Elijah took to posing in the nude like a duck took to water. Expecting resistance to the suggestion, Sean was surprised when Elijah cheerfully shed his clothes, dove onto the sofa and said, “What do you want me to do?”
Sean actually had the harder time, because he kept getting distracted, something that had never happened to him before. He’d photographed countless models, female and male, in the nude, and it was no different than photographing them clothed. Breasts were breasts, dicks were dicks, and no one arrived in the world fully dressed.
But the pale winter sun slanting through the atelier skylight did the most amazing things to Elijah’s already amazing skin and luminous eyes and Sean was incapable of maintaining the professional distance that had never been a difficulty for him in the past. For once it wasn’t enough to let the camera worship Elijah; he had to do it himself, hands on.
“Sean, is something wrong?” Elijah asked when Sean abandoned his place behind the tripod and went to him.
“You’re the Empathicalist, you tell me,” Sean joked feebly.
Those enormous blue eyes that were now world famous thanks to Sean grew even wider as realization dawned. “Well, this is a first,” Elijah said, delighted, and slid over to make room.
“Don’t gloat. You caught me in a weak moment.”
“Uh-huh, I’ll bet.” Elijah sounded incredibly smug.
Sean quickly undressed and joined him. He slid a cupped palm reverently along that silken skin from hip to shoulder and down over chest and stomach, ending where hot velvet pulsed over a core of steel. He sipped at the sweet nectar that welled up, listened to Elijah’s helpless whimpers, and had no regrets.
Besides, over their heads dangled a bunch of mistletoe; he could always blame it on that.