Without Shame Read online

  WITHOUT SHAME

  By

  Amanda Steiger

  © copyright October 2004, Amanda Steiger

  Cover Art by Amber Moon, © copyright October 2004

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  "Are you nervous?" asked Greg. Nichole felt his warm fingers through the cotton robe as he touched her shoulder.

  "A little," she said.

  "Just try to relax. It won’t seem so strange once we get started."

  Nichole took a deep breath and let her robe slip to the floor. She was completely naked beneath. Her cheeks grew hot as her nipples tightened in the cool air. Instinctively, she reached down to cover the triangle of dark brown curls nestled between her thighs--then pulled her hand back. Considering what she was here for, her modesty was more than a little silly. How would she get through the rest of the evening if she couldn’t even keep her robe off without blushing? "I’m kind of embarrassed, I guess," she admitted.

  "Embarrassed?" His chuckle was warm and deep. "Why on earth would you be embarrassed?"

  "I don’t know. I’m just not used to this, I guess. I feel so..."

  He smiled with one corner of his mouth. "Naked?"

  "That about sums it up, I guess."

  "Trust me, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. But if you’re having second thoughts.…"

  She shook her head. "I promised you, didn’t I?"

  "You did." Greg’s eyes moved in little flickers, studying different places on her body. They lingered on her lips, the delicate hollow between her collarbones, and her breasts, small and firm as peaches. Nichole’s heart was beating quickly. The only other time she’d been naked with a man, it had been completely dark. Now, she stood in a brightly lit room, everything exposed to his eyes.

  Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips. "Ready when you are," she said.

  Greg sat on a rickety chair and picked up his sketch pad and pencil. "I’m all set."

  Nichole looked around the cluttered art studio. "Where should I stand?"

  "Over there, on the wooden block by that table. That’s it. Now tilt your head back and look up. Stand with your legs apart, one foot with the heel off the ground, and your arm over your head, with the palm cupped, like you’re holding something."

  "Like this?"

  "Good." He began to sketch, his eyes darting from the page to her body, then back to the page. "Am I the first person you’ve modeled for?"

  She laughed. "Is it that obvious?"

  "No, actually. You take instructions very well, and you’re holding that pose like a pro. I’d almost think you had experience."

  "You know me better than that. I don’t think I could do this with a stranger. I’d probably faint with embarrassment."

  "It’s not that big a deal, once you get used to it." His features softened in a smile that transformed his whole face and filled his gray eyes with light. Many people never got to see that smile. It was a special expression he reserved for his closest friends. Nichole felt honored to be one of the privileged few. "It can be kind of a pain, though, standing in one place for so long," said Greg. "Like I said, I’m willing to pay you."

  "Stop, Greg. We’ve been friends too long to even think about payment."

  He shrugged. "Work is work. And I’m taking a lot of time out of your schedule."

  "I don’t mind. I’m just afraid Kathy will be jealous," she asked, only half-kidding. She knew how possessive Greg’s girlfriend could be. They made jokes about it, but sometimes, it made Nichole genuinely nervous. "Don’t tell her, okay?"

  Greg’s smile withered. "I won’t," he said, and resumed drawing.

  "Greg? What’s wrong?"

  "Kathy and I are through," he said, without looking up from his sketchpad.

  Nichole’s eyes widened. "What?"

  "We broke up." He tore a page off the sketchpad.

  "But ... why?"

  Silence.

  "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my business."

  "It’s all right." His voice was flat, the way it always got when he was trying to hide his emotions. For a moment, he stared silently down at the sketchbook, the pencil dangling between two long, graceful fingers. "It came out of the blue. She just came home from work one day and said she couldn’t go on living like this, that she wants a real man with a real job, not some naïve kid who wants to make a career out of playing with clay."

  Nichole’s eyes widened. "She said that?"

  "Well, not those exact words. I think she actually said ‘Play-doh’ instead of ‘clay.’ She gave me a choice. Give up my art and get a better-paying job, or say good-bye. I made my choice." He finished off his sketch with a few quick, sharp lines, and then tore off another page. "I always thought she cared enough about me that the money wasn’t an issue. That she respected how serious I am about sculpting." He was making an effort to keep his voice level, but his jaw was clenched, showing the tension in his body. His hand moved in quick, violent jerks as he sketched. "When I told her it was too much a part of me to give up, she said I was being immature and selfish. Selfish. God, I must have been fooling myself, to believe she really loved me." The pencil tore through the page, and he muttered a soft, "Damn."

  "I’m sorry," Nichole said quietly.

  He sighed and ran a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe himself clean. "No ... I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to me rant. I wasn’t planning to bring it up at all. I was going to wait until I’d calmed down a little before I told anyone. I feel like my insides are in a knot. My mom’s going to love this. She’s gotten it into her head that I’m going to marry Kathy. She even asked me once how many kids we were planning to have."

  "My mom’s the same way. I’m not even twenty-five, and she’s already so desperate for grandkids that I think she’s planning to steal someone else’s," Nichole joked weakly. Then her smile faded. "Greg ... I really am sorry."

  "I’m not," he said. "She did me a favor. She showed her true colors before I had the chance to fall deeper in love with her. I’m just angry at myself for not seeing it sooner." He rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips, and then picked up his pencil. "Lift your head a little more, please."

  Nichole tilted her chin upward, watching Greg out of the corner of her eye. Her heart ached for him.

  He made a few more quick sketches, then lay them all in a pile on a rickety stool. "Need a break yet?" he asked. "You’ve been holding that pose for awhile. I’ll make some coffee, if you like."

  "Sure," she said, and glanced at the clock on the paint-spattered wall. "Make it decaf, though. It’s getting late."

  He nodded. "You should probably get home soon."

  "But you haven’t even started the sculpture yet."

  "We can start tomorrow." He picked up the stack of papers and shuffled through them. "I have some preliminary sketches now, at least. I can use them for reference when I make the armature, so I can start slapping the clay on next time you’re here." He headed into the kitchen while Nichole slipped back into her jeans and T-shirt. Greg returned, carrying two large coffee mugs, and handed one to her. "You take it with half-and-half, right?"

  She nodded and sipped, watching as he traced the rim of his cup with one finger. He had beautiful hands. The fingers, now smudged with pencil, were long and dexterous, and he had thick calluses on his palms with dirt engrained into them. He took a lot of odd jobs when he wasn’t working on commissions. He’d been a part-time construction worker for the past few months, and th
e job had added definition to his muscles. He looked almost like one of his own sculptures.

  She imagined one of those big, calloused hands slipping beneath her shirt to cup her breast ... then shoved the image away. Greg was her friend; that was all. They’d known each other since college, and although Nichole had always been a little infatuated with him, she’d known from the beginning he was out of her league. He was handsome, smart, sensitive, talented and affectionate, everything a woman could want. And though he never boasted, he was certainly aware that he could have just about any woman he chose. Nichole knew she’d never had a chance, especially with confident, red-haired, green-eyed Kathy in the picture.

  "I’m surprised you chose me to model for you," Nichole remarked.

  "Why’s that?"

  "Well ... you know," she said, staring into her coffee.

  "No, I don’t. Why?"

  She shrugged. "I’m not what most people would call beautiful."

  "Nichole, what in God’s name gave you that idea? You’re lovely."

  She smiled. "And you’re very sweet. But it’s okay. You don’t have to flatter me just because I’m your friend."

  "I’m not flattering you." He set down his coffee cup and framed her face carefully with his hands. She froze, her breath catching in her throat as his thumbs lightly brushed her cheekbones. His large, gray eyes were focused on hers. "You’ve got exquisite bone structure--like a Greek statue. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about sculpting you, but I never asked because I always assumed you’d say no. You were always so shy about your body." He tilted her chin upward, studying her face from another angle. As if realizing what he was doing, he suddenly released her, cleared his throat and looked away.

  Nichole’s mouth was dry, her pulse a drumbeat in her throat. She could still feel the shape of his warm hands on her skin, as if they’d left a brand there. She wanted to touch his cheek, to feel the rough stubble beneath her fingertips. She started to lift her hand. Losing her nerve, she let it drop to her side. She finished her coffee. "I should get going, I guess. Work tomorrow."

  "I’ll drive you."

  "That’s okay. I’ll take a cab."

  "Cabs are hard to catch around here, and I don’t like the idea of you walking around this late at night." His eyes met hers. "Let me drive you." His voice was gentle, but insistent. Nichole couldn’t refuse.

  The drive to her house was short but awkward. Neither of them spoke, so Nichole turned on the radio to fill up the silence. The music stood between them like a wall.

  At last, Greg pulled up in front of her apartment building.

  "Thanks, Greg," she said.

  "No problem."

  "See you soon?"

  "Sure. I’ll give you a call."

  Nichole got out of the car and walked up to the door. Only when she was inside the building did he pull away from the curb and drive off. She watched him from the window. Then she walked up the stairs to her apartment.

  She hadn’t been living here very long, and the apartment was still a little cold and bare. There were white patches on the faded ivory walls where previous occupants had hung posters or pictures, but only a few scattered traces of her own personality: a brush on the dresser, a few pink pillows covered with embroidered blue flowers on the couch, a ceramic calico cat on the coffee table ... and on the wall, above the couch, one of Greg’s drawings, framed and signed. A rare self-portrait. He didn’t like drawing himself, but he’d done it at her request, as a birthday gift. The result was worth it. He’d captured himself perfectly: the lean face, the firm mouth and focused, intent gray eyes. Nichole paused a moment to admire it. Then, locking the door behind her, she headed into the bathroom, undressed and stepped into the shower stall.

  As the hot water cascaded over her, she thought, once again, about Greg’s hands on her skin and felt her nipples tightening, puckering. Closing her eyes, she touched one hard little peak and began to circle it slowly with her finger. She didn’t touch herself often. It felt a little odd, but then, she wasn’t often so aroused. She remembered a few times she’d woken up in the middle of the night, feverish with desire, her mind still filled with dreams of warm, male flesh and strong, knowing hands. Greg’s hands.

  She touched herself now, with a single, tentative finger, and moaned softly. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the shower-stall wall, water cascading over her long, thick brown hair, down her back. Slowly, uncertainly, she began to massage her sex, trying to imagine that it was Greg touching her. Biting her lower lip, she slipped a finger inside herself. She imagined those warm lips on her throat, her collarbones and breasts. She opened her eyes and watched the shower water dripping from the tips of her jutting nipples, trickling down her stomach and between her thighs. She had never been more aware of her own body. She felt as if she were on fire. She buried her hand deeper between her legs, panting, leaning against the shower-stall wall as she probed deeper into herself, fingers seeking something elusive, some sensitive spot buried inside her. Her walls clenched as her fingers touched an exquisitely sensitive spot. "Greg," she whispered--and came.

  It took a moment for her to recover her breath. Her head spun with the intensity of the orgasm brought on by the mere thought of him. She wondered what it would be like to actually be his lover.

  Although she was twenty-four, she’d only had one boyfriend: Andy, a young man she’d met in her Economics class. He’d taken an interest in her and wooed her mercilessly, with flowers and little velvet teddy bears and gallons of charm. Once he had her heart, he’d taken her virginity. Then he suddenly decided that he was overwhelmed by the intimacy and needed some personal space. He’d stopped returning her calls, and on the few occasions she managed to get a hold of him, he’d always found some excuse not to see her. After awhile, she’d stopped trying.

  But surely, Greg wasn’t like that. And now that Kathy was gone....

  No. It was too soon. She couldn’t start hitting on him right after his break-up. It would make it seem like she’d been waiting for the opportunity.

  Had she?

  Nichole turned off the shower water and stepped out of the stall. She caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror and paused to study it, watching water droplets roll down her skin and pool on the tiles beneath her feet. She forced herself to look at her body objectively and ask herself if there was anything there a man would desire. She had hardly any curves to speak of. Her breasts were too small, her hips narrow, and there were freckles on every part of her body that had been exposed to the sun. They dusted her shoulders and arms, her nose, her legs, even her feet. She couldn’t stand them. They made her look like a kid.

  Her hair was probably her best feature, long, wavy and glossy brown. Pretty, but not striking, like Kathy’s. She wasn’t Kathy. She was Nichole: sweet, innocent, boring Nichole Anders. She sighed, left the bathroom and slipped into her white nightgown--the one her mother had given her on her eighteenth birthday. She looked down at the long white sleeves with their lacy cuffs and wrinkled her nose. Even her clothes were chaste and dull.

  Why not sleep naked, then? whispered a voice in her head. She shivered slightly. The thought was delicious, and no one would know, after all. She drew the curtains tightly shut, then unbuttoned her nightgown and let it slip to the floor, along with her panties. She climbed into bed and slid beneath the cotton sheets. They were soft and cool against her bare skin. She hugged herself, thinking about the way Greg’s hands had felt on her skin.

  Enough. She had to put Greg out of her mind and get some sleep. She had work tomorrow, and she would probably be going to Greg’s apartment again in the evening to model for him. At that thought, a nervous shiver traced its way up her spine.

  Sleep wasn’t going to come easy.

  * * * *

  Greg sat at the desk in his studio, a small lamp washing everything in dim yellow light. He squinted as he added another bit of clay to the small model. Another yawn escaped him, and he stifled it against a hand before
taking another sip of hot, black coffee. He glanced at the window where the first, pink light of dawn stained the horizon. Gauzy purple clouds smeared the eastern sky.

  Good thing he didn’t have work tomorrow. He didn’t trust himself to handle construction equipment when he was this tired. He felt as if there were lead weights dangling from his eyelids.

  He’d gotten a lot done, though, and the progress was worth it. Art demanded sacrifices, after all. His phone company knew that all too well. He’d gotten another letter that morning, reminding him that he had bills to pay ... except he couldn’t because he’d used up all the money on new clay for this commission. It was a miracle they hadn’t disconnected him yet.

  He turned the completed model around, studying it from all sides. Frowning in concentration, he wet his fingertips in a small bowl of water and smoothed out the imperfections, then measured the model from head to foot with a ruler, checking the proportions against the sketches he’d done earlier. It was a good start. The actual sculpture would be much bigger, of course, slightly larger than life-sized.

  He could have hired a professional model, if he wanted. It would have required some extra work hours so he could scrape together his rent, but he’d always managed in the past.

  He hadn’t wanted a professional, though. He’d wanted Nichole. He’d known, somehow, that she would be perfect for this. And he’d been right.

  He studied the sketches spread out on his messy desk, the clean, graceful lines of her body. Most artists would have chosen someone full-figured for a sculpture like this, someone with curvy hips and D-cup breasts--someone like Kathy--but Nichole had a slender, willowy beauty of her own. Slight as her curves were, the sketches left no doubt whatsoever as to her femininity.

  Greg closed his eyes, thinking about that supple young body, about how that velvet skin would feel beneath his hands as he ran them over her breasts and thighs. He took a deep breath and tried to push the image away, but it just sprang back, vivid as ever. "This is wrong," he murmured. "You know it." He could tell himself that it was just aesthetic appreciation until he was blue in the face, but he knew the truth. He wanted her, and his desire was only growing stronger. Using her as a model felt too much like exploitation, even if she was ideal for this piece. But what was he supposed to do? Tell her he’d changed his mind, that he wanted to find someone else? He knew Nichole. He knew how much that would hurt her. But the only other alternative was to continue staring at her naked body hour after hour, while he tried not to imagine the feel of her tight, slick wetness around his cock as he thrust into her. Nichole, who had been his friend for so long, who trusted him enough to take off her clothes while she was alone with him in his studio, was now the object of his every fantasy.