along the boulevard full of luxury boutiques and out across the yacht harbour, and here, with the woman who always stood by him.

  THE NEXT DAY, the car service took Nick, Anna and Brendan to the harbour where Elisa met them with several bags of camera equipment and a warm smile.

  Dawn hovered nearby and the sky was awash with spectacular pinks and purples, a hint of orange on the horizon.

  Anna yawned and shivered, glad that she’d brought a jacket and wrap with her.

  “I thought we were going to a private beach?” Nick asked Elisa, hoping the venue hadn’t been changed to somewhere as public as the harbour.

  “Yes, of course. We are taking the Maestro’s boat to Île Sainte-Marguerite, it is the largest of the four islands you can see over there. Only fifteen minutes.”

  Nick was beyond happy not to have to spend another day indoors, and Anna was more relaxed, too.

  He’d had his doubts about this whole trip, but it had been a good thing for them; good to leave the doubt and indecision behind in London, and enjoy the simple pleasure of spending time together.

  Massimo appeared a few minutes later, accompanied by Ning Yu who was shouldering more equipment. Nick stepped forward to help her, earning both a scowl and a curt nod.

  The Maestro’s yacht was a dainty 37 footer with two masts, fore and aft, white with a bright blue trim. It bobbed in the water, small but perfectly formed, surrounded by larger yachts and motor cruisers that dwarfed it.

  The yacht was named La Belle and it certainly seemed to fit.

  The Captain, the man who would sail them across the open water of the Golfe de la Napoule, leapt down from the deck, greeting Massimo in strangely accented French. He was weathered, with craggy, sun-blasted skin, of indeterminate age and spoke no English.

  “I think that’s the Provençal dialect,” Brendan whispered. “I picked up a few words last night at the same time as picking up a delicious sailor called Ciprian. He certainly lived up to his name, the old goat.”

  Nick shook his head, amused, but Anna frowned.

  “I hope you were careful.”

  “Annie, darling, a little danger is part of the fun.”

  Brendan was delighted by the yacht trip and had dressed the part, looking something like Tadzio in Death in Venice, wearing an old-fashioned one-piece bathing costume with blue and white stripes. Even though the air had a slight chill to it, he behaved as if it was the height of summer.

  Massimo patted Brendan’s hand and took several photographs of him leaning against the side of the yacht, staring toward the far horizon.

  “Gorgeous as I am,” he sighed, “the years march on. I’ll be able to look back on the Maestro’s photographs and think, ‘I was adored once, too’.”

  Anna rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll always adore you.”

  “Of course you will,” snorted Brendan. “That’s in the BFF code. I’m talking about showing pretty little things of the future what they missed out on when Uncle Brendan was in his prime.”

  His words were said with humour, but Anna detected an undercurrent of sadness. In all the years she’d known Brendan, he’d never dated anyone longer than a week. He said he had no interest in settling when fishing was one of his favourite hobbies in a sea full of hotties, his words. But Anna wondered.

  The Captain untied the heavy rope knots so the yacht could slip its moorings, a Gitane cigarette drooping from his lips, then stepped aboard the little yacht with the speed and grace of a man half his age.

  Once they reached the open sea, the Captain shut off the small motor and unfurled one of the sails. The stiff breeze whipped the canvas taut as the yacht cut through the water, kicking up a fine mist of spray from the prow.

  It was chilly out on the open sea, and Anna was pleased when Nick wrapped his warm body around her, leaning his chin on the top of her head.

  “Having fun?” he asked quietly.

  Anna craned her neck up, smiling.

  Her hair, usually carefully combed, was windblown and tangled on the short trip, and yesterday’s sun had scattered freckles across her nose and cheeks, making her look happy and carefree.

  “You’re really…” he said, his words caught by the wind and tossed away. “I’m sorry I’ve been so … so…”

  Anna touched his arm lightly, her chocolate eyes warm with love.

  “I know. It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

  She wished he’d tell her that he loved her, but he didn’t.

  As they neared the island, the waters of the Mediterranean turned from the deep navy of early dawn to a brighter turquoise that glittered in the morning sun. Anna raised her hand against the glare, admiring the beaches of white sand punctuated by rocky inlets.

  They finally anchored at a tiny, secluded cove, fringed by palm trees leading up to a beautiful whitewashed house that made Anna think of Jay Gatsby or Agatha Christie novels set in exotic locations.

  “Wow, this is so beautiful,” Anna breathed. “Who lives here?”

  “It belongs to a friend of the Maestro,” said Elisa. “I love coming here.”

  The Captain dropped the anchor over the side then lowered a small, rubber dinghy and helped them all climb aboard.

  Massimo had his camera in his hand and leaned out dangerously far to capture shot after shot of the glittering, shifting light and the spectacular backdrop of cliffs and brilliant white sand.

&
nbsp; Once ashore, Massimo was in a hurry, wanting to capture the long, slanting shadows of the photographer’s golden hour, a magical moment when the sun was low in the sky, the light redder and softer.

  There was no makeup today but Elisa had double duties as hair stylist and the Maestro’s gopher.

  She combed and gelled Nick’s hair with Massimo barking orders to Ning Yu.

  Within a few minutes, they were ready, and Nick was stripping off his clothes.

  Anna never got tired of seeing that—his beautiful body and smooth skin, his glistening ink and perfect musculature. She also knew where to find the fine web of scars that spoke of his many surgeries, all from rugby.

  His thick thighs and quads, the dips and valleys of his abs, the wide shoulders and prominent pectoral muscles, all aligned with a face of symmetrical beauty, and those expressive, honey-coloured eyes—no wonder Massimo had wanted to photograph him.

  The Maestro worked quickly, one eye on Nick, one eye on the rising sun.

  By 11AM, they had to take a break. The direct sunlight was making Nick squint, and the higher the sun climbed, the more hooded his eyes appeared, the shadows hiding all expression.

  “It would be better,” Elisa whispered to Anna, “to have high cloud, so the light is good, but not so harsh.”

  Nick was stoic, but Anna could tell that his patience had worn a little thin after more than three hours of working to hold unnatural positions. The temperature was rising, too, and twice she’d sprayed him with sunscreen, and he’d had to keep moisturizing the skin on his legs because of the salty water.

  They were all happy to take a break.

  “How you doing?” she whispered to him as he sipped at a bottle of water.

  “Great,” he said, deadpan. “I’ve had sand in my eyes, sand in my arse-crack … and elsewhere. I’m hot and sticky.”

  He gave her a big grin and winked at her.

  “But I don’t have an eighteen stone prop trying to pulverize me in a scrum either. I’m good.”

  She laughed.

  “Always an upside then!”

  The sun continued to climb, boiling away the wispy white clouds, and leaving the sky a scorching blue.

  They all retired to the sun umbrellas and sat in the shade, sipping cold drinks and eating fresh fruit salad, tiny sandwiches, miniature croissants and quiches, all delivered by a cheerful islander driving a golf cart.

  Nick had a small piece of fruit, then set off to explore the island.

  “He can’t bear to see all this delicious food,” mumbled Brendan, stuffing another shrimp vol au vent in his mouth.

  “I know, I feel so guilty,” agreed Anna, spreading a delicious garlic and herb cream cheese over a croissant.

  They exchanged a glance and both started giggling.

  “Poor Nick.”

  “He’s so grumpy when he’s hungry,” said Anna.

  “Maybe he’s off exploring a sandwich shop,” Brendan suggested.

  Anna shook her head.

  “Seriously? No. He’s far too iron-willed for that. He knows he has another two or three hours of shooting yet. But wait until tonight—he’ll be eating everything in sight, especially chocolate.”

  “Ah, so the man of iron has a weak spot!” Brendan crowed. “And it’s not just you!”

  Conversation gradually fell away, and they napped through the drowsy afternoon, the sound of the waves lapping at the beach leaving them limp and languid.

  When Anna opened her eyes hours later, Nick was back, stretched out on a sunbed, his skin bronzed and maybe even a little pink in places.

  She thought he was asleep because his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but then he turned his head toward her, and gave his trademark grin.

  She started to speak, but he held his finger to his lips and silently stood up from the recliner, holding out his other hand in an invitation.

  Again, Anna started to speak, but he shook his head, that slow, sexy smile curving his full lips upwards.

  As she took his hand, the palm felt warm and slightly rough, and he wrapped his fingers around her, tugging gently.

  Slipping slightly in her flip-flops, she followed him toward the sea.

  He bent down and slid off her footwear, tossing them over his shoulder. Then they paddled through the clear, shallow water until the sea reached mid-thigh. The current tugged gently, feeling cool and delicious against Anna’s sun-heated skin.

  As they cleared the rocky promontory, she found herself in a tiny, hidden cove; somewhere that could have been a smugglers’ cave in earlier times.

  Nick pulled her against him, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her nose, her forehead; licking up the side of her neck, and tugging on her earlobes with his teeth.

  His bare skin was hot under her searching hands, and then she felt his hard length straining against the shiny material of his lucky Speedos.

  She paused.

  She’d given him those swimming trunks, and he’d worn them for every game including his testimonial.

  “These have a lot history,” she whispered against his throat.

  Nick smiled wickedly but didn’t speak. His silence was tantalizing, drawing her into his game.

  Anna let out a long breath that ended in a sigh.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe they’d talked enough for now. Although in recent months there had been too many shadowed silences, too many things unsaid. Maybe now, connecting without words was something they both needed.

  She silenced her busy mind and gave in to her body’s demands.

  Anna gripped the thin material of Nick’s Speedos and pushed them over the firm globes of his ass. The material caught at the front on his thick cock and he groaned softly, sliding the material down the heavy muscles of his thighs and calves.

  He gripped her waist pulling her towards him as he kissed her chest, nuzzling her breasts and biting her nipples through her bikini top.

  She felt rather than saw him undo the twin bows that held her bikini together at her shoulders, not knowing where he threw it, not caring.

  He didn’t bother to remove the bikini bottoms, simply nudging the material aside and lifting her up quickly.

  Anna gasped, then wrapped her legs around him, sinking down, sliding shaft to root.

  He used his incredible strength to lift her up and down—slow, deep strokes that she felt to her core. The sun beat down on her head, on her back, on her arms, and the heat built up inside her, the movement becoming rougher and more uneven.

  The coil of desire tightened inside her, threatening to spring loose at any second, at any moment, at any…

  Anna shrieked as her orgasm struck, and she quivered and shook in Nick’s arms. He swore quietly as he exploded inside her and slowly sank to his knees, the hot sand coating Anna’s sweat-slick back.

  They lay together on the baking sand, hot and sweaty and sticky, their mouths open, their eyes closed.

  Nick pulled out and rolled off her, but left his hand resting on her stomach as her breathing eased gradually.

  “Yoohoo! Where are you, little lovebirds?”

  Brendan’s voice echoed around the cove, and Anna saw him splashing through the shallows.

  “Bren!” she squeaked, sitting up and clamping her hands over her breasts. “Give us a minute!”

  He halted his approach and threw a hand over his face theatrically.

  “My eyes! They burn! I shouldn’t have to see my boss in the nuddy nud! Isn’t there a law about that? Sexual harassment? I’m harassed because I’m not having sex in my tea break but my boss is?” He pulled his hand from his face and glared at Anna. “I’m traumatized!”

  “Go away, Brendan!”

  “Charming,” he snorted, turning on his heel and disappearing the way he came. “The Maestro requires his nibs back at work. Speedos optional.”

  Nick started laughing and Anna threw him a dirty look—and then couldn’t stop giggling.

  “Oh my God! Maybe we’ve scarred him for life! He could sue me for workplace s
tress.”

  “Yeah, probably. But I think it was your boobs that stressed him out—he’s already seen my knob.”

  They walked down to the water, washing the sand from all the interesting places that sand should never go.

  Anna winced—her poor vag felt like it had been sandpapered, and Nick looked a little uncomfortable as he pulled his wet Speedos back on.

  Note to self—beach sex is sexier in books.

  Nick finished the shoot, ignoring the damp heat hanging in the air between them, then insisted on swimming back to the boat.

  Anna watched him cut through the deep blue waters, his sun-kissed skin gleaming like some ancient sea god, his tattoos lending an otherworldly quality.

  Massimo snapped the last shots of the day, catching Nick in motion as his arms cut through the waves, then settled onto the bench seat of his yacht with a satisfied grunt.

  They were all tired; weary from the early start and long day, from the heat, from the lazy lunch and wine in the afternoon, and with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

  Nick pulled himself onto the yacht, seawater pouring from his body as he tipped his head back and drank a litre of mineral water straight down. His eyes widened as Anna laid out the sandwiches and quiches that she’d saved for him, inhaling them lustily. And then satiated for now, he sat next to Anna, his damp skin cool to the touch and smelling of the sea. Anna felt the slow tug of desire. This man, this beautiful man.

  She leaned against him, her eyes closing in the early evening sun, and felt at peace.

  Their post-shoot party was held at a small restaurant not far from the studio. Nick didn’t speak for the first half-hour, eating everything in sight, all the treats that he’d been missing.

  They talked about the shoot and how pleased Massimo was with it; they laughed at the silly jokes of shared experience, and even Ning Yu managed a quick smile.

  Then with full stomachs and heavy heads, they all went their separate ways with promises to keep in touch.

  The holiday was over.

  LONDON WAS CAUGHT in a bitter blast of winter. The weather was as rare as its citizens were unprepared. Winds of arctic temperatures roared from the Russian Steppes and the ‘beast from the East’ as the Press named the harsh conditions held the city in an icy grip.