Green Card by Ashlyn Chase Page A

short hesitation, she did as he asked. Mason stepped around his easel for a better view and looked forward to arranging her body to his liking. Her full breasts spilled over both sides of her chest. Her pussy, covered with a thatch of black curls, stood fully exposed. She seemed vulnerable like this. He liked it. Maybe that’s what he sensed that intrigued him. Vulnerability. But something more lurked beneath the surface.
    “Place one hand under your head.” When she did, the breast on that side stretched slightly and the muscles under her arm tightened. Happily, he noticed she shaved her armpits then he chastised himself for thinking about her as anything but an objet d’art . Still, she reminded him of a gypsy. He could picture her whirling around a bonfire, wild and proud.
    “Now tilt your head up, like you’re confident, almost haughty.” When she did, he said, “Yeah, that’s it. Now bend one knee.”
    She began to lift the knee nearest to him.
    “Not that one. The other one.” He wanted to see her tuft as he drew the rest of her.
    She quickly switched the position of her legs, and her eyes probed his face. “Is this what you want?”
    Man, do I ever. “There. Stay just like that.” Most women he drew quickly turned into a shape with lines and shadows. This one he ached to touch. His mouth watered as he pondered squeezing her ample flesh and tasting her dark rose areolas.
    Before the erection growing in his pants embarrassed him, Mason returned to the other side of his easel and ripped off his previous work, letting it fall to the floor. Re-energised, he was ready to sketch again.
    His pencil arced across the paper, and he roughed in her form. His burning attraction to her body surprised him, but serenity followed as he realised his instructor was probably right. Voluptuous curves suited his sensuous style, and his excitement was connected to artistic stimulation. He worked quickly and easily, noticing small details, like the light reflecting off her skin and shadows under her breasts. Already, the rendition of Katia beat the heck out of the other model.
     He wondered if Andrew Wyeth had found his ideal model in Helga, the German woman with blonde braids whom he’d painted hundreds of times. Perhaps Katia would prove to be his Helga. Just then, practicality raised its ugly head, and he realised he hadn’t even asked how much she charged.
    He finished the sketch quickly then stepped back to admire his work. Damn. In a leather bustier, wide waist belt, and skin-tight leather pants, she could be the Totalitarian.
    “What a different result the right model can make,” a female voice behind him said. Fixated, he hadn’t even realised Ms. Tempest had come back into the room.
    “I guess you were right. I’d never have expected that a…” Uh oh. How could he phrase this in front of Katia? “A few curves could make all the difference.” He saw her smile. Whew.
    Ms. Tempest leant towards his ear and said in a low voice, “You might ask her to model for you, privately. She doesn’t charge much.”
    “That’s the one thing I forgot to ask. How much am I paying her?”
    “Ten dollars an hour.”
    “That’s it? I spend more than that every weekend on drinks for women who might or might not take their clothes off.” He grinned wickedly.
    Ms. Tempest rolled her eyes. Mason glanced at his work again then at Katia. “Do you model for individuals, Katia?”
    An impish expression crossed her face. “I will for you. You called me curvy, not fat.”
    Mason stopped sketching for a moment. “Fat? Who said you’re fat? You’re a perfect womanly shape.”
    She lowered her thick, black eyelashes. “Big bones and muscles in my country are a good thing. Here, I’m too big to fit into a regular model’s clothing.”
    “That’s ridiculous. Those emaciated models are way too skinny.”
    Ms. Tempest turned away from the model and winked at him. “Why don’t you give Katia a little break? The class will be