The Artist and the Escort

I’ve painted a hundred bodies, but none of them ever looked at me like this. The hotel room smells of salt and linen, and the afternoon sun cuts a white blade across the floor. My name is Elena, and I’m supposed to be capturing the curve of his shoulder, the way the light pools in the hollow of his throat. His name is Marco, and he’s paying me to be his model. Only his model. Except his eyes are tracing the line of my jaw like he’s the one holding the brush.

“You’re staring again,” he says, voice low, almost a laugh. “Is that part of the service?”

I set my brush down, heart hammering. “The service is whatever I decide it is.”

He shifts on the stool, nude except for the thin sheet pooling at his hips. The muscles in his stomach tighten. “Then decide.”

I cross the room, barefoot, the silk robe I’m wearing whispering against my thighs. He doesn’t move as I stop between his knees, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. My fingers find the edge of the sheet and pull it away, slow, letting it fall. His cock is already half-hard, thick and heavy, and the sight of it makes my mouth go dry.

“You’re not shy,” I say.

“You’re not either.” He reaches up, curls a hand around the back of my neck, and pulls me down until my lips hover over his. “I’ve been hard since you walked in. Does that bother you?”

I answer by kissing him, hard and deep, my tongue sliding against his. His hands find the tie of my robe and yank it open, and I feel his breath hitch when he sees I’m wearing nothing underneath. He groans into my mouth, palms sliding up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.

“Christ, Elena,” he mutters. “You’re perfect.”

I push him back onto the bed and climb on top, straddling his hips. His cock is pressing against my wet slit, and I rock forward, just once, letting the head catch on my clit. He hisses, fingers digging into my thighs.

“Are you going to fuck me, or just tease?”

I reach down, grip him at the base, and sink onto him in one slow, agonizing motion. He fills me completely, stretching me, and I gasp at the sensation. His eyes are dark, locked on mine.

“Like that,” he breathes. “Just like that.”

I start to move, rolling my hips, slow and deliberate. Each stroke drags his cock against my walls, and I can feel myself getting wetter, slicker, the sound of our bodies slapping together filling the room. His hands find my breasts, squeezing, thumbs flicking over my nipples until they’re aching peaks.

“Faster,” he says, voice ragged. “Please.”

I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest, and pick up the pace. My thighs burn, but I don’t care. I’m chasing something, and he’s giving it to me. His hips rise to meet mine, and he’s hitting deeper now, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur.

“Fuck,” I gasp. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

He flips us suddenly, pinning me beneath him, and his weight is a delicious pressure. He pulls out just enough to tease my entrance, then slams back in, hard. I cry out, nails raking down his back.

“You like that?” he asks, voice thick. “You like being fucked by your model?”

“Yes,” I whimper. “God, yes.”

He fucks me like he’s painting me, each thrust deliberate, meant to leave a mark. His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, and the dominance in his gaze makes my pussy clench around him.

“Come for me,” he growls. “I can feel how close you are.”

I shake my head, trying to hold on, but he reaches between us and circles my clit with his thumb. That’s it. I shatter, crying out his name, my body convulsing around him. He groans, burying himself deep, and I feel him pulse inside me, hot and thick, fucking me through my orgasm until he’s spent.

We lie there, tangled and sweaty, the sun moving lower in the sky. He laughs softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“Best commission I ever paid for,” he says.

I laugh too, light and breathless. “Wait until you see the painting.”