Model Position

by Kitsy Clare

  Erik looks at me with a shocked delight that proves he had no idea his work would be received so well. First he mouths the words sold out. Then he says, “Come with?”

  I squeeze his hand. “Think I’ll get a drink and enjoy the show, hon. I’ll be here. Find me when you’re done.”

  “Okay, sounds good.” He gives me a sensual but quick kiss and then disappears through the crowd with Lydia Hightower.

  I miss him already. I miss his lean, rugged self, hugging me. I’m already hungry for more of Erik’s smart art talk and sexy parries. The crowd has grown so dense that I can hardly move, much less locate the drink table. But I manage to eventually nudge my way over and take a glass from a very gay, very awesome waiter with pink gelled-up hair and guyliner, a pink manbag, and a pink, polka-dot bowtie.

  As I’m sipping my champagne and nudging my way over to the next of Erik’s paintings, I see none other than Harper struggling through the masses. She looks incredible in a snug cocktail dress the creamy color of a tropical beach.

  Suck it up, Sienna, I tell myself.

  I do suck it up enough to give Harper a genuine hug and tell her she looks great.

  “Hope you’re not mad at me,” she starts and then does a double take. “Wait! Didn’t you say you were going out with Erik? Is this, um, is this…his opening?” Her eyes get as big as Lydia Hightower’s, so big I can see the whites around her irises. “You’re kidding?” she screeches. “This is Erik’s show?”

  I nod in slow motion, to savor it all the more. “You got it, girl, Erik freaking Darlington!”

  We both shriek as we jump up and down, but it’s so loud in here and so packed, no one more than blinks an eye. Well, the immediate crowd gets a chuckle at us wacky art broads before they return to their yammering.

  “His paintings are the best,” Harper gushes. “And I can’t believe he’s already sold out the show. Who does that?”

  It’s true. Lydia’s assistant has popped a neat red dot under each painting. “Darlington does that,” I brag. “That was fast, huh? I guess he can move on from modeling…if he wants to,” I add cheekily.

  Harper takes my hands in hers. “So, I got a show, and Erik got a show, and you got a show, isn’t that the best?”

  I sigh. “Except that my show isn’t happening.”

  “What do you mean? You said you were showing Lydia your work. Merry and I helped you pick it out.” Her face is quickly paling under her makeup.

  I slide my hands from hers. “Dave didn’t tell you?”

  Harper gives me a blank stare with worry around the frayed edges. “Tell me what?”

  “Geez. I told Lydia I didn’t want the show. I told her that I didn’t like that it sort of hinged around dating Dave.” I stop there, because I don’t want Harper to think Dave’s a total jerk. He may be the right guy for Harper. “It’s okay for you to show here, I mean it.” I say this because she looks like she might burst out crying. “I just need to know…”

  “Know what?” Now she looks really spooked.

  “Dave didn’t bribe you to date him by offering you a show, did he?” I brace myself, hoping it’s the answer I want.

  “Absolutely not.” We went out on at least a few dates before I begged him to meet Lydia. He didn’t even mention her.”

  I exhale, realizing that I’ve been holding my breath while waiting for her answer. “Phew, okay, that’s good.” I give her another hug, even though I’m realizing that Dave must’ve moved at warp speed to have already dated Harper two or three times after that awkward Buddakan restaurant date with me. “I’m happy for you, I am.”

  “But you must be super upset that I have a show here now.” Trepidation still lingers in Harper’s voice.

  “I am, but not at you. Believe that. If anything, I’m irritated with myself, for using Dave, for not being more proactive at landing a show in the right place for me.” For being too afraid to go it alone and trust my own powers to make connections in this vast, intimidating city.

  “Sienna, you haven’t even gotten your MFA quite yet. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I know, I know.” I clink my goblet against hers. “Crap, girl, let’s drink to your upcoming show.”

  Harper beams at me. “And to your talented boyfriend and your as-yet-unidentified solo show. I know you’ll get one before long.”

  I hope, I hope, I hope.

  We do a string of toasts to everything from sexy male models to our Victoria’s Secret surprises for our new boyfriends hidden under our pretty cocktail dresses. Harper reveals that she and Dave have only made out, but she’s hoping for more tonight. Speaking of the devil, Dave appears through a horde of gallery goers who are talking about Darlington’s glowing debut.

  Dave has come to find Harper, and he gives me a sheepish look. “I owe you an apology, Sienna. Erik is up to your pay grade after all. His work is very high level.”

  “Apology accepted, I guess a model can be lots more than a model, wouldn’t you agree?” Those words plus a nod coming from Dave mean a lot. I know how hard it was for him to utter them. I wander off in the crowd to wait for my Erik. The thing I find first is his portrait of me. And I’m floored.

  ***

  As I stare at it, the room falls away like a scene in a film, with smoky fog and a rising violin soundtrack. It’s a drop-dead likeness, but it’s a super, surreal me! Erik has made me look like a modern-day queen, sexy, regal, and long-legged. The leopard-skin rug is suggestively draped over my hip and revealing just a sliver of my dark triangle of hair. The frame is unique too. It’s a very current rendition—fabricated in some kind of hardened miracle gel—of a Renaissance frame, brimming with scrolls and flowers and loop-the-loops. I remember now Lydia Hightower describing to a client the frames she’d use for this show. These frames. That was when I first eavesdropped on her conversation and snickered at the name Darlington.

  My darling Darlington. A masculine hand reaches around and lures me in. “Erik.” I melt into him, and he swings his other arm around and enfolds me. His touch is magnetic.

  “I found you. Do you like it?”

  “I love it! Oh my God, I adore it. And I adore you.” I swivel around and stand on my tiptoes so our lips can meet.

  He cups my face in his hands, finds my lips, and presses his tongue between them. I meet it with flicks of my own. Now that there’s nothing holding me back from Erik, my passion is released like some untamed creature with tiny claws and teeth that might nip. Nuzzling into his neck, I kiss the warm spot where his pulse beats. He finds my sweet spots too—showering kisses on my temples, my forehead. His body pressed to mine fits perfectly. We fit perfectly.

  Glancing over his shoulder, I see we’ve attracted attention from some curious onlookers. “We’re on display.” I giggle into his ear.

  “Easy to lose my head over you,” he whispers back.

  I have to calm down. But just wait until later. We loosen our embrace, but stay lightly connected. Swaying in front of my portrait as if to a hidden waltz, we hold each other at arm’s length and have a mutual gaze-fest. The onlookers, realizing that our PDA is winding down, have moved on. In fact, I see the drinks guy across the room starting to pack up the supplies.

  Erik looks at his watch. “It’s almost time to go.”

  “Really? The time flew by. Erik, I’m so, so proud of you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be able to get a bigger studio and an apartment uptown near the river. I’ve always wanted to be near the Hudson.” He plays with my hair and wraps a curl around my ear. “We can take long, lazy walks along it and draw the boats, and each other.”

  “I’ll pose for you anytime,” I promise.

  “And me, you. Let’s get out of here. What do you say?”

  “Have you said a proper goodbye to your collectors and the fabulous Lydia Hightower?”

  “That’s me,” a throaty voice sounds from behind. I swirl around. It’s Miss High and Mighty herself. I sure hope she hasn’t heard me make fun of her, even playful,
light fun.

  Apparently, it doesn’t matter. And the bonus is that she actually remembers my name. “Sienna,” she acknowledges. And remarkably, she smiles. When she smiles she’s not nearly as scary. Her eyes gleam, and she looks at least ten years younger. “I told you that we had no clients for computer art.”

  I nod. Don’t rub it in. “Right, I remember.”

  “But I do have a colleague who owns a gallery on Fifty-Seventh Street, who told me his clients like exactly that.” My heart begins to gallop at a breakneck pace. Fifty-Seventh Street! The only other gallery district that holds a candle to Chelsea, and a helluva lot more established.

  “Yes?” I hear the hopeful tremble in my voice. Erik’s steady hand in mine helps.

  “I can’t promise anything,” she says, “but I gave him your card. He’ll be giving you a call soon, just to stop by and see your prints. No guarantees.”

  “Thanks, thanks so much!” A possible show of my computer prints, oh my freaking God! I’ll have to start cleaning my apartment, every inch of it tomorrow morning. I’ll have to get a new living room rug, toss out my chipped, stained coffee cups, scrub off all of those pencil marks on my drawing table and—oh, the heck with all that. I no longer need to be Miss Obsessive Cleaner.

  I am Sienna, worthy, talented artist.

  I don’t think to ask Lydia Hightower what the dealer’s name is until after she’s swished off into the crowd. Plus Erik’s already clinking his glass with mine in one last toast before we walk out the gallery door and into the elevator.

  Erik’s private studio, here we come.

  ***

  Opening his apartment door is like opening the door to a pirate treasure box. His remarkable paintings decorate the place floor to ceiling. He has two more paintings of his sister and one of his father, wearing a hardhat and studying a construction map. “I love that one because it’s so classic yet so incredibly contemporary, with the blueprint and the take-out coffee cup.”

  “Yup. That was my goal.”

  I gawk at a kid’s drawing of a buck-toothed rabbit. “Yours? It’s so darn cute!”

  “Yeah, in elementary school, I think I did portraits of all of the class critters: a box turtle, this rabbit, a bunch of guinea pigs, and a snake named Glen.”

  “Glen? That’s so un-snakelike.” I giggle. He grins and shrugs.

  Erik has interesting taste in furniture: a plush red sofa, a flag-colored striped side chair, and a two-foot long wooden schooner model on a windowsill.

  “The schooner was my uncle’s,” Erik explains. “He was a deep-sea fisherman off Rhode Island. Now his hobby is building schooner models and ships in bottles. Drink?”

  “I’m good.” All I want to do is to drink in your eyes. I still can’t get over how dashing he looks in his formal black suit. I saunter over to him and say, “I’m ready, babe.”

  “Ready for what?” The sparkle in his eyes tells me he knows.

  “Ready for my pose. But not here, not on the hard floor.”

  “On something softer? That can be arranged. I don’t want to rush you though. I want you to take all of the time you need,” he echoes our earlier conversations. My heart melts the very same way it did when he first said it to me.

  Nothing’s holding me back anymore—not the fear that we’d never make it financially or the fear that he’s got other girlfriends in his pocket, or is tempted by Taffy’s charms. He’s all mine, and I’m all his. “I’m more than ready.”

  “Then, let’s get to it. My canvas is ready. My brushes are loaded.” Erik swoops me off my feet and carries me to his bedroom. I rake my hands through the back of his hair and nuzzle into his wide shoulders He’s so strong! I’ve always fantasized about someone literally sweeping me off my feet, and this is better than the fantasy—all swoony and dreamy-tease.

  Over his bed is that sketch of me he did on our museum date over coffee. He’s framed it. “That’s the first thing I look at every morning,” he says and kisses me while I’m still in his arms. As his chest moves against me, I feel his heart going crazy-fast, and it gets me excited to know that I made it that way. My heart speeds up to meet his rapid beat.

  He’s set up his easel by the bedroom window and his oil paints on a side table. An empty canvas beckons. The spicy pine scent of distilled turpentine adds to the arty ambience.

  He sets me gently down on the side of his bed and unzips my dress, inch by inch. Its sheer top falls to my waist, revealing my black bra and my toned belly, rising and falling with my keyed-up pants. He moans low in his throat. “Oh, heart be strong. Sienna, you look more beautiful than ever.”

  “Draw on me, painter,” I purr. He moves close, and his fingers start to sketch tiny circles on my heaving breasts. Leaning down, he licks and kisses each one over the sheer bra fabric and then moves up to meet my open mouth. We connect in a tight embrace, and I feel him, rock solid, pressing closer to me down below. It sends me into a raw, heart-pounding trance.

  Reaching up, I slide off his jacket, prop it over a bedpost, and then help him shrug out of his shirt. “I’ll draw you too, muse,” I murmur. Starting at his strong biceps, I trace down his shoulders and back to the small of his back, and then to his firm butt. My hands linger there. Then, as I drive him toward my hips, he groans. We move in more lusty arcs and thrusts, too hungry for it to step completely out of our clothes.

  With one easy motion, he helps me out of my dress. He stands, taking me in with his soulful, sexy eyes, staring longingly at my breasts as I remove my lace bra. He runs his finger along the inside of the black lace panties and helps me peel them off. “I have to study every curve to get it right,” he whispers.

  Inching his pants’ zipper down, I help him out of them. I see with surprised amusement that he’s naked, hard, and ready. He’s more than I imagined under that loincloth. “Get every curve, and I’ll get every line, plane, and swell,” I murmur back.

  We fall into each other’s arms, onto the bed. Pressed together at the hips, we move as one, kissing, teasing out the passion, arching in waves of pure lusty pleasure. Sucking, licking, and stroking, we make a sensual, mystical masterpiece of love.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  Many thanks to Melissa Keir and the smart, savvy ladies over at Inkspell for getting a charge out of Model Position, and to Najla Qamber for her fabulous cover design. Tara Chevrestt did a stand-up editing job and was a pleasure to work with. A huzzah to my handsome hubby, Norris who’s always up for a conversation about feisty characters, plot twists and the wild ride of the creative life. I have gratitude for my time as a painter, showing my work in galleries, because it’s inspired tons of spicy story ideas. Shout-outs to my longtime writing group and my blogger buddies online—you all shine brightly. Finally, I want to express a huge appreciation for my readers, old and new. This novella is for you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When Kitsy Clare isn’t creating stories on her favorite Mac Air, she teaches speculative fiction and creative writing workshops. She also loves to draw, travel, read spicy romance, sci-fi and all kinds of thrillers. She divides her time between New York City and her studio in the Catskills, where she enjoys the sounds of birds, bullfrogs and the random coyote.

  Kitsy Clare is the pen name for her new adult romance. She also writes young adult fiction using her real name, Catherine Stine. Her YA futuristic thriller, Fireseed One won finalist spots in both YA and Science Fiction in the 2013 USA Book News International Book Awards. It was also granted an Indie Reader Approved notable stamp. Her YA Refugees, earned a New York Public Library Best Book. Ruby’s Fire, the new companion novel to Fireseed One, is receiving high praise from reviewers. She’s a member of SFWA, SCBWI and CBIG.

  She can be found on www.catherinestine.com, www.catherinestine.blogspot.com, and https://twitter.com/crossoverwriter.

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