I turn up the music and Leo gets into a groove, his gaze sliding to the photo on the wall of Sequoia getting nailed doggy style while I snap a few test shots before adjusting my settings for the afternoon light. He sports half a chub but seems unaware. I, on the other hand, am hyperconscious of everything about him and can’t help but feel a giddy rush when I grab a bottle of sweet almond oil from my cabinet and toss it to him.
“Let’s get you glossy.”
He starts slathering on the oil, and I walk over with a tub of Wet Wipes for his hands. When he’s done, I hand him one, take the oil, and motion for him to turn.
His tattoo is every bit as epic in its completed state as I’d envisioned, and I spend a moment just admiring it, basking in a self-congratulatory glow. The newest section near the bottom is still a little dry and flaky. I pour oil in my palm and begin rubbing in circles over his back, beginning at the center, where his reach ended.
The man is cut like a diamond, his shoulders broad and tight, the muscles bunching when my hand glides over a spot he’s already covered in oil. I let myself indulge a little more than I should because I need something to get the memory of Celeste’s taste off my fucking mind. I try to keep from lingering and make the application more businesslike, but that doesn’t keep me from enjoying the fact that I have my hands on him.
Without asking, he unbuckles his jeans and lets them fall partway down his ass, revealing black knit boxers that he tugs lower so I can reach the rest of the tattoo. At the sight of the tight, pale swells of his ass, my dick insists that its turn has come for pleasure, and I have to focus hard to get it under control. I regretfully finish up rubbing the oil into his tattoo and stand back.
“Spin around, let’s check you out,” I say.
He turns and sways his hips to the beat of the rough, bluesy music, hands resting just above his groin to keep his jeans from sliding down. His chest, shoulders, and both arms are covered in swaths of blackwork, much of it inspired by ancient Aztec tribal art. He’s the only gangbanger I’ve ever tattooed who doesn’t have a Christian cross somewhere on his body, nor a single Latin phrase rendered in a fancy typeface. It’s all detailed artwork, which he explained was part of his personal art collection, gathered from some of the most prominent tattoo artists he’s met. It includes an anatomical heart rendered like an old etching in the center of his chest, and the sole piece of color is a two-headed snake that weaves across his lower abdomen, highlighting the definition of his abs and Adonis belt. Toni Valentine’s work is always unmistakable, and I’m frankly envious as hell that she got to tattoo that particular stretch of skin. If I’m ever in San Diego, I plan to visit her shop and maybe work out a trade.
“Do you do action shots for solo shoots? Or should I pose like Fabio?” He grabs a cushion off the sofa and embraces it, bending over and letting his hair fall across his face as he puckers his lips and gives the tassels a sultry look.
“Just be you, asshole,” I say, unable to suppress a laugh. “Let’s get the tat shots done first though. Hold your horses while I finish setting up.”
The lights come on, and I nudge him over toward the expanse of bare plaster wall that usually serves as my primary backdrop. It’s plain white but textured—enough to be interesting on its own, but easy enough to blend out if needed. I position a couple reflective umbrella lights, then I hand him a pair of barbells. He stares at the fifty-pound weights like I’ve grown an extra head.
“You’ve seen a barbell before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but I thought I just stand here and let you take pictures or some shit.”
“Being a model isn’t easy. I need those muscles flexed. Now, turn around and pump, pussy.”
The dig gets him moving. We’ve never worked out together, but he’s as big as I am, so I have no doubt he can bench his own weight, if not double.
I give him a series of instructions to get a variety of different poses, then head back to my camera. He grumbles about it but gets to work while I snap bursts of shots at his back. The muscles flex, giving his tattoo fantastic definition. The lion’s eyes rest right in the hollow beneath his left shoulder blade and seem to follow me when I move.
I have the camera hooked to my Wi-Fi so it sends the shots directly to the cloud when I’m at home, and my laptop pings with little notifications of the files transferring over. I ignore them, giving Leo more instructions. I’m going to put him through his paces so he knows he’s working for the money I’m paying him once we’re done.
“Jesus Christ, you weren’t kidding. This isn’t easy,” he says, exhaling a breath after I make him hold a tightly flexed pose for a minute to get his veins bulging in his biceps. The tattoos on his arms and chest gleam with the oil, and I move in with the camera for some close-ups, crouching down a little to get a different angle.
“We can take a break in a few. Just want a few more up close. Unbutton your jeans and let them hang a little.”
He does as I ask, moving as if to strip out of his pants entirely, then pauses with a wry grin. His waistband hovers low across his hips so the snake tattoo is fully visible. “You think the romance chicas will like this look?”
The barest hint of pubic hair peeks between his
