THE MODEL AND THE PHOTOGRAPHER I
1306 Words
The loft smelled like dark coffee, warm wood, and something smoky—expensive, masculine. Lena stepped in slowly, her heels echoing against polished concrete as the door clicked shut behind her. She was late. Not fashionably. Just… late.
The studio was dim, sunlight bleeding through tall windows covered in sheer black curtains. A single spotlight lit the center of the room—a chaise lounge draped in velvet, the kind that invited bad decisions and exposed skin.
And then she saw him.
Nico.
Black shirt. Rolled sleeves. Tattoos snaking down his forearms like sins that never got confessed. He leaned against a camera stand, arms folded, a jawline carved from something sharp and unforgiving. His eyes landed on her with the weight of someone used to undressing people without touching them.
“You’re late,” he said, voice low, dry, bored—but those eyes didn’t leave her.
“I’m here now.” Lena dropped her bag by the door. She wasn’t going to apologize. She didn’t come here to be obedient.
He stared a second longer, then moved—grabbing his camera, adjusting the lens like he needed something to focus on that wasn’t her.
“Strip,” he said, without a flicker of hesitation. “To the lingerie you brought.”
No greeting. No small talk. Just instructions. Her stomach twisted.
Good.
She walked to the chaise with unhurried grace, her back arched just slightly, as if she knew he was watching her hips sway beneath the coat. She unbuttoned it slowly. Deliberately. The fabric slipped off her shoulders, revealing a black lace set—barely-there panties, a sheer bra that left little to imagination, and heels that made her legs look endless.
The camera clicked.
He didn’t say anything. Just kept shooting.
Click. Click.
She moved to the chaise and posed—one leg folded, arm over the back, head tilted. Her body spoke in angles and lines, the kind photographers dreamt of.
But Nico kept watching her face.
“Don’t pose,” he muttered. “Feel.”
She blinked. “Feel what?”
“Me.”
Lena’s breath hitched, her n*****s tightening under the sheer lace. His tone was still flat, his face unreadable. But the tension in the room had changed. He stepped closer, camera hanging low from his neck, hands free now. He reached for her, adjusting her hips just slightly—slow, firm, deliberate.
His fingers didn’t rush. They lingered.
“Like this,” he said, brushing her inner thigh as he spread her legs just a little wider. “Natural. Vulnerable.”
Lena shivered.
He stepped back. Click. Click.
She held his gaze this time, letting her lips part, exhaling as she let one hand slip between her thighs—innocent at first.
Nico said nothing. But his eyes darkened. The camera stayed down.
He was watching now. Not working.
The silence grew heavier, thicker—broken only by the occasional click of the shutter, though even that slowed. Nico’s camera lowered inch by inch, forgotten in his grip as Lena slid her fingers up her thigh, just beneath the band of lace.
“Like this?” she asked, her voice soft.
She watched his jaw tighten.
He didn’t answer with words.
Instead, he stepped closer. Slowly. The soft hum of jazz playing somewhere in the background pulsed low like a heartbeat. His boots moved with quiet dominance across the studio floor, stopping just before her knees.
“Wider,” he said at last.
Her breath caught.
She obeyed.
The camera slipped from his hand and landed gently on the chaise beside her, cradled in velvet like an afterthought. His hands replaced it—rough palms tracing the insides of her thighs, warm and unhurried.
“Touch yourself,” he murmured. “But keep your eyes on me.”
Lena’s throat tightened. She’d stripped in front of lenses before. She’d seduced, teased, posed—but this was different. There was no audience. No artifice.
Just Nico. Just her. Just heat.
She moved her hand, fingers skimming the soaked fabric between her legs. He watched every movement with unnerving focus, like she was the only thing that had ever existed in his viewfinder.
She rubbed slow, aching circles over the lace.
His breath hitched.
“You’re wet,” he said, more to himself than her.
She smiled. “Wonder why.”
A shadow crossed his face. His hands gripped her thighs again—firmer this time. “Don’t get clever.”
“I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m desperate.”
That did something to him. His mouth twitched. His fingers slid up, over hers—then replaced them entirely. He rubbed her through the lace, watching her mouth part, her head fall back just slightly.
“Don’t move,” he said, and disappeared behind her.
Lena blinked—then gasped as his hands pushed her forward gently, hips angled just right.
She heard the camera click again. Closer this time.
But the heat of his body stayed behind her, crouched low.
His breath ghosted over her soaked panties.
“Don’t stop me,” he warned. “Because I won’t.”
Lena didn’t speak.
She didn’t want him to.
Nico’s breath was warm against the inside of her thigh. His fingers curled around her waist as he pulled her toward the edge of the chaise, spreading her gently, reverently. The lace of her panties was damp, nearly translucent now, the thin barrier doing nothing to hide how ready she was for him.
And he hadn’t even really touched her yet.
“Lift,” he said.
Lena obeyed, arching her hips just enough for him to hook his fingers in the sides of her panties and peel them down slowly—like he was unwrapping something dangerous. He didn’t look at her face. His eyes were locked between her thighs.
He dropped the lace to the floor.
Then he moved.
His mouth pressed into her with no warning—no teasing licks or tentative grazes. Just heat, tongue, and the low, desperate sound of a man who had been holding himself back far too long.
Lena gasped—back arching, legs quivering as he devoured her. His stubble scratched the inside of her thighs, and she loved it. She reached down instinctively, grabbing a fistful of his hair, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he groaned and sucked harder.
She’d never been eaten like this.
Worshipped.
Owned.
He sucked her clit slow and deep, then flicked it mercilessly with his tongue—each stroke pulling a moan from her chest like it was carved out of bone. She was writhing now, panting, eyes squeezed shut, but he didn’t let her run from it.
He pulled back only long enough to say, “Keep your legs open.”
Then he dove back in, tongue plunging into her, lips locked around her like she was his last meal. She was dripping down his chin, thighs trembling violently. He slid two fingers into her at once—thick, fast, relentless.
“Oh—f**k—Nico—” she cried, her voice cracking.
“Louder,” he growled against her. “Say my name when you come.”
And she did.
With a broken cry, she shattered against his mouth, thighs clamping around his head, body convulsing on his fingers and tongue as she came hard—long, loud, and helpless.
But he didn’t stop.
He licked her through it, swallowed her moans, f****d her with his fingers until her orgasm blurred into another one, and another—until her voice was nothing but breathless sobs.
He finally pulled back, lips wet, jaw tight.
And then—he grabbed the camera.
Click.
A photo of her body trembling. Skin flushed, legs spread, eyes glazed.
“Beautiful,” he muttered. “f*****g perfect.”
- Writer
