I’ve modeled for painters, photographers, and bored housewives with too much wine and too little shame. But sculptors? They’re a different breed. Cold hands. Hungry eyes. And always, always too quiet while they stare at you like you’re already stripped.
This one was no exception.
His message was vague as f**k.
“Nude modeling. Studio downtown. 2 hours. Cash.”
I replied with a picture of my abs and a simple, What are you sculpting?
His answer?
> “You.”
So I showed up.
He was barefoot when he opened the door. Shirtless. Jeans low on his hips, streaked with dried clay. He looked like sin after a long day of wrecking things—and I was in the mood to be wrecked.
“Strip,” he said, already turning away.
“No hi? No name? I’m Noah, by the way.” I teased, stepping inside.
“You’re not her
